#oringal work

"Morning," he murmured against you, the vibrations making your hips jerk. His hands held you firmly in place, preventing any escape from the torturous pleasure.

"Please," you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. "Don't stop."

He chuckled darkly, slowing his movements even more. "Oh, I'm not stopping anytime soon." His tongue traced circles around your clit, never quite giving you the pressure you desperately needed. Your back arched off the bed as whimpers escaped your lips.

"Chan, please," you begged, shameless now. "I need you to finish me."

"Such a pretty beg," he teased, finally giving you a firmer stroke before pulling back again. "But I want to hear you scream first." He alternated between gentle licks and sharp sucks, building the tension until you thought you might break. Your whole body trembled with need, nails scratching against his scalp.

"Please, Chan," you sobbed. "I'm so close."

"Then come for me," he commanded, finally giving you the relentless stimulation you craved. The orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, intense and overwhelming as you cried out his name. He didn't stop until you collapsed against the sheets, spent and trembling.

"Sorry to interrupt," a smooth, melodic voice said. "I couldn't help but notice your drawing. The color palette you've chosen is really striking."

Y/N looked up, and for a moment, her brain refused to process what she was seeing. Hwang Hyunjin. In the flesh. Standing over their table like some beautiful apparition in ripped black jeans and an oversized designer hoodie. He was taller than she expected, and somehow more real—the slight stubble along his jaw, the faint tiredness around his eyes that makeup usually covered in photos.

Myra, entirely unimpressed by celebrity, beamed up at him. "It's a magical fox! See, she has nine tails because she's a gumiho, but she's a good one, not the eating-hearts kind."

Hyunjin crouched down to eye level with her daughter, his movements graceful despite the awkward position. "I can see that. The gradient you've created on the tails is really advanced technique. Are you taking art lessons?"

"Mom taught me," Myra said proudly. "She's a graphic designer."

Hyunjin's eyes lifted to meet Y/N's, and she felt the impact like a physical touch. His gaze was intense, focused entirely on her in a way that felt both flattering and unnerving.

"Is that so?" he said, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more intimate. "That explains the exceptional eye for composition."

Y/N found her voice, though it came out more sharply than intended. "Myra, why don't you finish the math problem while I..." She trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward Hyunjin. "We shouldn't keep you from your friends."

She nodded toward the corner where she'd noticed the other Stray Kids members—Chan and Felix, she thought—watching their interaction with amused curiosity.

Hyunjin didn't even glance their way. "They can wait. I'm Hyunjin, by the way."

"I'm aware," Y/N said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. "And we're just leaving." She began gathering Myra's things with perhaps unnecessary force, her movements jerky with nerves.

"Myra," Hyunjin said, turning back to her daughter as if Y/N hadn't spoken. "That's a beautiful name. Does it mean anything special?"

"It means 'elegant and loving,'" Myra recited proudly. "Mommy says I'm elegant when I'm not spilling juice."

Hyunjin's laugh was warm, genuine. "I spill things all the time. Especially during dance practice when I'm trying to drink water and choreograph at the same time."

Y/N finally succeeded in packing away the last of the schoolwork. "Come on, sweetheart. We need to pick up your brother from soccer practice."

She stood, taking Myra's hand and deliberately not looking at Hyunjin. But he stood too, moving into her line of sight effortlessly.

"Let me walk you to your car," he offered, and it didn't sound like a question.

"That's really not necessary," Y/N said, her grip tightening on Myra's hand.

"I insist." His smile was charming, but there was a determination in his eyes that suggested he wasn't accustomed to taking no for an answer. "The paparazzi have been particularly aggressive lately, and I'd feel better knowing you got to your car safely."

It was a transparent excuse—the café was in a relatively quiet neighborhood, and she'd seen no evidence of photographers—but Myra was already looking up at him with starry eyes.

"Please, Mom? He's so tall, he could beat up any bad guys!"

Hyunjin chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "I'm better at dancing than fighting, but I'll do my best."

Against her better judgment, Y/N found herself nodding. They walked through the café together, Hyunjin carefully matching his longer strides to theirs. She was hyperaware of the attention they were drawing—the whispered comments, the phones discreetly recording—and her spine stiffened with each step.

Outside, the autumn air was crisp. Her sensible minivan was parked just a few spaces down, looking decidedly unglamorous next to Hyunjin's sleek black car.

"This is us," she said, stopping by the van. "Thank you for the... escort."

Hyunjin's eyes scanned the vehicle, taking in the booster seat visible through the windows, the faint smear of peanut butter on the door handle, the reality of her life laid bare. For a moment, she expected to see disappointment or judgment in his expression. Instead, he looked... intrigued.

"You have a beautiful family," he said quietly, his gaze returning to her face.

The comment felt like a test. "I do," she said, her chin lifting slightly. "They're my entire world."

Something flickered in his eyes—respect, maybe, or understanding. "I can see that." He hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. "Would you think me terribly forward if I asked to see you again?"

Y/N blinked, certain she'd misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"You. Me. Coffee, maybe? Without the math homework?" He gestured toward Myra, who was watching the exchange with keen interest.

For a moment, Y/N was too stunned to respond. Then a harsh laugh escaped her. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly," he said, and he did look serious, all traces of amusement gone from his expression.

"You flirt like you don't understand the consequences," she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended.

"I understand them," he replied, his gaze intense. "I just don't really care."

She shook her head, opening the van door and helping Myra inside. "I'm not someone you experiment with."

"I'm not experimenting."

"You'll eventually regret it."

"I only regret things I don't do."

She finally turned to face him fully, her patience fraying. "You're younger than me, Hyunjin."

"So what? Doesn't make me want you any less."

"It should."

His expression darkened slightly, that famous intensity she'd seen in music videos finally making an appearance. "That's fucking bullshit, and you know it."

The crude language startled her, especially with Myra just feet away, but before she could respond, he continued, his voice softer.

"Give me one real reason. Not your age, not your kids, not whatever story you've built in your head about why this couldn't work. Give me one reason that comes from you not wanting this too."

She opened her mouth, then closed it. The truth was, she couldn't. There was something about him—the earnestness beneath the celebrity, the way he'd spoken to Myra like she was a person, not just a child—that called to something deep within her.

Seeing her hesitation, he pressed his advantage gently. "One coffee. That's all I'm asking."

Y/N took a deep breath, the autumn air doing little to cool the sudden warmth in her cheeks. "I... I need to think about it."

A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. "That's not a no." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple black card with just a phone number embossed on it. "No pressure. Whenever you're ready."

She took the card, her fingers brushing against his. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through her system.

"Goodbye, Y/N," he said, her name sounding like a melody in his mouth. He nodded toward Myra, who was watching with wide eyes from her car seat. "Myra. It was lovely meeting you both."

Then he turned and walked back toward the café, leaving Y/N standing by her minivan with a luxury business card in her hand and the unsettling feeling that her carefully ordered life had just been irrevocably shaken.

The black card with Hyunjin's number stayed tucked in Y/N's wallet for three days. Three days of taking it out, staring at the embossed digits, then putting it back with a muttered "this is insane" each time. It was on the fourth day, while watching Myra carefully recreate one of Hyunjin's dance moves from a music video she'd looked up, that Y/N finally surrendered to the insanity.

She waited until the kids were asleep, the house quiet except for the hum of the dishwasher. Her hands trembled slightly as she typed the number into her phone, the message brief and deliberately casual.

Y/N: Coffee sounds nice. When are you free?

His response came within thirty seconds, as if he'd been waiting with phone in hand.

Hyunjin: Tomorrow. 2 PM. I'll pick you up.

She started to type that she could meet him there, but stopped. If she was doing this, she might as well do it properly.

Y/N: Okay.

She added her address before she could lose her nerve.

The next day passed in a blur of nervous energy. She changed outfits four times before settling on dark jeans and a simple sweater—something that said "I made an effort but I'm not trying too hard." At exactly 1:58 PM, a discreet black sedan pulled up outside her house, not the flashy sports car she'd half-expected.

Hyunjin emerged from the driver's side, looking unfairly handsome in a tailored wool coat and black trousers. He hadn't bothered with a disguise beyond a simple baseball cap, though he'd pulled it low over his eyes. He texted her rather than ringing the bell—a thoughtful gesture that suggested he understood the potential complications of being seen at her doorstep.

When she stepped outside, his eyes swept over her with open appreciation. "You look beautiful," he said, opening the passenger door for her.

The café he chose was nothing like the bustling chain where they'd met. Tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, it was the kind of place with mismatched armchairs, shelves of well-loved books, and no photographers in sight. He'd apparently reserved the entire back section, though he did it so discreetly she only realized when no other customers approached their area.

For the first twenty minutes, they made awkward small talk. He asked about her work, her children, her life before Seoul. She asked about his music, his tour, the mundane details of idol life. The conversation was stilted, punctuated by long silences where they just looked at each other across the small table.

It was Hyunjin who finally broke through the tension. Leaning forward, he said quietly, "You know I don't usually do this, right?"

"Pick up divorced mothers in coffee shops?" she asked, her tone drier than intended.

A slow smile touched his lips. "No. Feel this nervous on a date. I usually know exactly what to say."

The admission surprised her. "You seem perfectly confident to me."

"It's an act," he confessed, stirring his coffee absently. "A very well-practiced one. But with you..." He trailed off, his gaze intense. "With you, I find myself wanting to be honest. It's terrifying."

Something in her chest tightened at that. "Why me? Seriously, Hyunjin. I'm thirteen years older than you. I have children. My life is complicated in ways you can't even imagine."

"And my life is complicated in ways you probably can imagine," he countered. "The constant scrutiny, the lack of privacy, the pressure to maintain an image." He reached across the table, his fingers hesitating just before touching hers. "When I'm with you, I don't have to be 'Hyunjin from Stray Kids.' I can just be... me."

The simplicity of the statement disarmed her completely. She found herself telling him things she hadn't told anyone—about her divorce, her fears about dating again, her worry that she'd forgotten how to be anything but a mother.

He listened with a focus that felt both flattering and unnerving, his eyes never leaving her face. When she finished, he said quietly, "You're the most real person I've met in years. Everyone in my world is so carefully curated, so polished. You're... authentic. It's refreshing."

The coffee stretched into two hours, then three. They talked about everything and nothing—his love of painting, her failed attempt at gardening, their mutual hatred of morning people. The age gap, which had loomed so large in her mind, gradually shrank into irrelevance.

When he finally drove her home, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. He walked her to her door, his hands tucked in his pockets as if preventing himself from reaching for her.

"Thank you for today," she said, turning to face him on the porch. "I... I had a better time than I expected."

His smile was soft in the twilight. "So did I." He hesitated, then asked, "Can I see you again?"

Before she could answer, he added quickly, "Not coffee next time. Dinner. Somewhere nice. I'll make reservations somewhere private."

She should have said no. Should have maintained some boundaries, some semblance of self-preservation. Instead, she heard herself say, "I'd like that."

The smile that spread across his face was brilliant enough to rival the sunset. "Good." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Can I kiss you goodnight?"

Every rational thought in her head screamed that this was a bad idea. That kissing a world-famous idol on her front porch was inviting trouble. That she was too old for this kind of romance.

"Yes," she whispered anyway.

His kiss was nothing like she expected. It wasn't the aggressive, performative kiss she might have anticipated from a celebrity. It was slow, tender, questioning. His lips brushed against hers once, twice, a silent request for permission before deepening the kiss.

One hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek with a tenderness that made her chest ache. The other hand settled at her waist, pulling her closer until she could feel the solid warmth of his body through their clothes.

When he finally pulled back, both of them were breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. "I've been thinking about doing that since I saw you helping your daughter with fractions," he admitted, his voice rough.

She laughed, the sound shaky. "That's a line, right?"

He pulled back enough to meet her eyes, his expression completely serious. "It's the truth."

For a long moment, they just looked at each other in the gathering darkness. Then he brushed one last kiss against her forehead. "I'll call you tomorrow," he promised. "Lock your door."

She watched him walk back to his car, her fingers pressed to her still-tingling lips. As she turned to go inside, she caught sight of her reflection in the window—a forty-year-old mother with flushed cheeks and a dazed expression, looking for all the world like a teenager after her first date.

The thought should have terrified her. Instead, for the first time in years, she felt truly, completely alive.

The house felt unnervingly quiet. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, there were no Legos to trip over, no cartoons blaring from the living room, no cries of "Mom, he's touching me!" Myra was at a sleepover, and her son was at a friend's house for a weekend soccer tournament. The silence was supposed to be a gift, a rare moment of peace. Instead, it felt like a vast, empty space where her doubts could echo and multiply.

She was standing in front of her closet, wearing nothing but a robe and a fresh wave of panic. The dress she’d bought on a whim yesterday—a slinky, emerald green thing that clung in all the right places—lay on her bed like a challenge. It was beautiful, daring, and completely unlike anything she’d worn in years.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Hyunjin.

Hyunjin: I’m outside. Whenever you’re ready.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This is insane. She was a forty-year-old mother of two. She didn't do this. She didn't let world-famous idols pick her up for secret dates while her kids were at sleepovers. This was the kind of thing that happened in stories, not in her sensible, minivan-driving life.

Another buzz.

Hyunjin: Take your time. No rush. Just wanted you to know I’m here.

The simple kindness of it, the lack of pressure, was what finally broke her. She took a deep, shaky breath and slipped the dress on. The silk was cool against her skin, a luxurious sensation that made her feel both powerful and utterly exposed. A quick glance in the mirror showed a woman she barely recognized—older, yes, with faint lines around her eyes that spoke of laughter and worry, but also… vibrant. Alive.

She opened the front door to find him leaning against his sedan, scrolling through his phone. When he looked up, the slow, appreciative smile that spread across his face made every nerve ending in her body light up.

"Wow," he breathed, pushing off the car and walking toward her. "Just… wow."

"You clean up okay yourself," she managed, her voice a little breathless. He was in a black suit, tailored to perfection, with the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. It was a look that screamed effortless elegance and made her mouth go dry.

He took her hand, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. "Ready?"

The restaurant was even more exclusive than the café. It was tucked away in a converted hanok, all warm wood, paper screens, and soft, ambient lighting. They were led to a private room overlooking a meticulously cared-for garden, the city lights twinkling in the distance like a distant galaxy. The privacy was absolute.

For a while, the conversation was as smooth as the wine he ordered for them. He told her stories about his trainee days, making her laugh with tales of his and Chan's disastrous attempts at cooking. She found herself telling him about her own youth, her dreams of becoming an artist before life had gently steered her toward the more practical path of graphic design.

But as the meal progressed, the space between them began to hum with a different kind of energy. His gaze lingered on her lips when she spoke. He found excuses to touch her—a brush of his fingers against her arm as he reached for the salt, a hand resting on the back of her chair as he leaned in to whisper something about the other diners he’d glimpsed on the way in.

Every touch was a spark, and the space between them was becoming dangerously flammable.

When the check came, she felt a familiar pang of reality returning. The night was almost over. Soon she’d be back in her quiet house, and he’d be back in his glittering, untouchable world.

The drive home was quieter, the air thick with unspoken things. He parked in front of her house, cutting the engine but making no move to get out.

"I had a wonderful time, Y/N," he said, his voice low in the darkness of the car.

"Me too," she whispered. "Thank you."

He turned to her, his eyes searching hers. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Her breath hitched. The question hung between them, stark and direct. Every instinct screamed at her to say no. To protect herself, to protect the fragile new thing budding between them from the complications of… well, of everything.

"I… I don't think that's a good idea," she said, the words feeling like ash in her mouth.

"Why not?" He didn't sound angry, just genuinely curious. "Because you're scared?"

"Because it's complicated," she countered, but it sounded weak even to her own ears.

He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. "I'm a patient man, Y/N. But I'm not a saint. I've wanted you since the moment I saw you in that café. I want you now. If you tell me you don't want this, I'll respect it. I'll drive away and I'll see you for coffee next week. But don't hide behind 'complicated.' Tell me the truth."

She looked at him—at the raw sincerity in his eyes, at the way his thumb was stroking her cheek, at the sheer force of his presence that seemed to fill the small space of the car. The truth was, she did want this. She wanted him with a desperation that terrified her.

"Okay," she breathed, the word barely a whisper. "Come in."

The moment the front door clicked shut behind them, the pretense of the elegant date dissolved. He was on her, his hands framing her face as he kissed her with a hunger that had been simmering all night. This was nothing like the chaste goodnight kiss on her porch. This was a kiss that claimed, that devoured. His tongue swept against hers, and she met him with equal fervor, her hands fisting in the lapels of his expensive suit.

He backed her toward the living room, their lips never parting, until the backs of her knees hit the soft edge of the couch. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with desire as he looked down at her.

"You have no idea," he murmured, his voice rough. "No idea how many times I've thought about this."

Then he sank to his knees before her.

The sight was so shocking, so unexpected, it stole the air from her lungs. Hwang Hyunjin, a man worshipped by millions, was kneeling at her feet in her humble living room.

His hands went to the hem of her dress, slowly, reverently, pushing the silk up her thighs. He pressed his lips to her knee, then to the inside of her thigh, his gaze never leaving hers. Each kiss was a benediction, a prayer.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered against her skin. "So fucking beautiful."

He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and slowly drew them down, his eyes following their path. When they were gone, he looked up at her, his expression one of pure, unadulterated awe.

"Let me worship you, Y/N," he said, and it wasn't a question. It was a plea.

She could only nod, her throat too tight to speak.

He leaned in, and the first touch of his tongue against her core was a revelation. It wasn't clumsy or rushed. It was deliberate, exploratory, as if he were learning the map of her body. He took his time, his hands gripping her hips, holding her steady as he built a slow, exquisite tension within her. He watched her every reaction, his dark eyes focused, learning what made her gasp, what made her shiver, what made her cry out his name.

The orgasm that crashed through her was blinding, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that left her boneless and trembling. He didn't stop, though, drawing out her release until she was a writhing, whimpering mess, her fingers tangled in his hair.

When he finally pulled back, his face was glistening, his lips curved in a smug, satisfied smile. He stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms as if she weighed nothing.

"Bedroom," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder as he carried her down the hall. He laid her gently on her bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he followed her down. He made quick work of his suit, tossing the expensive jacket and trousers aside until he was just Hyunjin, all lean muscle and smooth skin, hovering over her.

He settled between her thighs, his body a warm, heavy weight that felt more right than anything had in years. He looked down at her, his expression softening, the intense desire in his eyes mingling with something deeper, something tender.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

She reached up, cupping his face in her hands. "I've never been more sure of anything."

He entered her with a slow, deliberate stroke, and the world narrowed to the feeling of him inside her, filling her, completing a part of her she hadn't even realized was empty. He moved with a rhythm that was both powerful and gentle, his eyes locked on hers, creating an intimacy that was far more profound than the physical act itself.

There were no more words, only the sound of their breathing, the soft slap of skin against skin, the whispered sighs and moans that filled the quiet house. It wasn't frantic or wild; it was deep and soulful, a conversation their bodies were having, a promise being sealed.

When he finally found his release, it was with a low, guttural groan against her neck, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed against her, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, and for a long time, the only sound in the room was their combined, ragged breathing.

She lay there, her limbs feeling like liquid, her mind a blissful blank. The scent of him—expensive cologne and clean sweat—filled her senses. She traced idle patterns on the smooth skin of his back, feeling the subtle shift of his muscles as he slowly came back to himself.

He stirred, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at her. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and his lips were swollen from her kisses. He looked thoroughly debauched and utterly beautiful.

"Hi," he whispered, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face.

"Hi," she whispered back, a genuine smile of her own touching her lips. It felt easy, natural.

He lowered his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, then to the tip of her nose, and finally to her lips. It was a sweet, possessive kiss, a sealing of the moment.

"You're amazing," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I knew you would be."

He rolled to the side, taking her with him so they were facing each other, the sheets tangled around their legs. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his gaze soft and searching. The frantic hunger from earlier had been replaced by a deep, quiet contentment.

"Stay," she said, the word a soft puff of air between them. It wasn't a question. It was a need.

He didn't hesitate. "I'm not going anywhere."

In the morning, she woke to the unfamiliar warmth of another body in her bed. The pale gray light of dawn filtered through the curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Hyunjin was asleep beside her, his face peaceful and unguarded, the famous intensity softened by slumber. He looked younger, almost boyish, and her heart clenched with a tenderness so sharp it almost hurt.

She slipped out of bed carefully, padding to the kitchen to start the coffee. The routine felt grounding, a return to her normal life, but nothing was normal. Her body was pleasantly sore, a tangible reminder of the night before. She was standing in her robe, sipping her coffee and staring out at the quiet street, when arms wrapped around her waist from behind.

"Morning," he mumbled into her hair, his voice still rough with sleep. He was warm and solid against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder.

"Morning," she said, leaning into him. "I was just thinking my life will never be the same."

"Good," he said, his arms tightening around her. "It was too quiet before."

He was right. The silence of the house yesterday had been daunting, but this morning, it felt different. It was peaceful. Shared.

They drank their coffee on the back porch, wrapped in blankets against the cool morning air. They didn't talk much, just existed together in the comfortable quiet. He told her he had to leave before noon, and she felt a pang of loss so sharp it surprised her.

When it was time, he dressed in his wrinkled suit from the night before. At the door, he turned to her, his expression serious.

"Y/N," he said, taking her hands in his. "This wasn't a one-time thing for me."

"I know," she whispered, her heart thudding. "It wasn't for me, either."

"Good." He leaned down and kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of coffee and a promise. "I'll call you when I get back to the dorm. And I'll see you this weekend. I don't care what I have to do, I'm clearing my schedule."