a casual attempt

She smiled. Or at least, showed teeth. It wasn’t fake. Just… automatic.

Her wrist still ached from the finals. Her thighs were killing her. She hadn’t had a proper nap since the medal ceremony. And someone kept trying to straighten her hair for photos.

⸻

Gabbi hated this part.

Not because she wasn’t grateful. She was. Deeply.

But the noise after the silence of training—the flash of cameras, the endless 축하합니다! and “What’s next for Korea’s fencing queen?”—all of it pressed in on her like armor she couldn’t take off.

She looked around for Iseul, her one consistent lifeline in this chaos. Iseul appeared from the side, phone glued to one hand, coffee in the other.

“Two minutes behind schedule. The media wants a shot of you waving,” Iseul said, handing her the drink without looking up. “And for God’s sake, fix your bangs.”

Gabbi took the coffee. “You fix them. You’re my handler.”

“I’m your PR manager, not your stylist. Don’t upgrade me without a raise.”

They fell into step like clockwork. Iseul moved like a current through the crowd, shielding her without being obvious. Gabbi sipped. Bitter, slightly burned. She didn’t mind.

As they reached the car, Iseul clicked open the door and said, “Oh, also. We’re going to a thing tonight.”

Gabbi froze mid-sip. “What kind of thing?”

“Low-key dinner. Few mutuals. You’re not in the press run anymore, so technically you’re free.”

“I just landed. I smell like airport.”

“You smell like gold. Put on real pants and come.”

Gabbi groaned but said nothing. She already knew she was going.

⸻

That evening, Seoul was humid. The sky hung low like it was waiting to rain but never would. The dinner was on a friend-of-a-friend’s rooftop in Itaewon: half mood lighting, half haphazard fairy lights, definitely Instagrammable—if Gabbi ever remembered to take pictures of anything.

She arrived in black joggers and a hoodie. Iseul gave her a look. She ignored it.

The table was already half full. Some models. One solo artist she vaguely recognized from a YouTube thumbnail. And then there was someone across the table, pouring himself a drink with the casual ease of someone who knew he was being watched.

Gabbi didn’t recognize him.

Tall, lean, decent jawline. He looked like he probably acted. Or modeled. Or maybe was just annoyingly symmetrical by default.

Iseul leaned in, low voice: “That’s Lee Do-hyun. Actor. Real name’s Lim Dong-hyun.”

Gabbi blinked. “The guy who dies in Youth of May, right?”

“No,” Iseul said. “That was the nurse.”

Gabbi shrugged. “Whatever. Everyone looks like they’re about to die in that show.”

“You’re so culturally bankrupt sometimes.”

“And yet here I am. National treasure.”

Iseul groaned. Gabbi took another sip of her drink.

⸻

They didn’t talk until dessert, when she reached for a tangerine and he reached for the same one.

She let go. He let go at the same time.

The fruit dropped, rolled, and bumped against her phone.

She looked at him. “Just take it.”

He looked amused. “You reached first.”

“Yeah, but you’re the actor.”

“And you’re the one with the medals.”

“Touché.”

A pause.

Then he asked, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

Gabbi shrugged. “I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

That made him smile. “That’s a first.”

He didn’t press her. Didn’t make a show of being recognized. Just leaned back, let her talk about anything but fencing or fame.

She didn’t realize until much later that they’d spent nearly forty minutes talking about local chips, Olympic village food hacks, and the exact ratio of milk to cereal.

No pretense. Just… people.

⸻

When they left, Iseul fell into step beside her.

“Not bad for someone who ‘hates dinners,’” she said.

Gabbi didn’t answer right away. She was still thinking about the actor. Not because of his face, though sure, fine, he had one. But because he didn’t ask for a photo. Didn’t even ask if she wanted to follow each other.

She opened Instagram that night, stared at her chaotic finsta (@jabgab), then flipped to her official (@/jangjihye). Iseul had already uploaded a clean shot of her at the airport.

Caption: “She’s back. Seoul, say hello to our champion.”

Gabbi sighed, dropped her phone, and pulled the blanket over her head.

Somewhere under it, she mumbled, “Lim Dong-hyun, huh…”

She fell asleep thinking of tangerines and cereal.

⸻

🧾 End Notes:

was that okay? did it make sense? if it made you smile (or mildly curious), hit that heart or reblog so i know this isn’t just a ghost post.

🧾 & Author's Note:

He knows he should stop.

Knows he should pull away, tuck you under his arm, and take you home like he promised.

But when you moan into his mouth — soft, wrecked, desperate — and grind against him again, something inside him snaps.

"Fuck it," Zayne mutters against your lips, voice low and shaking. "Can't wait, darling. Need you now."

You barely have time to gasp before he grabs your thighs, hoisting you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

His hands fumble at your panties — tugging them aside, not even bothering to pull them down.

You feel the thick, hot press of him against your entrance, and your head falls back against the wall with a broken cry.

"Zayne—" you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

He kisses you again — messy, brutal, consuming — as he thrusts into you in one slow, devastating push.

You both moan — low and wrecked — the sound swallowed by the open night air.

The stretch, the fullness, the heat — it’s too much, too fast, too good.

Zayne doesn't give you a second to adjust.

He sets a brutal pace immediately — hips snapping up into you with hard, desperate thrusts, the slap of skin against skin loud in the empty rooftop air.

You cling to him helplessly, mouth open in a silent scream, every thrust sending you higher, wrecking you faster.

"Mine," he growls against your throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. "Only mine, darling. No one else gets to see you like this."

You sob, clinging tighter, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, chasing the blinding pleasure building deep inside you.

The city lights blur behind your closed eyes.

The air smells like rain and asphalt and Zayne.

You feel like you’re falling — weightless, helpless — and he’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

"Zayne—" you cry, voice breaking. "Close — so close —"

"Come for me, my love," he groans, pounding into you harder, faster. "Come now. Want to feel you fall apart."

You shatter — body convulsing around him, mouth open in a silent scream, nails raking down his back as you come harder than you ever have in your life.

Zayne chokes out a broken, desperate moan and follows you over the edge, hips jerking as he spills inside you, his entire body trembling with the force of it.

You cling to each other — gasping, shaking, wrecked — the cool night air kissing your overheated skin.

When he finally pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours, still buried inside you, still panting like he just ran a marathon.

"Fuck," he breathes. "I’m sorry. I couldn’t— I couldn’t wait, darling."

You laugh — broken, breathless, so in love it hurts.

"Don’t be," you whisper against his mouth. "I didn’t want you to."

He kisses you again — soft and slow this time — before gently lowering you back to your feet, holding you steady when your legs nearly give out.

Your panties are ruined. You’re a mess. And you’ve never been happier.

Zayne tucks you against his side, kissing your temple, still shaking slightly.

"Let's go home," he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. "Before I lose control again."

You laugh, still dizzy, still aching for more.

Tonight isn't over.

Not even close.

Wondering how it would feel if you both made it home first?

The second the front door slams shut, Zayne’s mouth is on you.

No words.

No restraint.

Just pure, desperate need.

You barely have time to gasp before he’s kissing you — hard, bruising, frantic — one hand fisting in your hair, the other already dragging the zipper down the back of your dress.

It pools at your feet, and you kick it away without care.

Zayne doesn't waste a second.

His hands are everywhere — your back, your hips, your thighs — grabbing, squeezing, branding you with his touch.

"Bedroom," he growls against your mouth.

You don’t make it to the bed.

You make it to the wall just inside the doorway.

He lifts you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud.

His hands slide down, grabbing your ass to grind you against the hard line of him, making you whimper into his mouth.

"Darling," he rasps, voice hoarse and shaking. "I need you. Now."

You nod frantically, clutching at his shoulders, desperate for more.

He fumbles with his pants — not even bothering to take them all the way off — just enough to free himself.

You reach down between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and he groans — low, guttural, broken — as he slides into you in one slow, devastating thrust.

You both gasp.

You’re so wet, so ready, so desperate for him it almost hurts.

"Fuck," Zayne breathes against your neck. "So perfect. So fucking perfect."

He holds still for a moment — trembling, wrecked — forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged.

And then he moves.

He thrusts into you hard — deep, fast, desperate — the roughness of the wall behind you only adding to the dizzying intensity.

You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, moaning with every deep, brutal snap of his hips.

"Mine," he grits out. "You're mine, darling. Always."

"Yours," you sob, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck, clinging to him like he’s your only anchor.

The pace is frantic, messy, punishing — the culmination of every stolen look, every teasing touch, every filthy whisper on the rooftop.

Zayne kisses you like he’s starving, devouring your moans, your gasps, your broken pleas for more.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his angle, and hits something deep inside you that makes you cry out, your body spasming around him.

"That’s it," he breathes, voice wrecked. "Come for me, my love. Please. Need to feel you."

You do.

You fall apart around him with a scream, body convulsing, clenching down so hard he chokes out a desperate groan against your throat.

He thrusts through your orgasm, chasing his own, hips snapping into you faster, harder, wrecked.

"I'm close," he gasps. "So close, darling. Want to feel you...want to stay inside you forever."

You cling to him, whispering his name, begging him to let go.

With a broken, guttural cry, Zayne slams into you one final time and comes — hips jerking, arms shaking, spilling inside you in thick, desperate pulses.

You feel every twitch, every broken groan, every shudder of his wrecked body as he clutches you against the wall.

You stay like that for long minutes — trembling, gasping, clinging to each other like the world outside doesn’t exist.

Eventually, Zayne’s legs give out, and he lowers you both to the floor, pulling you into his lap, still buried inside you.

He cradles you against his chest, rocking you gently, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your hair, your forehead, your cheeks.

"My love," he whispers between kisses. "My darling. My everything."

You smile against his throat, utterly wrecked, utterly full, utterly his.

"I love you," you murmur.

"I love you more," he whispers back. "Always."

You fall asleep like that — tangled on the floor, wrapped in each other, with the city lights from the rooftop still burning behind your closed eyelids.

Curious what would’ve happened if Zayne couldn't wait?

The hospital art exhibit is winding down.

The soft hum of conversation drifts through the hallways below — polite laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional low commentary about brushstrokes and symbolism.

You’ve been good all night. Polite. Attentive. Supportive.

You’ve smiled when you needed to, laughed when the moment called for it, stood quietly at Zayne’s side as he made small talk with his colleagues.

But now, under the gentle pull of exhaustion — and maybe something sweeter, heavier — you ache for a moment alone.

Zayne seems to sense it too.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low enough that no one else could possibly hear.

"Come with me, darling," he murmurs.

You don't hesitate.

You let him take your hand — large, warm, steady — and guide you out of the gallery, through the quieter back corridors of Akso Hospital you barely register.

He moves like a man who knows exactly where he’s going.

Up the back stairwell. Past the locked maintenance door he somehow has access to.

And then — the rooftop.

Cool night air brushes your skin the second he cracks the door open, letting the city skyline spill into view — endless glittering lights stretching far beyond the horizon.

You step outside with a soft laugh of wonder, tilting your head back to breathe it all in.

"It's beautiful," you whisper.

Zayne’s smile is small. Tight. Almost pained.

"Not as beautiful as you," he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

You turn to face him — framed by the stars, the streetlights, the endless night — and whatever careful restraint he brought up here shatters the second you smile at him.

Zayne moves before you can think.

His hands cup your face, tilting your head up to meet his mouth in a kiss that’s far too hungry to be polite, far too desperate to be planned.

You gasp against him, and he takes full advantage — deepening the kiss instantly, tongue sliding against yours, hands slipping from your cheeks down to your hips.

He walks you backward, slowly, until your back hits a concrete wall — cool against your dress, grounding you in the shocking heat of his body pressing into yours.

You arch into him instinctively, and Zayne groans — a low, broken sound that vibrates straight through you.

"Don’t look at me like that, darling," he whispers against your mouth, voice wrecked. "Not unless you want me to take you right here, where anyone could find us."

Your only answer is a wicked smile and a slow roll of your hips against his.

He shudders violently, hands tightening on your waist.

"Trouble," he breathes, forehead falling against yours. "You’re absolute trouble."

And then he kisses you again — harder, messier, teeth clashing, hands roaming everywhere like he can’t decide whether to hold you still or drag you even closer.

You gasp when one of his hands slips under your dress — up your thigh, over the curve of your ass, squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper.

"Zayne," you gasp, nails raking lightly down his back through his shirt.

He growls — an honest-to-god growl — and presses you harder against the wall, grinding his hips into yours so you can feel exactly how much you affect him.

"You have no idea," he whispers, voice shaking with restraint. "No fucking idea what you do to me."

His mouth trails down your jaw, your throat, nipping and kissing, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

You tilt your head back, offering more, and he takes it — sucking a dark mark just below your collarbone, where no one else will see it.

"Mine," he breathes against your skin. "Only mine."

You whimper, arching against him, your body on fire.

One of his hands slips under your dress again — higher, higher — until his fingers brush the edge of your panties.

You gasp his name, hips jerking.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, even as his fingers stroke you through the thin fabric. "Please, darling. Tell me now."

You don't.

You can't.

You just moan — desperate, wanton — and rock against his hand shamelessly.

Zayne curses, low and guttural, and slips his fingers under the fabric — finding you wet, ready, wrecked for him.

He groans, forehead pressing hard against your shoulder, body trembling with the effort it takes to hold back.

"I should take you home," he whispers raggedly. "Lay you out on our bed. Wreck you properly."

You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders.

"But if you keep touching me like this," he says, voice breaking, "I’m going to fuck you against this wall and not give a damn who sees."

You tighten your legs around his waist, grinding down against the thick, hard line of him, and Zayne snaps.

He kisses you like he's drowning.

His fingers slide against you, teasing, stroking, driving you higher even as he fights to keep himself together.

You’re panting now, gasping, riding his hand shamelessly as he groans into your mouth.

It’s messy.

It’s reckless.

It’s so fucking good.

But somewhere, in the back of his mind, Zayne knows this isn’t the place.

Knows he can’t have you here the way you deserve.

With a broken, desperate groan, he tears his mouth from yours and pulls his hand away, resting his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

"Not here," he rasps. "Not like this."

You whimper in protest, grinding against him again, but he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut like it physically hurts him to stop.

"When we get home," he whispers, voice wrecked, "I’m going to make you scream my name, darling. I’m going to take my time."

You shudder, clinging to him, your body aching for more.

Zayne kisses you one more time — slow, deep, devastating — before pulling back just enough to tuck you against his chest, shielding you from the open rooftop.

"We should go," he says, voice hoarse. "Before I lose whatever’s left of my self-control."

You laugh softly, breathless and wrecked, and let him lead you back inside — hand clasped tightly in his, heart pounding, body still aching for him.

Tonight isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

If you think Zayne could wait — barely holding it together until you got home — click here.

But if you think he couldn't even wait to get you home — click here.

Whichever path you take… you were already his to claim.