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yourfatherlucifer · 10 days ago

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Eating this over and over and over and over and over fuck it was such a good read

Fool of a Prince

Pairing: Prince!Mingi x fae!reader wc: 2.2k Au: fae, royal Genre: Fantasy, romance summary: Only a fool willing involves themself with fae, even one of the summer court. Warnings: magic deception, minor character deaths. AN: for the august gemstone event held by @lapydiaries! this is 1 of 4 MIngi pieces for this month Beta: big thanks @sanjoongie . Sacrificial betas: @adelusionforyourthoughts , @bunnliix , @yourfatherlucifer

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You have never met a human whose beauty could pass for one of your kind, but this was certainly the oddest place to find one. The white fitted suit with gold and bronze embroidery and gems was of high quality for a human, even you knew that, but just made him stick out on the dirt path even more.

He was tall, fierce features framed by black hair under a hat with a brim, half the brim pinned up with small chains and more metal, as well as a feather…

“That's a funny hat you have there. It makes you look like a fool.” Your words startled the man, his eyes widening to a degree you didn't think they could. He turned left and right, no doubt looking for you.

“Show yourself!” His deep voice rang out, his eyes unknowingly looking right through you a few times. He swung some sort of scepter with a white staff and silver sphere at the top, red thread woven down it. Not once did he come close to touching you, but you wondered what his reaction would be if he did hit something that “wasn't there.”

“And let you hit me with that thing? I think not. You may look like a fool but I am not one. No human should be this far on my path.” It was no effort to have your voice surround him, making it difficult for him to discern your location.

He narrowed his eyes down the path, plump lips pulling into a sneer. “I am no fool. And I won't play these petty games. I demand you show yourself.”

With a scoff you pushed off from the tree you were leaning against, growing bored. Just another idiotic human, no fun to be had here. “Tell me your name and I will end this so called petty game.”

The staff lowered a bit but he still frantically searched for the source of the voice. For you. “I am Prince Song M- wait. No. No I shall not. You are Fae, are you not? I told you I am no fool.”

A low laugh escaped you, circling the human who was bigger than you. Bigger in stature but not in power. It was dawning on him just who, well what, he was dealing with. If he could guess what you are then perhaps all hope isn't lost for fun. “A Prince? All the way out here?” Your voice rang out around you both as you stepped behind him. Such broad shoulders, and a thin waist… an interesting figure.

“And what of it?” He challenged in a lower tone, vibrating through his chest.

Fluttering a few inches off the ground, you spoke into his ear softly. “Dressed like a fool and lost like a fool. Are you sure you are a Prince?”

He jumped away and swung the scepter, which you had to move back as well to dodge, laughter falling from your lips again. He stepped forward, continuing to swing the staff and backing you up more and more. The path was long but you had no intention to keep up this poor excuse of cat and mouse for long.

With a flash of light in front of you, he stumbled back onto his arse, covering his eyes with his arm even as you had the light fade.

It would be boring if you blinded him.

“I grow tired of this, fool of a Prince. Since you have no inclination of being worthy of my time, I suggest you head back if you are not lost.” You lowered your bare feet back onto the dirt path, sighing in frustration.

It was no surprise to you that the man ran back down the path from where he came.

You expected your evening to be no more eventful, despite not moving far from the path that you had run into the pretty Prince. As if the earth itself called to you to stay where you were. Or the striking face of a fool.

Doubtful you would see him again.

Yet fate proved you wrong. The sound of footsteps hitting the earth with force grew louder by the second. Stepping down from the branch you had been lounging on, you activated your illusion glamor with ease.

As you glanced down the path, the light of the fading sun peeking through the canopy of the trees above, it was hard to miss the sparkling white suit. The man wearing it was running down the path and jumping over branches and roots with ease while outrunning his pursuers.

What truly garnered your interest was that it seemed the fool was calling out for you.

“Fae! I want to make a deal! Please!”

A fool he was indeed.

You didn't answer, instead taking note of the few men in uniforms, armed with swords, chasing him. You recognized the murderous intent in their features, wondering what the Prince had done to find himself in this situation.

“My name is Song Mingi, Second Prince to the Song family, ruling over the Kingdom Aurora, and I pledge myself to you, should you rid of my attackers and save my life!” He screamed as he grew closer, scaring off the wildlife nearby in a flurry.

The power of his name, true name, filled you with glee. Perhaps he was much more entertaining than you believed. Especially when the agile man tripped, face planting into the dirt mere feet from you. Laughter bubbled from your chest and you acted quickly, manipulating the waning light to blind the men.

Mere illusions had them believe each other the Prince, resulting in them running each other through with blades once they recovered from the blinding light. Moments was all it took for them to die.

All but one. You left one alive, twisting an illusion of trickery as you held back your own laughter, and then the knight ran back down the path.

Song Mingi, the Prince now yours to do with as you wish, had not moved from the dirt. Nor did he look up.

“Get up fool.” You dropped the illusionary veil that kept you hidden from sight, stepping closer to bend down before him. “Song Mingi of the Aurora Kingdom, you owe me your life.”

Slowly he lifted his head, huffing off the dirt before his eyes widened at the sight of you. As a Fae of the Summer court you knew you were beautiful, even more so by human standards. The gown you wore was light and airy, held together by a flower-brooch of your own making just under your breasts. The white and yellow fabric was like shimmering silk in the sunlight, seemingly untouched by the dirt and leaves you had been lounging in all day.

You were most proud of your wings, no one color but like an iridescent illusion, flitting behind you to grace him with a show of their beauty.

“Oh… Oh you are breathtaking.” he breathlessly heaved out, still not moving from the dirt.

“Of course I am. Come.” You grabbed the foolish hat from his head and placed it on your own though it was slightly too big. Standing up with grace, you took a few steps back, commanding him to follow. It would be no more than a compulsion, but it was enough to have him on his feet.

He still looked far too awestruck as he followed you further down the path. “Where are you taking me?”

“Does it matter? You will go where I want you to.”

“What did you do back there then? Am I allowed to know that?”

You smiled over your shoulder at him, giggling. “You are allowed many things but that does not mean I must give you answers.”

He furrowed his brow at that but was still a faithful duckling. “Then how about you answer a question of mine for every one I answer of yours?”

Your laughter grew. “You wish to make even more deals with me? The one who has your life in their hands already?”

He shrugged, not an ounce of fear in his eyes. Had your beauty struck him dumb? “I might as well learn about the one who has such power over me.”

“Hmmm, I suppose if it is a game, I would like to play. So tell me, foolish Prince, why were you out on my path earlier?”

A sigh escaped his lips as he finally pulled his gaze from your form. “My carriage got stuck and I wandered as my knights supposedly fixed it.”

“I may not live in your human realm but even I know knights do not try and kill their master.” You hummed out with disdain at the thought.

His lips upturned into a wry smile. “No. They do not. Meaning I was not their true master. Though let me ask you, where does this path lead?”

The sun had set below the trees enough that light was becoming scarce as you walked on the worn path. Not a path you made, but one you claimed and used. “Well, it leads to our destination.”

He scoffed. “So vague. It would not hurt you to tell me the truth.”

“Don't you know I cannot lie? That is the truth.” You giggled as he scoffed again. “It's more fun to be vague. Come on, you should be able to guess.”

“Well I-” Due to the lack of light he stumbled, catching himself by grabbing your arm. Your breath hitched at the touch, staring at his hand as he righted himself. “Fine, ask your question.”

His hand was still there and you could sense the growing dark was beginning to bother him. Since it would do you no good to have him frightened and continue lying tripping over himself, you summoned a small light above your heads, as well as letting the natural glow of your skin through. Like warm candlelight as opposed to a sunset or roaring fire. “Where was your carriage headed? Even if you somehow found my path, off a road I assume, this forest rarely sees human life.”

He swallowed hard at that, finally dropping his hand as he kept glancing between the glowing light and the glow to your skin. “I was on my way to be married. It is usually custom for the bride to go to the groom, but my parents suggested I go to the bride. Perhaps because I am second in line and of no use to them otherwise. Now even more so.”

You glanced at the extravagant suit he wore, then noticed what was under the coat. A white shirt tucked behind what looked like a corset. Was that what it was? It hugged his thin waist and wasn't a very flexible fabric. Fancy by human standards you suppose. “I see.”

He nodded, eyes lifting to your face. “What am I supposed to call you?”

Oh, you liked that. Not asking for your name, but what to refer to you as. Without the earlier arrogance he was much more interesting. “You may call me by a name or title you prefer. That is a privilege I will have you know.”

Silence followed as he watched you, time stretching as his footsteps could be heard on the dirt path, your own footsteps far too light to make a sound.

Your destination was in sight when he finally spoke again. “I can't think of anything better to call you than Sunshine. With the way you glow, the warmth I feel in your presence. The light you wield."

“Flattery will get you nowhere, fool.” You teased, and yet your glow seemed to brighten with the glee you did feel from such a name falling from his lips. His deep gravely voice was growing on you. “Then I shall ask you, how do you intend to repay me for saving your life? I, a being who has no need for mortal desires of riches or status, but emotions and simply existing in the nature of summer?”

Silence once more, but this one due to him finally noticing just what you were approaching. The path was opening up to a stone archway covered in moss, just beyond it was what looked like ruins with crumbled stone and diminished pillars of varying sizes. No roof aside from the trees throughout the rubble.

You stepped just before the arch, turning to him and holding a hand out. “Come, Mingi, my fool of a Prince.”

“I am no fool.” Yet he took your hand. “I know this arch is a portal.” But he stepped through it anyways. “I simply must obey.” His expression showed anything but displeasure at the motion, now bathed in sunlight as he stood in your own personal realm.

The ruins were no ruins but a structure of glittering white stone with vines crawling up the pillars. Flowers of all colors bloomed in all directions, a gentle summer breeze fluttering petals down to rain around you both.

You pulled him further in, to a settee inside the structure, with other various pieces of furniture lying about to bask in the sun or shade and a fountain of clear sparkling water running on one side of the open building. To you it was a constant state of harmony and summer, your wings fluttering with delight to be in it's warm embrace. “No, you simply wish to be here, do you not?”

He sat down on the settee at your gentle nudge, watching you once more in awe. “Perhaps that does make me the fool, Sunshine. But now it makes me your fool.”

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yourfatherlucifer · 10 days ago

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YOU CAME BACK WITH A BANGER RAH

ROCKHARDSTAR || JUNG WOOYOUNG

Genre: Smut

Pairing: Wooyoung x Fem reader

Word Count: 4.8K

Tags/Warnings: Rockstar!Wooyoung, Stylist!Y/N, dom!Wooyoung, mostly sub!Y/N, tension, make outs, blowjob, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, boobjob, cum play, praise, dirty talk, mirror sex

Taglist: @anyamaris @a-soft-hornytiny @whatudowhennooneseesyou @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @woosanbby @dreamlesswonder86 @changbinslovelylegs @jonghostie @lovjensoo @mjyungi @bratty-tingz @sugarnspice630 @wisejudgedragonhairdo @mingisg00dgirl @vesvosmozhno @therealcuppicake @unholywriters @enbymingi @jjoongstar @nopension @aaa-sia @m-ray-72

ENJOY!

The day you finally got to work as a professional stylist and visagist was the happiest of your life, hands down. You’d spent the past two years hustling—styling for glossy magazines, dressing a handful of rising stars—but your newest client? He was in a league of his own.

When the agency called to tell you you’d be joining Jung Wooyoung on his new world tour, you were convinced your knees had stopped working.

"What do you mean you’re going on tour with the Jung Wooyoung?" your best friend had shrieked, clutching her chest like she’d been personally attacked. Her eyes bulged as she covered her mouth in disbelief. She’d been a die-hard fan of the rockstar since his debut—ever since he’d first appeared on stage with that smoky voice, those veiny arms, his infamous raven hair, and a trail of sex rumors that followed him like perfume.

Despite the scandals, the sultry performances, and his untouchable image, Wooyoung had always been adored. There was something about him—maybe the way he spoke in interviews, or the way he laughed with his crew—that made people believe he was genuine. Real.

You’d never been a fangirl yourself, preferring other artists with different vibes. But even you had to admit: every time your friend shoved one of his pictures or thirst edits in your face, your breath caught for just a second too long.

“Babe, you’re living the dream. My dream! Can I come with you?” she begged, dropping dramatically to her knees. “Okay, maybe not backstage—I’d faint and make it weird—but a concert ticket? I’ll be so polite. Just a ticket. Please. Thank you. I love you.”

“You’re insane,” you laughed, swatting her away.

“Promise me something then,” she said as she stood up, grinning like a devil. “Find out all the gossip. I want the dirt.”

“Hey, I’m not invading that man’s privacy for your TikTok theories.”

“Y/N. You’re literally dressing him up and down like a doll. That is invading his privacy.”

“Yeah, but that’s consensual. I was hired for that!”

“And I am hiring you as my inside source,” she said, pointing a finger in your face. “I want everything.”

Now, it’s been a month on tour. Thirty days of travel, noise, adrenaline, and chaos. Thirty days of Jung Wooyoung—who has proven himself to be nothing short of a menace.

Every time you try to fix his collar or touch up his eyeliner, he fidgets. Makes a face. Messes up his hair again on purpose. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and you’re convinced he finds joy in watching you suffer.

When you first met him, he was surprisingly quiet. Professional. Cool. Distant. You figured maybe the stage persona was just that—a persona. But you were wrong.

Jung Wooyoung isn’t cold. He isn’t dangerous. He isn’t unkind.

He’s a brat.

A playful, maddening, impossible-to-control brat who lives to tease. He pranks the staff constantly—saran wrap over dressing room doors, fake tattoos drawn on backup dancers, switching the labels on everyone’s drinks. He’s got the kind of chaotic energy that’s contagious backstage, pulling everyone into his orbit whether they want to or not.

And yet, when the lights go down and the curtain rises, he transforms.

He’s all sharp lines and dark velvet, a magnet for every eye in the stadium. You can’t look away either—not really. Because beneath the teasing and the games, he’s an artist. A force.

And somewhere between those quick smiles and the heat of the spotlight, you start to feel it.

Admiration.

Attraction.

Danger.

Because maybe your best friend was right after all.

You are living the dream.

And dreams?

They can get messy.

You’re backstage at the venue in Berlin, crouched over the rolling rack with the next outfit laid out in front of you: black mesh tank top, ripped leather pants, layered silver chains, and enough rings to set off every metal detector in Europe.

The stylists’ tent buzzes with sound—distant bass from soundcheck, the shuffle of crew members, someone yelling about missing earpieces.

You’re so focused on adjusting the straps on his tank top that you don’t notice him sneaking up behind you.

“Are you picking out my clothes or planning to seduce me?” a low voice murmurs near your ear.

You jump—nearly knock over the rack—and whirl around to find Wooyoung standing way too close, grinning like he’s proud of himself.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, pressing a hand to your chest. “Could you not sneak up on people like that?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Didn’t think I needed to sneak. Thought you’d hear me coming.”

“Unfortunately, no. And I was actually working, in case you forgot that’s what I’m here for.”

His eyes flick down, not at the outfit—but at you. Your hands. Your face. Slowly, deliberately. When his gaze meets yours again, it’s sharper, darker.

“Oh, I know exactly what you’re here for,” he says, voice dropping a note. “Touching me up, stripping me down... fixing me when I break. Sounds like your job description, doesn’t it?”

Your cheeks heat instantly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you keep showing up.” He winks. “You could’ve asked to be reassigned weeks ago.” You hate that he’s right. You hate it more that he is aware of it.

You step forward with the hanger and hold it up between you. “Put this on. Ten minutes until your pre-show photos.”

But Wooyoung doesn’t move to take it.

Instead, he tilts his head, eyes still on you. “You always get so flustered when I tease you,” he says softly. “I wonder why.”

You roll your eyes, trying to mask the heat spreading down your neck. “Maybe because you’re unbearable.”

“Nah,” he says. “You like it.”

He plucks the hanger from your hands—fingers brushing deliberately against yours—and then peels off his oversized rehearsal tee right in front of you. No shame. No hesitation. He tosses it somewhere behind him, revealing toned skin, tattoos, and a line of sweat trailing down his chest.

You force yourself not to look. You fail.

You’ve seen him shirtless before, sure. It's part of the job. But never like this. Never this close, this deliberate, this slow.

He leans in again, still shirtless, his voice a whisper at your ear.

“Want to help me with the pants?” he asks, teasing but low, like it’s just between the two of you.

You’re about to respond—probably with some snappy comeback—when a stagehand suddenly pokes his head in.

“Wooyoung, five minutes!”

Wooyoung clicks his tongue. “Always terrible timing.”

He backs away at last, giving you one last look—one that makes your stomach twist—and begins pulling on his pants.

You turn away quickly, pretending to check your kit. You need air. Distance. Something cold and unsexy. Like taxes.

Because the problem isn’t that Wooyoung’s flirting with you. The problem is you want to flirt back.

The roar of the crowd is deafening, even from backstage.

You stand just beyond the curtain, headset looped around your neck, your kit bag slung low on your shoulder. The stage glows under blinding lights—blue and red strobes, smoke curling at the edges like fire licking through shadows.

And in the center of it all is him.

Jung Wooyoung.

Black leather pants clinging to him like sin, that sheer mesh top leaving nothing to the imagination, his wet hair sticking to his temples as he sings into the mic like it's something to be worshipped. He moves like the stage is his lover—writhing, prowling, all sweat and intention. Every moan he lets out, every note he drags into a rasp, sends a new wave of screams through the crowd.

And you’re watching him like everyone else.

But unlike everyone else… you know you’ll be touching him in less than five minutes.

The second he finishes the current set, he vanishes behind the curtain. You’re already there, waiting with a towel, a bottle of water, and the second outfit of the night: a silky shirt unbuttoned low, silver chains, and eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass.

He’s glowing, chest rising and falling, sweat slicking down his abs.

“Hey, trouble,” he grins as he approaches, already tugging off his shirt. “Enjoy the show?”

You keep your voice steady, professional. “You were good.”

“Just good?” He leans in closer, dropping the soaked shirt to the floor. “I practically bled for that performance.”

“You practically humped the stage,” you mutter, stepping forward to blot the sweat from his forehead and jawline.

“Did you like that part?” he asks, tone low and teasing.

You don’t answer. You dab at his temples, swipe under his eyes, trying to focus. But your fingers keep brushing his skin. His breath fans your neck. His cologne—spice, smoke, something darker—lingers in your nose.

“Close your eyes,” you say.

He does.

You reach up to fix his eyeliner. Your hand is steady, but your chest is tight. His face is tilted toward you, lips parted slightly. You can feel the heat of him, the way his skin is still buzzing from adrenaline. You trace the line under his eye, your pinky accidentally grazing the curve of his cheekbone.

He opens one eye. Smirks.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

You pull away, sharper than intended. “You have thirty seconds. Put your damn shirt on.”

He chuckles low in his throat, letting the silence stretch. He doesn’t move.

Instead, he reaches for the silk shirt and drapes it slowly over his shoulders, never taking his eyes off you. His fingers work the buttons, but clumsily—too slow, on purpose. He misses one. You groan, step forward, and fix it yourself.

Again, you’re close. Again, your hands are on him.

This time, he doesn’t say anything. Just watches your face, gaze flicking down to your lips, and then back up.

“Ten seconds!” a voice calls from down the hallway.

You step back like he burned you. “You’re on.”

He grins, running a hand through his damp hair, tossing it back from his face. “Can’t wait for the next change.”

He disappears into the lights again, leaving you with your pulse in your throat and your hands still tingling.

Every show, it’s like this.

Every show, a little closer.

A little more.

You tell yourself you’re just doing your job. That this is all routine. But deep down, you know it’s a lie.

Because every time he walks off that stage, he looks at you like he’s starving.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend you don’t feel the same.

The next city is Madrid.

Hot, loud, buzzing with energy even hours before the show begins. Outside, the venue is surrounded by fans chanting Wooyoung’s name, some already crying from excitement. Inside, the dressing room is chaos—crew running around, last-minute lighting tests, the soundcheck bleeding through the walls.

And Wooyoung? Nowhere to be found.

You’re standing by his rack of clothes—tonight’s first outfit is simpler than usual: tight black jeans, no shirt, just layered chains and smudged kohl liner to start. He said he wanted to go in raw, no gimmicks. Just him and the music.

You check your watch. “Where the hell is he?”

“He was in here a minute ago,” someone calls. “Probably wandered off.”

Of course he did.

You find him alone in the hallway just outside the green room, leaning against the wall with his head tilted back, his in-ear monitors dangling loosely around his neck. He doesn’t look at you when you approach—just smirks.

“I was wondering when you'd come find me.”

You cross your arms. “You’re on in twenty minutes. If you’re trying to stress me out on purpose, congratulations.”

He finally turns toward you. And there it is again—that look.

The one that stops your breath. The one that says he’s thinking about things he shouldn’t be thinking about.

“Why do you always look so good when you’re mad at me?” he says, stepping closer.

You roll your eyes. “Put your shirt on.”

“I’m not wearing one tonight, remember?” he says, voice lower now. “Did that just slip your mind?”

“I—” You falter. Because he’s right. You did forget. You’ve been so focused on managing your heartbeat every time he’s near that the logistics of the show have started to blur around him.

His fingers reach up, gently tugging on the zipper of your hoodie. Not pulling it down, just toying with it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

You scoff. “I’m not nervous.”

“You are.” He steps closer, voice a whisper now. “You always are before something happens.”

“Nothing’s going to—”

His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is soft. Too soft.

“You sure?” he asks.

Your eyes lock. There’s no teasing this time. No cocky grin. Just heat—low and steady, something raw simmering between the two of you. You feel it in your stomach, your chest, your throat.

“Wooyoung,” you breathe, warning or plea—you don’t know.

And then he kisses you.

It’s sudden, but not rough. Heated, yes—but purposeful. His hand cups your jaw, guiding you into him like he’s thought about this a thousand times. Maybe he has. His mouth is hot, tasting faintly of coffee and mint, and his body presses into yours like gravity itself is pulling you together.

You don’t stop him.

You can’t.

Your hands twist in his hair, pulling slightly, and he groans into your mouth like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. It’s desperate. Messy. Too much and not enough. When he breaks away, it’s only to breathe against your lips.

“Finally,” he whispers.

You blink, stunned, dazed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

He grins, cocky again now. “But you kissed me back.”

“Doesn’t mean I should have.”

“I’m not sorry.” He pulls back slowly, eyes lingering on your lips. “And I’m going to do it again.”

“Wooyoung—”

A knock sounds down the hallway.

“Stage in five!”

He gives you one last look—wild, electric—and backs away, lips swollen, hair a mess, chain swinging loosely across his chest.

“Touch me up before I go on,” he calls as he walks toward the stage. “I want to look good for the next kiss.”

You’re left standing there, heart pounding, your mouth still tingling from his.

And somehow, despite everything—you’re already craving more.

The show ends in fire.

Literally—pyro explodes behind him as the final chorus hits, and the crowd screams like their hearts are breaking. Wooyoung throws his head back, arms wide, sweat glistening under the lights, his voice echoing through the stadium as the final notes melt into chaos.

Then the lights cut.

And just like that, he vanishes into the dark.

You’re waiting near the wings, your kit bag in hand, trying to pretend your heart isn’t hammering. Trying to pretend you haven’t been thinking about that kiss for the past two hours. Trying to pretend you didn’t replay it during the entire set, every time he looked your way, every time he sang into the mic like it was your mouth he wanted instead.

He appears out of the shadows, shirt clinging to him, chest still heaving from the last song. His eyes find yours immediately.

“Come with me.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but you don’t get the chance.

His hand wraps around your wrist, firm but not rough, and he pulls you with him down the hallway past the dressing room doors, ignoring the crew, the noise, the shouts of “Great show!” and “You killed it out there!”

He doesn’t stop until you’re inside his private dressing room—and the door clicks shut behind you.

Silence.

The air is thick, humid with leftover heat from the stage. He lets go of your wrist and paces a few steps away, running both hands through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He’s still glowing. Still breathless. Still vibrating with the kind of adrenaline that makes people do reckless things.

Like what he did before the show.

Like what he’s about to do now.

You open your mouth again, but this time he turns, and the look in his eyes shuts you up immediately.

Hungry. Focused. Unapologetic.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he says, voice low and rough.

You swallow. “It’s my job to fix your hair and make-up. Not my fault you’re dramatic about it.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not that. It’s the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. The way your hands shake when you touch me. The way you bit your lip during the third song tonight.”

You flush. “You were watching that closely?”

“I always watch you.”

He steps closer, and you don’t move.

“You’ve been in my head since the first city,” he says. “Every night, I go on stage and try to burn it off. The tension. The wanting. But it doesn’t go away.”

You’re silent. Breath caught somewhere in your chest.

His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along your jaw.

“You kissed me back,” he murmurs. “And now I need to do it again. And again. Until it’s not a maybe anymore.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “What if we shouldn’t?”

He leans in, lips brushing yours as he speaks.

“Then stop me.”

You don’t.

And this time, the kiss is nothing like the first.

It’s not testing the waters. It’s not curious or careful. It’s hungry. Possessive. Weeks of tension, all of it crashing through you at once. His hands are on your waist, your back, your face. Yours in his hair, pulling, gripping. He walks you back against the dressing room counter, lifts you onto it with ease, mouth never leaving yours.

You gasp against his lips, and he groans—low, deep, almost pained.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes against your neck, kissing along your jaw. “No idea how many times I’ve wanted to drag you in here and do this.”

You whimper, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt.

“Wooyoung—”

“Tell me to stop,” he growls.

But you don’t.

You want this. Him. All of it.

The kiss deepens. His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, warm and firm against your skin. His fingers glide up your body, and then over the lacy fabric of your bra. Your nails claw at his back as you move your hips against his, whimpering in the kiss.

He pulls back, ending the kiss. ''Help me get my clothes off,'' he grunts as you palm his hardening cock. You nod, giving his crotch a squeeze before helping Wooyoung out of his outfit. Wooyoung is the one pulling down his underwear, revealing himself to you in all his naked glory. Your mouth practically waters at the sight.

''Knees,'' he orders as he holds his hardened cock in his hand. You decide not to put up a fight, because taking Wooyoung's cock down your throat is actually not a bad idea in your opinion.

Wooyoung smirks at you as he leans back against the wall. He orders you to take off your shirt and bra, and show off your tits for him - and you obey him. He grunts as he watches your breasts spring free from your bra, already imagining what he could do to them.

Without a word, you take Wooyoung's cock into your hands while softly licking at the tip, gathering all the pre-cum on your tongue.

''Jesus Christ, woman,'' he curses as he watches you take his cock all the way down your throat without breaking eye contact. ''You're gonna kill me if you keep doing that.''

Wanting to be the teasing one this time, you took that as a challenge. You moved your head up and down his shaft, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked on his member. You still hold eye contact once his dick reaches the back of your throat. You make a gagging sound, but don't pull away. Instead, you keep him there a few seconds each time you bring your head down again.

Above you, Wooyoung is nearly trembling on his legs. He thought he'd be the one leading, he'd be the one in control, but it is now obvious to him that he underestimated your power.

When you pick up your pace and your hands travel over his legs and his ass he starts to whimper and cry out your name. You let go of his dick with a loud pop and smirk, panting to gather your breath.

Wooyoung grunts and grabs your chin with his thumb and forefinger. ''Hold your tits up for me, you're gonna let me fuck them.''

You whimpered at his words, your hands sliding up to your own chest. You hold onto your breasts, squeezing them together. He spits in your cleavage, rubbing his hands over it to make sure you're wet enough.

He slowly slides his cock between them once or twice before picking up the pace, using your body as his personal fuck toy. It doesn't take long before he comes with a broken moan, spilling his cum all over your chest.

Wooyoung kneels down in front of you and with his long fingers he gathers the cum from your chest and holds them in front of your parted lips. You instinctively open your mouth and swallow his fingers, sucking them clean and tasting Wooyoung's salty cum before swallowing it.

''That's a good girl,'' he smirks.

When someone knocks on the door asking for him, he gestures that the two of you should get dressed again. ''Yeah! Be right out, few minutes!'' he shouts. You still feel pent up, wanting your own release too, and Wooyoung is quick to notice.

''What is it princess? You weren't done yet?'' He says with a naughty smirk, and you roll your eyes. ''Who do you think you are? Of course I'm not done, I wanna come too. You're gonna make me come, Jung Wooyoung.''

He smirks and presses a kiss in your neck before putting his sweatpants and t-shirt on. ''Come to my hotelroom after midnight, yeah? I'll fuck your little brains out,'' he says, before finally exiting the changingroom.

You take a moment to process what he just said to you before properly getting dressed and making your way to the hotel with other staff members.

You go to your own room first to unwind for a moment. You take a relaxing shower and make way to shave and lotion yourself. You put on the nicest lingerie set you brought and decide to go with a sundress that's easy to slip off.

The rest of the night you lay in bed with a Coke Zero and a cursed TikTok foryoupage, waiting for it to be midnight. When the clock finally strikes twelve you get up and put your phone and keycard in a little purse.

You arrive at Wooyoungs' hotelroom a few minutes later. The door immediately opens after one knock - as if he had been waiting by the door all this time.

Wooyoung greets you with a smirk - still in his sweats. Before he can say a word, you step into the room and press your lips against his. He quickly shuts the door before you push him against it. You press yourself against him as your hunger takes over.

You moan into the kiss when he playfully bites your lip and squeezes your ass. You pull away and lick your lips seductively, looking him up and down.

''So, going to fuck my dumb brains out yet?''

Wooyoung smirks and pulls you to the large kingsize bed. You lay down on it, and watch him as he gets on top of you. You feel his hands stroke your thighs before tugging on the dress, pulling it over your head.

He grunts at the sight and cups your clothed breasts, squeezing them before removing your bra. ''Those tits are so fucking perfect, I loved fucking them.''

''Well if my tits are so good, imagine how fucking amazing my wet, tight pussy is, I wonder if you can handle all of it~'' you tease him.

He narrows his eyes, watching you closely as you taunt him. And then he finally moved his dominant hand lower, reaching into your panties.

He traces his fingers around your wet slit before pushing one into your greedy hole. "Fuck," you moan softly, eyes rolling back as you feel his thumb graze your sensitive clit.

"You like that?" he asks with a smirk plastered on his face, his eyes focused on the way your mouth parts slowly.

"Yeah, fuck, yeah," you moan again, two of his fingers now moving in and out slowly, his thumn still pressed on your clit, rubbing in circular motion.

"You want more? You want me to fuck that little pussy of yours?" he asks, and you nod - a tad too enthusiastically, your breathing uneven as he curls his fingers inside you just right.

He slid in another finger and you could feel the stretch, your soaking cunt swallowing his strong fingers with a hunger you never experienced before.

Wooyoung moved his thumb faster on your clit, pressing down on it a little more to get you to moan louder.

You cry out his name, pussy clenching hard around his fingers, and Wooyoung watchs with near disbelief as he feels the tight muscles of your cunt fluttering around his fingers. Your moans get breathier and your legs shake as you feel your orgasm wash over you.

"Fuck, you're so sensitive," he groans, riding out your orgasm before pulling his fingers out. He pulls your panties off and then undresses himself, finally setting his hard cock free.

He guides you onto your hands on knees. He quickly settles behind you and takes your hips into his large hands. You whimper from the touch and look up, only to find your own face in the reflection of the mirror in front of you.

"I want you to watch yourself while I fuck you, okay?" he tells you in a raspy voice you usually only hear on stage.

''Yes,'' you answer him, unable to form any sentence as he slides his hard, long cock into youyr heat. ''Yes, yes,'' you whimper as you feel him slide in and out slowly. You push yourself back at him, trying to get him to stay all the way inside a little longer.

"God, fuck, you feel so good," Wooyoung moans from behind you, thrusting his hips harder and faster now. He fucks you hard, the sound of wet, sweaty skin slapping together filling the room as he pounds deeply into you.

''Yes, that's a good girl, such a pretty girl. You keep watching yourself alright? Watch as I fuck you so hard you can't feel anything but me.''

You do as you were told, keeping your head up to watch yourself - and him. You've never seen yourself like this before, this fucked out. This affected by someone's touch and cock.

The fucked out look on your face is almost too much for Wooyoung to handle, but then when your cunt starting clenching down on him again, he truly can't stop himself.

He comes hard and deep inside you with a loud moan, and you feel his seed spilling into you, filling you up to the brim. You whine out his name as he rides out his high, pulling out of your cunt.

You expect him to be done, but you feel his fingers on your cunt again. Two fingers are slid into your pussy, while two other fingers are rubbing your clit.

Your arms become weak, and you let yourself go, resting half on your elbow, half just laying face-forward on the bed. You squirm and moan into the sheets, feeling super sensitive from all the sensations he's bringing you.

''That's right, that's a good girl, you gonna come again for me? Keep my cum nicely inside you though, okay? Gonna keep it there like a good angel. Just come once more for me, yeah?'' he says, pumping his fingers inside you as his other fingers on your clit slide against it - teasing it.

Before you know it you're coming on his fingers - this orgasm slower and longer than before, taking over your entire shaking body. After a minute, Wooyoung finally lets go, but his cum seeps out of you instantly, so he fills your cunt up with two fingers again.

He lays next to you as you lay on your slide, whimpering and trying not to move - as your pussy is feeling too sensitive.

''Good girl, a real good girl for me, baby. I'm just gonna keep my cum safe in here for now hm?''

You moan as he moves his fingers. ''You're a menace,'' you pant. ''A menace who just fucked your brains out, yeah,'' he grins.

''Stupid rockstar who's still rockhard,'' you say, rolling your eyes. ''Hm, I'll give you a few minutes. I think you'll fall apart if I make you take it again right now.''

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