rory !

when his best friend told him his only child would be coming over, he didn’t think that much of it. your father divorced his wife about three years ago, and mingyu got to meet him not long after he moved into quite the estate at the most wealthy part of the countryside, which happened to be very close to his own home.

you, his daughter, were always too busy to visit, away at college, barely even coming home for the weekends — and when you did, you usually went over to your mother’s house. it’s not like you and your father aren’t close, just that you’re closer to your mom.

but now, your parents have suddenly decided they want to try and see if their relationship can work again. with you having nearly a whole academic year off until you start your master’s, you’re planning to live with them for a while, meaning the three of you will be living in your father’s estate.

which brings you to your current situation — you, smiling at something your mother says to you, and mingyu watching you from afar. the market is as crowded as it usually tends to get on the countryside, and he’s pretty sure he’s heard some people greeting him in the distance, but he can’t tear his focus away from you.

god, you’re gorgeous. a smile that lights up the room, a pretty little dress that might as well be tailored to your body, your hair gleaming under the sun.

his best friend suddenly recognizes him, gesturing for him to come over.

from your spot by one of the vendors, you catch sight of him approaching you, and something about him sends a shiver down your spine.

he introduces himself to you as kim mingyu. aside from the fact that he’s unnecessarily handsome, with that long dark hair and chiseled jaw, he walks around with a certain confidence you don’t often find in people. charming but doesn’t overdo it, holds his head high without being arrogant, uses his strong hands for gentle touches.

not to mention his sense of style. a white dress shirt, rolled-up sleeves, an expensive watch sitting on his wrist and a silver ring shining on his index finger.

you quickly come to the conclusion that your father’s best friend is sex on a stick. he gazes at you with parted lips, a subtle smile playing on them when he realizes you’re looking him up and down, and it has heat rushing to your cheeks.

it’s your entirely oblivious father who speaks up first. “took her a while to come visit with university always getting in the way, but now she’s finally here for a while. did i tell you she graduated magna cumme laude?”

“dad, you know you don’t have to say that to everyone, right?” you chuckle, averting your eyes, and he teasingly puts his hand on your shoulder.

“well, since you’re not doing it, i’ll have to do it for you. you agree, don’t you, mingyu?”

“certainly. takes hard work to pull something like that off.” he nods, locking eyes with you. “if anything, you should be bragging about it.”

you tilt your head. “and here i thought i was being humble.”

mingyu thinks he might be intoxicated by the sight of you. he follows every move you make like a hawk.

he’s never been one to look at women who are far apart in terms of age. even now, he usually doesn’t — but you just might be the exception to the rule. an exception that makes him feel like a pervert. what the hell is he doing at this age, looking at someone as young as you?

frankly, he’s not sure. but there’s something so different about you.

much to his pleasure, you continue your conversation with him even after your father has walked off to take a call. “so, what brings you here today?”

“i’m shopping. gotta get my hands on a birthday gift. something involving dinosaurs, if they’re selling that here.”

“dinosaurs?” you raise a brow, at which he chuckles.

“it’s for my son’s birthday. he’s been obsessed with ‘em for years. already going around telling people he’s gonna study biology when he’s older.”

fuck, you think to yourself. so that must mean he’s taken, even if you don’t see a gold ring on his finger.

then again, what chance did you think you had with a man like that, anyway?

“i’m pretty sure i saw some books in the sale section he might like.” you smile politely, hiding your reaction. “i’m assuming you’re married, then?”

but to your surprise, he shakes his head. “divorced, actually.”

“oh, i’m sorry.”

“it’s fine. it wasn’t a nasty divorce, we’re on better terms now than we were before it happened. it’s been a couple years, all three of us are happier this way.”

fair enough. “does your son live with you?”

“no, with his mom. but i call him often, and he comes over most weekends.”

you nod in understanding, and before you can give an actual response, he needs to clear the situation, because for some reason he just has to let you know he’s single.

“anyways, i’ve been by myself for a couple years now. so was your father, up until about two months ago.” he smiles. “is that weird? having your parents try again?”

with a shrug, you answer, “a bit. though i always figured it was more of a break than an actual divorce. we’ll see how it turns out, i guess.”

the perfect opportunity to insert the question he’s been dying to ask.

“and you? got a boyfriend waiting for you back home?”

“no, i don’t.”

that single reply has his heart racing in his chest.

mingyu subtly pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. his eyes are focused on your bare legs, travelling upwards before he can comprehend he’s shamelessly oggling you.

just when you’re about to say something else to him, your father beckons to you, and you give him that gorgeous smile again. “duty calls. it was nice to meet you, mr. kim.”

“call me mingyu. and likewise. i’ll go check out those books you mentioned.”

taking a last look at him, you eventually almost have to force yourself to turn around and go over to your father.

mingyu is unable to get you out of his mind that day. you’re all that’s lingering in his head when he buys that dinosaur book at the store, when he cooks his dinner, when he’s showering, when the lights are off and he’s tossing and turning in bed.

what the hell kind of impression did you leave on him? he’s pretty sure you’ll be showing up in his dreams too, if he finally manages to fall asleep at some point.

not that he wouldn’t want you to.

funnily enough, you both go to bed with the wish to see each other again as soon as possible, and mingyu makes sure to be a part of your new everyday life in the days that follow.

days turn into weeks, and before you know it, two months have passed by.

both of you have developed a sickeningly annoying crush on each other. mingyu, being your father’s best friend, is over at the house rather frequently, and naturally your mother’s taken a liking towards him as well.

shared dinners, game nights, events in town — there’s suddenly a lot tying you together, which means you see him at least several times a week.

you’ve grown to feel comfortable in his presence, since you get along so well, though the hairs on your arms certainly still stand upright when he walks into the room.

and if you’ve learned one thing, it’s that mingyu is one smooth fucker. charming, always says the right thing, well-liked. but you find you like him especially when he loses his composure.

the first time it happened was when it’d rained and you had to walk past him, push-up bra entirely visible through your soaked shirt. you remember how red his cheeks got — and how much you liked the attention from him.

it pushes you to accidentally show him a peek into your cleavage or under your skirt from time to time, and you feel accomplished at the sight of his breath hitching in his throat for a second before he pulls himself together.

mingyu has secretly already had to get himself off several times after getting bricked up from the sight of you.

he’s starting to pick up on things in the remarkably short time since your first meeting — your go-to coffee order, your favorite books, the change in your tone when you speak to someone you don’t like all that much. a tone you never use with him, of course.

no, mingyu knows you like his company. but even with his good looks, there’s a certain insecurity that comes with age, making him hesitant to assume you’re just as into him as he’s into you.

and fuck is he into you.

obviously he greatly enjoys your parents’ company — but you’re the main reason he’s over at their home so often.

tonight is no different. the four of you had dinner, you went upstairs to wash up about an hour ago, leaving him to assume you must be tired.

as mingyu pours some wine into three glasses, he looks through the kitchen window to find a car approaching.

your mother sighs as she cuts into some cheese next to him. “my daughter has many strong suits, but time management is not one of them.”

“she’s heading out?”

“yeah, she’s going on a date tonight.”

the wine bottle almost slips from his hand at the mention of it. “a date? with who?”

“william’s son. you know him, he lives down the block.”

yeah, mingyu knows the kid. he also knows you don’t belong with a guy like that at all, he’d never make you happy. way too full of himself.

“since when does she even like him?” mingyu chokes out, trying not to sound as unnerved as he is by the whole ordeal. “she told me she’d rejected him at first.”

your mother shrugs. “no idea. i’m assuming something must’ve changed her mind. god, is she just gonna let that boy wait out there the whole time? i’ll open the door.”

mingyu considers telling her to leave the kid outside, but chooses the more socially acceptable thing to do instead. “no, you’ve got your hands full. i’ll handle it.”

he sets down the bottle of wine, heading out to the front door, giving a somewhat unsettling smile to the guy standing before him.

“mr. kim! it’s been a while.” he greets, and mingyu narrows his eyes, subtly looking him up and down.

“yeah. so, you got a hot date tonight?”

“would seem so.”

“where are you headed?”

the guy mistakes the casual tone of questioning for a positive one. “we’re just gonna have some dinner in the city, see where the night takes us.”

mingyu pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. he didn’t like that sentence at all. he doesn’t like this guy.

with a fake chuckle, he nods, taking a step closer to him. “you touch her in a way she doesn’t like, and i’ll be the one at your doorstep. understand, kid?” he asks, attitude completely controlled despite the threatening tone.

the young man in front of him swallows. “yeah—yeah, of course.”

“good. you go on and wait by the car, i’ll go see if she’s ready.” mingyu gestures for him to get out of his sight as if he’s some child, and right at that moment, he hears you rushing down the stairs.

and to say you look stunning in that velvety red dress would be an understatement. your hair bounces with every step, the smell of your perfume floods his senses, and he realizes that this might be the first time ever he’s jealous of some asshole more than a decade younger than him solely for having the privilege of being your date.

“you’re gorgeous.” he breathes out, and you’re taken aback by his comment, and he suddenly realizes what he said. “you look... gorgeous. in that dress.”

a sweet chuckle escapes you. “thanks. what’s up with him? he looks scared.”

now that your date is the topic of conversation, his tone sours. “perhaps he has a good reason to be.”

the guy is out of earshot anyway, so you frown at mingyu, quickly able to see through that facade he’s putting up. “what did you say to him?”

he shrugs. “nothing special.”

“mingyu.”

“i just—i mean, look at you, sweetheart. i don’t want him to get his grimy little hands all over you. if—if you don’t want him to, of course.”

the bursting of your chest that you should probably be feeling for your date flares up in mingyu’s presence. your heart is racing at the way he indirectly complimented you, and you wish you could just tell your date to fuck off and have this much more handsome older man instead.

but you can’t.

“i can take care of myself, y’know.”

“i don’t doubt it.”

for a brief moment, you forget someone’s waiting for you. how could you not? mingyu looks at you as if you’re some saint walking among men, and you’re starting to pick up on it more with every moment you spend in his presence.

with a hushed tone, you feel like testing him. “what if he did put his hands on me? would you rough him up?”

“i’d do a little more than that.” he whispers back, wishing he could just press you up against this door and kiss you. “whatever you want me to do to him, i’ll do it.”

you nod at him, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek, your lips remaining there a few seconds longer than necessary. “thank you.”

his pupils are nearly completely dilated by the time you’ve pulled back, and he watches you walk towards the car with half-lidded eyes, immediately grimacing when your date doesn’t even open the door to the passenger’s seat for you.

christ, what an idiot. he’s a little prick, that kid — a product of rich parents endlessly spoiling their only son.

now, mingyu wouldn’t call himself perfect. far from it actually. but at least he has good manners. he’d treat you so much better.

mingyu waits in his spot, seeing the car roll down the driveway until it’s out of his sight, and he closes the door behind him, taking a deep breath before returning to your parents in the kitchen.

“and? what’s the verdict?” your mother asks, at which he chuckles.

“well, i doubt you’re gonna get a son-in-law anytime soon.”

he considers offering himself as a better suited candidate instead.

unfortunately, mingyu made the mistake of thinking you wouldn’t go on another date with the boy.

it’s not like you had a great time — but it wasn’t horrible, either. he asks to be your boyfriend several dates later, and you’re not sure why, but you agree to it.

it might be out of sheer boredom, and you’re in the mood to shake things up a little. at the same time, it’s mingyu who still continues to occupy your mind all day, yet you doubt anything will ever happen between you and him, even though you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anyone more.

mingyu has to put in effort to hide his distaste of you and your new boyfriend together. the guy is constantly trying to snatch you from his grip, and he’s beginning to think it’s out of either insecurity or jealousy — maybe even both.

truthfully, you enjoy having a man a bit possessive over you. a hand on your hip, an arm around your waist.

when mingyu touches you like that, it feels good. right. you’d love nothing more than to lean into it, against his chest and remain in his hold.

but your boyfriend’s grip is overbearing. it’s unnatural, too warm, not allowing you to breathe. not to mention he doesn’t seem to be possessive out of pride over getting to call you his girlfriend or anything remotely positive for that matter — he seems insecure. it’s written all over his body language.

to be fair, he’s right to be. you don’t even like him. yeah, you want someone that’s not him. he’s nothing but a distraction you plan to throw away at some point.

but fuck, aren’t you allowed to be human? don’t you yearn and ache? and wish to be fucked stupid by someone almost twice your age?

yeah, the reasoning is terrible, but all logical arguments are thrown out of the window whenever your eyes lock with mingyu’s.

and if your dad’s best friend didn’t see the clear disconnect between you and your boyfriend before, he sure does now.

your birthday rolls around the corner about a month and a half later. a short time to be dating, really, and that’s what you force yourself to blame your boyfriend’s bad choice of gift on.

two books — that you’ve already read. which could’ve been an honest mistake, had you not mentioned those two books as some of your all-time favorites before, and pointed them out on the wooden plank in your room.

you give a fake smile, pushing out a thank you, but mingyu knows better. he can’t fathom how your boyfriend would fall for the act, or why the guy didn’t come up with a better present.

mingyu chooses to hand you his gift in private, when you’re alone in the living room together.

you take the still wrapped box with a tilt of your head. “you know you didn’t have to get me something, right?”

“what kind of man would i be if i didn’t get my favorite girl a gift for her birthday?”

my favorite girl. the words almost have your brain short-cutting.

unwrapping the gift, you open the small box to discover a gold, medallion necklace inside. when you look at it in awe, he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip for a moment before speaking up. “you mentioned wanting one. if it’s not the design you were looking for—”

“it’s beautiful. but this—this must’ve been so expensive.”

“i have a goldsmith in the family, so i got it for a good price. and it was worth every penny.” the corner of his mouth curls up. “i hope you like it.”

god, it’s stunning. the design is detailed, the length of the necklace is exactly what you were hoping to get someday. but more importantly, he paid attention to what you were saying even in small moments — you think you mentioned wanting a medallion once or twice, to your mother, when mingyu was talking to your father at the other side of the room. and he still remembered.

now he’s here with you, gesturing for you to lift your hair so he can put it on, his fingers brushing past the back of your neck. with the clasp locked in place, you turn around to look in the mirror, finding the hanger sits just below your collarbone.

“it’s perfect. thank you.”

“you’re welcome.” he responds with a gentle smile, and you lean in to give him a hug, getting him to wrap his arms around you.

his touch is electric. even once he’s let you go, it’s like you can still feel his handprints burning on your skin.

in the following days, whenever people ask about the pretty necklace, you proudly show it off, and you don’t miss the way your boyfriend’s eyebrows raise when you tell him it’s from mingyu.

but he chooses not to dwell on it. he definitely tries not to think about it when he’s inside you and you’re completely naked, except for that damn necklace that the much older man gave you. the same older man who keeps his hands on you every chance he gets — the man who’s clearly threatening your relationship.

in your boyfriend’s defense, it’s not like he’s aware you only got with him to keep mingyu out of your thoughts.

but the latter feels the need to talk to you about that idiot you call your boyfriend.

a week later, after a brief visit to your friends in the city, it’s him who picks you up from the train station. something about your father being busy and mingyu stepping up like the good friend he is.

“y’know, i’ve been thinking.” he starts out, his left hand comfortably resting on the steering wheel, only to be met with a witty remark from you.

“that must’ve been hard for you, old man.”

“hilarious. really.” his deadpan stare quickly fades away when you chuckle in response. “anyway, as i was saying — i’m wondering what the hell you’re doing with william’s son.”

“what do you mean?”

“i mean, the kid clearly likes you,” he says, “but you don’t like him.”

“how do you know that?”

“i’d have to be blind not to notice.”

you only sigh. is it really that obvious?

“so what’s going on, sweetheart? why’re you hanging out with him?”

sometimes, mingyu has moments where he acts more like a caretaker than a friend. like a father.

as problematic as it might sound, you like it when he behaves like that from time to time. it’s subtle, not overbearing — something that should feel wrong but doesn’t in the slightest.

“because—ugh, forget it.” because it’s the only way to drown out what you really want. who you really want.

“no, tell me.”

“i just..." you trail off, trying to tell him part of the truth without giving everything away, “isn’t love something you need to grow into?”

“if he doesn’t leave an impression on you of any kind, it’s enough of a sign that it’s not gonna happen in the future, don’t you think?”

“i guess.”

“you don’t sound convinced.”

the questioning suddenly gets on your nerves, since you’re realizing he’s able to call your bullshit from a mile away, but you can’t exactly tell him the truth either. “look, sometimes you just need a distraction. at least he gives me that.”

mingyu stays quiet for a moment.

then he laughs. “and you chose him for that? does he even know what he’s doing with you? assuming that’s what we’re talking about here.”

“it’s fine. he’s fine.”

“fine equals mediocre. you’re not mediocre. so why are you with him, of all people?”

“mingyu, i worked my ass off to graduate in the way that i did. i put academics above everything, and don’t get me wrong, i’m glad that i did and i’d do it again — but it also means i barely had a social life, and i was constantly stressed, and i just—someone offered to relieve all of that and i took it. alright? it doesn’t need to be groundbreaking.”

obviously you didn’t need a boyfriend. hell, you didn’t even want one. but barely having sex in several years time has left you pent up, so all you really wanted was someone to be friends with benefits with, but that simply didn’t end up happening.

then mingyu suddenly came along a few months ago, and you don’t want him solely because you think he’d be great in bed — you actually like the man. but you can’t have him. so on top of your need to have sex, you also want someone to distract you, and that is all your current boyfriend is good for.

though he’s been doing a shitty job at it so far. if anything, whenever your boyfriend is on top of you, you think of mingyu being much bigger than him, in every way possible, undoubtedly.

mingyu stares into nothing when he comes up with the invasive question. “does he at least make you feel good? comfortable?”

“did you seriously just ask me about my sex life?”

“is that a no?”

“it’s—as i said before, it’s fine.”

just hearing you stutter out the response is enough of a sign for him to draw a conclusion. “that’s a real shame, sweetheart.”

“why are you acting like he’s treating me horribly?”

“because it sounds to me that he is.” he retorts sharply. “he doesn’t satisfy you, nor do you like him — which makes sense, given the fact that the dude’s a prick — so what reason could you possibly have for staying with him?”

avoiding the question, you shrug. “so you think i should break up with him?”

“i think you should do what you want.” he answers casually. “if that means breaking up with him and getting with someone better, so be it.”

“you act as if i’ve got another man waiting for me.”

“don’t you?”

you’re both talking around it. he’s tracing the top of the steering wheel with his finger, you’re pushing your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

sooner or later, one of you will have to break.

“all i’m saying is that… with the looks and brains you’ve got, you could get anyone you wanted, sweetheart.” he breathes out, and he looks at you like he means it.

for a moment, you really consider asking if that includes him, too — but it seems you’ve arrived at your destination, so you swallow your words and bottle them up.

as you’re undoing your seatbelt, he offers a last sentiment. “think about it. that’s all i’m saying.”

with a nod, you get out of the car.

the tolerance you have for your boyfriend gets lower each day, but it seems you’ve finally hit a breaking point.

all you wanted was a fun night out at a local bar, and it was good for an hour or two, until one of your newly made friends from the neighborhood threw in a comment she probably shouldn’t have.

“there’s practically zero hot guys here — not our age, anyway.” she’d jokingly said, pointing at you with a drunken smile, “y’know, you’re lucky to have kim mingyu as your neighbor for the time being.”

“am i?”

“c’mon, you gotta admit it. he’s sexy.”

despite your initial hesitation to admit it out loud, you ended up with the same smile on your face as you agreed with her. “yeah, he is.”

unfortunately, it turned out that your boyfriend heard the coversation when you both thought he was out of earshot. the mood soured instantly once he tried to confront you about it, so you left your friends to go home, with your boyfriend spewing out all of his thoughts as he escorts you back.

perhaps you’d give a shit about the whiny complaints coming out of his mouth if you were sober, or if you even remotely liked him — but neither is the case.

“do you even care about this? about us?” he asks, waving with his hands while you walk with your bike beside you and visible annoyance on your face.

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “can we not talk about this when everything’s spinning?”

but he’s too deep in his drunken honesty to listen to you. “i knew something was off. y’know what? maybe you should just go get your rocks off with someone else.”

with a huff, you roll your eyes. “you’re exaggerating.”

“no, i’m not. wanna know something? that fucker mingyu would just love to get his hands all over you. he’s always judging me and shit, his fuckin’ paws at your waist every chance he gets.”

“bullshit.”

“you’re not blind. maybe your parents are, but you’re not. unless you’re enjoying the attention he’s giving you.”

now that his words are getting on your nerves, you’re able to find some clarity in the midst of your clouded judgement. “maybe you should stop focusing on him so much.”

“c’mon. tell me, you also believe he wants to fuck you, right? it’s a yes or no question.”

“i’m not having this conversation with you—”

it’s as if it finally clicks for your boyfriend. he previously thought mingyu’s affection for you was mostly one-sided, but now he’s not so sure anymore.

“do you wanna fuck him?”

“you did not just ask me that.”

“he’s almost twice your age. he could’ve been your father!”

it takes every fibre of your being not to say that the age gap secretly excites you.

stopping in your tracks, you finally look him in the eye. “i’m sick of this. sick of you. we’re over. i’m gonna go home, and you should too. try not to trip over your own feet on the way back.”

before he can even push a protest out of his mouth, you’ve already turned your head and gotten on your bike to get away from him as fast as possible, and you hear him grumble something under his breath.

cycling goes remarkably well in spite of the many drinks you’ve consumed in such little time — at least until you accidentally hit a shard of glass with your front wheel.

with the tire quickly getting completely flat, you’re forced to walk, squinting when you look around.

it’s fucking creepy around here at night, you find. not nearly enough lanterns to light the whole road, the swaying of the tall grass in the wind, the suddenly overwhelming darkness — it makes you speed up to the first house you see.

which, coincidentally, belongs to your favorite neighbor.

it seems unnecessary to knock on his door, since he’s standing in the driveway to fix a lamp. dropping your bike in a cartoonish manner, you leave it at the gate, walking over to his front door.

with a big frown set into his forehead, he watches you approach him.

“what’re you doing?” you ask casually, mood instantly lifted in his presence.

“i’m fixing the light. what are you doing?”

“oh my god, i just—” you slur your words, “i was just thinking about you. and now you’re here!”

“are you drunk?” he asks the question as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

he’s met with a giggle from you. “no! no. look, gyu, my bike broke down. can you help me, like, patch up my tire? i think a piece of glass fucked it up or something.”

the new nickname has him swallowing, but the situation at hand is of much more importance to him right now. “your—your bike? wait, you were cycling? on your own? at this time of night?”

“yeah. i just… didn’t wanna burden my friends, y’know.”

a sigh escapes him. the roads here are barely lit. he might as well buy you a damn car so you can travel safer next time. then again, you probably chose not to go by car so you could have a drink tonight.

fucking hell. even if he did agree to fixing up your bike, you can hardly keep yourself standing upright in his doorway, and he doesn’t like the idea of you cycling home alone.

so he suggests something he probably shouldn’t — for the sake of his own sanity, anyways.

“it’s late, sweetheart. you know i’d fix that up for you any time of day, but you gotta sober up first, and god knows how long that’s gonna take. not to mention i also drank tonight so driving wouldn’t be wise — just spend the night here and i’ll take you home in the morning. give me a second to get the guest room ready.”

the idea of sleeping in the same house as him has excitement bubbling in your gut. with anyone else, you wouldn’t have agreed so quickly, but this is what you’ve secretly wanted for months. “okay.”

“c’mon.” he gestures for you to get inside, and you stumble through the large entrance with his big hand sitting on your lower back.

“what were you drinking? i could go for another glass.”

“absolutely not. you’re more than welcome to join me for a drink another time, but not today.”

the idea of him sitting on his couch with a glass of scotch and an undone button-up has your cheeks heating up. biting your lip, you let him guide you up the staircase, into a bedroom that might be three times the size of the dorm room you’ve become used to.

closing the door behind you, he asks, “what did you drink, anyway?”

you give him an exaggerated sigh. “you know how everyone says you shouldn’t mix beer and wine?”

mingyu nods, and a quick look at your face tells him enough. “you did it anyways, didn’t you?”

“yeah,” you giggle again, and he smiles, “what can i say? i like my rules how i like my glow sticks. and egg yolks. broken, i mean.”

“what kind of psychopath are you that you prefer broken egg yolks?”

“that is so not the point.” you tell him with attitude, slightly caught off-guard when he takes you into the connecting bathroom, turning you around to put his hands on your hips.

he lifts you up to sit on the edge of the counter, your feet dangling above the floor. reaching into one of the drawers beside your head, his face gets awfully close to yours as he gets a fresh, unused toothbrush for you, proceeding to put some paste on the perfectly aligned bristles.

nudging it toward your mouth, he’s got one hand sitting gently on your jaw to hold your face steady, and you instinctively do as he wants you to, opening your mouth.

tilting your head back, he brushes your teeth, eventually telling you to spit out the paste in the sink as he gets you a cup of water to rinse.

once you’re done, he wipes the last bit of toothpaste from your bottom lip, thumb sitting there a little longer than it needs to.

“i like it when you do that. act all… y’know.”

“what?”

“fatherly. yeah, that’s the word.”

“do you, sweetheart?”

“yeah. ‘m fond of you. so is everyone else, but i mean—” you chuckle sheepishly, “me? i like you way more.”

“i know you do.” he tucks your hair behind your ear, having to suppress the urge to kiss you. “i like you too. a lot more than that idiot boyfriend of yours does.”

you allow him to take you off the counter and set you on the floor. he doesn’t need to know you and your boyfriend broke up just yet. you like him when he’s acting jealous.

fuck, he tells himself to quit staring at you. he needs to get the hell out of here, or you’re gonna notice he can’t stop gawking at you in your little dress.

scratching his throat, he points to the wooden closet by the door.

“i got you some clothes for the night and tomorrow. if they don’t fit, let me know, and i’ll get you something else.”

you hold him back from walking out of the room. “could you, um... unzip my dress? i don’t want my hair to get stuck in it.”

it’s a risky move. you almost regret the question when seeing the breath hitching in his throat, but then he gestures for you to turn around, sending a shiver down your spine.

mingyu puts his hands on your hips, taking his time on purpose. you kind of admire him for it.

moving your hair out of the way, he takes hold of the zipper between his thumb and index finger, slowly pulling it down to your lower back to bask in this moment as much as possible.

he mentally prepares himself to be met with the clasp of some bra he’ll probably never have the pleasure of removing — only to find nothing.

the knowledge that you’re not wearing anything under that dress except for some panties has him going insane. the worst thing is that you and him are the only people in this house tonight, away from your boyfriend and your parents. away from everyone who shouldn’t see the way he looks at you.

fuck, he could pull that dress down and bend you over right here and now and none of them would know about it.

maybe, just maybe, he’d press his growing erection against your ass if you were sober. maybe he’d confess how much he’s been thinking about you, day and night.

but with your clouded state of mind, he chooses not to.

releasing the zipper, his fingers brush past your bare skin for a split second before taking a step away from you.

you don’t even see his inner turmoil when you tell him, “thank you.”

“you’re welcome. now get some sleep — i’ll treat you to a good breakfast in the morning.” he winks, heading to the door, and you chuckle. he closes the door to your room shortly after.

when he gets into his own bed, he’s still hard as a rock. his cock slaps against his stomach once he’s pushed his boxers down. you’re driving him crazy. just the mere image of your curves have his eyes rolling back in his skull.

bucking his hips, he thinks about you. what you’d look like on top of him, under him, what you’d sound like. he fantasizes about you walking through the hall naked, coming into his room and sucking him off.

god, it gets an orgasm out of him embarrassingly quick.

the feeling of wanting you, as always, doesn’t fade in the slightest as he swiftly cleans himself up in his bathroom.

the following morning, you feel like shit. blurry memories of your behavior from last night come rushing in, and if you had the energy for it, you’d probably throw yourself from the balcony out of embarrassment.

you push yourself out of bed, heading into the bathroom to stare at your mess of a reflection. to be fair, the slightly smudged eye makeup doesn’t look all that bad despite having slept in it, but still.

reaching out for the toothbrush, you suddenly recall that little moment of mingyu putting you on the counter and what you said to him — oh, jesus.

you need to get the fuck out of here.

after brushing your teeth, you gather your things and walk down the entirely unfamiliar hall. if you thought your dad’s house was big, mingyu’s home might as well be the cherry on top. it’s all expensive with its tall ceilings and unique art pieces framed on the walls, and you have to admit that he’s got good taste.

as if he heard you pass his room, he opens the door, standing there in sweatpants and a white t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.

“good, you’re awake.” he smiles, running a hand through his hair. “feeling up for some eggs?”

with a mere nod of an answer, he gestures for you to follow him to the kitchen.

with a yawn, you try to come up with a good excuse for whatever it was that made you as bold as you were last night.

he doesn’t let you. “did you sleep well?”

“yeah. look, you don’t need to make me breakfast, i’ve overstayed my welcome—”

“hey, i promised i would make you breakfast. and you’re always welcome here. so sit, have a cup of coffee, and i’ll take you home after.”

all he gets in response is a grumbled ‘fine’.

while pouring a bit of olive oil into the pan, he asks, “what’s the story behind last night? why were you going home alone?”

“my boyfriend was supposed to take me home, but… i guess i kind of ruined his good mood by breaking up with him.”

mingyu’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “wait—why’d you break up with him?”

“i thought you wanted me to.”

“i did, but since you seemed so hellbent on keeping him around, i didn’t think you were going to.”

“yeah, well, things change.”

“fair enough. good on you for dropping the dead weight.”

his comment makes you chuckle. “he kinda threw a fit about it, probably only ‘cause my friends had already gone home. god, he was angry.”

“my offer to rough him up still stands, by the way.”

scoffing, you mutter to yourself, “ironic.”

“what is?” mingyu asks, since he heard it nonetheless.

you shrug, choosing not to use the same words your boyfriend did. “oh, it’s nothing. he brought you up. said something about you being too possessive over me.”

“and what did you tell him?”

“that he needed to fuck off.”

he snorts, grabbing two plates. “and he actually did?”

“not like he had much of a choice. i just left him there. told him to go home.”

“i’d pay to see his face when you told him that.” mingyu laughs. “sounds to me like you have a reason for celebration.”

“i guess so.”

he puts the plate with eggs on toast in front of you, a devilish smile plastered on his face. “your favorite, as i’ve heard from a highly reliable source.”

digging your cutlery into the broken egg yolk, you roll your eyes. “cut me some slack, will you?”

all he can do is nod with a big grin before starting with his own plate.

the same morning, your ex-boyfriend is standing before the front door of your parents’ house. he rings the doorbell, the apology he’s rehearsed during the drive here stuck in his head, and your mother opens the door.

when he tells her he’s come to talk to you, she informs him that you’re not here, and that you stayed over at a friend’s house. you apparently didn’t even mention the breakup to her, so she’s entirely unaware of what happened last night.

but your ex is confused, because he talked to your friends this morning and asked them if they heard anything from you, to which they answered no. they didn’t know you guys broke up either.

it stirs something in his gut. where the fuck are you? if you didn’t stay at a friend’s house, where did you sleep?

it’s those two questions that continue to run through his head. getting back in his car, he plans to drive back home. who knows, you might’ve gone to his house.

but about ten minutes later, he steps on the brake with force.

your bike. by mingyu’s driveway.

either he missed it on the way to your house or you just arrived at his place. regardless, both scenarios suck for him. he acted out of line, and now he’s sent you straight into mingyu’s arms, probably.

he calls your phone. you don’t pick up. it gets him frustrated.

but he figures he’ll try again later. it’s not like he can just go and knock on the door, so he drives off, not sure whether to be angrier at you or himself.

after you’ve finished breakfast, mingyu fixes up your bike in no-time. instead of letting you cycle home by yourself, he puts the bike in the trunk and gestures for you to get in the passenger’s seat.

“gyu, i can get home by myself. it’s daytime outside.”

“i know, i know. but i gotta go get groceries anyways, so i’ll take you.”

arguing with him is useless sometimes. you roll your eyes in disapproval, but still get in the car, at which he smirks. he barely needs to get groceries — he just wants to spend time with you.

the drive is too short to talk about what happened between you and him last night. the things you said, how turned on he clearly was. your voice seems lost on you.

so you make it back to your parents’ house, where he takes the bike out of the car again, and you press your lips into a thin line. “thank you again, for… everything, really.”

“it’s no problem. you’re nice when you’re drunk, y’know?”

“oh my god.” you snort, burying your face in your hands.

“so nice that you told me you like me way better than everyone else. you remember that?”

frankly, you’re not sure whether to look him in the eye or lower your head in shame. “i may have said something along those lines.”

“well, i like you a lot more than everyone else, too.” he says, fully aware he’s stepping much deeper into dangerous territory than he should. you’re forbidden fruit — yet he can’t help it. “get some rest. i’ll see you later, angel.”

not even waiting for a rebuttal of any kind, he gives you a last glance that reeks of pride before getting back into his expensive car, leaving you to wonder what your relationship with him even is at this point.

by the time you’ve turned around, your mother is leaning against the post of the front door. “so. the romance was short-lived, huh?”

“how do you know that?”

“he came by this morning. seemed embarrassed to even talk to me. i know what a boy trying to make amends looks like.”

“well, sucks for him.” you shrug, really not giving a shit.

“where did you sleep last night?”

lying through your teeth comes remarkably easy. “a friend’s house.”

“how did you end up in mingyu’s car?”

“the tire of my bike went flat. he fixed it up. offered to take me home just in case.”

jesus, just talking about him makes you feel hot. it’s like you’re burning up. you quickly manage to get away from your mother’s prying eyes before she can catch onto the truth — and once you’re upstairs, you can’t stop staring at your reflection in the mirror.

you’re wearing his clothes, and even if you’d take them all off, the necklace he gave you would still be there.

constantly touching your skin.

mingyu is like a drug — addictive, leaving a lasting effect. you can’t seem to get him out of your system, no matter what.

the rude awakening from your train of thoughts comes in the form of a phone call. just seeing the name of your ex on screen is enough to get a huff of annoyance out of you, but you decide to take the call.

“what do you want?” you ask, already done with the conversation before it’s even started.

said conversation is messy. your ex is angry at you for going to mingyu’s place, you shift the blame onto him for leaving you to go home alone in the middle of the night — not that you would’ve let him guide you home, probably — after which he turns apologetic, but you tell him you don’t care. he wants to get back together, but you don’t.

it’s you who ends the call. you assume he’s taken the hint, and things are quiet in the days that follow. your daily life seems to be back to the way it was before the break-up, just without a boyfriend.

and now that it’s over, you’re inclined to agree with mingyu. your ex was mediocre.

given the not-so-friendly breakup, you figured the phone call would be the last time you heard from your ex. but it appears that despite the lack of depth in the very brief relationship you had with him, he’s still upset at the way things ended between you.

not long after the breakup, there’s a charity fundraiser being held in town, followed by drinks at mingyu’s house. the halls you recognize from the night you slept over are now filled with groups of people chattering, laughing and drinking the night away.

right as he’s asked you if he can get you a drink, you get a text message from your ex.

the clear frown on your forehead almost has mingyu worried. “everything okay?”

“yeah, um—i gotta go handle something. i’ll be right back.” you answer, walking through the hallway to get to the front door.

it’s quiet on the driveway, save for the sounds of the party muffled in the background and the annoying asshole you just can’t seem to get rid of. the gravel crunches underneath your feet as you walk over to him. “what the fuck are you doing here?”

to be fair, it’s not like he wasn’t invited. he’s been smart to keep his distance from you — until now, anyway. “wanted to see you.”

fucking hell, he looks pathetic. almost falling over, a nearly empty bottle of liquor in hand, a drowsy head. you shake your head. “no, i’m not doing this with you. you’re drunk. not that i’d wanna talk to you if you were sober.”

like the spoilt asshole he is, he gets angry when things don’t go his way. “we need to talk it out. i didn’t even wanna break up—”

“no, but i did. what you want is the last of my concerns.”

you glare at him, turning around to go back inside, but he pulls at your wrist, hoping you’ll see eye to eye with him. “just listen to me!”

“no, just—let go!” you tell him, pulling your arm out of his hold, which has him accidentally dropping the liquor bottle on the gravel, causing it to break.

as you look at him in shock, he seems more concerned with the fact that his last bit of booze has now been wasted. he curses under his breath, picking up the glass handle of the bottle which now has a sharp edge at the bottom from breaking in half.

from the corner of your eye, you see mingyu approaching. he went out to see where you went because he didn’t trust the situation, catching sight of you right when you pulled yourself away from your ex.

“what’s going on?” he asks, looking at you. “you okay?”

but his presence immediately sours your ex-boyfriend’s mood. “she’s fine. we were just talking.”

“doesn’t look like you’re in the right state of mind to do so.”

“i’ll decide that.”

mingyu has an expression on his face that sits somewhere between harsh and smug. “well, first of all, the lady doesn’t seem all that interested in talking to you, and secondly, you’re standing in my driveway, on my property — so no, you don’t get to decide that.”

your ex knows he has no leg to stand on, but he’s unwilling to admit defeat. “whatever. i knew from the start that you’ve been after her. she give it to you yet?”

“you’re such a fucking piece of shit—” you cuss at him, but mingyu gestures for you to stay put.

he points to the gate by the start of the driveway. “get the hell out.”

the response seems enough for the guy to convince himself that you and mingyu slept together, which — unfortunately — hasn’t even happened. “i fucking knew it. i knew you wanted her! she’s a fucking slut—”

mingyu decides in that moment that he no longer cares about being the better person. his hand flies right to the boy’s neck, holding a firm grip, his jaw clenched in anger. “say something like that again. do it. see what happens.”

of course, aside from some heavy breathing, it remains silent.

so he nods, as if to say that’s what i thought, the grip of his hand remaining tight. “apologize to her.”

your ex, surprisingly enough, does as he’s told. “sorry.” he mutters, suddenly trying to push mingyu away from him, but to no avail, as the elder of the two is considerably stronger.

mingyu releases him, taking a step back to you again.

despite the slut-shaming, the boy is currently more upset with mingyu than with you. in his eyes, he’s just some old perv taking advantage of you, even when you were in a relationship together. that’s unfair — and it makes him angry.

the sudden heavy emotions paired with the amount of alcohol he’s already got in his system makes a bad combination. being as impulsive as he is, he’s already swung the sharp end of the piece of glass in hand at mingyu, but you saw he was trying to do something and instinctively stuck your arm out.

when mingyu turns around, he hears you hissing in pain, a nasty cut on your lower arm.

your ex drops the glass onto the gravel. “i’m—i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to—” he stutters, slightly sobering up, “are you okay? i’m sorry.”

jesus christ. mingyu suddenly feels a certain pang of guilt shooting through his chest. you got hurt in the process of protecting him. what kind of shitty soap opera has this ordeal turned into?

even if he believes your ex was trying to hurt him and not you, the fact that it happened is more than enough for him to lose his restraint. and he’s about to punch the kid square in his jaw, until your hand pulling at his arm stops him.

“gyu, just... i just want him to leave.” you tell him, hand not leaving his arm.

like it belongs there.

he nods at you, regaining his composure when he turns his face back to your severely drunk ex.

“you better get the fuck out of here. and don’t even think about driving in this state. you’ll get someone killed.” mingyu hisses at him, waving him off like a child being dismissed. “you can walk home. or maybe i should give your father a call—”

“no, i’ll—i’ll leave.” he says, muttering a last apology before he stumbles away, almost tripping in the process.

now that the boy is finally walking off, mingyu raises your arm to inspect the wound. “i don’t think it’s gonna need stitching, but we gotta treat it, make sure we put something on it to stop the bleeding. let’s get you patched up.”

wordlessly, you follow him inside. you enter the house through one of the backdoors, which leads you to the quiet kitchen. the muffled noise of people talking and music still rings through your ears.

he urges you to sit on the edge of the table whilst he’s getting the first aid kit from one of the cabinets attached to the wall. after putting the kit down on the surface beside you, he uses a clean cloth to put pressure on the wound.

you could do it yourself — but you enjoy having him take care of you.

“has he been bothering you? since the breakup?”

“not really? i heard from my mom that he came by the house to talk to me the morning i was still at your place, and once you’d taken me home, he called, but that was pretty much it. until now.”

mingyu sighs as he’s still holding the cloth against your skin. “what does he even want from you?”

“to get back together.”

“seriously?”

“yeah. not that he had a chance with me before or anything, but he sure as hell blew it tonight.”

to check if the bleeding has stopped, he slightly lifts the cloth, and it’s looking much better already. with some sterile wipes from the first aid kit, he gently cleans the wound itself, followed by some antiseptic around it.

“i should’ve given that kid a taste of his own damn medicine.” he grumbles as he continues to treat your arm with steady hands.

“no. i don’t want you to be held accountable for anything.”

“i have friends in high places. i’m not worried.”

“it’s not worth it.”

“after what he called you? it is.”

you raise a brow. how far would he go to protect you? “so, hypothetically, if i asked you to beat him to a pulp—”

it makes him chuckle. “i’d be out the door already. c’mon, you know i’d do that for you in a heartbeat.”

“wasn’t sure if i was that special to you.”

“if you’re not sure of that,” he says, concentrated on putting the plaster onto the wound, “then i think we might need to get your eyes checked.”

with a roll of your eyes, you snort, and the pads of his fingertips sit on the skin of your arm much longer than necessary. he’s patched you up like a true professional, meaning he no longer has a reason to touch you.

but it doesn’t stop him from gently holding your chin with his thumb and index finger, looking at you like his true feelings are about to spill from his lips.

you don’t back away from his touch. he’s frozen in his spot.

not a single word is exchanged between you, but you both feel it. the rising tension, trembling hands, shaky breaths, testing the waters bit by bit.

“is it true? that you want me?” you boldly refer to your ex-boyfriend’s words, leaning into his hold.

being so close to you feels like torture and relief at the same time. it’s everything he’s been fantasizing about for the last months, but not something he should want. he shouldn’t want to have you.

“what i want—” he inhales sharply, forcing the words out of his throat, “doesn’t matter, sweetheart.”

his fingers leave your chin, and he takes a step back.

frankly, he’s not sure if he can breathe without you anymore — but unless he gets away from you now, he’s a goner.

“i, um... i need to put on a clean shirt.” he gives as an excuse, pointing to the small stains of your blood on the fabric. “i’m sorry.”

with half-lidded eyes and uneven breaths, you watch him leave.

even when you’re apart, you can still feel eachother. sweat on your foreheads, racing hearts, thinking about what could’ve happened in that kitchen if you both gave in.

sooner or later, one of you will have to break.

since that moment, something has changed in your dynamic.

the tension between you is almost too palpable. you haven’t even talked about what happened that night, as you simply haven’t been alone in a room together since — but you feel him, and he feels you. all the time.

his eyes are constantly glued to your figure. the gears in his head are constantly turning, because what the fuck is he supposed to say to you? he could never say he doesn’t want you, but he can’t admit that he does, either.

his heart sinks a little deeper into his chest whenever he sees you smile or hears you laugh.

and you’re just as much of a mess about the situation as he is. your eyes are drawn to him every time you hear his voice or catch him walking into the room — even the steadily healing wound on your arm makes your thoughts wander back to him.

but you’ll have to face eachother at some point.

that day comes when the town’s biggest event of the year is set to take place, and your father is one of the volunteers. everyone in and around the neighborhood will be there.

mingyu, looking dashing in his suit, pulls up to your driveway. he’s barely even parked his car before your parents are out the door, walking up to him.

“you got my coat?”

“yeah.” mingyu hands it to him, surprised at your father’s stern expression.

the man talks to your mother with obvious urgency. “is she still not ready?”

“no, still searching.”

mingyu frowns. “what’s wrong?”

your father throws out your name like it’s a curse. “she’s being impossible. apparently, she only has one pair of shoes that doesn’t clash with the color of her outfit, and suddenly she can’t find it anywhere. we’re supposed to be at the venue in forty minutes, and the drive is over half an hour, and she knows i cannot be late—”

mingyu has already offered the solution before he can think about it. “why don’t you two just go on ahead to the venue? i’ll take her there.”

“yeah, that’d be great. i’ll see you there, alright?”

with a curt nod, mingyu agrees, watching your parents get in their car and drive off.

“fuck.” he mutters to himself, leaning against his car, his hands sitting in his pockets.

it takes approximately five minutes until you make it downstairs. surprise is painted across your face when you swing open the front door, finding mingyu standing there instead of your parents.

seeing him in that tailored suit steals your breath. he has to swallow at the sight of your short skirt and the necklace he gifted you sitting pretty on your neck, as always.

he hardly moves a muscle when you walk over to him, not bothering to take his hands out of his pockets. “i see you’ve found your shoes.”

“i did. where’s my dad?”

“they went over there already, so i’ll be your driver for now.”

like the gentleman he is, he opens the door for you, unable to miss the way the bottom of your skirt rides up just a little, and he spots the garters and stockings you’re apparently wearing underneath.

oh, jesus christ. he really needs to focus on something else.

pushing his tongue against his cheek, he shuts the door before walking around the car, getting into the driver’s seat.

the first few minutes pass in silence. you’re looking out the window, he finds himself occasionally glancing at you.

the weather takes a bad turn. rain comes pouring down from the sky, traffic automatically gets more hectic. at a red light, mingyu quickly shrugs off his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, exposing his forearms.

what he fails to notice is that you’re constantly staring at him from the corner of your eye. mingyu always looks good, but there’s something about an attractive man in formal wear that gets you going like nothing else.

you feel like some deranged person — imagining the sensation of unzipping his pants and putting his cock in your mouth. it has you shuffling in your seat, rubbing your thighs together.

“sweetheart.” he suddenly speaks up. “has your ex bothered you since last time?”

turning your head to him, you huff. “no. but i’m assuming he’s gonna be attending tonight.”

“i figured. why don’t you stay a bit close to me tonight? that way, i can keep an eye on you.”

“yeah, 'cause that’s the way to go. confronting him with the same thing that made him angry in the first place.”

“i doubt he’ll try anything with me by your side."

a scoff escapes you. “if anything, he’ll try something because you’re by my side. c’mon, gyu, you being by my side so much is what led to me breaking up with him.”

with one hand still on the steering wheel, mingyu is confused. he remembers you telling him you and your ex had an argument about him being close with you, but he didn’t think he was the reason for your break-up.

but he doesn’t know what to say, so he just silently stares ahead. you inhale sharply; you need to do something about the growing, unbearable tension in the air between you.

“you know, my ex told me he was sure you wanted something from me.” you speak up, and he glances at you.

“what?”

“you know what.”

he nods in understanding, but keeps quiet again, even though he knows the conversation was bound to happen at some point.

you continue. “then he asked if i wanted the same from you.”

his breath gets stuck in his throat as he starts speaking up to spare himself the rejection. “look, sweetheart, i—”

“are those nicknames only reserved for me?” you ask with a certain breathlessness to your tone.

and he answers just a little too fast. “yes.”

“why didn’t you ever make a move on me? you knew me long before i even went on that date.”

a scoff of disbelief escapes him. “because you’re my best friend’s daughter — hell, you could’ve been mine. you’re almost two decades younger than me.”

“we’re both adults.”

“doesn’t change the fact that your dad would kill me if he found out.”

“yet you’ve still been handsy with me all this time. not to mention you had me staying over at your house that time when i was drunk, even though you could’ve walked me home. you were this close to kissing me after patching up my arm.”

“what do you want me to say? do you think it’s been easy to keep my distance from you?”

“well, you’re the one who keeps pushing me away.”

he’s baffled at the insinuation. “you don’t think i wanted to kiss you in the kitchen after taking care of you? do you have any idea how many times i’ve thought about it? but you’re my best friend’s daughter, i—i just can’t. no matter how much i might want to.”

unfortunately for him, you don’t agree.

he’s so caught up in the worry of the truth coming to the surface that he doesn’t catch your hand reaching out to his thigh until it’s already there.

locking eyes with you, you stare him right back in the eye as your fingers travel higher up his leg, hand steadily getting closer to his crotch.

jesus fucking christ — is this actually happening right now?

judgement utterly blinded by desire, you tell him the complete truth. “when my ex asked me if i wanted to fuck you, i wanted to say yes. i only got together with him in the first place ‘cause i needed a distraction from you.”

the air gets knocked out of his lungs with every word coming out of your mouth. are you trying to kill him? he’s rock hard under your touch already. he’s lucky the car is standing still at a red light.

“stop, sweetheart, please—”

“yeah, i was hoping you’d call me that.” you’re almost moaning out, now daring to put your hand against his clothed dick, making him twitch in his pants. “didn’t feel the same when he did.”

possessiveness washes over him. you’re playing him like a fiddle, recognizing exactly what gets him going. “he called you that?”

you nod, “i hated it. but you — every time you call me that, i go insane.”

with your hand on his crotch, you’re leaning over to his side, lips almost touching his. ironically, he’s the one who closes the gap between you.

your first kiss is as messy as it is intimate. he cups your jaw, sighing into it like he’s been waiting for it for years on end. the worst thing of all might be that it feels so right.

the car behind you suddenly honks, and you realize the light has already turned green, but he’s barely even paying attention to it.

“doll, i just… fuck, if we do this once, we can’t go back. i won’t be able to stay away from you.”

a funny statement, considering he already can’t stay away from you now.

“then don’t. i can keep a secret, so can you. you can take me whenever you want.”

“you’d let me—really?”

“yeah.”

and in that moment, when he tells himself he can keep it secret — he knows it’s over, and you’ve won.

instead of going straight ahead, he takes the exit on the right, the car coming to a halt in an empty parking lot. as heavy rain continues to fall from the grey clouds, your hands are already back on him before he’s gotten the chance to turn off the engine.

“please, let me suck it. i’ve wanted it for so long.” you tell him while unbuttoning your shirt, discarding it, showing off the lacy bra you’ve got on underneath.

good lord, you’re just so eager to suck him dry, a man almost twice your age — he doesn’t deny you.

he breathlessly unzips his pants, allowing his cock to spring free from his boxers. he’s ridiculously hard from your teasing, and when you take him into your mouth, he’s convinced he’s gone to heaven.

his hand finds the top of your head, while he forces himself not to push you down on him. “that’s it. just like that — fuck.”

with a guttural moan, he closes his eyes, tilting his head back while his tip kisses the back of your throat. you hum around him whenever he praises you, causing a filthy smirk to rise to his face.

just having that confirmation that you wanted him this entire time, just as much as he wanted you, and now being with you like this? the knowledge that you only got with that piece of shit from down the block because you had to distract yourself from him? yeah, it does stroke his ego.

his eyes roll back into his skull once you take him deeper into your throat. as good as you feel around him, he gently pulls you off him, wiping the spit from your lips.

you’re breathing heavily, and you both stare at eachother for a moment, until mingyu’s gaze trails lower, to your chest — to the lacy bra, and the necklace he gifted you.

with his index finger, he touches the gold material he regrets not engraving his initials into. “when you were with him… did you wear it?”

“i haven’t taken it off since you put it on.” you tell him, sliding your panties down your legs before getting into his lap, adjusting to the cramped space in the car. “made me think of you while he was fucking me.”

he hisses at the feeling of your wet pussy rubbing down against his cock. “yeah? been thinking about me a lot?”

“all the time.”

fucking hell. you drive him crazy.

“get in the backseat.” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear. while you climb to the backseat through the space between the front seats, he pushes his dick back into his boxers just to look somewhat decent as he gets out the car and then proceeds to get in the back. much to his pleasure, the parking lot is still empty.

he hovers above you on the leather seats, your skirt flipped upwards to expose your pussy for him.

just as he wants to stretch you out with his fingers, you hold up a condom.

“don’t you want me to—”

but you shake your head. “not now. just want you.”

well, he won’t refuse your wishes, but fuck does he wish he could be tasting you right now.

ripping the package open with his teeth, he rolls the condom onto his cock, feeling the way you tense up when he’s pushing the tip against your wetness.

“you can take me, can’t you, angel?” he murmurs, and you nod, slightly shifting your hips so you’re more comfortable.

of course you noticed how thick he was when having him in your mouth, but fuck, the stretch burns. he pushes himself in torturously slow, inch by inch, and you grip his broad shoulders.

but the sheer desperation for him to finally take you is so overwhelming that you nudge at his arm. “gyu, i can take it.”

once he finally bottoms out, a groan falls from your lips. a grin tugs at his lips when seeing your face under him, his chest swelling with pride. “i knew you could, sweetheart.”

the praise has you bucking up your hips to meet his, and as he slightly increases the pace of his thrusts, your nails can’t help but dig into the skin of his back.

oh, he’s good. his hands are roaming your body, all over your skin, groping your breasts, thumb rubbing your clit — he’s ruthless, even when his words are sickeningly sweet, muttering praises into your ear.

“that asshole been neglecting you, huh? i bet he couldn’t even make you cum, could he?”

all you can do is breathlessly shake your head.

it breaks something in him. “my poor girl. ‘m gonna take such good care of you.”

you nod this time. over and over, your voice nothing more than a desperate plea. “please, just give me—give it to me.”

the way you beg is what does it for him. with gritted teeth, he picks up the pace, the rhythm he sets enough to shake the car.

god, it’s like he’s splitting you apart. for a moment, you forget how cramped the car is, how much the leather is digging into your back — all you feel is his sticky skin against yours, so you pull him down into a heated, open-mouthed kiss, his lips eventually lowering to your jaw.

his cock hits a spot inside you that nearly has you jolting in place. he feels you tightening around him, and he’s eager to hit that spot over and over again.

“that’s it, baby, i got you,” he urges while you’re slowly falling apart underneath him, his fingers rubbing over your clit again to stimulate you.

the orgasm hits you in waves, thighs trembling and chest heaving.

as you’re coming around him, his thrusts get sloppier, the rhythm of his hips unsteady.

mingyu curses loudly when the high he’s been resisting finally washes over him. it has his hips stuttering against you, and you suck in a breath.

he puts a hand against the fogged-up window to keep himself from crushing you with his body weight, and he peers down at you with half-lidded eyes and blown out pupils.

“you look pretty like this.” he says impulsively, and you laugh breathlessly.

“yeah, you don’t look too bad yourself, old man.”

it gets a chuckle out of him.

“c’mon.” you tug at his arm, pulling him down to lay on the seat while you get to the side so you can get on top of him, face in the crook of his neck as you both allow yourselves a second to catch your breaths.

he sighs. “i don’t think we’re gonna make it to the party tonight.”

with a smile, you press a kiss to his cheek. “good. i was already hoping we wouldn’t.”

while you and him remain in the backseat of his car, your parents are at the event, utterly oblivious — and they eventually run into your ex.

they’re still in the dark about what happened the past weeks, but your ex — who’s still bitter about the way things ended between you — lets something slip. something about you and your father’s best friend liking eachother more than they’re supposed to.

a statement which your father doesn’t believe in the slightest. the idea is laughable at best. something like that can’t have been going on under his nose all this time, surely.

but it lingers with him.

because you end up giving some bullshit excuse as to why you and mingyu didn’t end up getting to the event that night.

and your father quietly begins to notice things he never paid attention to before.

at lunch, mingyu knows exactly what to order for you when you’ve gone to the ladies’ room. your perfume can be smeller on his clothes. when you’re not feeling well, he’s always concerned for you. whenever you share something, mingyu knows about it already.

your father realizes that maybe, your ex was being truthful.

at first, he gets angry. how else could he feel, with his best friend getting together with his much younger daughter? in secret, no less.

he plans to confront both of you about it, together. but as he watches you converse from afar, he thinks he’s never seen his best friend happier. his daughter wears a smile so big that it lights up the room.

so once you’re out of earshot, he walks up to mingyu.

“you better be serious about her.”

it takes him a second to realize your father has finally discovered the truth, and he nods, glad that he longer has to hide how hard he’s fallen for you. “i am.”

the man sighs.

“alright. i need a drink.”

thank u for reading, let me know if you enjoyed it <3

Kim Mingyu Missed Call (2)

Your eyes glance upwards at the time. It’s nearing one a.m.; Mingyu’s second call came and went only a few minutes ago. The first one will have come not long after he got off stage, because they always do. There’s a script—unspoken and unacknowledged, but a script nonetheless—and Mingyu follows it religiously.

You sigh. Leave your phone on your nightstand as you change into pajamas, back into the bathroom to wash your face. Roll your eyes as you hear the texts roll in, the sound grating and ominous as it vibrates against the wood.

All part of the script.

Kim Mingyu: just got back to the hotel Kim Mingyu: you up

Also part of the script: this is the only way it goes. Maybe Mingyu wants to text you, but adrenaline’s the only reason he ever goes through with it. That post-concert high, nothing else to do with all that energy but invest it into you, and the thing about scripts is that they get old, grow stale. Always the same thing, and you can only have that conversation so many times before you get tired and rip it up.

We all have roles to play. Mingyu is the one who refuses to define what it is the two of you have, put a label on it. He’s the one who calls from countries away and speaks in that low, hushed tone. He’s the tempter, the one who holds all the cards but refuses to lay them down.

A royal flush, every single time.

And you—you’re not helpless. Not some poor creature fighting for its life in a spun-silk web. Mingyu’s capable of devouring you in more ways than one, but it’s not like that. Not really. As laissez-faire as he is, you come and go as you please, too. Perhaps it’s as mutually beneficial as it is destructive, but that’s the nature of the production; the result of the roles you two of you play.

Kim Mingyu: you ignoring me? Kim Mingyu: i saw your ig story Kim Mingyu: knock it off baby

You smile, private and sardonic, because you aren’t helpless. Sometimes it’s your web, and it’s all Mingyu can do to keep his head above water. Another role you’d borrowed from someplace else but still have memorized. Still remember all the lines, the mannerisms.

On your story: a video of you, bare skin glittering beneath the golden-fluorescent light of your bathroom; you, with your dress unzipped, the straps slipping down your arms; your hand pressed to your chest to keep yourself covered. Your back turned to the camera, visible only in the mirror, as the silk dropped to the floor.

In the settings: only two accounts given permission to see, both belonging to the same person.

In your DMs: Mingyu, on his private account with the username that looks more like a keysmash than any legible thing, reacting with the fire emoji.

Related: the image hovering just above Mingyu’s texts. The one he’d repaid you with not long after seeing your story. A mirror selfie of his own: grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, a soaked-through white t-shirt stuck to his stomach, the lines of his abs visible.

That, and everything below it—all left unanswered.

The thing about Mingyu is he’ll give chase. Doesn’t shy away from all the things he wants; isn’t shy about giving voice to them.

But he’ll never, ever beg.

(Not like this, at least. When he’s in your bed it’s always a different story. He’s a kept man, there, and kept men have no qualms about things like that. Begging for your mouth, your pussy. Begging you to let him come.)

Normally you’d let it go. Let him talk to himself in your texts, because he’s got a lot of nerve if nothing else, but you’d gone out earlier. Grabbed a few drinks with your girlfriends, let the alcohol thrum through you like a livewire. Watched as they danced with men whose names they didn’t know and never learned and thought about what it’d be like to be able to do something like that in public.

Got home, felt a little scorned, just on the edge of bitter. Made a show of taking your dress off in the bathroom mirror and posted it someplace you knew he’d look.

You: did you like it?

Rhetorical. Mingyu may not want to put a label on this thing, might not want to be caged-in and suffocated, but you know what you do to him. All the ways you affect him.

i could tell you, comes the immediate reply, and your eyes are halfway rolled when—

Kim Mingyu: or i could show you

It takes a second to come through, but once it does your breath hitches in your throat. Far from the most obscene image he’s ever sent you, but just as effective. An expanse of tanned, soft skin, lean muscle; still in those same grey sweats, bunched up a little on the thigh as he lays in his plush hotel bed with his legs spread.

At the center of it all, the outline of his hard, thick cock, so fucking big as it stretches the fabric taut.

All you can do is stare.

Mingyu is not of this earth. This thought is nothing new: he has always existed outside the realm of possibility, in more ways than one, so this is merely a fact. Grass is green, the sky is blue, sometimes you can love someone in a way that’s so overwhelming and still be no good for them.

Another fact: it’s primal, the way you need him. Always has been.

You: what am i looking at? You: new sweatpants?

On the other end of the line, it’s easy to imagine his reaction. A quick snort of laughter, tongue pressed into the fat of his cheek before he clenches his jaw. If he were here, he’d haul you into his lap, kiss you deep and messy. Trail his fingers along your skin until they settled in the hollow of your throat.

Pull away just for a second. Just long enough to say, “Watch your mouth,” before he’s licking into it.

Kim Mingyu: don’t be like that 🙄

This time your eyes fully roll. Spitefully, you snap a picture of what’s in front of you: your bedroom wall, some drama playing on the TV, a sliver of amber light from the lamp next to you.

You send it.

You: while we’re sending pictures of irrelevant shit

Truth be told, you’re not like this often, but you get a streak of it every now and then. Only ever at times like this, when the two of you haven’t seen one another in a while and the distance between you is still so ambiguous, untitled.

Usually Mingyu will come by your place. Get you stripped down to almost nothing, have you writhing on his fingers. Then, in between satisfied groans, he’ll slap at your thighs, tell you to stop being a brat.

Kim Mingyu: then send me something worthwhile You: you first

Another beat of silence. Long enough to flick through the channels, plug in your phone, let some of that heat dissipate.

Your phone chimes, and when you look down—

Those grey sweats are long gone, replaced with a pair of black briefs barely containing his cock, still hard and curved toward his stomach. You swallow. Let your eyes linger on the corded muscle of his thighs, all that soft skin. Let your mind remind you, just for a second, how it feels beneath your fingertips, your hands, your mouth.

All the sounds he makes.

Kim Mingyu: is that better Kim Mingyu: is that what you wanted

Unbidden, the corners of your mouth lift. hm… close but no, you type out. Let it sit for a few seconds before you delete it. If Mingyu wants to be a tease, you can do the same.

You situate yourself against the pillows. Angle your phone so the length of your body is visible: your bare legs twisted in the sheets, the bruise Mingyu had sucked into the inside of your thigh before he left just barely making it into the frame. What’s fully visible, though: his shirt that’s draped over your frame, how much it engulfs you, the way you’re drowning in it. In him.

You send it.

You: depends... is this what you wanted?

The response is immediate:

Kim Mingyu: absolutely not. take it off baby.

You’ve starred in this production before, knew where it was headed the second you saw the missed calls, so you’d put on his favorite of your underwear. Skimpy red lace, part of a set he’d had sent to your apartment. Used to tell you in desperate whispers how ruined he was seeing you in them; used to have to rein himself in so he didn’t rip them off.

So you snap another photo. Spread your legs a little further, pull the hem of Mingyu’s shirt between your teeth. Know seeing that sliver of your stomach will drive him crazy, too, but it’ll pale in comparison to the underwear.

You consider video calling him. Want to see his face when you send this photo—the pinch of his brows, the slight drop of his jaw. The way he’ll whimper a little, say baby in that tone that floods you with heat: a little desperate, all hushed awe, bordering on a whine.

The same kind of heat that starts to creep back in again. There’s power in desire, in being desired, and even though you’re here and Mingyu’s in a hotel room in Japan, you can still feel it. Subconscious, like some kind of red string shit. Anticipatory.

Kim Mingyu: goddamn Kim Mingyu: you wear those for me? Kim Mingyu: fuck, i wish i was there to take them off of you

You suck in a breath. and if you were? you send back.

Kim Mingyu: you know that pair is my favorite Kim Mingyu: drives me crazy every time you wear that set Kim Mingyu: but i’ve changed my mind. i want you to keep them on Kim Mingyu: want you to keep my shirt on too You: yeah? you want me to wear your shirt while you fuck me? pull my panties to the side? Kim Mingyu: slow down baby, i’m taking my time with you

In your bed, you snort to yourself. Mingyu has never been patient with anything, but especially not with you. Most of the time he’s so keyed up, wound so tight, that it’s all the two of you can do to make it to your bed—and sometimes you don’t. Sometimes Mingyu puts all that body to use, presses your back to the wall and throws your legs over his shoulders as he eats you out. Wraps your legs around him as he fucks you right there, the slide so, so easy with how wet and messy he gets you.

You remind him of as much. Type out, you? taking your time? i’ve got a couple walls in my entryway that would say differently, and laugh when the reply comes through—can’t help myself sometimes—and promptly stop laughing at the next one: never can, with you.

Kim Mingyu: have i ever told you what i love the most? Kim Mingyu: just kissing you. you always taste so good, baby Kim Mingyu: the way you get so worked up and start grabbing at me when i’m doing it. the way you try to get me to touch you. the way you start grinding your pussy on me like you can’t go another second without me inside you

You feel like you’re on fire. Gets worse with every word you read and re-read, try to commit to memory. You know it all too well, what he’s talking about. Know how warm his skin is, how firm he feels under your touch. Know what he tastes like. How soft his lips are. The way he sounds when you start to writhe, the way he groans when he presses tighter against you, presses you into the mattress, hard cock rutting against you, enough to take the edge off but nowhere near what he needs.

You: love that too You: love when you’re inside me even more

Kim Mingyu: me too baby Kim Mingyu: love the way you feel around me Kim Mingyu: always so fucking tight Kim Mingyu: ffuck

Your stomach drops at his last message. are you touching yourself? you type, even though you already know the answer. Another sight you’re blessed to know: Mingyu’s hand wrapped around himself, how the size of his cock makes it look small in comparison. Head tilted back, abs flexing under the weight of the pleasure.

You get a singular character in reply: 응.

show me.

He doesn’t respond right away. The pause is enough to have anticipation thrumming through your veins, make you a little shaky. Your hand trembles as you trace patterns into your warm, soft skin, pretending it’s Mingyu’s touch and not your own. Pretend it’s Mingyu’s hand that grabs at your breast beneath his shirt, thumbs over your nipple; Mingyu’s touch that has soft gasps escaping you. Pretend it’s Mingyu’s hand that dips beneath the hem of your panties.

Kim Mingyu Attachment: 1 Movie

On the screen: Mingyu’s face greets you first, eyes half-lidded and hazy, the corners of his mouth lifted in a smirk. He tilts his head back, lets you see the sweat-slick skin of his neck, the column of his throat; pans the camera down over his collar bones, his bare chest, before he flips the screen. Can barely fit the entirety of his frame in the shot, and it strikes you someplace deep, how big he is. How overwhelming.

You suck in a breath as your eyes focus—as you take in the way he’s stroking himself. His cock glistens with whatever lube he’d indulged in, but you can’t help but pretend it’s from you and your mouth. Wish you could see the way he’d touch himself as you sucked him nearly to orgasm and told him to finish himself off. The way he’d whine, beg a little, get a little shitty with you.

“Fuck,” you say out loud. You can feel your pupils blow at the thought.

“Jagiya,” comes Mingyu’s voice, intertwined with the sounds of the tv, a city so far away from you, “fuck, I’m so fu-fucking hard.”

If you’d thought you were on fire before, it’s nothing compared to now. Hearing the need in his voice, watching the way he’s touching himself. The way his hips stutter as his body seeks out more, more, more, always more, and the way he squeezes the base of his cock so he doesn’t come too soon.

“Wish it was you. Wish it was you touching me like this. I—fuck, need you so bad.”

You watch as Mingyu strokes over the head of his cock, as each subsequent pass gets more tacky and wet. Lick your lips at the sight of it. Want, more than anything, to get your mouth on him and taste the salt of his skin, the precome he’s jerking himself off with.

Before he even needs to ask, you start recording a video of your own. Leave your panties on because you know he’d want you to. Record the first pass of your fingers through your slick, let out a disbelieving little laugh at how wet you are, how you can hear it. Moan as you dip a finger into your cunt, just to the first knuckle. Say, “I’m so wet, Gyu, oh my god,” all breathy.

Not all that different from how you sound when he’s here. When he’s flesh and blood and right beside you, on top of you.

You use the wetness you’ve gathered and move your hand to your clit. It’s throbbing beneath your touch, your body already wound too tight, and you nearly hiss in oversensitivity and relief when you finally touch yourself the way you’ve wanted to. “Fuck.”

You force yourself to take your time. Slow, small circles, when everything in your body is screaming to be selfish, begging for release the same way Mingyu’s had.

“Should I finger myself?” you ask. A sharp inhale as your next pass has your toes curling. “Wo-won’t feel as good as you, but I need—need more.”

Before you cut the video, you zoom in a little. Make sure Mingyu will be able to see the way you’re touching yourself, be able to hear the sound of your arousal, the same sounds that have warmth blooming in your cheeks.

Kim Mingyu: jesusf fuck Kim Mingyu: god baby youre so hto Kim Mingyu: wanna see you finger yourself Kim Mingyu: please

It’s a little embarrassing, how incapable you are of denying him anything. You trust him implicitly, love him even more, so it’s second nature to give in, to adjust your phone so you don’t have to hold it. Second nature to press record, pull your panties to the side just like you’d proposed earlier; second nature to make a show of sticking two fingers in your mouth, sucking on them, before bringing them to your entrance and easing them inside.

Nothing compared to the stretch of Mingyu, both his fingers and his cock, but it’s still good. Enough to have you sighing softly, barely audible over the sound of everything else: the rustling of your sheets, the low thrum of your own television, you in general.

A rhythmic song and dance. Practiced. You grow wetter with each push and pull; know Mingyu will be able to see it, the way you work yourself open. That, too, has you a little dizzy. Breathless. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. Not only like this, but all the time. Does he see an expiration date? Something good while it lasted? Is there just this—something carnal and superficial?

Or does he just see you?

It drives you crazy. Inspires something within you: not just the desire to please him, make it worth his while, but to be something else, something more than this. Has your fingers moving a little faster, has you grinding your clit against the palm of your hand. Has you a whining, writhing mess; has sounds spilling out that you aren’t sure you’ve ever heard come out of you.

You send it before you can overthink it. Whatever Mingyu sees in you, at least these are the images that’ll play in his mind whenever he thinks of you. At least you’ve sunk your claws into him.

Seconds pass in a blur. You’re still on the brink of a mind-numbing orgasm, stuck in this liminal space simply because Mingyu isn’t here, and you know, too, how this goes. Know you aren’t supposed to come without his say-so in the same way he edges himself until he gets yours.

Kim Mingyu: shit shit shit Kim Mingyu: i wish that was me. wanna take you apart like that. wanna finger you while i eat you out, make you squirt all over me again Kim Mingyu: fuck i thin k about that all the time Kim Mingyu: im gonna cum

I think about that all the time.

So do you. You, on your hands and knees, Mingyu eating you out from behind. Bracing yourself against the headboard with one arm, the other one reaching behind you to pull at his hair. You remember how relentless he’d been that night. A man possessed. Disregarded all your breathless pleas, every Mingyu, Gyu, fuck, fuck, Mingyu, baby— that left your mouth. His tongue left your pussy only long enough to say, you can take it, baby before he was right back at it. Before he worked in two fingers alongside his mouth. Before his free hand came down hard on your ass, the sting startling you, making you jerk, forcing you closer to his mouth.

You remember coming with a scream. You remember coming to with Mingyu’s lips to your neck, the sweet way he was speaking to you. You remember the knee-jerk embarrassment you felt when you saw the giant wet spot you’d left on the bed and how quickly it dissipated when Mingyu pressed a kiss to your temple, called you his good girl.

You: you can come, but you know the rule

You move your fingers back to your clit, feel all that pleasure flood back, start in your toes. It’s not long before you’re pulling a blistering orgasm from your body—one that feels like it belongs to Mingyu, wasn’t yours for the taking.

thank you, he replies, right beneath a photo of his abs streaked with cum.

The comedown is jarring. You feel both too big for your body and completely out of sorts now that you’ve fulfilled your role. Now that there’s nothing to do but sit in the stillness of your bedroom, that same drama playing on television, some girl getting her heart broken.

You wonder if Mingyu’s thinking the same. If his body also sags with relief, if the absence of all that tension feels crushing. If the first thought he has in this newfound clarity is also I love you and if he also swallows it down every single time. You wonder if he thinks about his role, if it’s becoming stale and tired.

Because you know what comes next:

Kim Mingyu: i’ll be home soon Kim Mingyu: can i see you

And you also know what you’ll say. After all, you’ve played this role before.

if you've made it this far thank you so much for reading! this is prob not my best work since it's a lil rushed but i needed something to get me out of my slump.

m.list ⋮ taglist

your throat is hoarse from screaming lyrics you didn’t realize you still knew by heart. your skin’s still buzzing, glitter catching on the collar of your top, sweat drying beneath your skirt.

baekhyun’s concert wasn’t just a show—it was an experience. a sensory overload. the kind that settles into your skin and stays there. the way he moved—fluid and precise, every step pulled straight from muscle memory and instinct—was hypnotic. the way he sang, breathless yet effortless. his visuals? unreal. almost unfair. 

and the way he engaged with the crowd? grinning, teasing, soaking up the screams like sunlight—yeah, that wasn’t just performance. that was a man doing exactly what he was born to do. an idol in every sense. and it was obvious—he loves it. he lives for it.

and you—loud, radiant, maybe a little too invested—could’ve sworn he looked right at you during woo. his gaze was sweeping, fluid, made to tease, but just for a second… it paused. 

row ten.

pink sequined skirt.

you froze mid-sway, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat, and you didn’t dare blink.

you told yourself it was wishful thinking. that you were just one face in a sea of thousands. but now, stepping out into the night air—still in that same outfit, skin buzzing like it’s holding onto his falsetto—you’re drunk on something more than just concert adrenaline.

your body still vibrates with the bass, your voice is hoarse from shouting lyrics like they were gospel, and your cheeks ache from smiling too hard for too long.

“oh my godddd, meeks, that was fuckin’ insane,” you pant, nearly breathless, practically levitating as you leave the venue.

your best friend, mika, laughs beside you—influencer, 125k+ on the gram, energy like a triple shot of tequila, dressed like the night owes her something. 

“oh, baby,” she purrs, thumb tapping her phone like she’s conjuring magic, “the night’s just getting started.”

her screen flares to life with a flood of unread dms—club logos, kiss emojis, a string of heart-eyes from guys whose names you don’t recognize but probably should. “should we go clubbing?” she offers, eyes glinting. “wanna hit up gravity?”

you hesitate. gravity always spirals. last time, you ended up in a stranger’s penthouse afterwards with three underground rappers and a girl who swore she was hyunjin from le sserafim’s third cousin twice removed.

but fomo’s coded into your dna, and baekhyun’s voice is still ricocheting through your bones. you told yourself you’d say yes to everything tonight. so you do.

you grin, breath catching with the kind of thrill that tastes like trouble.

“fuck it,” you say, two taps away from ordering the uber. “let’s go.”

the club is a blur of lights and bass. you barely make it past the velvet rope before you’re swept inside by the gravity of mika’s orbit.

she knows everyone. the guy at the door daps her up like they grew up together. the bartender winks and sends over a tray of drinks before you even reach the bar. the DJ in the booth flashes her a grin mid-set and changes the track to her favorite remix.

you don’t wait in lines and you never check prices. you exist outside of time when you’re out with her—just a blur of laughter, glitter, and beat drops that rattle your ribcage.

you dance like your heels don’t hurt.

like you didn’t just scream your lungs out at a concert two hours ago.

your skirt swings with every sway of your hips, sequins catching the light like tiny spotlights made just for you.

you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, drunk on tequila and attention, your friends orbiting you like a constellation of bad choices and even better memories.

you feel pretty—head tilted back, hips swaying, alcohol warming your blood. a random guy tries to flirt and your friend yanks you away with a grin.

“nope,” she says. “we’re keepin’ it mysterious tonight.”

you’re drunk and dizzyo a quarter ‘til midnight when you check your phone and realize you should probably head home.

but then she leans in close and whispers, “wanna hit an afters at the ritz?”

she doesn’t say whose. she never does.

but that’s the thrill of it. the not-knowing. the possibility that tonight hasn’t even peaked yet.

you glance down at your drink—half-melted ice, lipgloss on the rim—and swallow what’s left. you’re sticky with sweat, eyes glassy, lips tingling from salt and lime. 

and yeah, maybe you should go home. but you’re not in the mood to be responsible especially when the night still feels electric.

so you grin, swipe your phone off the table, and say the words you always do when mika’s got that look in her eyes.

the suite looks like it was pulled straight from a luxury travel vlog—sleek, sprawling, and softly lit in golds and shadows.

there’s music playing low—something bassy and expensive, vibrating through marble countertops and plush velvet cushions. a tray of half-finished cocktails glows under the dim, amber light, and bodies are draped across designer furniture like they were born there. heels kicked off. dress shirts half-buttoned. laughter echoing from corners you’re not quite invited into.

you’re crouched near the minibar, pretending to fix the strap of your heel, feigning fascination with the towering bouquet of flowers that probably cost more than your rent, when you spot them—faces you vaguely recognize. not close enough to be certain, but… yeah. you’ve seen them before. maybe at the club earlier tonight. the way they move—relaxed, self-assured, like people who know they’re being watched.

you don’t overthink it. just assume that’s how mika got wind of this afterparty in the first place.

and then—something shifts.

a hum in the atmosphere. like the room just hit pause.

you glance up.

and there he is.

baekhyun.

but not in silk. not in silk or leather or anything made to kill. no stage persona. no spotlight.

just… soft.

he’s near the bar, dressed in an oversized grey hoodie with faded red letters stretched across the front. the collar hangs loose, offering a peek of a plain white tee underneath. a slouchy beanie hugs his head, and strands of bleached blonde hair curl out in fluffy wisps—just messy enough to look real. freshly washed face. no makeup. no filter.

he looks like he just stepped out of a hot shower. glowing, flushed, skin catching the warm golden light like it’s gilding him from within.

he doesn’t see you. not yet. he’s nursing a drink, sleeves pushed to his elbows, shoulders relaxed in that way people get when they’ve finally made it to the other side of a long night.

and then—click.

your eyes flick across the room again. those familiar faces lounging on velvet sectionals, sipping cocktails and laughing like they’ve done this a hundred times before—now you get it.

you hadn’t realized it earlier. hadn’t connected the dots.

but now, with baekhyun standing there—unguarded, undeniably real—it all snaps into place.

this is his afterparty.

those are his people.

you tear your gaze away, forcing your attention to the condensation sliding down a bottle of sparkling water like it suddenly holds the answers to all of life’s questions. anything to keep from staring at the man who just quietly turned your whole night inside out.

you don’t expect him to move—to notice you. definitely not to approach. but he does, of fucking course he does, like the universe just couldn’t resist handing you this plot twist wrapped in cozy grey cotton and freshly washed hair.

“you always this mesmerized by sparkling water?” his voice drifts in from beside you—low, easy, just amused enough to make your pulse trip.

you blink, caught in the act. the bottle suddenly feels like a spotlight. heat crawls up the back of your neck.

“i wasn’t staring,” you blurt, too quick, too defensive—and not at all what he asked.

baekhyun hums, a quiet chuckle under his breath. “didn’t say you were.”

you glance at him—and instantly regret it. he’s even more beautiful up close. skin dewy and flushed from the shower, hoodie soft around his frame, eyes sharp and curious beneath the shadow of his beanie. he smells like detergent and something warmer—clean skin and cologne clinging faintly to the cotton of his hoodie.

“what are you doing at this party, anyway?” you ask, shooting for nonchalant but landing somewhere breathless. “shouldn’t you be off… i don’t know, being famous somewhere?”

he grins—wide and unapologetic. “my team booked out the whole floor,” he says, like it’s the most mundane thing in the world. “so technically, i am where i’m supposed to be.”

you let out a quiet snort. “that’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

he studies you—really studies you—like he’s trying to file you into a box but hasn’t quite found the right label yet.

“you here with someone?” he asks finally, voice still casual, but there’s a hint of curiosity threading through it now.

“my friend got the invite,” you say, keeping your tone even. “i just tagged along. didn’t even realize whose afterparty it was until…” your eyes flick toward him. “well. until i saw you.”

that earns you his full smile—not the rehearsed kind, but something softer, looser at the edges. whatever guarded suspicion he’d been carrying eases, replaced by a flicker of something else. amusement. maybe interest.

“so you’re not here to corner me for a selfie? no skincare interrogation?” he teases, brows lifting.

you huff a laugh. “i mean, the skin is suspiciously clear. but no.”

his grin tugs wider. he tilts his head, studying you a little longer than necessary. “you were at the show, though… right?”

you pause—then nod. “yeah.”

his eyes drop for a second. “thought so,” he murmurs, voice dipping just enough to make your breath stutter. “that pink skirt’s kinda hard to miss.”

your heart stumbles over itself.

“well,” you manage, “you put on a good show.”

“thanks,” he says, smiling like he means it. “wanna sit? it's quieter over there,” he nods toward a closed off corner of the suite—where the music’s softer, the city’s glittering outside the wide floor-to-ceiling window, and a plush couch waits like it’s part of the plan. 

you blink. “with you?”

he grins. “unless you’re still committed to bonding with that water bottle.”

you settle onto the couch, leaving a polite gap between you—respectful, casual, not too eager.

baekhyun drops down beside you a moment later. easy. relaxed. his knees part just enough to ground him, like he’s done this a hundred times, but somehow doesn’t feel rehearsed.

for a beat, he just sits there, sipping from his glass. then, gently, like he’s not sure if it’s too forward:

“so… what’s your name?”

you tell him.

he nods, eyes flicking down for a second like he’s committing it to memory.

a quiet pause.

then he glances over again, one arm resting along the back of the couch. his fingers drum lightly against the cushion, and there’s a flicker of something playful in his voice.

“do you usually show up at strangers’ after parties, or is tonight a special case?”

you let out a soft laugh. “you’re not exactly a stranger. i’ve seen you shirtless before. on a jumbotron.”

he huffs a small, nose-scrunching laugh. “ah, so we’re skipping introductions and going straight to shared history.”

“basically,” you say, lifting your drink. “we're practically close friends.”

he smiles wider, the boyish kind that starts in his cheeks before it reaches his eyes. “great. and here i am looking like i just rolled outta bed.”

your eyes flick over the hoodie and the slouchy beanie barely hanging onto his bleached hair. “you mean your softboy fit?”

“hey,” he says, mock-wounded. “this is premium downtime aesthetic.”

“sure,” you murmur into your glass. “total heartbreak fit.”

he grins, turns his body slightly toward you, eyes crinkling. “don’t say that like it isn’t working.”

you’re smiling before you even realize it. the banter flows easier than you expected—natural, not forced. and the longer he talks, the more you notice things. like how deep and calm his voice is when he’s not performing. how he pauses before answering, like he actually thinks about his words. how his fingers tap lightly against his glass, how he nods when you talk, really listens.

he starts telling you about this tiny bunsikjeom he swears by back home—some blink-and-you-miss-it shop tucked between a laundromat and a vet clinic. he goes on about how their tteokbokki is the best and how the ajumma there hates him, like genuinely scowls whenever he walks in.

“i always order, like, five portions of odeng. just for me,” he says, eyes wide, hands gesturing like this is life-or-death. “and she always yells, like—‘yah! save some for other people!’ but then she gives me extra anyway. she pretends she’s mad, but she totally likes me.”

he grins, ducking his head a little. “i think she worries i don’t eat enough.”

you raise a brow. “you’re ordering five skewers and she still thinks you’re starving?”

“exactly,” he says, mock-offended. 

you ask if fame ever gets lonely. he doesn’t dodge it.

“yeah, sometimes,” he admits. “but i’m used to being alone. i think i’m better at being with people now, though. or... the right people.”

you blink at that. it’s quieter than the rest of the conversation. unpolished. a little vulnerable.

and it hits you—he’s nothing like the stage version of himself. not the flirty idol who winks at cameras or sings with syrup in his voice. he’s calmer. sharper. grounded.

even the way he drinks feels different. slow. deliberate. not for show, just... because he’s thirsty.

you look at him again. really look.

and for a moment, you just sit with it. the quiet between you, the city glowing beyond the glass, the weight of something undeniably real blooming beneath the surface.

you don’t speak. you don’t need to.

because somewhere between the last laugh and the next sip of tequila, time starts to slip. the minutes blur, slow and easy, like the night’s decided not to rush. you’re both tipsy now—flushed, relaxed, limbs loose. the music plays soft in the background, and the suite glows warm and golden, like dusk frozen in place. it feels quiet. suspended. like everything outside of this cozy little corner of the suite has been paused.

he’s charming, but not in the curated way you expected. 

it feels private—like he’s peeling himself back one layer at a time just for you. less idol, more man. his voice is low, his stories surprisingly unfiltered, and he’s funny—actually funny, not just media-trained clever.

you find yourself leaning in before you realize it, pulled toward the gravity of his presence like he’s something your body already knew how to orbit.

he smells like warm skin and sugared spice—notes of something expensive laced with the earthy ache of man. every time he shifts, you catch more of it, and it’s dizzying.

you weren’t prepared for this. for him.

genuine. confident in a way that doesn’t beg for attention. grounded, but just enough ego to be dangerous.

not the distant, idolized version of baekhyun the internet likes to dissect in thinkpieces and fancams.

this version is real. present. and somehow even more disarming.

“so,” he says, glancing sideways, “tell me something that’s not small talk.”

his voice is low, unhurried.

you blink. “what, like… my credit card number?”

you smile, finally letting your shoulders drop a little. “okay, fine. i always cry during the last twenty minutes of ratatouille.”

baekhyun turns to face you more fully, brows lifting. “what gets you? the rat’s speech?”

“no, it wasn’t remy,” you say with a scoff, nudging his knee lightly. “his name is remy, first of all.”

he laughs—really laughs—and the sound curls warm in your chest. “ah, my bad. remy,” he echoes, grinning. “go on.”

you exhale, letting your gaze drift toward the glowing skyline beyond the glass. “it was the critic’s review. that part at the end where he talks about discovering something new, something unexpected, and how the world is always unkind to it.”

your voice softens, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “he says the new needs friends. and i don’t know—it hit something in me.”

baekhyun stays still beside you, his hand curled loosely around his drink, forgotten now.

“sometimes it just feels like... everything’s already been done. like no one’s waiting for what you have to give. and then this bitter old man eats a meal made by a fucking rat and suddenly he’s like—shaken. changed. reminded why he ever cared in the first place.”

you pause, then shrug, barely glancing at him. “i guess it reminded me that you don’t have to be expected to be meaningful. that you don’t have to be someone obvious to matter.”

baekhyun doesn’t say anything right away.

but something shifts in his expression. his jaw ticks, just barely. his lashes dip like he’s trying to hide the flicker of emotion behind his eyes, like he doesn’t want to give himself away.

because yeah—he fucking gets it. way more than you know.

not just the movie. not just the speech. but the whole aching truth of it.

he’s been living that risk lately—leaving the comfort of the company that built him, stepping out with nothing but belief and a dream that people might still show up for him. that what he has to offer—now, as he is—is still worth something.

he hasn’t said it out loud, not to anyone. but hearing you say it—watching you light up over something so honest, so deeply felt—it stirs something in him. makes him see not just the movie differently… but you, too.

you, sitting here in front of him, talking about hope like it’s something fragile and holy.

it makes him feel less alone.

and for the first time tonight, baekhyun forgets about being careful. about being cool.

he just looks at you like he’s seeing something rare.

something that might just change everything.

"you're not what i expected," he says, voice low—almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

you glance over, one brow lifting as you tilt your head. “good unexpected?"

he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you—really looks—like he’s committing your features to memory one slow blink at a time. eyes scanning the curve of your mouth, the slope of your cheek, the way the light catches the side of your face. and then, finally, he nods. once. small, certain.

you smile, warmth curling beneath your ribs as you lift your drink and finish the last sip. the glass makes a soft sound as you set it down on the coffee table. “funny,” you say, easing back into the cushions. “i was just about to say the same thing.”

his lips twitch, curiosity sparking behind them. “yeah? how so?”

you hesitate for half a beat, choosing your words. “you’re… calmer than i thought you’d be. softer.” your voice dips, gentling. “more real. the version of you on stage is fun—electric—but it’s not this.”

his smile stretches slowly, not wide but genuine, like the words settle somewhere deep in him. like maybe they mean more than you know. “so what you’re saying,” he murmurs, “is that i’m not the guy i pretend to be when everyone’s watching.”

you bump your knee lightly against his, a tiny grin playing at your lips. “exactly.”

his gaze drops, lingers where your thigh presses to his. and when he looks back up, there’s something darker swimming there—something thick with heat.

your breath catches.

a strand of hair sticks to the gloss on your bottom lip, and before you can even lift a hand, his fingers are already there—brushing it away, tucking it behind your ear like it’s second nature. like he’s done it before.

the touch is soft. reverent. but it sets something off inside you, deep and molten. like your body recognizes him before your brain can catch up.

his gaze holds yours, gold and liquid in the warm afterparty lighting, and this time, neither of you look away. there’s no posturing. no pretending. just... him. and you.

he leans in, slow. lips brushing yours—barely there. testing the space between you.

you don’t move.

so he kisses you.

it starts soft. tentative. like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. but it doesn’t stay that way for long. it deepens too fast, mouths parting, breaths catching, lips dragging, tongues meeting like they’ve done this before. like they remember.

your knees hook over his thighs without thought, your hips shifting, sliding into his lap like you were meant to be there.

and the second you settle—flush against him—he groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked.

“fuck,” he exhales, breaking the kiss just long enough to breathe, hands curling tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. like he needs to hold you steady or he might come undone.

you rock into him slowly, your skirt hitched high, the friction between your soaked panties and the heat straining in his sweats making your thighs tremble. your head tips back, a moan slipping out that you couldn’t hide if you tried.

his lips are on your throat now, jaw, collarbone—anywhere he can reach, desperate to taste more. his hands slide lower, gripping your ass with purpose, grinding you down like he’s starving. like this is the only thing that will satisfy the ache he’s been carrying all night.

“you’re drivin’ me fuckin’ insane,” he mutters, voice shredded, fraying at the seams. “you have no idea.”

you’re seconds from cumming—lips locked, skirt hitched high, his grip on your thighs desperate, like he’s caught between dragging you closer and anchoring himself from completely losing it—when a voice slices through the air like a bucket of ice water dumped on your head.

“uh, babe? you in here?”

you both freeze.

baekhyun’s mouth stalls against your jaw. your lungs forget how to work.

and then—

pure. fucking. chaos.

you scramble off his lap, nearly kneeing him in the balls in the process, tugging your skirt back down your ass like it’ll erase the last ten minutes. baekhyun shifts too, adjusting his sweats with hands that still shake a little. your lips feel kissed raw. your thighs ache. you don’t even want to know what your hair looks like.

mika stands just inside the doorway, one brow cocked, arms folded over her sparkly top like the mom friend she definitely is when necessary. her gaze sweeps over the scene—your smeared lipstick, baekhyun’s rumpled shirt, the space between you two charged and awkward, like the tension hasn’t quite settled. and you—frozen next to the couch like you forgot what to do with your body now that someone else is watching.

“meeks,” you squeak, trying—and failing—to sound casual. “hey.”

“hey yourself,” she says lightly, voice dipped in that syrupy sarcasm only best friends can perfect. “your phone’s dead. figured i’d check you weren’t, y’know…” she pauses, eyes sliding between you and baekhyun, mouth twitching. “kidnapped. or eaten alive.”

baekhyun lets out something between a laugh and a choke. you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

and then her gaze settles on him.

his bleached blonde hair is a mess—textbook post-makeout chaos. cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, hoodie wrinkled like it’s been tugged in desperation. her gaze narrows. and you see it: the flicker. the click. the way realization sparks behind her lashes like a struck match. she knows.

of course she knows.

but mika? mika’s been around. she’s danced with indie film heartthrobs and ghosted rappers with stadium tours. she’s navigated VIP lounges and afters where NDAs are practically part of the dress code. she’s seen the famous, the infamous, and the almost-famous. and she’s never once made it weird.

so she doesn’t gasp. doesn’t scream. doesn’t say, “weren’t we just at his concert four hours ago?”

instead, she just raises an eyebrow—subtle, amused, dangerous—and shoots you a look that says i’m going to make you tell me everything.

then she shrugs. uncrosses her arms. casual as ever. “right. well. i’m heading out. you comin’ with or…?”

you look back.

and for the first time, really look.

bare skin—clean and fresh, faint traces of sweat still lingering at his hairline from earlier. his hoodie’s loose around his shoulders, the collar tugged slightly off-center, and his blonde hair sticks up in soft tufts where your fingers must’ve pulled through it.

he looks... manly like this. unstyled. real. almost heartbreakingly so.

and his eyes—they’re not teasing. they’re not flirty. not charming or rehearsed like they were earlier when he made you laugh into your drink. they’re quiet. open. like he’s asking something without saying it out loud.

you’ve never seen that look on him before.

not in music videos. not on stage. not even earlier tonight.

it’s not desire burning behind his gaze—it’s something softer. something closer to hope.

“stay a little longer, yeah?” he says, voice low. steady. like he’s giving you space to say no, but hoping to hell you won’t. “just for a nightcap.”

his thumb strokes your wrist again.

then, quieter—almost like he’s trying to make it casual, as if this isn’t something important—he adds, “i’ve got a charger for your phone you can use too.”

you don’t even realize you’re nodding until mika snorts.

“m’kay, text me when you’re done being ravished by kpop’s finest,” she calls over her shoulder as she turns to leave. “love you, don’t die.”

“mika!”

but she’s already halfway down the hallway, humming something that suspiciously sounds like ‘love shot.’

you glance back at baekhyun, cheeks burning, heart rattling behind your ribs.

he’s still holding your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse like he’s trying to soothe it—or match it. a crooked smile tugs at his lips, sheepish and flushed, whether from being caught mid-makeout or just the aftershock of it all.

like he hadn’t planned on you, but now he doesn’t really want to let you go.

his eyes find yours, soft and searching. there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but he doesn’t flash it like he does on stage or behind cameras. this one’s smaller. real.

he looks… relieved. maybe even a little stunned. like he’s not used to this—you. not just the kiss, not just the body heat, but the connection.

and there’s a flicker of something else in his expression too. not nerves exactly, but hesitation. like part of him is still processing that this is happening at all.

he rubs the back of his neck before reaching for you, voice low and careful. “i’m glad you stayed,” he murmurs, like it’s not something he says often. like it’s heavier than the words suggest.

his hand finds yours again, fingers brushing tentatively over your knuckles before he gently tugs you closer.

then he pulls you back into his lap, arms sliding around your waist, like it’s second nature—but his touch is more tender now. reverent. like he’s scared if he moves too fast, you might disappear.

you settle into him again, heart thudding, lips still tingling from the last kiss.

he exhales into the crook of your neck, voice barely above a whisper. “i-i don’t usually…” he trails off, his hold tightening slightly.

but he doesn’t need to finish.

you already know. 

and that truth—that rare, quiet truth—makes your chest ache in the best way.

you smile, and before you can say something to break the moment, he’s kissing you again.

but it’s different this time.

still hot, still messy, but it lingers. it asks. his mouth moves with reverence, his hands memorizing you, like he’s been starving for touch but terrified of being fed too well.

“woulda been devastated if you left,” he rasps, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice rough and trembling with restraint.

then he nips—right below it. soft and precise. you jolt, hips twitching instinctively in his lap.

his hand moves like it has a destination. slow, deliberate, up the curve of your thigh, under the hem of your skirt. his fingers trail higher—light and teasing at first, but the moment he reaches the warm heat between your legs, everything sharpens.

you gasp.

his fingers still.

there’s a pause, heavy and humming.

you don’t have to see his face to feel the shift—the tension in his body, the hissed breath through his teeth, the unmistakable clench of his jaw when he realizes—

you’re not wearing anything underneath.

his fingers flex, knuckles barely grazing your slick folds.

“shit,” he breathes, almost to himself. “you’ve been sittin’ on me like this this whole time?”

you don’t answer. can’t. your chest is tight, lungs barely remembering how to fill.

he draws his fingers through your arousal, slow and deliberate, collecting the wetness before withdrawing. he brings his hand up, eyes locked on yours. his fingers glisten in the dim light, your slick catching the golden hue as he lifts them to his mouth.

you watch, helpless, as he slides his middle and ring fingers between his lips and sucks them clean.

his eyelids flutter, then flutter open again—gaze dark and fixed on you like he’s starving.

“where have you been all my fucking life?” he breathes, like it’s hurting him, like your taste is something he might never recover from. 

his cock twitches beneath you, hard and heavy beneath the soft cotton of his sweats, straining for more contact—more of you.

you don’t answer him—not with words.

instead, you take his hand in yours, slow and sure, like it belongs to you now. your fingers wrap tight around his wrist as you guide him back down between your thighs, the same fingers still slick from earlier. you spread wider, shameless, hips tilting forward like your body already knows what it wants.

he groans the moment you press his fingers into your soaked heat again—your cunt so wet and eager that he slides in without resistance. 

your back arches, lashes fluttering, a breathy moan spilling from your parted lips as he starts to move.

once.

twice.

a third time—deep, slow, curling just right, the pads of his fingers dragging against every spot that makes you whimper.

he’s watching you like he’s in a trance. like you’ve crawled out of some decadent, filthy dream with your lipgloss smudged and your hips rolling like you’re possessed by pleasure itself. 

his eyes don’t leave your face.

they can’t.

you keep your hand over his, guiding the pace, the depth—controlling him like a toy you know exactly how to play with. his fingers stretch you just right, knuckles brushing your dripping folds, your slick making a mess on both your hands.

then you whimper. soft. broken. 

it shatters him.

you lean in, your lips brushing his while you take those same fingers—wet and warm and still pulsing from where they were buried—and bring them to your mouth. your eyes lock on his, gaze steady, daring.

you part your lips and wrap them around his fingers slowly, deliberately, letting the gloss that still clings to your mouth coat his skin again. your tongue swirls over the pads, collecting your own taste, savoring him. his rings are cold against your lips—a metallic tease compared to the wet heat of your mouth.

his hips twitch beneath you, jaw clenching so hard you see the muscle tick.

he twitches beneath you. hips jerk. his jaw clenches so tight, you see the muscle flicker.

and you don’t stop.

you keep grinding down on him—slow, steady drags of your soaked pussy against his cock, your clit catching on the thick ridge of him through his boxers. the friction is perfect. devastating. addictive.

his eyes darken. voice drops.

“fuck,” he growls again, this time lower, more dangerous. “that’s it.”

suddenly, his grip tightens on your thighs, guiding you off his lap with shaky urgency. you stumble a little, knees weak, and he stands with you—his hand firm at the small of your back, the other sliding down to grab your wrist like he needs you moving now.

“can’t take it anymore,” he mutters, voice hot against your cheek, his breath a mess against your skin.

“i need you,” he growls, voice thick, fraying at the edges. “need to feel you wrapped around me. need to fuck the sweet, messy heaven you made on my fingers straight outta you.”

you whimper—helpless, already unraveling—and before you even register how fast you’re moving, you’re there. the hallway blurs. your hand is still locked in his, his grip unrelenting, like if he lets go now he might not get you back.

your pulse slams behind your ribs. you’re dizzy with how fast everything is unraveling. you follow him on unsteady legs, hips brushing, feet tripping over each other in the rush to get to the bedroom.

he’s not carrying you. he doesn’t have to. because he’s pulling you through the dark with a grip that says come with me. now. 

he reaches the door to his room, throws it open with one swift motion. his eyes burn when they meet yours—dark, wrecked, entirely gone for you.

the door clicks shut behind you.

baekhyun’s on you in the next breath—hands cupping your jaw, mouth crashing into yours like he’s starving for it, for you. there’s no prelude. no hesitation. just heat and teeth and breath, his lips pressed hard against yours as he walks you backward, blindly, toward the bed. he groans into your mouth, dragging you with him like his hands can’t bear to let you go for a second.

the beanie he had on earlier? abandoned on the couch. long gone. forgotten the moment your sweet mouth touched his. his sweater comes off first, pulled over his head with a grunt and tossed somewhere behind him. then his sweatpants, shoved down with one hand, the other still gripping your hip like you might disappear.

you whimper when your back hits the mattress, but he’s already climbing over you—pressing himself between your legs, kissing you like he’s trying to devour the moans from your throat. and fuck, you're giving them to him. whimpers and gasps and needy little sounds he swallows down like they’re fueling him.

you straddle his lap, feel him hard and hot beneath his boxers, the outline of his cock pressing into your soaked panties. your hands explore in desperate sweeps—his toned stomach, the cut of his hips, the way his muscles twitch when you grind down just right.

his hands are everywhere.

on your ass, kneading.

on your tits, squeezing, thumbs circling your nipples through your top until you’re arching into him, chasing the friction.

every stifled moan from your mouth makes him groan harder. every shift of your hips has him whimpering against your lips like he can’t believe this is happening.

you barely register the moment his hand slides down again. his fingers slip under your panties, push past the mess of slick already dripping for him.

two fingers, knuckle-deep, curling perfectly.

you cry out, hips jerking, grinding against the heel of his palm as his fingers fuck up into you—rhythmic, practiced, devastating. his palm rocks against your clit with every motion, and it’s too much. it’s all too much. he’s kissing you the whole time, tongues tangled, teeth clashing, spit messy between your mouths.

you ride his fingers like they’re his cock. pace quickening, hips stuttering, moans breaking against his lips as your thighs start to tremble.

“baek—fuck, i’m gonna!”

“cum for me,” he breathes, lips dragging down your neck. “cum all over my fingers, baby. wanna feel it.”

and you do—with a sharp gasp and a choked sob, your cunt clenches around him, gushing slick onto his hand. he holds you through it, lets you grind it out, rubs your clit as you shake and shiver above him.

he pulls his fingers out slowly, and you whine from the loss—raw, overstimulated.

but he just smirks, lifts his hand to his mouth, and sucks your release from his fingers like it’s honey. eyes on yours the entire time.

before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your back and spreads your legs wide.

“need my mouth on you. now.”

you gasp as he drops to his knees, throws your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face in your pussy.

he devours you like a man starved—tongue dragging slow and unrelenting through your folds, lips sealed around your clit like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste. every flick is deliberate. every suck sends sparks skittering down your spine. and when he moans into you—low, guttural, wrecked—it vibrates through your core like a detonator.

his hands are ruthless on your thighs, fingers digging deep, spreading you wider like he owns the view between your legs. like he’s earned this. and maybe he has, the way he fucks you open with his mouth—relentless, greedy, like your pussy’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

you come hard. once. then again. and then again, your vision going white at the edges, your voice splintering around his name like a prayer gone hoarse. he barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s back on you, dragging you higher, refusing to let you fall.

he’s obsessed. addicted.

and he’s not hiding it.

he lifts his head just enough to speak, chin wet, lips swollen, eyes glassy with lust. “fuck,” he rasps, eyes locked on the mess he’s made of you. “you see this? see how you’re drippin’ for me? how the fuck am i supposed to stop now?”

his fingers slide back inside—two, then three—stretching you wide, curling deep. he finds your spot like it’s mapped in his muscle memory, like he’s been waiting his whole life to touch you like this. his mouth returns to your clit, licking with slow precision, sucking hard like he needs it to breathe.

“wanna fuckin’ die down here,” he murmurs against you, voice thick and ragged.

you sob his name, thighs trembling around his head, hips trying to jerk away from the overstimulation—but he groans at that. growls at that. hands dragging you closer, grinding his face deeper into your cunt like he’s chasing your next high through sheer force of will.

you cum again—this one violent, toe-curling, shaking so hard your hands can barely find his shirt. but they do. they grab, fist in the collar, tugging him up with desperation.

his mouth crashes to yours, wet and dirty, your slick still shining on his lips. the kiss is obscene. teeth, tongue, need.

and your hand’s already moving—slipping down between your bodies, palming the thick, aching bulge in his boxers.

“want it,” you gasp against his lips. “wanna feel you. want you inside me.”

his eyes darken, jaw clenched, a twitch of disbelief and desperate restraint cracking through his composure.

he exhales, like the words punch the air out of his lungs.

“how can i say no to you?”

his lips are still on yours when he lines himself up—boxers shoved down to his thighs, your legs draped open for him, panties tossed somewhere in the sheets. he strokes himself once, twice, teasing your entrance with the flushed tip of his cock, gliding it through your soaked folds.

“baby…” he groans, forehead pressing to yours. “fuck, you’re so wet.”

you nod, lips parted, eyes barely open. “please, baek. now.”

he pushes in slow—inch by inch, thick and deliberate—letting you take every bit of him, your walls fluttering from how sensitive you still are.

you cry out, spine arching, nails digging into his biceps. he groans, low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together.

“oh my god,” he breathes, jaw tight, hips shaking as he bottoms out. “you’re fuckin’ squeezin’ me, baby—”

you whimper beneath him, completely overwhelmed—stretching around him, feeling every inch, the fullness dizzying. he stays still for a second, panting into your neck, like he's trying to pull himself back from the edge.

you clench around him again, needing more. needing movement.

he lets out a choked whine, lips brushing your skin, “fuck—feels like heaven,” he groans, voice wrecked. “you do that again and i swear i’m gonna cum just like that.”

your pussy tightens reflexively, and he moans into your throat—raw, helpless, feral.

you whimper again, your hips starting to move on instinct.

he matches your rhythm, slow at first—sensual, deliberate strokes that grind against every sensitive nerve inside you.

the room is humid with breath and want, skin against skin, the slap of his hips against your thighs growing louder as he fucks deeper, faster.

“such a good girl,” he rasps. “takin’ all of me like you were made for it.”

you fall apart again—loud, messy, clinging to him, heels digging in his lower back as your orgasm rips through you.

he fucks you through it, fingers tangled in your hair, kissing your tears away as you tremble and shiver beneath him.

round two hits different.

you’re pulled from sleep by warmth—his breath on your shoulder, the soft drag of his mouth kissing over your skin. 

you stir, barely, and feel his hand cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

his other arm’s wrapped tight around your waist, fingertips trailing lazy circles down your stomach, then lower. he’s hard again—thick and pulsing against your ass, and he ruts into the curve of your body without even meaning to.

“awake?” he murmurs against your neck.

you hum. “barely.”

“c’mere,” he whispers, rolling you onto your back.

his face is soft in the low light. it must be five a.m.—still dark, sky a velvety blue beyond the hotel windows.

you reach for him, pull him down by the face, and your mouths meet again—slow, sleepy, sensual. he sinks into you with a groan, no warning, no teasing. just raw, aching need.

you gasp into his mouth. he starts thrusting in long, slow rolls, his pelvis grinding against yours at the perfect angle. every stroke sends heat curling in your belly.

he doesn’t say a word—just exhales against your lips like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into that single breath. like if he kisses you any harder, you’ll know what he can’t put into words.

but it’s not enough.

you want more. need more.

your body moves on instinct—pushing him back against the mattress, crawling into his lap with slow, purposeful grace. your knees settle on either side of his hips, skirt riding up, your cunt slick and aching where it hovers just above the thick line of his cock.

his eyes drink you in like he’s never seen anything more stunning. heavy-lidded, lips parted, throat working around a breath he can’t quite catch.

“you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, voice low and reverent, his hands sliding up your thighs—gripping, kneading, tracing your skin like it’s holy.

you don’t answer. just sink down, slow and steady, taking him inch by thick, throbbing inch.

his breath punches out of him in a gasp, head thrown back, fingers digging into your hips. “shit—”

you ride him like you own him. hips rolling, bouncing, grinding down until your skin slaps against his with every thrust. the drag of his cock inside you is devastating—too good. too deep. and not nearly enough.

his moans grow ragged, sharp, the sound filthy in your ears. “fuck, baby—just like that. keep goin’. you feel so good—fuck, i’m gonna lose it.”

your hands brace on his chest, nails raking down the sweat-slick fabric of his shirt, chasing another high as your body trembles from the aftershocks. your pussy flutters around him, milking him greedily, overstimulated and still aching for more.

“cum for me again,” he groans, sitting up just enough to mouth at your tits, tongue dragging over your nipple through your top. “wanna feel you fall apart on my cock. wanna feel you drip down my thighs.”

and you do. again. helplessly. a cry ripping from your throat as you fuck yourself through the release, dizzy from how much he fills you. from how deep you need him. from how much you know this is going to ruin you.

and god—he loves it.

“baek—don’t wanna stop,” you pant, nearly sobbing. “feels too good.”

“then don’t,” he growls, gripping your hips so hard they might bruise. “fuck—ride me, baby, don’t stop.”

he thrusts up into you, losing control. the tempo turns messy, hungry, animalistic.

“god, you’re perfect—this pussy, fuck—it’s got me fuckin’ obsessed.”

you throw your head back, mouth open, eyes rolling as he slams up into you.

your cunt flutters around him again—tight, soaked, relentless—and he nearly loses control.

he’s shaking now, jaw locked, muscles flexing under your palms. everything in him winds tighter, like he’s seconds from snapping.

because how the fuck is this real?

he’s never felt like this. never needed someone the way he needs you right now.

he’s obsessed—with the way you smile mid-moan, with the soft whimpers that leave your throat every time he grinds into that perfect spot. your eyes—god, your eyes—rolling back, lashes fluttering like you’re seeing stars. your throat exposed when your head tips back in pleasure, that pretty, vulnerable neck he’s dying to mark up and call his.

it’s too much. too perfect. too you.

and when you fall forward, mouth crashing into his, the kiss is frantic—tongues messy, teeth clashing, like neither of you can get close enough.

your bodies are slick with sweat, pulsing with need, every nerve screaming.

and then he’s cumming. deep, thick, hard. his whole body jerks as he spills into you, hips grinding through the release like he’s trying to brand it into you—his claim, his worship, his fucking downfall.

and in that moment, nothing else exists. just the feel of you around him, shaking and perfect. just the sound of your breath in his ear.

and the quiet, terrifying realization blooming behind his ribs: you’ve already got him.

completely.

the room is quiet now. the only sound is your breathing—shaky, soft, slowing. his, too.

the sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, twisted around your ankles. your body’s still warm, flushed in places, marked in others. the air between you is thick with sweat and sex and something heavier neither of you has named.

baekhyun lies on his side, propped on one elbow. just… watching you. like he can’t not.

he brushes a damp strand of hair off your forehead, knuckles grazing your cheek. your lashes flutter, your lips part like you’re about to say something—maybe something dumb or playful or too honest—but nothing comes out. you just look at him.

and he’s struck silent all over again.

because fuck…

you’re so pretty like this. all wrecked and glowing, skin kissed raw, eyeliner smudged in the corners of your eyes. your lips are swollen from him, your pulse still visible in your neck where the marks are starting to bloom—places he’s already thinking about going back to. again. and again.

it wasn’t supposed to go this far. he was just supposed to party a little. blow off steam. it’s his first solo world tour—he’s been running on fumes and caffeine and pressure for weeks now. last night’s plan was to just fuck around a little, drink, unwind, and then move on to the next city like always.

but then you showed up.

the girl from the tenth row at tonight’s show. the one who danced like she didn’t care who was watching. the same girl he caught standing awkwardly at the bar at his afterparty, trying to act casual like she hadn’t just been screaming his lyrics a few hours earlier.

and now you’re here. in his space.

naked and tangled in his sheets, etched into the quiet of his night like you were always meant to be there. your chest rises and falls beneath blankets he never planned to share, in a city that meant nothing to him yesterday, and now feels like it’ll ache a little every time he thinks of it.

he exhales through his nose, slow and steady, voice soft against the quiet, “you good?”

you nod, lips tugging into a lazy smile, “don’t think i’ll be able to feel my legs for a few days.”

he grins, low and crooked, “yeah, me too. rehearsals are gonna be a bitch tomorrow.”

you both laugh—quiet, breathy, the kind that hums in your chest. and for a while, that’s enough. no words. no pressure to speak.

just stillness. skin against skin.

your fingers drift along the inside of his forearm, lazy and absentminded, like they’re just getting to know the shape of him. his hand rests on your hip like it’s always belonged there, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin—as if he's trying to memorize the curve of you before morning steals this softness away.

then your phone buzzes twice on the nightstand. sharp. insistent. a quiet jolt back to reality.

you glance over and notice the screen lit up, the charging icon glowing in the corner. he must’ve plugged it in for you while you slept.

something about that undoes you a little.

you shift, the weight of the moment settling over your chest. “i should probably go,” you murmur, not really wanting to.

but his hand doesn’t fall away. he just holds you a second longer—fingers tightening at your waist, like he’s still deciding if he’s ready to let you go.

“lemme get you a car home,” he murmurs, still breathless, hand grazing your hip like he’s reluctant to let go.

you nod, rolling onto your back, already feeling the loss of his warmth before he even moves.

he sits up, silent, swinging his legs off the bed and pulling his sweats back on. the soft sound of fabric, the creak of the mattress, the distant hum of the city outside—it all feels louder now.

you slide out of bed, slipping your top back on, fingers fumbling slightly at the hem. your panties are nowhere to be found. your heels are waiting by the door like they knew this was coming.

neither of you speaks as you both dress, the silence not uncomfortable—just full. full of everything unspoken. full of the way your body still aches from him.

you’re slipping your heels on by the door when something soft lands against your back.

you turn just in time to catch it—his hoodie. the same cozy grey one he wore to the afters earlier, still warm from his body.

you blink at him, lips parting, chest already tight with something you can’t name.

the hoodie smells like him—clean skin, faint shampoo, and something unmistakably you clinging to the fabric now. you pull it over your head. it swallows you instantly—the sleeves hanging past your hands, the hem brushing your thighs, heavy with the weight of the night still lingering in every thread.

his eyes follow the movement, lingering as you adjust it over your hips. 

he doesn’t say a word, but there’s a shift in his face—softened at the edges. like something quiet cracked open inside him.

he grabs the suite keycard from the nightstand and slips it into his back pocket like it's second nature. you’re still tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie, swimming in it, heart doing something stupid and fluttery in your chest when he glances back at you.

you follow him toward the door, and your hand just—finds his. like it was always meant to. he doesn’t say anything, just threads his fingers through yours and squeezes once. you don’t need words. not right now.

the hallway is quiet. like 3 a.m. quiet. the kind that makes everything feel softer, heavier. the elevator dings, and you both step inside. you expect silence. maybe a head-tilt goodbye. instead, his mouth is on yours again before the doors even close.

it’s slower this time. deep. his fingers slip into your hair, tug just enough to tilt your face up so he can really kiss you. and god, he does. like he means it. like he’s trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his memory just in case this really is the last time. your hands fist in his tee, your knees go a little weak. you sigh into it, drunk off him again.

there’s so much in this kiss. things neither of you planned. things he’s not saying. things you’re definitely gonna spiral about when you’re home and alone in your bed.

the elevator chimes again. he doesn’t let go immediately. just bites down on your bottom lip—gentle but deliberate—before he finally pulls away, breath still catching in his throat.

he keeps your hand in his as you both walk through the empty lobby. his thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles, and it’s so stupidly sweet you don’t know what to do with yourself. outside, the air is crisp. the city’s winding down, the sky a soft blur of navy and gold. and the ache in your chest? yeah. that’s definitely real.

there’s a black truck waiting at the curb, engine humming low, windows tinted. you kind of hate how real it makes everything feel.

baekhyun walks you to the car without saying much, still holding your hand like it’s second nature now—like letting go would feel too final. when you reach the door, he opens it for you himself, his palm brushing the small of your back in that quiet, anchoring way. like part of him still isn't sure he wants you to leave.

you’re about to climb in when he pauses.

“i’ve got a couple more shows in the city,” he says, voice low and unreadable. his eyes flick up to meet yours. “if you’re around… and feel like crashing another afters.”

your heart stutters.

you look at him—white tee wrinkled from where you had your fists curled into it in the elevator, blonde hair still messy from your hands, from his own. he looks like no time has passed at all. like he could pull you back upstairs right now and you wouldn’t even hesitate.

you smile. “maybe.”

he nods, once. quiet. like that one word told him everything he needed to hear.

then he helps you into the car, his fingertips grazing your bare thigh as you settle into the seat. a soft touch. a question he doesn’t ask out loud.

he shuts the door gently behind you.

as the truck pulls away, you lean your cheek against the window, breath fogging up the glass. you try not to look back.

but of course you do.

he’s still there.

hands tucked into the pockets of his grey sweats, white hoodie sleeves pushed up, mouth unreadable. watching you go like he’s trying to memorize it—just in case you don’t come back.

your apartment feels too quiet when you walk in. 

not peaceful. not calm.

just quiet in a way that makes the whole night feel like something you imagined. like you’re stepping out of a dream barefoot.

you toe off your heels by the door, ankles aching, thighs sore in the best, most sinful way. your lips are still tender—kiss-swollen, tingling—and you’re swimming in his hoodie. oversized and worn soft, sleeves covering your hands, the hem brushing your upper thighs with every step.

your bag slips from your shoulder and lands somewhere near the kitchen counter. you don’t bother picking it up.

your phone buzzes the second you set it down. the screen lights up with notifications in a neat little stack:

instagram story likes. 

a dm from some guy you danced near at gravity. 

a flurry of messages screaming “YOU WENT TO REVERIE?! SO JEALOUS”

and then, of course—mika.

meeks 🦋

BITCH WHEN U GET HOME I NEED A PLAY-BY-PLAY!!!!! i saw the way he looked at u omfg i am unwell

you laugh under your breath, thumbs hovering over the screen—still unsure how to even begin explaining what the fuck just happened.

but then another notification rolls in from a contact you don’t remember saving.

B.

your brows pinch in confusion. you don’t remember saving that contact. 

you tap it open.

the first thing you see is a photo. a crisp, perfectly lit shot of an all access pass for the next two reverie shows in your city… and a sleek black suite keycard resting beside it on hotel bedsheets you recognize all too well.

beneath it, a message:

thought you might wanna crash again

your stomach flips.

you stare at the image, your thumb hovering over it like it might disappear if you blink too hard.

he must’ve done it—added his number into your phone sometime between kisses, between rounds, when you were half-dozing on his chest, legs tangled in the sheets.

quiet. sneaky. baekhyun.

a laugh escapes—disbelieving, giddy, a little breathless.

you bring the phone to your lips and smile, heart racing all over again. not from the concert. not from the alcohol. 

from this.

from the realization that you almost didn’t go.

you were tired. you were going to call it a night. but mika had to talk you into one more stop—just one more before heading home.

if you’d said no…

if you’d gone to bed like you planned...

you wouldn’t be here now, wearing his hoodie, smelling like his sheets, rereading a text from him.

your fingers hover over the screen for a second longer before tapping the heart on the image. 

you type back:

guess i’m yours for the next two nights then

send.

you sink into the couch, the weight of the night finally settling in your bones. you bury your face in the collar of his hoodie, still warm, still smelling like him—sweet skin and sweat and something that clings.

and for the first time all night, you’re so fucking glad you didn’t go home.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ a/n ꒱ ˎˊ˗ i think i've got my edge back 😭😭😭😭 this one's for my fellow delulu girliez, hope ya enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it hehe <333333333

a day in the life of chronically offline!wonwoo and his girlfriend.

you’re on his lap, mid-rant about a fictional character’s downfall arc, waving your phone. wonwoo isn’t even pretending to understand. he just lets you use his chest as a podium while he hums in response, occasionally muttering, “that does sound tragic,” like a therapist indulging your latest mental illness. you pause, point a dramatic finger in his face. “you’d get it if you watched the edits i send you.” he presses a kiss to your knuckle. “i’d rather just watch you.”

once, you made a meme of him. full-on impact-font-level stupid. it was a blurry screenshot from a video call, wonwoo mid-blink, captioned, when she says she’s gonna sleep but you see her still liking tiktoks at 3am. it went semi-viral in your niche circle. he found out. he sent you a voice note with an unamused “mnnh.” but when you apologized, laughing, he just said, “keep it up, and i'm charging licensing fees.”

he likes words. you like emojis that are vaguely threatening. he sends you a poem; you send him 🔪💕💥🩸. wonwoo asks, “was that a response?” you say, “it's interpretive.” he saves the message anyway.

he doesn’t get why you need to narrate everything you do like a youtube vlog, but he lets you. you’ll be brushing your teeth, half-foam, going “today we’re gonna gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss our way to productivity,” and wonwoo will be leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like you’re his favorite anomaly. doesn’t say much. just smiles a little when you nearly choke on your toothpaste from laughing at yourself.

wonwoo reads with glasses on. it does things to you. things that are unspeakable. once you saw him half-sprawled on the couch, legs long and messy, copy of ‘the unbearable lightness of being’ in hand, and you just... climbed him like a tree. no warning. running purely on thirst and impulse. he blinked, said, “do you mind?” but his hands were already steadying your hips.

you told him you had a parasocial crush on him before you got together. it slipped out one night when you were tipsy and emotional, rambling something like, “i used to look at fancams of you and think: no way he’s real.” wonwoo had blinked slow, cheeks red, voice soft. “i thought the same thing. about you. just not with fancams. with... you being you.”

when you sleep over, wonwoo always turns off the wifi for your own good. “i’m saving you from another four-hour deep dive into love island lore,” he says, confiscating your phone. you glare. he grins. you wrestle for it like gremlins. you lose. he throws it across the room and pulls you under the sheets like a jail warden. you sulk into his chest until he rubs your back and calls you his “terminally online menace.”

you gave wonwoo a custom keyboard with purple switches and cat paw keycaps. he gave you a first edition of your favorite manga, annotated with his thoughts in the margins. you cried. he panicked. you said, “they were happy tears!” he said, “that’s worse. now i have expectations.”

wonwoo likes slow mornings. you wake up like a cracked egg, chaotic and leaking everywhere. wonwoo doesn’t mind. he just pulls you into his lap, tucks your head under his chin while you scroll your cursed meme feed aloud. he doesn’t laugh at most of them, but his chest occasionally shakes and he might sometimes even snort. for the most part, he presses kisses to the top of your head as if it’s the most normal way to say i love you.

you sexted him a poorly-drawn ms paint diagram of your thighs with “wonwoo parking only” scribbled across them. wonwoo left you on read. came home early. didn’t say a word. just dropped his bag, walked over, and knelt between your legs with reverence. then, deadpan: “i saw the sign. i’m obeying traffic laws."

sometimes, wonwoo doubts himself. thinks he’s not enough, too quiet, too strange. you shut it down every time. “you’re my favorite human-shaped wikipedia tab,” you say. “you’re my proof that love can be gentle.”