WTF
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | MDNI |Eventual Smut
A single night of blurred boundaries forces a painful truth to light, leaving you to question if his sudden protectiveness is a sign of something deeper—or just another illusion.
Part 1
The water is that impossible blue—the kind that only exists under string lights and a dark sky, lit from within so the whole pool glows like something radioactive. You step through the gate and the heat hits you first, then the noise. Music thumping from a speaker somewhere near the diving board. Splashing. Someone shrieking with laughter. Matt called you earlier today about a pool party at a friend's house.
So here you are in gray hoodie that is so enormous. Soft from years of washing. You pull the sleeves down over your hands and find a spot near the drink table, where the shadows collect and nobody expects you to be interesting.
It’s better back here. Safer.
You pour yourself something—whatever’s in the closest bottle, you don’t really check—and let your eyes do what they were always going to do.
Find Matt.
He’s there. Poolside. Feet dangling in the water, shoulders catching the golden glow of the lights. His dark hair is already damp, pushed back from his forehead, and he’s leaning toward her with that focused attention he gets when something really matters.
The Instagram girl. She’s even more striking in person. Sharp features, loud laugh, a sleek black one-piece that looks like it cost more than your entire wardrobe. She gestures while she talks, and Matt tracks the movement like she’s conducting a symphony and he’s never heard music before.
Your stomach clenches. You take a sip. The alcohol burns going down, and you’re grateful for the distraction.
“Yo!”
Chris’s voice cuts across the yard, piercing through the music. You see him mid-pool, arms waving, water droplets catching the light on his shoulders. “Stop being weird and get in here! You’re making us look bad just standing there like a statue!”
Heads turn. A few people laugh. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, but Chris is grinning at you with that chaotic, impossible-to-hate energy he carries everywhere, and something shifts.
Fuck it.
Seriously. Fuck every single second you’ve spent hiding tonight. Hiding every night. Hiding for years while Matt looks at other girls like they’re constellations and you’re just the telescope.
Your fingers find the hem of your hoodie.
The fabric lifts. Cool air hits your stomach, your ribs, your shoulders as you pull it over your head and toss it onto a nearby chair. Underneath, the bikini is something you bought three months ago on a night when you’d felt brave and stupid in equal measure. Dark green. Cut high on the hips. The top does things for your chest that your usual oversized tees actively work against.
You don’t realize the silence at first.
It spreads outward from where you’re standing—a ripple of quiet moving across the deck. Chris stops splashing. Someone near the grill lowers their drink. A girl on a lounger turns her head.
You’re already moving toward the pool, toward the water, because if you stop to think about the eyes on you, you’ll lose your nerve entirely. The concrete is cool under your bare feet. The steps are textured, non-slip. You descend into the blue glow and the water swallows you up to your waist, and only then do you let yourself breathe.
Chris recovers first. He’s at your side in seconds, swimming over with his jaw hanging open in theatrical shock. “Okay. Okay, wait. Who are you and what have you done with our quiet little hoodie gremlin?”
“Shut up,” you manage, but you’re almost smiling.
“No, genuinely. I’m processing. You’ve been holding out on us.” He circles you in the water like a shark inspecting something fascinating. “This is a whole look. I feel like I should be documenting this for historical purposes.”
“I will drown you, Chris.”
“Worth it.”
You laugh—a real one, unexpected—and the sound surprises you. It’s louder than your usual laugh. Looser. The alcohol is already humming in your bloodstream, softening the edges of your anxiety. Chris’s hand finds your elbow under the water, steadying you as someone cannonballs nearby and sends a wave crashing over both of you.
“Jesus,” you sputter, wiping water from your eyes. “Who invited that guy?”
“Me,” Chris says cheerfully. “He’s my emotional support chaos agent.”
Your drink is already half gone. You refill it. Then refill it again. Chris stays close, and his presence is easy, uncomplicated. A hand on your shoulder when he laughs at something you say. Fingers brushing your waist under the water when he leans in to hear you better over the music. His attention feels like sunlight—warm, uncomplicated, no hidden barbs waiting to catch you.
You’re describing something—a terrible movie you watched last week, the one with the CGI hamster—and Chris is doubled over, water splashing up around his chest, when the air changes.
Pressure. Displacement. The water between you and Chris separates.
Matt is there.
He’s cut through the pool like a blade, and suddenly he’s between you, his back half-turned to his brother, his body a wall. The water drips from his jaw, his collarbones, the lean muscle of his shoulders. His eyes are dark. Fixed. Something is moving behind them that you’ve never seen before, and your body recognizes it before your brain does—a prickle at the back of your neck, a catch in your breath.
“What are you doing?” you ask, but it comes out quieter than you meant.
His hand closes around your arm under the water. Not hard. Not painful. But firm. The kind of grip that doesn’t ask permission.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink.” His voice is low, clipped, barely above the music. “You’re acting sloppy. You need to get out.”
The words land like a slap. You blink at him, trying to process the sudden shift from Chris’s easy warmth to this—this cold, clipped command.
“I’m fine,” you say, pulling your arm back. His grip doesn’t loosen. “Matt, seriously. I’m not even buzzed.”
“You’re getting out.”
“Dude.” Chris appears at Matt’s shoulder, frowning. “Back off. She’s chill. We’re literally just talking. What’s your problem?”
Matt doesn’t look at him. His eyes stay on you, and there’s something almost frantic beneath the hard set of his jaw. His thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner arm, and you feel it everywhere—a hot pulse that travels up your shoulder, down your spine, settling low in your stomach.
“She’s not staying in,” Matt says. Flat. Final.
“You’re being insane right now,” Chris says, and the humor has drained from his voice. “She’s an adult. She can decide if she wants to swim.”
“I’m not discussing this.”
“Yeah, no shit, because there’s nothing to discuss—”
“Chris.” Matt’s voice drops, and something in the tone makes his brother stop. “Drop it.”
The tension is unbearable. Other people are starting to glance over, conversations faltering. You can feel the weight of the scene building, the way it presses against your chest and makes it hard to breathe.
“Fine,” you hear yourself say. “Fine. I’ll get out.”
Matt’s grip releases immediately. You turn toward the steps, and the water feels heavier now, dragging at your legs as you climb out. The cool night air hit your wet skin as you stumbled on the pool steps, your head spinning just enough to make you realize Matt was right, you were definitely buzzed. Before your balance could give out completely, his heavy, warm hand clamped firmly around your arm, anchoring your shivering body against his side.
You reach for your chair. Your hoodie. It’s gone.
Matt is already there, a new one in his hands—black, massive, familiar in a way that makes your throat tight. He doesn’t hand it to you. He pulls it over your head himself, the fabric swallowing you, sleeves draping past your fingertips. His knuckles brush your collarbone as he adjusts the hood and the contact sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with cold.
Your purse is pressed into your hands. “Inside,” he says. “Now.”
The kitchen is blinding. White counters, white cabinets, overhead lights that leave no shadows to hide in. The music from outside is muffled here, reduced to a distant thump that vibrates through the floor. You lean against the island, gripping the edge of the countertop, and when Matt turns to face you, the frustration finally boils over.
“What is your problem?” Your voice shakes, but you don’t care. “Go back outside to your dream girl and worry about her. She’s the one you wanted to impress tonight, right? So why are you in here, hovering over me like I’m some kind of—”
“She left.”
The words stop you cold.
Matt runs a hand through his wet hair, looking away. The muscle in his jaw flexes. “She already left. It doesn’t matter.”
“She… wait. What? Why?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he repeats, and his voice is rough now, scraped raw. He’s still not looking at you. “I need to rinse off. Chlorine’s making my skin itch.”
He’s gone before you can form another word, footsteps heavy on the stairs.
You stand in the bright, empty kitchen, and the silence rushes in to fill the space he left. Slowly, you look down at yourself. At the hoodie. It’s not yours. The logo on the chest is faded, familiar in a different way—you’ve seen him wear this exact one a hundred times. On lazy mornings when you came over for coffee. On late nights when you both fell asleep watching movies on the couch.
You lift the collar to your nose and inhale.
Cologne. Fabric softener. The faint, warm scent that’s just him, the one that makes your chest ache like a bruise you keep pressing on. Your eyes sting, but you blink hard, refusing to cry in someone else’s kitchen with a pool party still thumping outside.
Your purse is on the counter. You pull it open and your fingers find a pen—one of those cheap ballpoints you grabbed at a bank months ago. Beside the fruit bowl, a stack of paper napkins. You snatch one, flatten it against the cool countertop, and press the pen to the paper.
The words come fast. Messy. Your handwriting is a disaster—looping letters slanting across the napkin, ink bleeding slightly where the paper gets damp from your still-wet hands.
Why do you do this to me?
You show me other girls and expect me to smile. You put your hands on me like I matter and then you go back to not seeing me. Not looking. Not once in all these years. But tonight...
Tonight you looked.
Why did you look at me like that? Why did you care who I was talking to? Why did you pull me out of the pool like I was yours to protect? You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to be my friend and also be the person who makes my whole body shake when you touch my arm.
You pause. Breathe. The pen hovers.
No. No, you’re being stupid. You’re reading into things that aren’t there. This is what you always do—construct hope out of nothing, build a whole future on a single look, a single word, a single moment of his attention.
He doesn’t like you. Not like that.
You start a new paragraph, the letters smaller now, more controlled.
It wasn’t romantic. I know it wasn’t. You're just protective. Controlling, even. You didn’t want Chris hitting on me because it would make things weird. That’s all. That’s the only reason. It would complicate everything, and you more than anyone hates complication. You were being practical. Logical. That’s what you always are.
That’s all you’ll ever be.
God. I need to get it together. I need to stop. Why can’t I just stop?
You fold the napkin carefully, corners aligned, creases sharp. Your hands are trembling—from the alcohol, from the adrenaline, from the weight of everything you’re trying not to feel. You tuck the napkin into the zippered pocket of your purse, where it will stay until you get home. Until you can add it to the box with all the others.
The box. You think about it now—cardboard edges softened with age, pages stacked like evidence of a crime you committed against yourself. Years of words you’ve never said. Years of wanting someone who sees you as comfortable, safe, the best friend who gives good advice and wears old merch and never, ever asks for more.
The hoodie is warm around you. You pull it tighter, fingers curling into the sleeves, and you let yourself have this. Just this. The smell of him surrounding you. The weight of the fabric on your shoulders. The quiet of the kitchen, the distant thump of music, the knowledge that somewhere upstairs Matt is standing under hot water and you are down here, drowning in him anyway.
Out of pure habit, you get your phone and your thumb swiped open Instagram before you could even think to stop it, just a motion of automatic muscle memory. You mindlessly scrolled through the top bar of stories, clicking on a mutual friend's profile, only to feel your stomach drop when you realized they had just reposted someone else's slide.
It was her story. In the background of the frame, blurry but unmistakable, you caught Matt laughing looking at her direction, right beneath her original caption: met some cool people tonight, LA is growing on me.
You closed the app.
The kitchen is too bright. The hoodie is too warm. The napkin in your purse is a bomb waiting to go off, and one day—one day you’ll have to deal with the fact that you’re building an arsenal of unsaid things, that this box under your bed is getting heavier, that you can’t keep writing letters to a boy who doesn’t know he’s supposed to read them.
But not tonight.
Tonight, you wrap yourself in his scent and you wait for him to come back downstairs, and you tell yourself the same lie you’ve been telling for years: that this is enough. That friendship is enough. That the ache in your chest is something you can live with, something you can fold up and tuck away and never, ever send.
Your purse zipper catches the light as you close it.
The Catalyst
Wonwoo x f! Reader | Single Dad x Teacher
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
An unexpected visit from a long-time friend shatters Wonwoo’s carefully guarded boundaries, forcing him to confront his insecurities and finally claim you.
Part 6
The afternoon sun streams through the large windows of Wonwoo's living room, casting golden rectangles across the hardwood floor where you and Miguel are sprawled out, surrounded by an ambitious fortress of cardboard boxes. The castle project has consumed most of Saturday—a sprawling, lopsided kingdom that Miguel insists needs "more towers" and "a dragon cave," and you're pretty sure you've both been covered in more acrylic paint than the cardboard itself.
"Dad, can we use the cereal boxes for the drawbridge?" Miguel asks without looking up from his current masterpiece—a purple blob that he swears is the royal dragon.
Wonwoo glances up from his book, amusement softening the sharp lines of his face. He's dressed down today, a faded grey hoodie that makes him look impossibly soft, though you know better now. You know what lies beneath the worn cotton—solid muscle, warm skin, a carefully controlled intensity that still makes your stomach flutter.
"I think we finished those off this morning, bud," he says gently. "But there might be some cracker boxes in the recycling."
You reach for another paintbrush, your knee brushing against Miguel's small leg as you shift. The domesticity of it still catches you off guard—the ease with which you've slid into this space. Two weeks since the breakroom. A week and a half since the dinner with Miguel's mom. You haven't put a label on it, not out loud, but the way Wonwoo's hand finds the small of your back when you walk together, the way he pulls you close on his couch after Miguel falls asleep—it feels like something. Something real and terrifying and exhilarating.
You're adding yellow stripes to a cardboard tower when the front door bursts open with a force that makes you jump.
"Delivery for the prettiest boy in this house!"
The voice is loud, booming, and immediately followed by a whirlwind of limbs and energy. A man steps through the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, with messy dark hair and a grin that could power a small city. He's carrying an enormous crate of groceries in one arm and a plush dinosaur that's nearly as big as Miguel in the other.
Miguel abandons his paintbrush so fast it rolls across the floor, leaving a trail of purple across the hardwood.
"UNCLE GYU!"
The scream is deafening. Miguel launches himself from the floor, tiny legs pumping as he tears around the kitchen table, his trajectory locked onto the newcomer like a heat-seeking missile. Kim Mingyu—that's who this must be, you realize with a start—drops the groceries on the counter just in time to catch Miguel mid-air.
"Whoa, whoa, little man!" Mingyu laughs, swinging Miguel up onto his hip. "You've gotten so heavy. What are they feeding you? Actual dinosaurs?"
"I'm a T-Rex today!" Miguel announces, immediately attempting to demonstrate by opening his mouth as wide as possible.
"A T-Rex? Nah, you're way too cute. You're a baby raptor at best."
Miguel giggles, squirming until Mingyu sets him down, then immediately begins climbing the man like he's a jungle gym. Mingyu goes along with it, grabbing Miguel's ankles as the boy attempts to scale his back, their laughter filling the entire house. They collapse onto the rug in a wrestling heap, Miguel shrieking with delight as Mingyu tickles his sides.
"Uncle Gyu, time out! I give up! I give up!"
"No time outs in the dinosaur kingdom!"
You watch from your spot on the floor, paintbrush frozen mid-air, suddenly aware that you're witnessing something deeply established. This isn't just Wonwoo's friend—this is family. Miguel's face is pure, unfiltered joy, and Mingyu's boisterous energy is clearly a beloved fixture in this household.
Wonwoo appears in the doorway, setting his book down on the side table. He clears his throat.
Mingyu looks up, his grin still wide, until his gaze lands on you. His expression shifts—surprise, curiosity, then something assessing.
"Oh." Mingyu untangles himself from Miguel, standing up and brushing off his jeans. He's even taller than you realized, his presence filling the room like a physical force. "Hey, hyung. Didn't know you had company."
Wonwoo's voice comes out measured, almost clinical. "This is Miguel's teacher."
The words hit you like a bucket of ice water.
There's no warmth in his tone. No affection. Just a flat, polite introduction that reduces everything you've shared—the breakroom, the dinner, the nights on his couch—to nothing. You feel your smile freeze on your face, a plastic mask sliding into place.
"Nice to meet you," you manage, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.
Mingyu's eyes sweep over you, friendly but curious. "Oh, you're the one he's mentioned. Miguel talks about you constantly." He extends a hand, his grip warm and firm. "Kim Mingyu. Wonwoo hyung's been my friend since we were teenagers. Unfortunately for him."
"Unfortunately for me," Wonwoo echoes, but there's a thread of fondness underneath the dry humor.
Miguel tugs at Mingyu's sleeve. "Uncle Gyu, come see our castle! I painted the dragon!"
"In a minute, buddy." Mingyu ruffles Miguel's hair, but his attention returns to you. There's something in his gaze—something appraising that makes you feel seen in a way Wonwoo's introduction deliberately didn't allow.
"Actually," Wonwoo says, his voice cutting through the moment, "Miguel, you've got paint all over your hands. Let's go wash up."
"But Uncle Gyu just got here—"
"Now."
The single word is gentle but firm. Miguel's face falls, but he obediently trudges toward Wonwoo, who leads him toward the stairs. Wonwoo's hand brushes your shoulder as he passes—a barely-there touch, but you feel the silent apology in it.
Still, the cold introduction echoes in your head.
You're left standing in the living room, surrounded by cardboard boxes and drying paint, while Mingyu begins unpacking groceries in the kitchen. He moves with an easy confidence, pulling out vegetables and packages of meat, completely at home in Wonwoo's space.
"Sorry about barging in," Mingyu calls over his shoulder. "I do that. Wonwoo hyung's used to it. I come over every few weeks, cook enough food to feed a small army, drive him crazy." He flashes a grin. "It's my love language."
"You cook?" you ask, trying to reassemble your composure.
"I do everything," he laughs. "I'm basically perfect. Don't tell hyung I said that."
The banter feels natural, and you find yourself relaxing despite the lingering sting. Mingyu's energy is warm, inviting—he draws you into conversation easily, asking about the daycare, about Miguel's progress, about how long you've been teaching.
"He talks about you constantly," Mingyu says, pulling out a massive stockpot. "Miguel, I mean. 'Teacher this, teacher that.' I was starting to think you were a myth." He glances at you, something glinting in his expression. "But I get it now. You're wonderful with him."
He's moved closer without you realizing, his large frame suddenly very present beside you. Mingyu's presence is different from Wonwoo's—where Wonwoo is controlled, deliberate, Mingyu is warmth and ease, a human golden retriever in an unfairly handsome package.
"You're gorgeous," Mingyu continues, his voice dropping to a friendly tease. "Seriously, you've got that perfect, gentle mommy energy. Wonwoo hyung's lucky he found you for Miguel."
Your chest constricts.
You don't have time to process the comment—doesn't matter if it's innocent or not—because Wonwoo appears in the doorway, Miguel freshly scrubbed and changed into a clean t-shirt.
The air shifts.
Wonwoo's gaze lands on Mingyu—on how close he's standing to you—and you watch his entire posture harden. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw tight, his eyes darkening with something that makes your pulse jump.
Mingyu, oblivious, grins. "Hey, hyung. I was just telling her how lucky you are. She's amazing."
Wonwoo doesn't respond. He just crosses to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water, his movements clipped and precise.
"We should finish the castle," he says, his voice carefully neutral.
Dinner is chaos.
Mingyu has cooked an elaborate spread—Korean barbecue, japchae, multiple banchan that he prepared from scratch while carrying on three conversations simultaneously. Miguel is in heaven, seated between you and Mingyu, demanding bites from both of your plates.
"Uncle Gyu, feed me."
"You have hands, buddy."
"But you do it better!"
Mingyu sighs dramatically but obliges, holding a piece of beef to Miguel's mouth while making airplane noises. Miguel giggles so hard he nearly chokes, and Wonwoo sighs from across the table, his expression caught between exasperation and fondness.
You're hyper-aware of Wonwoo throughout the meal. The way his leg presses against yours under the table. The way his hand finds your knee when Miguel isn't looking, squeezing once—a silent reassurance. The way his eyes track Mingyu's every move, especially when his friend leans close to you to pass a dish.
You realize something as you watch him: he's jealous. Not because he thinks anything is happening with Mingyu, but because Mingyu is encroaching on territory Wonwoo has carefully, privately claimed as his.
By the time Miguel starts drooping in his chair, eyes heavy-lidded and yawns coming every thirty seconds, the sun has long since set.
"I'll take him up," Mingyu says, already scooping the sleepy boy into his arms. "We need to have our bedtime talk. Very important business."
"Uncle Gyu…"
"Come on, little prince. Let's talk about dinosaurs."
Miguel's sleepy mumble fades as Mingyu carries him up the stairs, leaving you and Wonwoo alone at the cluttered dining table.
The silence that follows is thick enough to cut.
Wonwoo doesn't speak. He simply reaches across the table, his large hand covering yours, his thumb pressing into your knuckles with slow, deliberate pressure. Over and over, until the friction makes your skin warm.
"I introduced you to him as Miguel's teacher because I'm selfish."
His voice is low, rough, dragged up from somewhere deep.
"I wanted to protect you from the questions. From everything. From people wondering what someone your age is doing with someone like me."
He won't look away. His dark eyes pin you in place, raw with vulnerability.
"But hearing Mingyu say that… seeing him look at you…" His grip tightens. "I can't do it. I can't hide you. I can't pretend you're just his teacher when you're everything else."
Your heart hammers against your ribs.
"Be my girlfriend." The words come out fierce, unwavering. "Officially. No more masks. No more hiding. I don't care what anyone thinks. I don't care about the years between us." He exhales, a shaky sound. "I just want you. Properly."
You answer without hesitation.
"Yes."
The relief that floods his face is devastating. He's across the table before you can blink, pulling you up from your chair, pressing you against the nearest wall. His mouth crashes into yours, desperate and claiming, his hands fisting in your hair.
"Mine," he growls against your lips. "Officially mine."
You're both breathless when the sound of footsteps on the stairs forces you apart. Mingyu appears in the doorway, stretching his arms overhead.
"Kid's out like a light. You've got about—oh." He stops, taking in the flushed faces, the slightly disheveled clothes. His eyebrows shoot up. "Am I interrupting something?"
Wonwoo's voice is impressively steady. "Everything's fine."
Mingyu's gaze flicks between you, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Uh-huh. Sure. Everything's fine." He doesn't push, but there's knowing in his eyes that makes your face burn. "Well. I'm exhausted. Guest room calling. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That leaves a lot of options," Wonwoo mutters.
Mingyu laughs, disappearing down the hallway.
You stand in the dining room, your back against the wall, your heart still racing. Wonwoo's hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.
Later comes hours past midnight.
The guest room door has been closed for an hour, Mingyu's soft snores audible through the wood. Wonwoo leads you down the hallway to his bedroom, his hand warm and certain on your lower back.
The moment the door clicks shut, he's on you.
"Need to be quiet," he breathes, walking you backward toward his bed. "Can you do that for me? Can you stay quiet?"
You nod, but the way his hands slip under your shirt makes you doubt your ability.
He lays you down on his sheets—the same sheets you've been thinking about for days—and stretches out beside you, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. His lips are warm, his teeth grazing your pulse point just enough to make you gasp.
"Shh," he whispers, even as his hand slides down your stomach, under the waistband of your pants. "You have to be quiet, sweetheart."
His fingers find you already wet, and he groans softly against your throat.
"All of this for me?" He murmurs the words against your skin. "Even after dinner? Even while you were sitting there pretending you weren't thinking about this?"
You bite down on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.
He rewards you by sliding two fingers inside.
Your back arches off the mattress, a whimper escaping despite your best efforts. Wonwoo's free hand comes up to cover your mouth, his palm warm and firm.
"I said quiet."
But his voice is gentle, almost reverent. He works you slowly, his fingers curling inside you with devastating precision, his thumb finding your clit in tight, maddening circles. Your breath comes in short pants against his palm, your hips rolling against his hand, chasing the pressure.
"That's it," he breathes, watching your face in the dim light filtering through his curtains. "Take what you need. Just don't make a sound."
Your orgasm builds slowly, deliberately—a wave gathering strength. He brings you right to the edge, then slows, letting you hover there, trembling and desperate.
"Please," you whisper against his hand, the word barely audible.
He rewards you by increasing the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. You come apart with his name on your lips, your whole body shaking as you clamp your jaw shut against the scream building in your chest.
He holds you through it, his movements gentling as you come down.
But he's not done.
He kisses his way down your body, spreading your thighs with his shoulders. The first stroke of his tongue makes you jerk, your hands flying to his hair.
"Wonwoo—"
He looks up, his dark eyes blazing. One finger presses to his lips in warning.
Then his mouth returns to you.
He takes his time, learning you with patient, devastating attention. His tongue works in slow, deep strokes, alternating with light flicks that make your thighs tremble. You fist the sheets, the pillow, anything to keep from crying out.
"Good girl," he whispers against your most intimate flesh, and the vibration nearly undoes you.
You come again with your teeth buried in your own arm, muffling the sounds as wave after wave crashes through you.
When he finally crawls back up your body, his face glistening, his expression is pure masculine satisfaction.
"Mine," he says again, and this time, the word sounds like a vow.
He buries himself inside you with one slow, deliberate thrust, swallowing your gasp with his mouth. The pace he sets is excruciating—deep, controlled, reverent. Each stroke feels like a claim, a promise, a brand.
"Say it," he growls against your ear. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," you breathe, your voice barely a thread of sound. "I belong to you."
He shudders, his rhythm faltering as he loses himself in you. His release pulses hot and deep, his groan muffled against your neck, his hands gripping you like you might disappear.
Afterward, he doesn't let go.
He holds you in the quiet dark, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your bare back.
"No more hiding," he murmurs sleepily. "From anyone."
You press closer, feeling the truth of his words settle into your bones.
Outside, the suburban streets sleep in darkness, and somewhere in the guest room, Mingyu dreams obliviously. But here, tangled together in Wonwoo's sheets, you've never felt more wide awake.
You've never felt more certain.
This is real. You're his, and he's yours, and nothing—not age gaps, not past lives, not well-meaning friends—will change that.
You close your eyes and let sleep take you, wrapped in the arms of a man who, for the first time in years, isn't hiding at all.
GBF
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | MDNI | Eventual Smut
In the quiet ache of a routine afternoon, you play the perfect best friend by helping Matt draft a message to a new crush, only to return home to the painful sanctuary of your bedroom and pour your devastating, unspoken desires into another secret letter he will never read.
Part 2
The kitchen of the triplets' house smells like coffee and the lingering scent of whatever candle Nick burned earlier—something vanilla, maybe, or sandalwood. You're perched on one of the barstools, watching Matt move through the space with an ease that makes your chest tight. He grabs a glass from the cabinet, the one with the slight chip on the rim that he refuses to throw away, and fills it with ice from the dispenser. The sound is familiar. Rhythmic. You've watched him do this exact thing dozens of times, maybe hundreds, and yet your eyes still track the movement of his hands as he pours the coffee over the ice, the liquid dark and swirling.
"Want some?" he asks without turning around, already reaching for the caramel drizzle he knows you like.
You swallow. "Sure."
He turns, slides the glass across the counter toward you, and your fingers brush when you catch it. The contact is brief. Insignificant. He doesn't notice the way your breath hitches, the way your skin tingles where his fingertips grazed yours. He's already turning back to the fridge, grabbing his own drink, completely oblivious.
This is your life. This is the pattern you've fallen into over the years—small moments that mean nothing to him and everything to you.
The house is quieter than usual. Chris and Nick left twenty minutes ago, needing to pick up supplies for their next video shoot, and the absence of their chaos has left a strange stillness in the air. You can hear the hum of the refrigator, the distant tick of the clock above the stove. Matt settles onto the couch in the living area, phone in hand, and you follow because you always follow.
You sit beside him, leaving what you hope is a respectful distance, but within seconds his feet are swinging up onto the couch, his socked ankles landing warm and heavy across your thighs. He doesn't ask. He doesn't even look up from his phone. He just does it, casual and comfortable, like you're an extension of the furniture. Like you're safe.
The weight of him is distracting. You can feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his socks, the pressure of his legs grounding you in place. Your hands hover uselessly at your sides for a moment before you force them to rest on the cushion beside you, fingers curling into the fabric to keep from doing something stupid. Something like sliding your palm up his calf, feeling the muscle shift beneath your touch.
You're wearing one of their old merch hoodies—soft from dozens of washes, the logo faded and cracking. It's comfortable. It's familiar. It's the kind of thing you've worn a hundred times, and suddenly you're hyper-aware of how unflattering it is, how it swallows your frame and hides every curve. You look like what you are: the friend. The one who's always there, reliable and steady, never demanding attention.
Matt chuckles at something on his phone, the sound low and warm, and you watch the way his jaw shifts when he smiles. He has a sharp jawline, defined, the kind that catches the light in a way that makes your throat dry. He runs a hand through his dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and you track the movement with more intensity than you should.
"Hey," he says, turning the screen toward you. "Look at this."
You lean in, making out a profile on Instagram—a girl with bright, confident eyes and a killer smile. Her aesthetic is polished, put-together, the kind of effortless cool that comes from knowing exactly who you are. She's wearing a fitted jacket in one photo, a sleek dress in another, and in every shot she looks like she belongs on a stage or a screen.
"She's a creator," Matt explains, scrolling through her feed. "Outgoing. Funny. Smart as hell." He sighs, and there's a wistful quality to the sound that makes something sharp twist in your chest. "Man, she is exactly my type."
You look at the phone screen, at this girl who embodies everything you're not. Confident. Bold. The kind of person who walks into a room and commands attention without trying. You think about your own quiet presence, your soft laugh, the way you tend to blend into the background rather than stand out. You've never been the type Matt fantasizes about. You're the one he talks to about those fantasies.
"I wish I had the guts to actually DM her," he continues, thumb hovering over the screen. "What would I even say? 'Hey, I think you're cool, let's hang out?' That's lame, right?"
You force a smile. It feels like wearing a mask, this expression of supportive enthusiasm, but you've had years of practice. You shove his leg playfully, the contact sending a jolt through your system that you carefully do not react to. "Do it. Seriously. Just say something casual. Ask her about one of her posts—make it seem like you're actually interested in what she does, not just how she looks."
He's watching you now, eyes bright and attentive, and you catalog every detail of his face while you have the excuse to look. The way his brows lift slightly when he's listening. The slight curve of his lips, like he's fighting a smile. You want to kiss that curve. You want to trace it with your tongue.
"Like what?" he asks.
"Find something specific. Something that shows you paid attention." You reach over, scrolling through her feed with a focus you don't feel. "Here. She posted about that new movie last week. Ask her if she's seen it, say you were thinking about going. It's low pressure."
Matt takes the phone back, typing something out, and you watch his fingers move over the screen. You've always liked his hands. Long fingers, capable and steady, nails bitten short from a nervous habit he's never quite shaken. You wonder what those hands would feel like sliding under the hem of your hoodie, pressing into the soft skin of your waist.
"Okay, sent," he announces, dropping the phone onto his chest and exhaling. "God, that's terrifying."
"You'll be fine," you say, and your voice sounds normal, which is a miracle. "She'd be lucky to talk to you."
He grins at that, the kind of grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and you feel the familiar ache spread through your chest. This is the worst part—not the rejection, because there hasn't been any formal rejection, but the steady, constant confirmation that you are exactly where you've always been. In the friend zone. In the safe zone. In the space where he trusts you completely but never sees you as anything more.
The front door bursts open, and Nick's voice echoes through the house. "We got the stuff! Also, Chris almost crashed the car like three times, so that's fun."
"I did not," Chris argues, appearing in the doorway with bags in hand. His eyes find you on the couch, and he grins. "Hey. You're still here?"
"Helping with the shoot prep," you say, carefully extracting yourself from Matt's legs. The loss of contact feels like stepping out of warm water into cold air, and you busy yourself with standing, with adjusting your hoodie, with doing anything that makes the sudden distance feel intentional.
Matt stretches, yawning, and rises from the couch. The moment is over. The quiet intimacy of the afternoon has been broken by the familiar chaos of the triplets, and you slide back into your role with practiced ease. You help them set up the equipment, checking angles and adjusting lighting, making jokes and laughing at the right moments. You're good at this. You've always been good at this.
Hours pass. The shoot wraps, and you find yourself gathering your things while the boys collapse onto the couch, exhausted. Matt walks you to the door, because he always does, and you brace yourself for what's coming.
He pulls you into a hug. It's a Matt hug—tight, lingering, arms wrapping fully around your back like he's trying to press every possible inch of contact into the embrace. You breathe him in, the scent of his cologne and something underneath that's just him, and you let yourself have this moment. Just this. Just the feeling of being held by someone who will never hold you the way you want.
"Thanks for today," he murmurs against your hair. "And thanks for talking to me earlier. About the DM thing." He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, eyes warm and sincere. "You're the best, seriously. I don't know what I'd do without you."
You smile. It's a good smile, practiced, the kind that doesn't betray the crack running through your heart. "Anytime."
The drive home is quiet. You turn off the radio, letting the silence press against you, and focus on the road. Your house is only a few blocks from theirs—close enough that you've walked it countless times, close enough that the convenience has cemented your place in their lives. You pull into your driveway and sit for a moment, engine off, staring at the dark windows of your bedroom.
Inside, the house feels different. Smaller. You climb the stairs and close your bedroom door behind you, leaning against it for a long breath. The mask slips off, and you let yourself feel everything you've been holding at bay all day.
You move to the closet, pushing aside hanging clothes and reaching into the back corner, beneath an old blanket. The box is there—cardboard, unremarkable, hidden where no one would think to look. You've had it for years. It holds pieces of yourself you've never shown anyone.
Carrying it to your bed, you settle cross-legged on the mattress and lift the lid. Inside are dozens of pages, handwritten on various scraps of paper—notebook sheets, napkins, the backs of receipts. Each one is a confession. Each one is a letter you'll never send, a truth you'll never speak aloud.
You pick up a pen and find a blank page.
Matt,
This afternoon was... IDK. I’m thinking about the weight of your feet resting in my lap, the casual way you talked about yet another girl, and that familiar, bitter taste of jealousy I had to swallow down yet again when you show them to me. I know I’ve done this so many times with you, Matt. I’ve sat right beside you while you fantasized about other women, and every single time, it hurts exactly the same. But I just try my best to smile, give you the best advice I can, and I pretend I'm not completely dying inside.
I don't know how to stop hoping. I don't know how to make myself stop wishing that someday you'll just turn your head, really look at me, and realize I've been right here all along. That the girl you're looking for has been sitting next to you for years.
Today, it took everything in me not to touch you. You were sitting so close to me, and you felt so warm next to me. I just kept imagining what it would feel like to hold you, to feel your muscles tense up under my palms. While you were talking about her, I couldn't stop watching your lips. The way they moved, the way they curved when you smiled. I thought about how much I want those lips on me, on every single inch of my skin. I want to be the one who makes you smile like that.
I want your hands tangled in my hair. I want to hear your voice saying my name in the dark like it's the most precious thing you've ever held. I know that won't be the last time that that happens, but I'll just be there for you. Always.
But you'll never read this. You'll never know.
Always yours.
Finally, you stop. The page is full, and you're shaking.
You fold the letter carefully, corners sharp and precise. On the front, you write his name—Matt—and you trace the letters with your fingertip. Then you place it in the box with all the others, closing the lid and pushing the whole thing back into its hiding spot. Deep in the closet, buried beneath old blankets and forgotten memories.
You lie back on your bed and stare at the ceiling. The house is silent. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and when you check, it's a message from Matt.
She responded! the text reads, followed by a string of excited emojis. She's so cool, oh my god. Thank you for making me send that message.
You type back a congratulations, something enthusiastic and supportive, and then you set the phone face-down on the mattress. The ache in your chest has become a constant companion, familiar as your own heartbeat. You wonder if you'll ever stop loving him. You wonder if there's a limit to how much longing a person can hold before they simply break.
Sleep comes slowly, and when it does, you dream of him. You dream of a world where the letters in your box are handed over, read and understood. You dream of hands sliding beneath fabric and lips on skin and Matt, Matt, Matt, whispering that he sees you, that he's always seen you, that you were never just the friend.
The 48-Hour Reset
Mingyu x f! Reader | Idol x Staff
Mature | Explicit | Angst | MDNI
The suffocating reality of the city hits hard as the secret physical language of your Jeju getaway is repackaged into a public performance.
Part 8
The morning doesn't arrive gently. It arrives as a shriek.
Your phone screams into the silence of your dark apartment at 6:04 AM, a harsh, electronic jarring that tears through the heavy, suffocating quiet you've been drowning in all night. You haven't slept. Your eyes feel like sandpaper, your limbs heavy with the weight of exhaustion and emotional hangover.
You fumble for the device, your throat tight with dread. The screen glows with your department manager's name.
"Hello?" Your voice comes out cracked, foreign.
"We have a situation." His tone is clipped, efficient, devoid of any warmth. "Seungkwan and DK are shooting their music video out of town. Their multimedia crew is severely understaffed, and we need your specific eye to cover the behind-the-scenes footage."
You sit up slowly, the sheets tangling around your legs. "But I'm already assigned to the CxM tour prep. I already started tak—"
"There are plenty of staff in that hall who can hold a stabilizer." His dismissal is clinical, a knife cutting through your objection. "You're needed elsewhere. A company car will pick you up in an hour."
The line goes dead.
You stare at the dark screen, your reflection a ghost in the glass. Too emotionally drained to fight the corporate machine, too hollow to muster a protest, you simply move. You pack your gear in a numb, mechanical daze—camera bodies, lenses, batteries, cables—each item placed in its designated slot with robotic precision.
The car arrives. You get in. The city blurs past the window, grey and indifferent, as you're ferried away from the studio where Mingyu is, away from the rehearsed intimacy that's been eating you alive.
The shoot takes place over two days in a scenic, quiet countryside location. Rolling hills, golden fields, the kind of picturesque landscape that normally fills you with professional satisfaction. And to your surprise—relief. The sudden change of pace and scenery works like a balm, a much-needed buffer from the suffocating air of the Seoul rehearsal hall.
Seungkwan and DK are their usual bright, effortlessly friendly selves. They keep the atmosphere loud and light, cracking jokes, singing between takes, dragging you into their orbit of easy laughter. It helps. The dull ache in your chest loosens, just slightly, when DK throws an arm around your shoulder and demands you capture his "best angle."
But then, during a lighting setup on day one, DK catches you off guard.
"You know," he says, a teasing, dangerous smirk playing on his lips, "our big guy has been completely spaced out, smiling at his phone like a fool. Just totally consumed." He leans in close, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "It’s pretty obvious someone’s got him wrapped around their finger—and probably a few other places, too. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
Your stomach drops. The laugh you force out sounds brittle, hollow. You deflect, shook your head, redirect, ask about the next shot. But the encounter leaves you rattled, wondering just how much the other members have deduced—how much they see through the flimsy veil of your professional distance.
Throughout both days, your phone constantly vibrates.
Mingyu's name lights up your screen with growing frequency. Text after text, each one bleeding anxiety.
"Where did you go?"
"I called the studio. They said you were reassigned."
"Are you okay? Please answer me."
You keep your responses cold. Brief. Entirely professional.
"I'm just busy with the last minute out-of-town schedule. Everything is fine. Focus on your concert prep."
Each text is a wall, a brick in the fortress you're building. Text-blocking him with variants of the same sterile excuse until even you're sick of hearing it.
On day two, during an afternoon break, you're standing a few feet behind Seungkwan and DK, your camera heavy in your hands as you review b-roll footage on the small monitor. The golden afternoon light spills across the grassy field, painting everything in warm amber tones.
The boys suddenly launch a loud FaceTime video call with S.Coups back at the main company building.
"No, no, hyung, you have to see this angle—" DK laughs, propping his phone against a rock so S.Coups can see the location.
Because of where you're standing, you can easily see the entire exchange on DK's phone screen.
You don't mean to eavesdrop. You try to focus on your footage. But your eyes drift, instinctively drawn to the small rectangle of light.
Your heart violently stutters.
In the background behind S.Coups, Mingyu is standing in the frame.
The lead female dancer is with him. They're standing incredibly close, leaning into each other's space, their bodies angled together in a way that looks far too familiar. She's laughing at something he said, her head tipped back, her hand resting casually on his forearm. He's smiling down at her, that warm, easy smile—the one that used to feel like a secret meant only for you.
The sight lands like a physical blow.
A sharp, bitter reminder that while you're hiding in the countryside, nursing your wounds and building walls, his world is moving on seamlessly without you.
Your throat tightens. Your eyes burn.
You look away, force yourself to breathe, to count the frames on your monitor. But the image is branded into your retinas—the casual intimacy, the easy comfort. The way he holds himself with her like it costs him nothing.
Later that afternoon, your phone lights up with an incoming call.
Mingyu.
Feeling hollow and resentful, a strange cocktail of hurt and fury swirling in your chest, you deliberately let it ring out.
A minute passes.
Then his text flashes on the screen, frantic: "Why aren't you picking up? Where are you?"
Something snaps inside you. The quiet frustration, the suppressed jealousy, the three days of silence and distance—it all coalesces into a single, passive-aggressive swipe.
You type: "I told you, I'm busy working. Please stop calling and focus on building absolute chemistry with your dance partner."
You hit send before you can second-guess yourself.
A heavy minute passes. The screen stays dark.
Then his reply flashes: a single, detached triple-finger okay emoji.
👌👌👌
You stare at the screen, your blood running hot and cold.
What the fuck does that mean?
The cold, unreadable brevity of his response unnerves you completely. It's not anger. It's not hurt. It's something worse—acceptance. Detachment. A door closing.
You turn the phone face-down on the grass and don't look at it for the rest of the day.
You arrive back in Seoul after the two-day shoot wraps. It's already mid-afternoon, the sun slanting low through the city's maze of buildings. Management gives you the rest of the day off to sleep, instructing you to report back to the main studio the following morning.
You go home. You shower. You lie on your sofa and stare at the ceiling, replaying the FaceTime glimpse over and over, dissecting every angle, every laugh, every casual touch.
Sleep comes in fitful bursts.
The next day marks the absolute final rehearsal and full-show run-through before the tour kicks off.
You walk into the rehearsal space with your camera raised like a shield, bracing yourself. You've rehearsed this moment in your head all night—the lights dimming, the sultry bass, the inevitable horror of watching him simulate intimacy with another woman.
When it was time for his solo number, you position yourself in the corner, checking your settings. The floor manager counts down.
The lights drop.
The heavy R&B bass hits the speakers.
You steel your heart, ready to look away, to focus on the ceiling or the floor or anything else—
But when the lights flash up, you freeze behind the viewfinder.
The intimate, sultry partner dance is entirely gone.
No velvet couch. No single female dancer. No lingering hip-touches or breathless arching.
Instead, Mingyu is now surrounded by four different female background dancers, executing a completely restructured group choreography. The movements are sharp, powerful, synchronized. They're still sensual—he's still rolling his body with that infuriating grace—but it's distributed now, diffused across a formation. There's no single partner to lock eyes with, no simulated romance to sell.
You stand there in the corner, completely stunned.
Your mind spins, trying to process what happened. What kind of hell did he raise with the performance directors to rewrite an entire choreography in less than forty-eight hours?
The number ends, and the room erupts in applause. Mingyu is breathing hard, his shirt clinging to his chest, his hair damp with sweat. He bows to the choreographers, accepts water from a staff member, and doesn't look your way once.
He doesn't have to.
Later that night, the company has emptied out. The fluorescent hallways are dark, the practice rooms silent. The building settles into that heavy, post-production quiet that presses against your eardrums.
You're sitting alone in one of the isolated edit suites deep down the corridor. The only illumination comes from the glowing twin monitors displaying the raw footage of DK and Seungkwan from the countryside shoot. You've been staring at the same frame for twenty minutes, not really seeing it.
The door suddenly clicks open.
The sound cuts through the hum of the hard drives.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Mingyu steps inside the dim room.
He's still wearing his sweat-damp rehearsal clothes—a loose black tank top that reveals the sharp lines of his collarbones, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His hair is messy, pushed back from his forehead. His eyes burn with an intense, unresolved gravity.
He doesn't say a word. He simply reaches behind him and quietly shuts the heavy door. The click of the lock echoes in the silence, sealing you both inside.
He doesn't waste time with pleasantries.
He walks straight to your desk, his massive frame towering over your chair in the dim light. His hands brace on the edges of your desk, trapping you against the monitors, throwing the full weight of his frustration into the room.
"Next time something bothers you," he says, his voice flat, controlled, "you tell me upfront. You don't run away and send me passive-aggressive texts."
Your pride flares under his intense gaze. You tilt your chin up, desperately clutching your professional mask.
"Nothing bothered me, Mingyu." Your voice sounds steadier than you feel. "I was just doing my job. I was asked to cover the MV shoot, and you needed to focus on yours."
A dark, knowing smirk breaks across his face. But his eyes remain fiercely serious.
"You are a terrible liar." He leans in closer, his breath hot against your cheek. "You think I don't know the difference between your professional distance and you actively punishing me?"
The accusation lands too close to the truth. Your chest tightens.
"I wasn't punishing—"
"Don't." His voice drops lower. "Don't insult both of us by pretending."
You swallow hard, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his stare.
Before you can formulate another stubborn defense, his hands are on your waist.
In one fluid, effortless motion, he scoops you completely out of your desk chair. A gasp escapes your lips as he lifts you up, spinning you until you're sitting on the edge of the editing console. Monitors dig into your back. Cables shift beneath your thighs.
He steps heavily between your legs, crowding your space until there's nowhere left to retreat.
Then he crashes his lips onto yours.
The kiss is deep, bruising, and heavy with the pent-up frustration of the last three days. It tastes of salt, sweat, and absolute desperation. His hands slide up your back, gripping you tightly against his chest, completely erasing the distance, the city noise, the dancers, and the aching silence—leaving only the fierce reality of his mouth on yours.
You're helpless against it. Against him.
Your fingers curl into the damp fabric of his tank top, pulling him closer even as your mind screams warnings. But your body has already surrendered, already remembering every reason you fell into this mess in the first place.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to tear his shirt over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen rising and falling with labored breath.
"Three days," he growls against your mouth. "Three days of not knowing where you were. Not knowing if you were done with me."
"I—" Your voice cracks.
"Shut up." His teeth graze your lower lip. "I don't want excuses. I just want you."
Late Night Session
Shownu x Reader | Idol x English Coach
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
After years of remote English coaching, an in-person meeting during an American press tour leads to an intense, boundary-crossing night between you and Monsta X's leader, Shownu.
The green room was a cacophony of stylists, managers, and the low hum of nerves that came with a major American press tour. You stood near a craft services table, clutching a bottle of water like a lifeline, your eyes scanning the chaotic space with the quiet observance that had made you so good at your job. For more than four years, you had known these men as pixelated faces on your laptop screen, as voices transmitted through headphones during late-night Zoom sessions where you corrected their vowel sounds and helped them navigate the tricky waters of English idioms. You had developed a rhythm with them, a professional intimacy built on lag times and connection errors.
Nothing could have prepared you for the reality of Shownu walking through that door.
The first thing that struck you was the sheer size of him. On screen, you had appreciated his athletic build, the way his shoulders filled the frame, but seeing him in person was an entirely different experience. He wasn't just tall; he occupied space in a way that made the high-ceilinged green room feel suddenly smaller. His grey t-shirt stretched across his chest, and you could see the defined muscle underneath, the result of years of rigorous dance training and gym sessions you had heard about during your coaching conversations.
He spotted you immediately. You watched his expression shift—recognition dawning, followed by something else, something that made your stomach flip.
You instinctively straightened, fighting the urge to smooth your hair or check your outfit. You had dressed carefully for this trip, your first in-person meeting with the group after years of remote coaching. A simple cream-colored blouse and dark jeans, your hair falling loose around your shoulders in soft waves. You had wanted to look professional yet approachable, the same balance you struck during your video sessions. But standing here now, in the presence of a man who had been nothing more than a handsome talking head for years, you felt suddenly aware of how small you were. How delicate your frame must appear next to his solid, muscular presence.
He didn't bow. That was the first thing that surprised you. On every video call, Shownu had been unfailingly polite, offering a formal bow at the start and end of each session. But here, in person, he bypassed that professional distance entirely.
He walked straight toward you.
"Coach," he said, and his voice was deeper than it had ever been through your speakers. It resonated in his chest, a low rumble that you felt as much as heard.
"Shownu-ssi," you managed, your own voice coming out softer than you intended.
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Those dark, intense eyes that you had only ever seen through a camera lens. They were even more piercing now, studying your face with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.
"You look different in person," he murmured trying his best to impress you with his English, and then his hand was on your shoulder.
The touch was simple, grounding. His palm was warm and heavy, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your blouse. It was a gesture that could have been friendly, professional even, if not for the way his thumb brushed against the side of your neck, a whisper of contact that sent electricity skittering down your spine.
"You too," you breathed. "You're… bigger than I expected."
A corner of his mouth lifted. That subtle, deadpan humor you had come to adore during your sessions. "Internet doesn't do me justice?"
The laugh that escaped you was genuine, surprised. "I guess not."
His hand lingered for a moment longer before he reluctantly pulled away, but something had shifted between you. You could feel it in the charged air, in the way his gaze kept drifting back to you.
The other members trickled in one by one, each reacting to your presence with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Kihyun was first, bowing deeply before pulling you into a warm hug. "Finally meeting our famous coach in person!" His grin was infectious, though you caught his eyes flickering toward Shownu’s possessive hand still resting on your shoulder.
Changkyun sauntered in next, all lazy confidence and smirking lips. "Well, well," he drawled, eyes raking over you with the same flirtatious energy he’d perfected during your sessions. "You’re even prettier off-screen coach."
Jooheon bounded in like a puppy, nearly knocking you over with his enthusiastic hug. "You’re here! You’re really here!" His excitement was endearing.
Minhyuk arrived last, his sharp eyes missing nothing as he took in the way Shownu hovered close. "Ah," he said, lips curling knowingly. "So this is why our leader was so insistent on in-person coaching." His wink was downright mischievous before he leaned in, whispering just loud enough for Shownu to hear, "Good luck."
Shownu’s jaw clenched, but you caught the faintest blush creeping up his neck. The members exchanged glances—some amused, some surprised—before dispersing, leaving you alone again with the man whose touch still burned through your blouse.
The day was a whirlwind of interviews and press obligations. You stayed in the wings during each appearance, a silent support system for when they needed a quick pronunciation check or a reminder about a particular phrase. But it was Shownu who kept seeking you out. After every English answer he gave, his eyes would find yours in the wings, searching for validation, for that small nod of approval you had trained him to look for during your sessions.
Each time you gave it, something warm and proud flickered in his expression.
Between interviews, he would find reasons to be near you. A question about a word, a comment about the interviewer, a quiet observation about the studio. You noticed the way the other members exchanged glances, particularly Changkyun, whose flirtations during your video sessions had been legendary among the group. But even he seemed to recognize that something was different today. That Shownu was staking a claim.
By the time the sun set over the LA skyline, you were exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with being on a trip. Your skin felt hyperaware, your senses heightened from hours of covert glances and charged silences.
The luxury hotel in West Hollywood was a welcome sight after the chaos of the studio. The group had checked in earlier that day, their rooms spread across the top floors with sweeping views of the city. You had been given a room on a lower floor, appropriate for staff, and you had just changed into comfortable clothes—a loose tank top and cotton shorts—when your phone buzzed.
A text from an unfamiliar number.
It's Shownu. Hyunwoo. I got your number from Kihyun. Can we have a face-to-face session? We have a radio interview tomorrow morning and I'm nervous about the acoustic segment.
Your thumb hovered over the screen. A private session. In his suite. At nearly eleven o'clock at night.
Every professional instinct you had screamed that this was crossing a line. But then you thought about his face during the interviews today, the way he had looked at you with such intensity. The way his hand had felt on your shoulder. The low rumble of his voice when he had said you looked different in person.
I'll be there in ten minutes, you typed.
His suite was on the top floor. The hallway was quiet, most of the members probably already crashed from jet lag, when you knocked softly on his door.
He answered almost immediately, as if he had been standing right there.
His hair was damp from a shower, and he had changed into a simple white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. The fabric was thin enough that you could see the outline of his chest muscles, the definition of his shoulders, the V-shape of his torso disappearing into the waistband of his pants.
"Coach," he said, stepping aside to let you in. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course," you managed, your voice slightly breathless.
The suite was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the glittering LA skyline. The lights of the city cast a warm glow through the room, illuminating the couch where he gestured for you to sit.
"Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
He settled onto the couch beside you, closer than strictly necessary. You could smell him now—clean soap, a hint of cedar, and something warm underneath that was purely him. The heat radiating off his body was palpable in the small space between you.
"So," you said, pulling out your tablet. "The acoustic segment. What specifically are you worried about?"
"There's a lyric," he said, his voice low. He shifted, angling his body toward you. "I can never get the vowel sound right. The 'a' in 'heart.' It always comes out too flat."
"Ah, yes. The silent 'r' issue. We've worked on that."
"But never in person." His dark eyes fixed on you. "I think better in person. I learn better when I can… observe."
You blinked, confused. "Observe?"
"Your mouth," he said, and the words sent heat rushing to your cheeks. "The shape of your lips when you make the sounds. On video, it's different. There's a lag. I can't see small movements."
"That's… that's actually a valid point," you managed, your professionalism barely holding steady. "The visual component is important for phonetics."
"So show me."
You swallowed hard. "Okay. Say the line for me."
He recited the lyric, his deep voice filling the small space. His pronunciation was good, but the 'a' sound was indeed too flat, lacking the open quality that gave the word its emotional resonance.
"You're closing your throat too early," you explained. "The 'a' in 'heart' needs to be more open. Like this."
You demonstrated, exaggerating the movement of your lips.
Shownu leaned in closer, his eyes locked on your mouth with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Again," he murmured.
You repeated the sound, hyperaware of how close he was. Close enough that you could see the individual lashes framing his dark eyes. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.
He tried the sound, his voice dropping lower.
"Better," you said, your own voice coming out slightly strangled. "But watch."
You demonstrated again, and this time, when you finished, he didn't look away.
"During the pandemic," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, "your voice in my headphones was the only thing I looked forward to."
The confession hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.
"Shownu…"
"Hyunwoo," he corrected softly. "When we're like this. Call me Hyunwoo."
"Hyunwoo," you breathed, and saying his name felt like crossing a threshold.
He reached out then, his hand lifting toward your face. You watched, frozen, as his thumb brushed against your lower lip, the pad of his finger warm and slightly rough against the sensitive skin.
"I need to see the shape," he murmured, but the words were barely a pretext now. His thumb pressed against your lip, pulling it down slightly, and you felt the touch like a brand. "I need to understand how you make the sounds."
"Hyunwoo, we shouldn't…"
"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice dropping to that low rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "Tell me to stop, and I will. But I've been thinking about this for years. About you. About what it would be like to be in the same room as you, to see you without a screen between us."
His thumb traced along your lower lip, slowly, deliberately. His eyes followed the movement with an intensity that made your skin prickle with awareness.
"I can't," you whispered. "I can't tell you to stop."
The words were barely out of your mouth before he was leaning in, closing the small distance between you. His lips met yours in a kiss that was both gentle and demanding, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, tilting your head back.
You melted into him, your hands finding the solid muscle of his chest, feeling the heat of him through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. You opened for him, and the taste of him—clean, warm, distinctly male—flooded your senses.
A soft sound escaped your throat, and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through you.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing heavily. His dark eyes were nearly black in the low light, filled with an intensity that made your stomach clench with anticipation.
"I've wanted this," he rasped, his thumb brushing your swollen lower lip again. "Wanted you. Since the first time I heard your voice."
"Shownu… Hyunwoo," you corrected yourself, and his name on your lips made something flash in his eyes.
"Again," he murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against yours. "Say my name again."
"Hyunwoo."
His breath shuddered out, and his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He tugged gently, tilting your head back, exposing the column of your throat.
"You have no idea," he whispered against your pulse point, his lips brushing the sensitive skin, "what you do to me. How many nights I thought about this voice. This skin." His teeth grazed your throat, and you gasped. "These lips."
His free hand found your waist, his grip firm and possessive as he pulled you closer. You went willingly, shifting until you were nearly in his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs on the couch.
The new position brought you flush against him, and you could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against your core through the thin fabric of your shorts. The sensation sent a jolt of heat straight through you.
"Feel what you do to me," he growled against your throat, his hips shifting slightly, creating friction that made you both groan.
"Hyunwoo, we should—the session—"
"Fuck the session," he muttered, and the curse in his deep voice, so contrary to his usual polite demeanor, made arousal pool in your belly.
His hands slid under the hem of your tank top, his palms hot against the bare skin of your waist. He traced the curve of your ribs, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake.
"I need to see you," he said, pulling back to meet your eyes. "All of you. I've been looking at a head and shoulders for years. I want the full picture."
Your breath caught at the raw desire in his voice. You nodded slowly, giving him permission.
His hands lifted your tank top over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you bare from the waist up except for the thin lace of your bra. His eyes drank you in, his gaze a physical caress that made you feel both exposed and desired.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice reverent. "Even more than I imagined."
He reached behind you, unclasping your bra with a dexterity that spoke to experience. The garment fell away, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.
"Don't," he said, reading your movement. His hands captured your wrists, gently guiding them away. "Don't hide from me. I want to see everything."
The LA skyline glittered behind him, and you realized with a start that you were half-naked in the suite of one of K-pop's biggest stars, about to cross every professional boundary you had ever set for yourself.
And you didn't care.
"Touch me," you whispered, and the words were like a key unlocking something in him.
His hands swept up your sides, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The sensation made you arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips.
"So responsive," he murmured, leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. "I knew you would be. I could hear it in your voice during our sessions. That soft, melodic quality. I wondered if you'd sound like this when you were turned on."
"Hyunwoo, please…"
"Please what?" He nipped at the curve of your neck, his hands continuing their torturous exploration of your body. "Tell me what you want. I need to hear you say it."
"I want you to touch me. I want—" you gasped as his thumb circled your nipple. "I want your hands on me. Everywhere."
His smile against your skin was pure satisfaction. "That," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest, "I can definitely do."
His mouth replaced one of his hands, his tongue swirling around your nipple while his other hand continued to knead and tease. You clutched at his shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle, your head falling back as pleasure spiked through you.
The sound you made was somewhere between a whimper and a moan, and he answered with a groan of his own, the vibration adding another layer of sensation.
"You sound even better than I imagined," he said, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark with desire. "And I imagined this a lot."
He shifted then, his hands gripping your hips as he stood from the couch in one fluid motion, lifting you with him as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your core pressing against the hard length of him through his sweatpants.
"The bedroom," he said against your ear, his breath hot. "I need more room for what I want to do to you."
He carried you through the suite, your back pressing against the wall beside the bedroom door as he paused to kiss you deeply. His hips ground against yours, the friction making you both gasp.
"Four years," he growled against your lips. "Four years of wanting you. I'm going to make up for every second of that wait."
He laid you down on the crisp white hotel sheets like you were something precious, something he'd waited too long to finally hold. The LA skyline painted golden stripes across his face through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and for a moment, he just stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at you with those dark, intense eyes.
"I want to take my time with you," he said, his voice rough. "I've imagined this for too long to rush."
You reached for the hem of your shorts, but he caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm.
"Let me," he said.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your cotton shorts, dragging them down your hips excruciatingly slowly. The cool air hit your newly exposed skin, making you shiver. He paused to press his lips to your hip bone, his breath warm against the sensitive skin there.
"So soft," he murmured against your skin. "I used to wonder about that. During our sessions. What your skin would feel like."
He tossed your shorts somewhere behind him and reached for the thin lace of your underwear. His thumbs traced the line where fabric met flesh, mapping you with agonizing patience.
"Hyunwoo, please—"
"Patience, coach." A ghost of a smile. "You've taught me that, haven't you? Good things take time."
He peeled the lace down your legs, and then you were completely bare before him. Completely exposed. You fought the urge to reach for a pillow, a sheet—anything to shield yourself from his intense gaze.
As if sensing your instinct, his hand found yours, intertwining your fingers. "You're beautiful. Everywhere."
He lowered himself over you, his clothed chest pressing against your naked skin, and kissed you deeply. You could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants, the thick length of him pressing against your thigh. The friction made you gasp into his mouth.
"Feel what you do to me," he groaned, rolling his hips slightly.
"Your turn," you whispered against his lips, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. "Fair's fair."
He pulled the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and you finally saw all of him—the broad, heavily muscled chest, defined abdomen, the V of his hips disappearing into his sweatpants. Years of dance training had sculpted him into something almost unfair.
"My God," you breathed.
A flush crept up his neck. "I'm not that—"
"You are." You ran your hands over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath warm skin. "You definitely are."
He ducked his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. Each touch left a trail of heat. Your back arched off the mattress when his mouth found your nipple, his tongue swirling in slow circles.
"Hyunwoo…"
"I like hearing my name on your lips," he murmured against your skin. "Say it again."
"Hyunwoo. Please."
He kissed his way down your stomach, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart as he settled between them. The first touch of his mouth on your core was gentle—almost reverent. A teasing sweep of his tongue that made you fist the sheets.
"I've wondered about this too," he said, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh. "How you'd taste. How you'd sound when I finally had my mouth on you."
Then he licked a long, slow stripe, and every coherent thought shattered.
His technique was devastating—patient and thorough, like he was savoring every moment. His tongue traced circles around your clit while two thick fingers pressed inside you, curling to find that spot that made you see stars.
"Oh God—"
He hummed against you, the vibration making your hips jerk. His free hand pressed down on your stomach, holding you in place while he worked you higher.
"You taste better than I imagined," he groaned, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in.
Your fingers found his hair, tangling in the soft strands, holding him against you. The pleasure built slowly—layer upon layer of sensation that made your thighs tremble around his shoulders.
"Don't stop. Please don't—"
He didn't.
He fucked you slowly with his fingers while his tongue worked your clit, reading your body like he was studying for an exam he refused to fail. When he felt you getting close, he intensified his efforts, sucking gently while his fingers found a rhythm that made you cry out.
"Hyunwoo—I'm—"
Your release crashed through you, wave after wave of pleasure. He worked you through it, his movements gentling as you came down, only pulling away when you tugged weakly at his hair.
He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body. His chin was wet, his eyes dark with desire.
"Beautiful," he said again. "Even more beautiful like this."
He shed his sweatpants and briefs in one motion, and you finally saw all of him. He was thick and hard, the tip already glistening.
"Condom?"
He reached toward the nightstand, fumbling slightly before producing a foil packet. You watched him roll it on with shaking hands, the sight making warmth pool in your belly again.
"Are you sure?" he asked, positioning himself at your entrance.
"Yes. Yes."
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to the stretch. A low groan rumbled from his chest as he bottomed out, his forehead dropping to yours.
"You feel… incredible." His voice was strained, like he was holding back. "Better than any fantasy."
"Move. Please move."
He obeyed, pulling back slowly before sliding home again. He set a gentle rhythm, his hips rolling in a way that spoke to years of dance training—controlled, fluid, devastating.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. He braced himself on his forearms, caging your face between his hands, his dark eyes locked on yours.
"I want to see you," he murmured. "I want to see your face when you fall apart."
His thrusts grew slightly faster, the angle shifting until he hit that spot inside you that made you see white. Your nails raked down his back, and he groaned at the feeling.
"Harder. I can take it."
He hesitated, then obeyed, snapping his hips forward with more force. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, mixing with your mingled moans.
"I'm close—" you gasped.
"Me too. Together."
His hand slipped between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. The dual sensation was too much. You shattered around him, your second release even more intense than the first.
He followed you over the edge moments later, pulling out quickly to strip off the condom and spill across your stomach, his release warm on your skin. His deep groan vibrated through both of you as he collapsed beside you.
For long moments, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
He retrieved a tissue from the nightstand, cleaning you with gentle hands before pulling you against his side. His heartbeat thundered against your ear.
"That was…" you started.
"Everything I imagined and more." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "Stay. Please."
You nodded against his chest, your eyes already growing heavy.
You woke to darkness.
The city had quieted, the golden stripes of light replaced by the occasional passing car. Your phone read 3:47 AM when you squinted at it.
Hyunwoo slept beside you, one heavy arm still draped across your waist, his breathing deep and even. His face was softer in sleep, the intense leader replaced by something younger, more vulnerable.
You carefully lifted his arm, sliding out from beneath it. He shifted slightly but didn't wake.
Your clothes were scattered across the suite's living area. You dressed quickly in the darkness, your fingers finding each item by memory. Shorts. Tank top. The cardigan you'd brought.
At the door, you glanced back once. He looked peaceful. Content.
The hallway was empty, the hotel quiet at this hour. You were waiting for the elevator, still fixing your disheveled hair, when the doors slid open.
Jooheon and Changkyun stepped out, each with a woman on their arm. Both women were dressed for a night out—smudged lipstick, heels in hand.
The four of them stopped.
You froze.
Changkyun's eyebrows shot up. A slow smile spread across Jooheon's face.
"Coach," Changkyun said, amusement coloring his voice. "Early morning session?"
"Something like that," you managed.
"Good morning Coach," Jooheon added, grinning.
"Good morning."
You stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for your floor. As the doors closed, you caught their knowing smiles and Changkyun's quiet laugh.
Your own room welcomed you with silence. You fell into the crisp hotel bed, alone this time, the ghost of Hyunwoo's warmth still clinging to your skin.
Jooheon x Minhyuk
Mature | Explicit | MDNI | One-Shot
After officially discharging from the military, Minhyuk and Jooheon reconnect in a quiet apartment, where a casual touch quickly escalates into a passionate, intimate exploration of how much their bodies and feelings have deepened over their two years apart.
Minhyuk and Jooheon have recently officially discharged and are transitioning back into civilian life. They are in Jooheon's apartment hanging out, catching up on everything. They are also trying to chill before their idol lives go back into full swing.
The credits were still rolling—some action film Jooheon had put on that neither of them had really watched—when Minhyuk shifted on the mattress.
They’d dragged Jooheon’s spare futon into the living room hours ago, a nest of blankets and pillows that smelled faintly of fabric softener and the kimchi jjigae they’d eaten for dinner. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant honk from the street below. Seoul at midnight, muted and patient.
Minhyuk’s leg moved first.
It wasn’t calculated, not exactly. More like muscle memory—the kind of casual, affectionate draping they’d done a thousand times in cramped hotel rooms and dorm bunks and the backs of tour vans. His thigh settled across Jooheon’s lap with the familiar expectation of easy warmth.
But the weight was wrong.
Or not wrong. Different.
Jooheon’s breath caught somewhere in his throat. His eyes dropped from the television screen—now showing a slow scroll of names against black—to the limb currently pinning him to the futon. Minhyuk’s shorts had ridden up slightly, exposing a stripe of shin, and the leg itself was…
“Hyung.”
The word came out rough. Not the playful whine Jooheon used when he wanted snacks, not the teasing lilt he deployed during variety shows. Something lower. Something that made Minhyuk’s toes curl against the blanket.
“What?” Minhyuk didn’t look at him. His voice was carefully light, his gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling. “I always do this.”
“You always did this when you weighed maybe sixty-five kilos soaking wet.”
A pause.
“I do not weigh sixty-five kilos anymore.”
Jooheon let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-something-else. He looked at the leg draped over him—really looked. The muscle definition that hadn’t existed in their early twenties, the solid weight of a body that had spent two years doing drills and carrying equipment and becoming something harder. Minhyuk had always been lean, had always been beautiful in that sharp, angular way that cameras loved.
Now he was substantial.
“I can feel that,” Jooheon said. His hand hovered over Minhyuk’s calf, not quite touching. “You’re heavy.”
“Sorry—” Minhyuk started to pull back.
“I didn’t say move.”
The words hung in the dark living room. Minhyuk’s leg stopped mid-retreat, suspended in uncertainty. On the television, the screen had gone fully black, and the apartment was lit only by the pale orange glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains.
Jooheon’s palm made contact.
It was a simple touch—fingers wrapping around Minhyuk’s ankle, thumb pressing into the ridge of bone just above his sock. But the pressure was different from the casual, fleeting skinship of their trainee days. This wasn’t a pat on the back or a hand ruffling hair. This was deliberate. Grounding.
Minhyuk’s stomach tightened.
“You’ve got calluses now,” he said, because saying something about calluses was easier than addressing the way Jooheon’s thumb was slowly tracing the tendon along the inside of his ankle.
“Push-ups,” Jooheon replied. “The sergeant had a thing about push-ups.”
“How many?”
“Enough that my hands will never be soft again.”
Minhyuk turned his head then, finally meeting Jooheon’s eyes. The younger man’s face was half in shadow, the streetlamp catching the edge of his jaw and the glint of his dark eyes. There was something in his expression that Minhyuk couldn’t immediately name—an intensity that hadn’t existed in the boy who used to cling to him during thunderstorms, who cried at sappy dramas, whose dimples appeared at the slightest provocation.
The dimples weren’t appearing now.
“You’re staring,” Minhyuk said.
“Yeah.”
“That’s creepy.”
“You’re the one with your leg in my lap.”
“I’m older. I’m allowed.”
Jooheon’s grip shifted, sliding up from ankle to calf. His fingers pressed into the muscle there, and Minhyuk felt the touch radiate upward—through his knee, his thigh, settling somewhere deep in his lower belly. The pressure wasn’t painful. It was just… a lot. More than the casual contact they’d shared in the past. More than the playful wrestling that had always ended in breathless laughter and accusations of cheating.
“You’ve been home three weeks,” Jooheon said. His voice had dropped another register, words coming slower. “We’ve hung out six times.”
“I’m aware.”
“And every time, you’ve done something like this. Touched me the way you used to. Leaned on me. Thrown your arm around my shoulder.” His thumb found a knot of tension in Minhyuk’s calf and pressed into it. “But you pull back before it goes anywhere. Like you’re unsure of whatever.”
Minhyuk’s jaw tightened.
“I’m not unsure of anything.”
“Liar.”
The word landed soft—no accusation in it, just recognition. Jooheon was looking at him with that unreadable expression, and Minhyuk felt his carefully maintained composure start to crack at the edges. Two years. Two years of texts that arrived sporadically, of phone calls squeezed between training exercises, of lying in his bunk and wondering if things would feel the same when they both got out.
And now they were here, and things didn’t feel the same. They felt bigger. Heavier.
“Hyung.” Jooheon’s hand had stilled on his calf. “Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“You’re looking at my forehead. Look at me.”
Minhyuk dragged his gaze downward. Eye contact in the near-darkness. Jooheon’s expression wasn’t unreadable anymore—it was hungry. Carefully contained, but hungry. The kind of look that made Minhyuk’s pulse jump in his throat.
“There,” Jooheon murmured. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You’ve gotten bossy.”
“I’ve gotten a lot of things.”
The hand on Minhyuk’s calf released, and Jooheon turned his body fully toward the older man. The movement shifted the futon, made the blankets bunch between them, and Minhyuk had approximately half a second to register the change in dynamic before Jooheon was moving again—this time, planting one hand on the mattress beside Minhyuk’s head and the other on his hip.
Not pinning him. Not yet. But the potential was there, written in the breadth of Jooheon’s shoulders and the deliberate slowness of his movements.
“You’re hovering,” Minhyuk said.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“About how you used to do this to me.” Jooheon’s thumb pressed into the jut of Minhyuk’s hipbone through his thin t-shirt. “In the dorms. After schedules. You’d get bored and decide I was your personal stress ball, and you’d just—” He broke off, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “You’d just climb all over me and dare me to do something about it.”
“You never did anything about it.”
“I was twenty-two and terrified of you.”
“Terrified of me?” Minhyuk’s eyebrows rose. “You?”
“Not physically. I wasn’t scared you’d hurt me.” Jooheon’s voice went quieter. “I was scared I’d break character. That I’d stop playing along and actually— ” He stopped. Swallowed. The sound was audible in the silence of the apartment.
Minhyuk’s chest felt tight.
“Actually what?”
Jooheon’s answer wasn’t verbal. His hand slid from Minhyuk’s hip to his waist, fingers spreading wide across the plane of his stomach. The touch was firm—firmer than it had ever been in their twenties, when everything had been rushed and giggly and half-suppressed. There was no suppression now. Jooheon’s palm pressed down like he was studying the shape of Minhyuk’s body through the cotton, the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his abdominal muscles tensed at the contact.
“Actually this,” Jooheon said.
Minhyuk’s exhale was shaky. "Honey.”
“Don’t ‘Honey’ me when you’re the one who started it.” The younger man’s voice had developed a gravel edge, that rasp he usually reserved for the stage, and hearing it in the dark quiet of his living room did something devastating to Minhyuk’s composure. “You threw your leg over me. You always start it. But you never—”
“I didn’t know if you still wanted—” The words tumbled out before Minhyuk could stop them, and he clamped his mouth shut, heat flooding his cheeks.
Jooheon went still. The hand on Minhyuk’s stomach didn’t move.
“If I still wanted?”
“Things are different now. We’re different. We’re not—I don’t know what we are anymore, but we’re not those kids who used to—” Minhyuk’s hands came up, not to push Jooheon away but to grip the front of his hoodie. The fabric bunched under his fingers. “I didn’t want to assume.”
For a long moment, Jooheon just looked at him. Then his free hand came up, and his knuckles traced the line of Minhyuk’s jaw—lightly, almost reverently.
“You’re an idiot,” Jooheon said.
“Excuse me?”
“An idiot. A beautiful, broad-shouldered, incredibly dense idiot who spent two years in the military and somehow came back thinking I wouldn’t—” He broke off, jaw working. “Hyung, I wrote you hundreds of texts. Hundreds. I even put heart emojis.”
“You send hearts on all the members’.”
“I put different hearts on yours.”
Minhyuk blinked. “Different how?”
Instead of answering, Jooheon leaned down. Not to kiss him—not yet—but to press his forehead against Minhyuk’s, the bridge of his nose brushing the older man’s. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between their mouths. Minhyuk could smell the faint remnants of the beer Jooheon had drank with dinner, could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
“We’re not boys anymore,” Jooheon murmured. “You’re right about that. Everything’s different.” His hand slid from Minhyuk’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. “But hyung. I didn’t spend two years thinking about you just to come home and be your dongsaeng.”
Minhyuk’s fingers tightened in Jooheon’s hoodie.
“What did you come home to be?”
The question hung between them, raw and honest. Jooheon pulled back just enough to meet Minhyuk’s eyes, and the smile that curved his mouth was small but real—dimples barely ghosting the surface.
“Let me show you,” he said.
And then his weight shifted, and Minhyuk found himself being guided backward onto the mattress, Jooheon’s body settling over his with a deliberateness that made his head spin. Not pinning—not quite—but surrounding. Jooheon’s knees bracketed Minhyuk’s hips. His hands planted on either side of the older man’s shoulders. The streetlamp threw orange light across his features, catching the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the darkness of his gaze.
Minhyuk’s hands were still fisted in the front of his hoodie. He didn’t let go.
“You’re heavier too,” he managed. “For the record.”
“Push-ups,” Jooheon said again, and the smirk in his voice made Minhyuk want to hit him. Or kiss him. Maybe both.
“Shut up about the push-ups.”
“Make me.”
The challenge landed like a physical blow—and then Minhyuk saw it, the flicker of uncertainty beneath Jooheon’s confidence. The younger man was holding himself carefully, muscles coiled with restraint, waiting to see how far he was allowed to push. Waiting to see if Minhyuk would pull back again, retreat behind the safety of platonic skinship and hyung-dongsaeng dynamics.
Minhyuk didn’t pull back.
His hands released Jooheon’s hoodie and slid upward, palms flat against his chest. Beneath the soft cotton, he could feel the topography of muscle that hadn’t existed three years ago—the defined pectorals, the ridge of his sternum, the steady thud of his heartbeat. Jooheon’s pulse was racing. Fast and urgent, like a snare drum.
“Your heart’s pounding,” Minhyuk said.
“I’m aware.”
“Nervous?”
“No.” A pause. “Yes. Shut up.”
“You told me to make you.”
Jooheon’s laugh was startled out of him—a genuine, dimpled laugh that briefly cracked the intensity of his expression. For a second, he was just Jooheon again, the one who did aegyo at the drop of a hat and screamed at horror movies.
Then the laugh faded, and the intensity returned, and Jooheon’s knee nudged Minhyuk’s thigh wider.
“The day before I discharged,” Jooheon said, voice dropping back to that stage-rasp, “I lay in my bunk and tried to imagine this. What it would feel like. If it would be the same as before.”
“And?”
“And my imagination was garbage.” His head dipped lower, mouth brushing the shell of Minhyuk’s ear. “Because I couldn’t account for this.”
His hips rolled downward—slow, grinding.
The friction was devastating. Two layers of sweatpants between them, but Minhyuk felt the pressure like a shock to his system, his spine arching involuntarily off the mattress. A sound escaped his throat that he hadn’t made in years—something between a gasp and a groan, deeper than the breathless laughter of their twenties, more honest.
Jooheon’s breath hitched at the sound.
“That,” he said. “I couldn’t account for that. The way you’d sound. The way you’d—” His hips rolled again, and Minhyuk’s hands flew to his shoulders, gripping hard. “—respond. You used to be so in control, hyung. What happened to that?”
“I’m still in control,” Minhyuk gritted out, but his voice cracked on the last word.
“Sure you are.”
“I am. I’m older. I’m always in con—”
Jooheon’s mouth found his throat.
Not kissing, exactly. Just pressure—lips and tongue and the scrape of teeth against the tendon where Minhyuk’s pulse hammered. Not hard enough to mark, but hard enough to threaten it. Hard enough to make Minhyuk’s train of thought derail completely.
His fingers dug into Jooheon’s shoulders. The muscle there was dense, unyielding.
“You’ve been working out,” Minhyuk breathed.
“Mm.” Jooheon’s mouth traveled up to his jaw. “Noticed, did you?”
“Hard not to.”
“Good.” The word was hot against his skin. “I wanted you to notice.”
Minhyuk turned his head, and their mouths were suddenly close—close enough that if he moved half an inch, they’d be kissing. He could see the slight part of Jooheon’s lips, the gleam of his teeth, the way his pupils had blown wide.
“You could have just said something,” Minhyuk whispered. “Instead of waiting for me to put my leg in your lap.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
And then Jooheon shifted his weight to one arm, freeing his other hand to slide beneath the hem of Minhyuk’s t-shirt. His palm made contact with bare skin—the soft dip of Minhyuk’s waist, the sensitive stretch just above his hipbone—and Minhyuk’s whole body jolted.
Not from ticklishness. From the sheer intensity of the touch, the roughness of Jooheon’s callused palm against his skin.
Jooheon noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Sensitive,” he murmured. Not a question.
“It’s been a while.”
“For me too.” His fingers traced a path upward, pushing the shirt higher, exposing a stripe of Minhyuk’s abdomen to the cool air of the apartment. “You’re shaking.”
Minhyuk was. Fine tremors running through his frame, barely visible but unmistakable under Jooheon’s hand. He wanted to blame it on the cold, on the adrenaline, on anything except what it actually was—the overwhelming awareness that this was Jooheon touching him. Jooheon, who he’d known for over a decade. Jooheon, who he’d watched grow from a scrawny teenager with oversized dreams into this broad, deliberate, devastating man currently pinning him to a futon.
“I’m not going to break,” Minhyuk said. It came out steadier than he felt.
Jooheon’s eyes flicked to his. “I know.”
“So stop being so careful.”
Something shifted in Jooheon’s expression. The restraint that had been holding his shoulders tight—loosened. His hand on Minhyuk’s stomach pressed down harder, palm flat, fingers splayed.
“Careful?” he repeated. “Hyung, I’m not being careful. I’m being patient.”
“What’s the difference?”
Jooheon’s mouth curved. The dimples appeared, deep and devastating.
“You’re about to find out.”
The words hung in the air between them, and Minhyuk felt something click into place in his chest. Not fear. Not uncertainty. Recognition.
He’d waited two years for this. Had lain in his barracks bunk imagining what it would be like to have Jooheon look at him with exactly this expression—patient, hungry, utterly focused. The reality was sharper than any fantasy.
“Show me, then,” Minhyuk said.
Jooheon’s dimples deepened. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“I do.” The admission came easy, warm. “I always have.”
And then Jooheon’s mouth was on his.
The kiss wasn’t tentative. Wasn’t the careful, testing press of lips that Minhyuk had half-expected. Jooheon kissed like he rapped—precise, rhythmic, devastating. His mouth slanted across Minhyuk’s with the kind of confidence that came from years of wanting and months of planning, and Minhyuk’s response was immediate and involuntary.
His hands slid up from Jooheon’s shoulders to his jaw, fingers pressing into the sharp bones there, holding him in place. Jooheon made a sound against his mouth—low, approving—and deepened the kiss. His tongue swept across Minhyuk’s lower lip, and Minhyuk opened for him without thinking, without hesitation.
The taste was familiar and foreign all at once. Beer and something sweeter underneath. The faint salt of the popcorn they’d shared hours ago. The heat of him.
Jooheon’s hand was still under Minhyuk’s shirt, and now it moved—pushing the fabric higher, exposing his chest to the cool air. Minhyuk shivered, but not from cold.
“Off,” Jooheon murmured against his mouth. “This needs to come off.”
“You’re the one on top. Do something about it.”
The challenge earned him a sharp exhale—half laugh, half something darker. Jooheon sat back on his heels, thighs bracketing Minhyuk’s hips, and looked down at him. The streetlamp caught the angle of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders straining against his hoodie. He looked like a sculpture. Like something Minhyuk wanted to climb.
“Arms up,” Jooheon said.
Minhyuk complied. The t-shirt came off in one smooth motion, tossed somewhere into the darkness beyond the futon. The air hit his bare chest and his nipples tightened, and he watched Jooheon watch him—watched the younger man’s gaze track down his torso with the intensity of a spotlight.
“You’re staring again.”
“You’re gorgeous.” No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just fact. “You got so broad, hyung. Look at you.”
Minhyuk’s face heated. “It’s just the military training—”
“It’s not just anything.” Jooheon’s hands came down on his chest, palms flat against his pectorals, fingers spread wide. The calluses caught on his skin. “I thought about this. The weight you’d have. The way you’d feel under my hands.” He pressed down, a deliberate pressure that made Minhyuk’s breath stutter. “Reality’s better.”
“Jooheon—”
“Shh.” His thumb found Minhyuk’s nipple, circled it once, watched it pebble further. “Let me.”
Minhyuk let him.
He let Jooheon explore—callused palms mapping the topography of his chest, tracing the ridge of his collarbone, pressing into the soft give of his waist. Each touch was slower than it needed to be, more deliberate. Jooheon was cataloging him. Learning him. And the focus of it, the sheer undivided attention, made Minhyuk’s head spin.
“Your turn,” Minhyuk managed, when he could form words again. “Fair’s fair.”
Jooheon’s mouth twitched. “You want me naked?”
“I want you naked.”
“Then ask nicely.”
Minhyuk’s eyes narrowed. “I’m older than you.”
“And yet you’re the one on your back.” But Jooheon was already moving, already reaching behind his head to grab the collar of his hoodie and pull it off in one fluid motion. The undershirt followed, and then there was nothing between Minhyuk’s palms and Jooheon’s skin.
Nothing.
Minhyuk’s hands found him immediately—fingers spreading across the plane of his chest, tracing the lines of muscle that hadn’t existed three years ago. Jooheon’s body was a revelation: harder, denser, the soft edges of his youth replaced by sharp definition. But underneath the new muscle, there was still the warmth Minhyuk remembered. Still the way his heartbeat quickened when Minhyuk touched him.
“You’re shaking too,” Minhyuk said.
“I know.”
“Nervous?”
“Excited.” Jooheon’s voice had dropped to that gravel register, the one that made Minhyuk’s stomach tighten. “There’s a difference.”
He leaned down again, and this time when their mouths met, there was no restraint left. Jooheon kissed him deep and thorough, tongue sliding against his, teeth catching his lower lip just hard enough to make him gasp. Minhyuk’s hands roamed—over his shoulders, down his back, fingers pressing into the muscle along his spine.
Jooheon’s hips rolled down.
The friction was electric. Minhyuk could feel him through the layers of their sweatpants—the heat of him, the growing hardness pressing against his own. His hips bucked up instinctively, seeking more pressure, and Jooheon groaned into his mouth.
“Hyung.”
“Again,” Minhyuk demanded. “Do that again.”
Jooheon did. A slow, grinding roll that dragged their lengths together through the fabric, and Minhyuk’s head fell back, his throat exposed. Jooheon’s mouth found his neck immediately—not biting, not yet, just pressure. Lips and tongue tracing the tendon, the pulse point, the hollow of his collarbone.
Their sweatpants were too much. Too thick. Minhyuk’s hands found Jooheon’s waistband.
“These,” he said. “Off.”
“You too.”
“Fine.”
The negotiation was breathless, clumsy in a way that made Minhyuk’s chest ache with familiarity. They’d always been like this—challenging, pushing, turning everything into a competition. But the stakes felt different now. Higher. Jooheon lifted his hips and Minhyuk shoved his sweatpants down, and then Jooheon was returning the favor, tugging Minhyuk’s shorts off with an efficiency that suggested practice.
The cool air hit Minhyuk’s bare thighs.
They were both nude now, sprawled across the rumpled futon, the blankets kicked somewhere toward the foot of the mattress. Jooheon settled on top of him again, and the sensation of skin against skin—chest to chest, hip to hip—drew a sound from Minhyuk that he couldn’t have suppressed if he’d tried.
“Yeah,” Jooheon breathed. “That. That’s what I couldn’t imagine.”
His hips rolled. No fabric this time. Just heat and hardness and the slick slide of pre-come smearing between them. Minhyuk’s fingers dug into Jooheon’s shoulders.
“You feel—” His voice cracked. “You feel different.”
Jooheon kissed him again, messy and uncoordinated, his rhythm stuttering as pleasure overtook precision. They ground against each other like that for long minutes—kissing, panting, the wet sounds of their mouths and the rustle of the futon filling the dark apartment. Minhyuk’s world narrowed to the weight of Jooheon on top of him, the heat of his skin, the steady pulse of their cocks sliding together.
Then Jooheon stopped.
Minhyuk made a sound of protest—actually whined, which he would deny later—but Jooheon was already moving, already shifting his weight to the side.
“I want to taste you,” he said. “And I want you to taste me. At the same time.”
Minhyuk’s brain short-circuited. “Sixty-nine?”
“Unless you have objections.”
“No objections. No objections at all.”
The rearrangement was awkward and perfect. Minhyuk shifted onto his side and Jooheon climbed over him, positioning himself in the opposite direction. Minhyuk found himself face-to-face with Jooheon’s cock—close enough to see the flush of the head, the pearly bead of moisture at the tip. Close enough to smell him, clean and musky and undeniably male.
Behind him, he felt Jooheon’s breath ghost across his own erection.
“You have no idea,” Jooheon said, his voice muffled, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
“Show me anyway.” Minhyuk’s hand wrapped around the base of Jooheon’s cock, and the younger man’s hips jerked. “Tell me.”
Jooheon’s answer was a groan as Minhyuk’s tongue traced the underside of his shaft.
He was beautiful. Pink and pretty, just like Minhyuk remembered from half-glimpsed locker room moments and the hazy boundaries of their twenties. The head was flushed deep rose, smooth and slick, and Minhyuk took his time exploring—licking at the ridge, tracing the vein that ran along the underside, pressing his tongue against the frenulum just to hear Jooheon gasp.
“I missed this,” Minhyuk murmured against his skin. “Missed your pretty pink cock, Jooheon-ah.”
Jooheon’s response was a shudder that ran through his entire body. “Hyung.”
“What? You wanted me to talk.”
“I wanted—” His voice broke as Minhyuk’s lips closed around the head. “I wanted you to—”
Whatever he wanted was lost in a moan as Minhyuk took him deeper. The weight of him on his tongue, the stretch of his jaw, the way Jooheon’s hips twitched like he was fighting the urge to thrust—it was overwhelming in the best way. Minhyuk hollowed his cheeks and pulled back slow, and Jooheon’s hand gripped his thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints.
Then Jooheon’s mouth found him.
The first touch of his tongue made Minhyuk’s vision white out. Jooheon licked him like he was savoring something—slow strokes from base to tip, pausing to circle the head with devastating precision. His hand cupped Minhyuk’s balls, thumb pressing gentle circles into the sensitive skin behind them, and Minhyuk had to pull off his cock just to breathe.
“Fuck.”
“Missed yours too,” Jooheon said against his shaft. “Your fat cock, hyung. Thought about it. About how it would feel in my mouth.”
“You thought about this?”
“Every night.” His tongue traced a vein. “Every night for two years.”
Minhyuk groaned and took Jooheon back into his mouth. They moved together in counterpoint—when Minhyuk sucked, Jooheon licked; when Jooheon took him deep, Minhyuk’s rhythm stuttered. They learned each other’s bodies through trial and error, through the involuntary jerks of hips and the sharp inhales that signaled pleasure.
Jooheon’s technique was different from what Minhyuk remembered. More confident. More demanding. He took Minhyuk deeper than he’d ever dared in their twenties, throat relaxing around him in a way that spoke of practice, of determination, of those two years of imagining. His hand worked what his mouth couldn’t reach, and the combination—wet heat and rough palm and those devastating calluses—had Minhyuk teetering on the edge within minutes.
He pulled off Jooheon’s cock with a gasp. “Stop. Stop, I’m going to—”
Jooheon’s mouth released him immediately. “Too much?”
“Too close.” Minhyuk pressed his forehead against Jooheon’s hip, breathing hard. “Not yet. Not like this.”
There was a pause. Then Jooheon was shifting, turning, repositioning himself until they were face-to-face again. His lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and there was a smear of moisture at the corner of his mouth that Minhyuk wanted to lick away.
“How do you want it?” Jooheon asked.
The question made Minhyuk’s chest tighten. Jooheon had always deferred to him in the past. Always let him lead. But this wasn’t the past, and Jooheon was asking with an intensity that suggested he already knew the answer.
Minhyuk reached up and cupped his face. “On your stomach.”
Jooheon’s breath caught.
“Bend over,” Minhyuk said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. “Arch your back for me.”
The shift was instant.
Jooheon’s dominant confidence cracked like a mirror. His eyes went wide, and then soft, and the dimples that had been missing all evening suddenly appeared—not in a smirk, but in something vulnerable. Something familiar.
“Hyung,” he whispered.
“You’ve been so bossy tonight.” Minhyuk’s thumb traced his cheekbone. “So in control. But you’re still my baby, aren’t you?”
Jooheon’s exhale was shaky. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m still yours.” His voice dropped, small and earnest. “I’m still your baby.”
The words landed in Minhyuk’s chest like a physical blow. He pulled Jooheon down for a kiss—softer this time, sweeter—and then gently pushed at his shoulder.
“Then bend over.”
Jooheon complied immediately. He settled on his stomach, face pressed into a pillow, and when Minhyuk’s hands guided his hips up, he arched his back with the kind of submission that made Minhyuk’s head spin. The streetlamp painted orange stripes across his skin, highlighting the dip of his spine, the swell of his ass, the dark shadow between his thighs.
And there—pink and tight and perfect—was Jooheon’s hole.
Minhyuk’s mouth went dry.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hands settled on Jooheon’s ass, thumbs spreading him open. “You’re so beautiful, Jooheon-ah.”
Jooheon whimpered into the pillow. A sound that went straight to Minhyuk’s cock.
He lowered his mouth and licked.
The first touch of his tongue made Jooheon’s whole body jolt. His hips bucked forward, then back, chasing the sensation, and Minhyuk’s hands held him steady. He licked again—a broad stroke from perineum to tailbone—and Jooheon’s whimper became a moan.
“Hyung, please—”
“Please what?” Minhyuk’s tongue circled his rim, feather-light. “Use your words.”
“More. Please, more.”
Minhyuk gave him more. He ate Jooheon out with the same patience Jooheon had shown him earlier—slow and deliberate and utterly focused. His tongue traced circles around the tight ring of muscle, pressed flat against it, teased at the center. Jooheon’s moans filled the apartment, muffled by the pillow but unmistakable, and the sounds he made were deeper than Minhyuk remembered. Rougher. A man’s sounds, not a boy’s.
The tip of his tongue pressed inside.
Jooheon cried out.
“There,” Minhyuk breathed against him. “There’s my baby.”
He worked him open with tongue and patience, with the kind of devotion that made up for two years of absence. Jooheon’s hips rocked back against his face, seeking more, and Minhyuk gave it to him—gave him everything, licking into him until his jaw ached and Jooheon was trembling beneath him.
“Hyung,” Jooheon gasped. “I need—I need you inside me.”
Minhyuk pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock was aching, leaking, desperate. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. Please. Fuck me.”
The words went through Minhyuk like a current. He positioned himself behind Jooheon, one hand on his hip, the other guiding his cock to that slick, waiting heat. The head pressed against Jooheon’s entrance, and they both held their breath.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Minhyuk said.
“It won’t be. I want this. I want you.”
Minhyuk pushed inside.
The heat was staggering. Tight and wet and perfect, and Jooheon’s groan was the most beautiful sound Minhyuk had ever heard. He sank in slowly—inch by inch, giving Jooheon time to adjust—until his hips were flush against that perfect ass.
“Okay?”
“More than okay.” Jooheon’s voice was wrecked. “Move. Please move.”
Minhyuk moved.
The rhythm came naturally, the way it always had between them. Slow at first, then building. Minhyuk’s hands gripped Jooheon’s hips hard enough to bruise, and Jooheon pushed back into every thrust, meeting him with the same desperate need.
The apartment filled with the sounds of their bodies—skin on skin, the wet slide of Minhyuk’s cock, the broken moans falling from Jooheon’s lips. Minhyuk leaned over him, chest pressed to his back, and bit gently at the curve of his shoulder.
“You feel so good,” he breathed. “So tight for me.”
“Only for you. Only ever—ah—”
Minhyuk’s hand found Jooheon’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. The angle was awkward but the sensation was devastating—Jooheon’s body clenching around him, Jooheon’s cock pulsing in his grip.
They moved together like that for long minutes, lost in each other. Then Jooheon was pulling forward, slipping off Minhyuk’s cock, and Minhyuk barely had time to protest before Jooheon was flipping onto his back. His legs spread wide, knees drawn up, exposing himself completely.
“Like this,” he said, eyes dark and desperate. “Want to see you. Want to kiss you.”
Minhyuk settled between his thighs, guided himself back inside, and watched Jooheon’s face as he sank home. The pleasure that flickered across his features—the way his mouth fell open, the way his eyes fluttered shut—was the most erotic thing Minhyuk had ever witnessed.
He leaned down and kissed him.
They moved together with Jooheon’s legs wrapped around his waist, mouths fused, sweat-slick chests sliding together. Minhyuk’s hand found Jooheon’s cock again, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, and Jooheon’s moans vibrated against his lips.
“Close,” Jooheon gasped. “Hyung, I’m close—”
“Me too. Together. Come with me.”
“Yes, yes, please—”
Minhyuk’s rhythm stuttered, and then Jooheon was arching beneath him, and the heat of his release spilled across Minhyuk’s hand at the same moment that Minhyuk’s own climax crashed through him. He buried himself deep and came with a groan that was swallowed by Jooheon’s kiss.
They lay there afterward, tangled and breathless, the futon a wreck beneath them. Minhyuk pulled out carefully and collapsed beside him, and Jooheon immediately turned into his chest, face pressed against his throat.
Neither of them spoke.
The credits had long since stopped rolling. The television screen was black. The streetlamp outside cast its steady orange glow through the curtains, and Seoul hummed quietly beyond the window.
Jooheon’s hand found Minhyuk’s in the dark. Their fingers interlaced.
“Don’t make me wait for years again next time,” Jooheon murmured against his skin.
Chris & Matt x f! Reader (MMF Threesome)
Mature | Explicit | MDNI | One-Shot
A casual afternoon hangout turns into a heated, unforgettable encounter when you find yourself caught between the desires of two twin brothers.
Matt in the Middle Chris in the Center
The afternoon sun filters through the blinds as you check your reflection one last time in the full-length mirror. The plunging neckline of your black top leaves almost nothing to the imagination, the thin fabric hugging every curve of your body before tucking into high-waisted jeans that make your legs look endless. You run your fingers through your hair, tousling it just enough to look effortlessly messy. Perfect.
Your roommate emerges from her bedroom in a flowy sundress, her petite frame swimming in the fabric but the deep V-cut showing off her cleavage. She raises an eyebrow at your outfit.
"Subtle," she says, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
You shrug, grabbing your purse. "Chris wouldn't stop texting and flirting. Might as well give him something to think about."
The drive to the triplets' house feels charged with anticipation. Your phone buzzes with Chris's address, and you follow the GPS through winding streets until you pull up to a modest but nice suburban home. He invited you two over for a simple afternoon hangout. The front yard is well-kept, and you can see a few cars parked in the driveway.
You and your roommate walk up the path, and before you can even knock, the door swings open. Chris stands there in a fitted black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his dark hair swept back from his face. His blue eyes immediately drop to your chest, lingering for a beat too long before flickering back up to your face with an unapologetic grin.
"Damn," he says, stepping aside to let you in. "You two clean up nice."
"Clean up?" You laugh, brushing past him and letting your shoulder graze his chest. "We look this good naturally."
Chris chuckles, closing the door behind you. The living room is spacious and surprisingly tidy for three guys living together. A large sectional couch faces a massive TV, and gaming consoles sit organized beneath it.
"Make yourselves at home," Chris says, gesturing toward the kitchen. "I ordered food. Figured we could hang, play some games, whatever."
You follow him into the kitchen, where the island counter is absolutely covered with food. Four large pizza boxes are stacked haphazardly, a dozen glazed donuts sit in an open box, and a variety of sodas are lined up in a cooler. The spread is almost comical.
"Hungry much?" Your roommate laughs, reaching for a soda.
"Nick usually plans the snacks, but he's out of town with his boyfriend," Chris explains, leaning against the counter and watching you with those intense blue eyes. "So I might have overdone it."
"Where are your brothers?" You ask casually, plucking a pepperoni slice from one of the pizza boxes.
"Matt's off working on some project. Nick's in Vegas for the weekend." Chris shrugs, taking a sip of his own drink. "Just me today."
His gaze hasn't left you since you walked in. There's an energy coming off him—electric, almost restless. He keeps shifting his weight, finding reasons to move closer, brush against your arm, lean in when you talk. You can feel the tension building with every passing minute.
You all migrate to the living room, settling onto the large sectional. Chris insists you sit in the middle, your roommate on one end, him on the other. He puts on a movie, but you can tell his attention is nowhere near the screen.
Within twenty minutes, he's migrated closer. His thigh presses against yours, warm through the denim. He puts his arm along the back of the couch behind you, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. Each touch sends a tiny spark through your skin.
"You're not even watching the movie," you murmur, turning your head to find his face inches from yours.
"Nope." His voice is low, rough. "Got something better to look at."
Your roommate clears her throat meaningfully, and you both glance over. She's smirking, legs tucked under her, watching the scene unfold with amusement.
"Want me to leave you two alone?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.
Chris's hand slides from the couch to your shoulder, his thumb tracing small circles on your bare skin. "Stay," he says, but his eyes are locked on yours. "This is about to get interesting."
You don't wait for him to make the first move. You turn fully toward him, grabbing the front of his t-shirt and pulling him in. Your lips meet his in a heated kiss, and Chris responds immediately. His hand slides up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, hungry and demanding.
You shift, climbing onto his lap without breaking the kiss. His hands drop to your waist, gripping you firmly as you settle against him. You can feel the hard ridge of him already growing beneath his sweatpants, pressing against your core.
"Fuck," he groans against your lips, one hand sliding down to grab your ass. "Been thinking about this since that night"
Your roommate shifts on the other end of the couch, and you hear the soft sound of fabric rustling. You glance over to find her watching you, her dress hiked up, fingers trailing between her thighs. The sight sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs.
Chris follows your gaze and grins. "Like an audience, huh?"
"Shut up and keep kissing me," you reply, pulling him back to you.
His hands are everywhere—sliding up your sides, brushing the curve of your breasts through the thin bodysuit, gripping your hips to grind you against him. You reach down and pull at the hem of his shirt, and he breaks away just long enough to yank it over his head. His chest is lean but defined, and you run your hands over the planes of muscle appreciatively.
You're about to reach for his waistband when a heavy click echoes through the room.
The front door swings open.
Matt walks in, car keys still in hand. He freezes mid-step, eyes landing on the scene in the living room—your roommate touching herself on one end of the couch, you straddling his brother, both of you half-dressed.
Chris doesn't even flinch. Instead, a cocky smirk spreads across his face. "Yo, remember them from the music video? Invited them over."
The air leaves the room.
Matt's expression shifts from confusion to something unreadable as his gaze locks with yours. Time seems to slow. You see the exact moment recognition hits—the way his blue eyes widen, the slight parting of his lips.
He steps fully inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click.
"Actually," Matt smiles and says, his voice carefully controlled, "I invited them to that shoot."
Chris's jaw drops. He looks between you and Matt, his brain visibly rewinding through the last few weeks. "Wait… you two know each other?"
"Better than that," Matt says, a hint of possessiveness coloring his tone. "They showed me a great time that one night."
The silence stretches taut. Chris's expression shifts from shock to something darker—competition, maybe. You can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
Before anyone can speak, a phone rings sharply. Your roommate jumps, reaching for her purse. She answers, listens for a moment, and her face falls.
"Shit. Work emergency. I have to go." She stands quickly, smoothing down her dress. She catches your eye and gives you a meaningful look—you're on your own now. Have fun. "Nice seeing you again, Matt. See you later, Chris." Then she winked at them.
She's out the door in under two minutes, leaving the three of you in charged silence.
You're still straddling Chris, but your attention is split between the brothers. The tension is thick, loaded with unspoken history and sudden rivalry. Both men are looking at you—Chris with hunger, Matt with something deeper.
Slowly, you climb off Chris's lap and settle onto the couch between them. Your heart pounds in your chest, but you force yourself to appear calm.
"So…" you say, breaking the silence. "This is cool. Everything's chill."
To prove it, you turn to Chris and pull him into another kiss. He responds eagerly, his hand immediately sliding to your thigh. You let the kiss build, let yourself get lost in his electric energy, before pulling back.
Then you turn to Matt.
His blue eyes are dark, watchful. You lean in and press your lips to his. The kiss is different—slower, deeper. Matt's hand comes up to cup your jaw, his beard rough against your skin in a way that sends shivers down your spine. He kisses you like he's claiming something that belongs to him.
When you pull back, you're breathless. Both brothers are watching you intensely, their bodies tense on either side of you.
You look between them, a wicked idea forming in your mind.
"Have you two ever shared one girl?"
Their answers come simultaneously, firm and dark. "No."
You hold their stares, feeling the heat radiating from both of them. A slow smile spreads across your face.
"Well," you murmur, "there's always a first time for everything."
Without hesitation, you reach down and grab the hem of your top. You pull it over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. The cool air hits your bare skin, and both brothers' eyes drop to your exposed chest.
For a split second, Matt and Chris lock eyes across your lap. Something passes between them—a look of understanding, maybe. The rivalry shifts into something unified.
Then they move.
Chris lunges forward, burying his face in your neck. His teeth graze your skin, biting and sucking, leaving marks that sting in the best way. Matt's hand cuffs your jaw, tilting your head back as he captures your mouth in a searing kiss.
You're overwhelmed with sensation—Chris's hungry mouth on your neck, his hands gripping your waist; Matt's beard scraping your chin as his tongue tangles with yours, his touch more controlled but no less intense. They're opposites in style, and the contrast makes your head spin.
Chris slides down, his mouth trailing from your neck to your chest. He takes one breast in his mouth, tongue swirling around your nipple. Matt pulls back from the kiss and follows suit, his bearded jaw brushing against your skin as he takes your other breast.
A moan escapes your lips, your head falling back against the couch.
"Fuck, you taste so good," Chris murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your nipple.
Matt doesn't speak—he just works, his mouth hot and skilled. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers popping the button of your jeans before sliding beneath the fabric. He finds you already wet, and a low sound vibrates against your breast when he feels how turned on you are.
"Christ," Matt breathes, pulling back just enough to speak. "Already so fucking wet."
You whimper, unable to form words. Your hands find their hair—tugging at Chris's dark locks, gripping Matt's messy brown strands.
After several agonizing minutes, you pull back, breathing hard. You slide off the couch onto your knees on the floor, turning to face them.
"Take them off," you command, reaching for Chris's waistband.
Both brothers stand and shed their remaining clothes. You watch, mouth watering, as they reveal themselves. Their cocks are nearly identical—both long and thick, already hard and straining.
You take Chris in your mouth first, swirling your tongue around his tip. He groans, hand finding your hair. You bob your head a few times before switching to Matt, taking him deep in one smooth motion.
You alternate between them—sucking one, stroking the other, switching before either gets too close. Their sounds fill the room, mixing with the wet sounds of your mouth.
"Shit," Chris hisses, head thrown back. "Where did you find her?"
Matt doesn't answer. He's watching you with dark eyes, his hand gentle but firm on your head.
After several minutes, Matt pulls you up. He positions you over the couch, bending you forward. You find your face inches from Chris's cock again.
Matt kneels behind you, and you feel his tongue against your folds. He devours you from behind, beard scraping against your sensitive skin, tongue delving deep. You moan around Chris's cock, the vibrations making him curse.
Matt works you until you're trembling, then stands. He lines himself up and pushes inside you with one smooth thrust. You gasp, pulling off Chris.
"Fuck, Matt!"
He sets a steady rhythm, gripping your hips as he fucks you from behind. You take Chris back into your mouth, trying to match Matt's pace.
Matt pulls you up suddenly, turning your head to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lips. Chris stands, now fully naked, and you turn back to him.
Chris pulls you away from Matt, flipping you onto your back on the couch. He kneels between your thighs and sinks into you in one thrust.
"God, you're tight," he groans, setting a punishing rhythm.
Matt stands beside you, stroking himself as he watches. He bends down, capturing your mouth in a kiss while his hand finds your breast, rolling your nipple.
Chris leans down, taking your other breast in his mouth. He fucks you harder, one hand pressing against your clit.
"Close," you whimper against Matt's lips.
Chris rubs faster, hitting deeper. Matt's mouth moves to your ear.
"Come for us," Matt murmurs.
You shatter, crying out as your orgasm crashes through you. Chris follows moments later, burying himself deep as he comes inside you.
Matt positions himself by your head, and you take him into your mouth. He's close already from watching. He thrusts gently, hand cradling your head.
With a groan, he pulls back, coming across your lips and chin.
You all collapse onto the couch, breathing heavily. The room smells of sweat and sex, the afternoon light golden through the windows.
"That was," Chris breathes, "fucking incredible."
Matt's hand finds yours, squeezing gently.
"Yeah," you agree, satisfaction heavy in your limbs. "It really was."
The silence that settles over the three of you is heavy, but not uncomfortable. Your body feels like liquid, every muscle loose and satisfied, your skin still tingling from the onslaught of sensation. Chris shifts beside you, his hand lazily tracing patterns on your thigh.
"Insatiable," you murmur, catching his eye.
He grins, that dimple appearing in his cheek. "Can you blame me?"
Before you can respond, Matt's hand slides between your thighs. His fingers find your sensitive entrance, still slick with the evidence of your encounter. You gasp, your body jerking at the contact—still so tender from your earlier orgasm.
"Matt," you breathe, but he doesn't stop.
His fingers move slowly, deliberately, curling inside you. Chris leans in, capturing your mouth in a lazy kiss while Matt works you higher. You whimper against Chris's lips, your hand reaching blindly for Matt, finding his shoulder and squeezing.
They move in tandem—Chris swallowing your sounds while Matt builds you up, his thumb finding your clit and pressing in tight circles. The pleasure crests slowly, a rolling wave instead of a sharp peak, and when you come, you tremble between them, your moans swallowed by Chris's hungry mouth.
Matt withdraws slowly, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder. "Beautiful," he murmurs.
He stands, stretching, and walks toward the kitchen. You watch him go, admiring the lean lines of his body, the way his back muscles shift under his skin. He returns moments later with several hand towels, tossing one to Chris before settling back beside you.
His touch is gentle now—clinical, almost—as he wipes between your thighs, cleaning you with careful strokes. The gesture feels unexpectedly intimate, tender in a way that makes your chest tighten.
"Thank you," you whisper.
He meets your eyes, something soft in his expression. "Of course."
Chris cleans himself off, tossing the towel aside, and the three of you sit in the darkness, the only sound your mingled breathing. The room smells of sex and sweat, the air warm and heavy.
Eventually, you shift, lying back against the couch. Your head finds Chris's lap, his fingers immediately threading through your hair. Your legs stretch across Matt's thighs, his hand resting warm on your calf. The weight of exhaustion pulls at you, your eyelids growing heavy.
Sleep comes fast and deep.
You wake to darkness and silence.
A soft blanket covers you, tucked around your shoulders. The couch is empty except for you, the brothers gone. For a moment, you just lie there, blinking into the shadows, your body still humming with the memory of earlier.
Then the need to pee pulls you upright.
You pad through the dark house, your bare feet silent on the cool floors. The bathroom is easy to find, and you take a moment to relieve yourself, wash your face, and stare at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is a mess, your lips swollen, your skin flushed. You look thoroughly fucked.
You smile.
Heading back toward the living room, a sound stops you mid-step.
A moan. Low and muffled, coming from down the hall.
You pause, your heart rate spiking. Another moan, louder this time, and you realize it's coming from a bedroom door slightly ajar. Light spills through the crack, a warm golden glow from a bedside lamp.
You should go back to the living room. Lie down. Wait for morning.
Instead, you step closer.
Your hand touches the door, pushing it open just enough to see inside.
What you see makes your breath catch.
The room is dim, illuminated only by the soft light on the nightstand. On the bed, Matt lies on his back, his hands gripping the sheets. Your roommate is on top of him, her back arched, her hips rolling as she rides him. Her head is thrown back, her lips parted in pleasure.
And behind her—behind her is Chris.
He's kneeling, his hands gripping her waist, his body moving in a rhythm that makes your stomach clench. His face is tight with concentration, his jaw clenched.
"Fucking tight ass," Chris grunts, his voice low and rough.
Your roommate moans, a sound that borders on a scream, and Matt's hands slide up her sides to cup her breasts, pinching her nipples as she moves between them.
You can't breathe. Can't move.
You've heard of this but you've never seen it, never imagined how two men could fit inside one woman. The sight is overwhelming, obscene in the best possible way. Your roommate's body is sandwiched between them, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat, her expression one of pure ecstasy.
Matt's face catches your attention. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back against the pillow, his beard dark against his jaw. He looks wrecked, undone, completely lost in the sensation. You watch the way his muscles tense and relax, the way his hands roam your roommate's body.
Then you look up—and lock eyes with Chris.
He's watching you. A slow smile spreads across his face, his blue eyes dark with heat.
"Hey, beautiful," he says, his voice rough.
He pulls out of your roommate, leaving her whimpering at the sudden emptiness. Matt's eyes snap open, finding you in the doorway, and for a split second, you see panic flash across his face.
But you just smile.
Chris crosses the room toward you, his cock hard and glistening. He doesn't hesitate—just grabs your face and kisses you, deep and dirty. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting, claiming.
"Come on," he murmurs against your lips. "Come play."
He pulls you into the room, guiding you toward the bed. Your roommate opens her eyes, smiling lazily when she sees you.
"About time you woke up," she says, her voice breathless.
Matt sits up, his eyes still locked on yours. "I want her," he says quietly, looking at Chris.
Chris nods, shifting toward your roommate. "Fine by me."
Matt gently pushes your roommate aside, moving toward you. His hands find your waist, pulling you onto the bed beside him.
"Let me clean up first," he says, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. "Be right back."
He disappears into the ensuite bathroom, and you hear the water running. You lie back against the pillows, your body already heating up in anticipation. Chris has positioned your roommate on her hands and knees, and he's sliding into her from behind, both of them groaning at the contact.
The mattress shifts, and then Matt is there, emerging from the bathroom with a towel in hand. He's wiping himself down, and you watch the movement of his hand over his length, the way he cleans himself with efficient strokes.
Then he tosses the towel aside and climbs over you.
His lips find yours—soft at first, then harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling his hardness press against your thigh.
"I've been thinking about this," he murmurs against your lips. "About you."
You don't respond—just pull him back into the kiss.
His mouth moves down, trailing hot kisses along your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. He stops at your breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking hard. You arch into him, your hands sliding into his hair.
"Matt," you gasp.
He moves lower, his tongue tracing a line down your stomach, his hands gripping your hips. He settles between your thighs, his breath warm against your sensitive skin.
"Let me taste you," he says, and then his mouth is on you.
His tongue is skilled, practiced—teasing your clit before sliding lower, fucking you with his tongue. Your back arches off the bed, your hands fisting in his hair. He works you slowly, building you up with teasing strokes and gentle pressure, and when you're right on the edge, he pulls back.
"Matt, please," you whimper.
He grins up at you, his chin glistening. "Patience."
He moves back up your body, settling between your thighs. His cock presses against your entrance, and he pauses, meeting your eyes.
"I need you," you whisper.
He pushes inside you in one smooth stroke, filling you completely. You both groan at the sensation, your body stretching to accommodate him. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, before he starts to move.
His rhythm is steady, deep—each thrust hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your legs wrapped tight around his waist.
Beside you, Chris and your roommate have shifted positions. Chris is on his back now, your roommate riding him, her head thrown back in pleasure. Chris's hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers.
He turns his head, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss while Matt fucks you. The dual sensation is overwhelming—Matt's steady thrusts inside you, Chris's tongue in your mouth, your roommate's moans filling the air.
"God, you're gorgeous," Chris murmurs against your lips.
Matt's thrusts speed up, his breathing growing ragged. "Getting close," he grunts.
You are too—the coil in your belly tightening, your body tensing beneath him.
Your roommate cries out, her body shuddering as she cums, and the sound pushes you closer to the edge.
"Let go," Chris whispers in your ear, his hand sliding down to rub your clit. "Cum for us."
Your orgasm crashes through you, your back arching as you cry out Matt's name. He follows you over the edge, burying himself deep as he cums inside you, his groan mixing with yours.
Chris isn't far behind. Your roommate slides off him, taking him into her mouth. He cums with a grunt, his hand fisted in her hair as she swallows every drop.
For a long moment, no one moves. The four of you lie tangled together on the bed, bodies sweaty and satisfied, breathing slowly returning to normal.
Then Matt rolls off you, lying on your other side. His hand finds yours, squeezing gently.
"That was," he pauses, catching his breath. "Something else."
You laugh, the sound tired but content. "Yeah. It really was."
Your roommate crawls up the bed, settling beside you with a satisfied sigh. Chris is already half-asleep, his arm thrown over his eyes.
"Stay the night," Matt murmurs, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Both of you."
You don't have the energy to argue. Don't want to.
"Okay," you whisper.
Sleep takes you again, but this time, you're not alone. This time, you're wrapped in warmth and satiation, surrounded by bodies that know exactly how to make you feel wanted.
The night stretches on, dark and quiet, the four of you lost in dreams and tangled limbs.
Noise to Nest
Bang Chan X f! Reader
Mature | Explicit | Fluff
A quiet domestic sanctuary becomes a fiercely protective shield as you navigate the tender, unscripted realities of a hidden new chapter away from the public eye.
Surprise! I honestly just really missed these two and couldn't resist stepping back into their world to give them a quiet, fluffy moment of domestic bliss before the storm of next book begins.
Epilogue
The days that follow blur into a soft, hazy rhythm of domestic bliss. You've officially moved into his apartment now—your toothbrush sits next to his in the holder, your shampoo bottles line the edge of his shower, and your favorite mugs have claimed prime real estate in his kitchen cabinets. But the most telling sign of your presence is what's happening to his closet.
Your own clothes are growing snug. The early stages of pregnancy have begun to reshape you in subtle ways—a softness to your midsection, a slight swell that presses against the waistbands of your jeans. So you've stopped wearing your own clothes entirely. Instead, you live in his. His oversized hoodies that swallow you whole, his vintage tour shirts from years past, his sweatpants that you have to roll at the waist three times just to keep them up.
He loves it. Every time he catches you in something of his, his expression shifts—that particular softening around his eyes, the way his mouth curves into something private and pleased. You're wearing his scent now, quite literally, and the possessiveness in his gaze tells you he's more than okay with that.
It's late afternoon when the front door opens. You're curled up in his music chair—the oversized leather seat he uses when he's producing, positioned in front of his elaborate setup. The chair has become your favorite spot in the apartment. It smells like him most intensely here, hours of his body heat and concentration soaked into the leather. You're wearing his favorite vintage hoodie, a threadbare black thing so worn the fabric has gone soft as silk. It's from an early tour, the logo faded to a ghost of itself. He's had it for years, and now it's yours.
The door clicks shut, and heavy footsteps follow. Exhausted footsteps.
"Baby?" His voice is rough, frayed at the edges.
"In here," you call out, not moving from your comfortable nest.
Chan appears in the doorway of his studio room, and the sight of him makes your chest ache. Ten hours of dance practice have carved themselves into his frame. His hair was completely wild, a messy, unstyled tangle that fell over his forehead in disorganized strands, entirely untouched by the usual backstage styling. His shoulders are visibly tense, his movements sluggish. He leans against the doorframe, looking at you with half-lidded eyes that are struggling to stay open.
Then his gaze focuses on what you're wearing. Where you're sitting.
Something shifts in his face. The exhaustion remains, but there's something else now—a spark, a quiet intensity. He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room with purpose, his heavy steps eating up the distance between you.
"Don't move," he says when you start to uncurl from the chair. His voice is low, almost a rumble. "Stay right there."
He doesn't give you time to respond. He sinks into the chair with you, his large frame fitting around yours as he pulls you into his lap. You're wedged between him and the armrest, your legs draped over his thighs, his arms wrapping around you completely. His hands find the hem of the hoodie—his hoodie—and slide underneath, pressing against the bare skin of your thighs.
A breath escapes him. A slow exhale that sounds like relief.
"Fuck," he murmurs into your neck, his face buried there. "I needed this. Needed you."
His hands don't wander. They settle, warm and heavy, against your stomach. Against the slight swell that's beginning to show. His thumbs trace absent patterns on your skin, gentle and reverent. The exhaustion is still there in the tension of his muscles, in the heaviness of his limbs, but being here—holding you like this—something in him is unwinding.
"You smell like me," he says, almost to himself. His nose presses against the curve of your neck, inhaling. "You're wearing my clothes. Sitting in my chair. Growing our baby." A pause. "This is everything."
You run your fingers through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face. "Long day?"
"The longest." His voice is muffled against your skin. "But this fixes it. You fix it."
Time stretches. The room darkens as the sun begins to set outside the large windows, casting long shadows across the studio equipment. Neither of you moves to turn on a light. Chan stays exactly where he is, his face pressed against your neck, his hands resting warm and possessive on your body. He murmurs things—soft, half-formed words of praise, of gratitude, of want. But he doesn't move to act on any of them. He's drunk on the moment, drunk on the domesticity of having you here, wearing his scent, carrying his child.
"I could stay like this forever," he whispers against your throat. His lips brush your skin with each word, light and feather-soft. "Just this. Just you and little one."
You feel the tension bleeding out of his muscles, hour by hour. His breathing evens out, deepens. At some point, you realize he's drifted into a light doze, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still pressed to your stomach. You don't move. You don't want to break the spell.
Your own eyes grow heavy. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the lingering scent of his studio—it all pulls you toward sleep. You let yourself drift, your hand coming to rest on his chest, right over his heart.
You don't know how much time passes before you wake. The room is fully dark now, lit only by the faint glow of the equipment lights. Chan is still asleep beneath you, but you're stiff, your neck at an odd angle. You shift carefully, trying not to wake him as you stretch.
He stirs anyway. His arms tighten around you, a sleepy protest.
"Sorry," you whisper. "Just adjusting."
He makes a sound that's almost a whine, nuzzling deeper into your neck. "Don't go."
"I'm not going anywhere. Just need to—" You shift again, finding a better position. His hands flex against your skin, his fingers spreading wide over your stomach.
"Stay," he repeats, the word thick with sleep. "Always stay."
Something warm expands in your chest. You press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips finding his hair. "Always," you promise.
Later—much later—you find yourself in his bed, tangled in his sheets. Chan is asleep beside you, his breathing deep and even. The clock on his nightstand reads 2:00 AM when the craving hits.
It's sudden and fierce. A desperate, all-consuming need for something specific. Not just any food—that would be too simple. No, your pregnancy-addled brain has decided that what you absolutely need, right now, at two in the morning, is kimchi fried rice. But not the instant kind. Not delivery. No, you need it made fresh, with specific ingredients—aged kimchi, sesame oil drizzled at the end, a perfect fried egg on top with a runny yolk.
You stare at the ceiling, fighting against the urge. You should go back to sleep. This is ridiculous. But the craving gnaws at you, insistent and demanding.
Carefully, you begin to slide out of bed, moving inch by inch to avoid disturbing Chan. You're almost successful. Your feet touch the cold floor, and you're reaching for the door—
His hand closes around your wrist.
"Where are you going?" His voice is rough with sleep, barely coherent, but his grip is firm.
"I'm fine," you whisper. "Go back to sleep."
He doesn't. His eyes open, heavy-lidded but focused. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just a craving. I'll handle it."
He's sitting up before you can protest, his hair a mess, his eyes barely open but determined. "What do you need?"
"Chan, it's two in the morning. Sleep. I can—"
"What." His voice brokers no argument. "Do you need."
A sigh escapes you. "Kimchi fried rice. With a runny egg. And sesame oil. And aged kimchi specifically, not the fresh kind."
He stares at you for a beat. Then, without a word, he's up. He pads out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, wearing nothing but his boxers, his bare back illuminated by the faint light from the hallway.
You follow, feeling guilty. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." He doesn't turn around. "Sit."
You sit at the kitchen island, watching as he moves through the space with surprising efficiency for someone who was dead asleep moments ago. He pulls out ingredients, finds the right pan, cracks eggs with care. He's focused, serious—his brow furrowed as he consults his phone for confirmation on the rice-to-kimchi ratio.
It's absurd. The leader of one of the most susscessful groups, one of the most recognizable idols in the world, standing shirtless in his kitchen at two in the morning, intently researching the perfect technique for fried rice because his pregnant girlfriend had a random craving.
But he doesn't complain. Doesn't sigh or roll his eyes or suggest something easier. He just works, his broad shoulders catching the overhead light, his muscles shifting as he stir-fries the rice.
The smell fills the kitchen. Your stomach growls loudly, and Chan glances over his shoulder with a tired but genuine smile.
"Hungry?"
"Starving."
He plates the food with care, topping each portion with a perfect fried egg, the yolk glistening. He carries both plates to the island, setting one in front of you. But instead of taking his own seat beside you, he stands before you, picking up the spoon.
"Let me," he says, and you don't have the energy to protest.
He feeds you bite by bite, watching your face for your reaction. The rice is perfect—spicy and savory, the egg breaking beautifully over each spoonful. You can't help the moan that escapes you.
"Good?" He's pleased, almost shy about it.
"Perfect." You reach up, pulling him down for a kiss. You taste yourself on his lips—the tang of kimchi, the richness of sesame. He deepens it, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand coming to rest on your jaw.
When he pulls back, his eyes are warm. "More?"
You shake your head. "I'm good."
He eats his own portion standing beside you, occasionally leaning over to steal kisses between bites. The kitchen is quiet, intimate—just the two of you and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
"We should go back to bed," you say eventually.
"In a minute." He sets his empty plate aside, then pulls you off the stool and into his arms. His forehead presses against yours. "Thank you."
"For what? You're the one who cooked."
"For letting me take care of you." His thumbs trace your cheekbones. "For needing me."
The words land soft and heavy. You kiss him again, slower this time, tasting the lingering spice on his mouth.
The next morning, you wake to an empty bed. The sheets beside you are still warm. You hear water running in the bathroom.
When you shuffle in, still wearing his hoodie, Chan has drawn you a bath. Steam rises from the water, and the slate tiles are lined with candles he must have set out earlier. He's wearing sweatpants now, his hair still damp from his own shower.
"Come here," he says, his voice soft.
You let him undress you. His movements are unhurried, reverent. He lifts the hoodie over your head, then helps you step out of your underwear. His eyes trace your body—not with hunger, but with awe.
"You're beautiful," he says. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
He helps you into the tub, the warm water easing muscles you didn't realize were tense. Then he rolls up his sleeves, kneels beside the tub, and begins to wash your hair.
His fingers work through your scalp with practiced care, massaging gently. You let your eyes close, let yourself float in the sensation.
"I can do this myself babe," you murmur.
"I know." His voice is low, intimate. "I want to do it for you."
He rinses your hair, then moves to your shoulders, his thumbs working out knots you've been carrying. He doesn't speak. Just works, focused entirely on your comfort.
When the water begins to cool, he helps you out, wrapping you in a thick, warm towel. He carries you to the bedroom—not because you can't walk, but because he wants to. He sets you on the edge of the bed, then retrieves a bottle from the nightstand.
"Specialized oil," he explains, settling beside you. "For stretch marks."
He warms the oil between his palms, then begins to massage it into your stomach. His touch is slow, deliberate. His hands glide over the slight swell, over your hips, along the sides of your breasts.
"You're doing something incredible," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on your belly. "You know that?"
You don't respond. You can't, around the tightness in your throat.
He leans down, pressing his lips to your stomach. He stays there, speaking directly to the baby, his voice barely audible.
"Be gentle on her, okay? She's doing all the hard work. You just grow. Let me worry about everything else."
He kisses your skin again, then looks up at you. His eyes are wet.
"I'm ready," he says. "For all of it. For you. For this."
He pulls you down onto the bed beside him, his arms wrapping around you. You make out lazily, his hands tracing the oil on your skin, his mouth moving slow and soft against yours. There's no urgency—just tenderness.
Eventually, his phone buzzes. He glances at it with a sigh.
"Rehearsals."
"Go."
He presses one more kiss to your forehead before rising. He dresses efficiently, watching you the entire time.
"Rest today," he instructs. "I'll be back tonight."
"Chan."
He pauses at the door.
"Thank you. For everything."
His smile is soft. "Always."
And then he's gone, and you're alone in his bed, wrapped in his scent, carrying his child, thinking about how your life has become something you never could have dreamed of.
The Noise of the City
Mingyu x f! Reader | Idol x Staff
Mature | Explicit | Angst | MDNI
The suffocating reality of the city hits hard as the secret physical language of your Jeju getaway is repackaged into a public performance.
Part 7
The air in the rehearsal studio hangs heavy, a thick, recycled chill that tastes nothing like the salt-tinged breeze of Jeju. It smells of industrial floor polish, the metallic tang of camera equipment, and the faint, lingering musk of bodies pushing through choreography. For three days, the quiet of the villa had been your reality—the sound of waves, the warmth of Mingyu's skin, the luxury of existing in a world where time moved slow and sweet. Now, the city has you in its teeth again.
You adjust the weight of the stabilizer in your palm, your fingers numb from the cold and the constant grip. The monitor shows a wide shot of the main rehearsal hall, the polished wood floors reflecting the harsh overhead lights. The production crew moves around you like a single, multi-limbed organism, adjusting light stands, checking audio levels, shouting coordinates. You are back to being a ghost behind the lens, a professional observer, invisible and essential.
"Everybody, gather around! We're running the final solo routine in five!" the floor manager shouts, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation.
You shift your position, moving to the edge of the semi-circle forming in the center of the room. The dancers stretch and crack their necks, their faces already glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. The mood is tense, focused. This isn't the playful chaos of a variety show shoot; this is the engine room of the CxM Asia Tour, where every angle, every breath, every hip thrust is calculated for maximum impact.
The male head choreographer and the lead female dancer take the floor. They are professionals, their bodies lean and efficient machines. The music hits—a dark, bass-heavy R&B track that vibrates in your chest. It’s sensual, slow-burning, designed to make the audience hold their breath. Mingyu's solo.
You lift the camera, muscle memory taking over. Frame the shot. Check focus. Roll.
The choreography is immediately provocative. It’s an intense, intimate story told through heavy hip lines, lingering touches, and breathless proximity. The female dancer arches her back, her spine curving like a bow as the choreographer’s hand slides down her ribcage, resting heavy on her hip bone. It's clinical, precise, executed with the cool detachment of two artists showing the mechanics of a machine.
But you aren't watching them.
Your lens, almost of its own volition, drifts to the side of the frame. Mingyu stands across the room, arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of pure, hyper-focused intensity. He isn't Mingyu right now—he's the Idol, the Dior Prince, the product. His eyes are dark, tracking every fluid movement of the dancers with a clinical calculation, stripping the routine down to its parts, preparing to mimic it.
He is watching another woman's body move in ways you know intimately. He is studying the curve of her spine, the arch of her back, the way her chest rises and falls. You feel a sharp, irrational spike of heat in your stomach. It’s not just jealousy; it’s the jarring dissonance of seeing the man who held you under the stars now preparing to simulate that same intimacy for twenty thousand screaming fans.
The demonstration ends, and the room erupts in polite applause. Mingyu steps forward, shedding his jacket. "Okay," he says, his voice low and serious. "I'm ready to learn."
"Take the far corner," the choreographer instructs, pointing to the dimly lit edge of the studio. "We need to lock in the body contact."
Mingyu nods, walking past you without a glance. He doesn't see you. He is already in the zone, his gaze fixed on the female dancer following him. You force yourself to move, swinging the camera toward the staff adjusting the light stands, or Seungcheol stretching his hamstrings in the corner. You pretend to adjust your aperture. You pretend to be professional.
But your eyes betray you. Every few seconds, your gaze snaps back to that corner like a magnet to steel.
They are close now. Too close. The choreographer is molding them together, pushing Mingyu's chest flush against the dancer's back. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches the bass of the track still looping in your head.
"Arch your back more," the choreographer says, his hand pressing on the dancer's lumbar spine. "Mingyu, you need to feel the curve. Your hips need to lock here."
Mingyu's large hands settle on her waist. It’s a standard dance hold. It means nothing. But to you, it’s a violation. You remember the weight of those hands. You remember them sliding down your own sides, hot and possessive, in the dark of the villa. You remember them gripping your hips as he moved inside you, the way his thumb pressed into the soft flesh of your waist as he held you open for him.
Now, those same hands are public property. They are tools of the trade.
"Look at the angle of her shoulders," the coach says, adjusting the dancer's posture. Her body bends backward, her head resting on Mingyu's shoulder, her neck exposed and vulnerable.
The sight hits you like a physical blow. It triggers a vivid, agonizing flashback. The kitchen island. The morning sun cutting across the marble floor. You were arched back just like that, your head thrown back against his shoulder as he stood behind you, his body supporting your weight while his hands explored your front. You remember the coolness of the countertop against your spine and the scorching heat of his chest against your back. You remember the exact angle of your hips, the way he had groaned your name into your ear, a sound meant only for you.
"Hand on the ribs," the choreographer commands.
Mingyu obeys. His hand flattens against the dancer's lower ribs, his fingers splaying wide.
A physical ache blossoms in your chest. You remember the cliffside soaking tub. The steam rising around you. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus. You remember his hand resting in that exact spot, the oil making your skin slick, the way his thumb had traced lazy circles over your ribcage while he whispered about wanting one more night. You remember the intimacy of that touch—the tenderness of a man caring for you, washing you, worshipping you.
Now, his hand is performing. It is a prop in a story meant for the crowd. The realization crashes over you with a suffocating weight: his body, which felt so entirely yours just days ago, is a commodity. And you are just another member of the audience, watching from the dark, holding a camera, capturing the fantasy for someone else.
"Quick break! Thirty minutes!" the manager yells.
The spell breaks. The dancers separate, Mingyu stepping back with a polite nod, his face instantly shifting into a mask of charming exhaustion for the staff nearby.
You don't wait. You don't look at him. You grab your gear bag and slip out the heavy soundproof door, desperate to escape the image of them burned into your retinas.
The hallway is empty, sterile. You walk fast, your heels clicking on the linoleum. You bypass the breakroom where the smell of delivery boxes and coffee wafts out. You can't eat. You can't sit there and pretend to smile while the ghost of his touch haunts you.
You find a vending machine in a quiet corridor. You feed it bills, grabbing an iced coffee even though your hands are shaking. You down it in four long swallows, the cold sugar rushing through you, doing nothing to settle the churning in your gut. You hide in the bathroom for twenty minutes, splashing cold water on your face, trying to wash away the jealousy, the insecurity, the gnawing feeling that you are losing him to the machine that created him.
By the time you return to the studio, the break is nearly over. The main overhead lights have been killed, leaving the massive room in a heavy, dim twilight. Only the foot lights along the baseboards glow, casting long, distorted shadows up the walls. The audio monitors hum with a faint hiss.
You push the heavy studio door open just enough to peek through the narrow glass slit. You need to check if everyone is back before you barge in with your equipment.
You freeze.
The room isn't empty.
The solo track is playing softly over the monitors, looping a specific, slow section of the bridge. The bass pulses, a low heartbeat.
Mingyu and the female dancer are in the center of the floor. But they aren't practicing the routine. This dance is different—raw, effortless, stripped of the mechanical precision of the coaching session.
There are no mirrors to check angles, no coaches to correct form. It’s just movement.
Mingyu is standing directly behind her. Their bodies are flush, pressed together from chest to hip. She isn't arching away; she is melting back into him, her head tipped back against his shoulder, her hands looped up and wrapped securely around the back of his neck.
His hands are clamped firmly around her waist, anchoring her to his stride. They move together in a slow, grinding sway, hips rolling in perfect sync. It looks comfortable. It looks practiced. It looks like muscle memory.
Your heart jumps into your throat, choking you.
The silhouette is a perfect, cruel mirror of the night on the beach. The way he held you on the grey sand, watching the stars wheel overhead. The way your body fit into the curve of his like a puzzle piece. The way he moved with you then—not for a camera, but for the sheer pleasure of being inside you.
The jealousy that had been a knot in your chest suddenly tightens into a noose. It’s visceral. You can't breathe. You can't think. You are paralyzed by the sight of him holding someone else with that same easy intimacy, the intimacy you thought was exclusive to you.
"In order to execute a number like this well, they have to build absolute chemistry together," a low, casual voice says directly behind your shoulder.
You spin around, your pulse skyrocketing, a gasp catching in your throat.
The head choreographer is standing there, clipboard in hand. He isn't looking at you; he's looking through the glass, nodding with professional approval. He doesn't know. He doesn't see the ruin in your face.
"It needs to look real," he continues, his tone clinical, cold. "The audience needs to believe it. They need to believe he's in love with her for those three minutes."
The words ground you like glass.
Believe he's in love with her.
In this world, the intimacy you shared in Jeju—the whispers, the confessions, the desperate, sweaty tangle of limbs—is yours. It belongs to you. But the performance? The fantasy? That belongs to everyone else. He is selling a dream, and you are just the witness, trapped behind the glass, watching the dream be built for someone else.
You feel sick. You feel hollowed out.
"I… E… Excuse me Sir, I have to go," you stammer, clutching your camera bag to your chest like a shield.
The choreographer looks at you, surprised. "We're starting again in five."
"I'm not feeling well," you manage, your voice thin. "I think it's something I ate. I need to go home."
He frowns but waves you off. "Fine. Get some rest."
You don't wait for permission. You turn and flee down the corridor, the sound of the bass-heavy track fading behind you.
You don't remember the drive home. The city blurs past the windshield—neon signs, traffic lights, the endless stream of headlights. You are operating on autopilot, your mind screaming. You walk into your apartment and drop your keys on the floor. You kick off your shoes. You fall onto the sofa, fully clothed, and stare at the ceiling.
The silence is deafening. It doesn't have the warmth of the villa. It just has the echo of your own spiraling thoughts.
Is it real? Is any of it real?
A buzz on your phone vibrates against the cushion. You ignore it. Another buzz. Then another.
Finally, the screen lights up with a call.
Mingyu.
You let it ring until it cuts to voicemail. A minute later, he calls again.
You turn the phone over, pressing your face into the pillow, trying to drown out the noise, trying to drown out the image of his hands on her, the choreographer's words echoing in your head.
They have to build absolute chemistry together.
You squeeze your eyes shut, but the darkness offers no relief.
I really don't wanna overanalize it much because it's only a fanfic, a fantasy that fans writting or reading for fucks and giggles but for some reason it felt the choreographer knew how to make us the reader feel even more insecure about ourselves by pushing things too far between the dancer and Mingyu, it was just like they were trying to ruin the relationship without actually know Mingyu and the reader have a relationship or whatever we are at this point. Maybe I'm overthinking it too much, anyways looking forward to see how the story goes.
wow, thanks for this. i appreciate this cause honestly i really think people don't really care much. hahaha but i love this take.however, when i was writing this, in my head male idols aren't really encouraged to dance in pairs with female dancers cause of fans. so i was thinking maybe mingyu finds the dance choreo and was having kind of a hard time connecting hence the choreographer pushing them to connect. :)
Entering His Orbit
Wonwoo x f! Reader | Single Dad x Teacher
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
Stepping into the polished elegance of his past world for a high-stakes family dinner, you shatter the remaining distance between you, solidifying an intimate bond that transforms his complicated history into a shared sanctuary.
Part 5 Part 7
The invitation hangs in the air between you, weighted with implications that stretch far beyond the walls of Sunflower Seed Daycare. Wonwoo stands at your desk, his presence somehow larger than the space he occupies, and you watch the way afternoon light catches the sharp angle of his jaw.
"A farewell dinner," you repeat, your voice carefully neutral. "For Miguel's mom."
He nods once. "This Friday. Seven o'clock." His dark eyes hold yours with that same unflinching intensity that has become impossibly familiar. "I need you there. Not as Miguel's teacher."
The distinction lands like a stone dropped into still water. You feel the ripples spread through your chest, your pulse quickening despite your best efforts to maintain professional composure. You've spent the last three days replaying the breakroom encounter in fragments—the rough fabric of the old couch beneath your palms, the devastating heat of his mouth, the way his voice had cracked when he finally let go.
"Okay," you hear yourself say. "I'll be there."
He gives you that small, enigmatic nod, the corners of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. "I'll pick you up at six-thirty."
And then he's gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of cedar and something deeper, something that makes your stomach clench with anticipation.
Friday arrives with an unseasonable warmth, the kind of golden autumn afternoon that makes the suburbs glow like honey. You stand in your apartment, staring at a closet that has never felt more inadequate.
The overalls are easy to bypass. They sit at the front, paint-stained and comfortable, a uniform you've hidden behind for years. But tonight requires something different. Tonight requires armor of an entirely different sort.
You reach toward the back, past the sensible cardigans and worn denim, until your fingers brush silk. The dress emerges like a revelation—sleek, sophisticated, a midi length with an open back that you purchased years ago for a gallery opening you never attended. It's timeless. Elegant. The kind of garment that belongs to a woman who knows exactly who she is.
Which is precisely the problem.
You step into the dress, the fabric sliding over your skin like water. When you turn to the mirror, a stranger stares back. Your reflection shows a woman with carefully applied makeup, hair loose around your shoulders in soft waves that took an hour to perfect. The dress hugs your curves with precision, the open back revealing a line of vertebrae that usually disappears beneath shapeless cotton.
The transformation is jarring. You think of your strict upbringing—classical music drifting through marble hallways, etiquette lessons that felt like rituals, a childhood spent learning to be decorative rather than heard. You had the past few years actively rebelling against that polished version of yourself, finding freedom in chaos and paint stains.
And yet here you are, stepping back into that skin as easily as slipping on a glove.
You look like someone who belongs in Wonwoo's world. The realization sends a complicated ache through your chest.
At exactly six-thirty, your buzzer sounds. You press the button to let him up, then stand frozen in your entryway, suddenly terrified that you've made a terrible mistake.
The knock comes. You open the door.
Wonwoo stands in your hallway, and the sight of him steals the breath from your lungs.
Gone are the soft cardigans and wire-rimmed glasses. He wears a sharply tailored black blazer over a dark silk shirt, the fabric catching light in ways that emphasize the broad planes of his shoulders. His hair is styled back from his face, revealing the clean, devastating line of his jaw. He looks like the man you watched on screen—commanding, magnetic, overwhelmingly masculine.
But it's his eyes that undo you. They sweep over you with naked appreciation, and you watch his calculated stillness crack. Something raw flickers across his expression, something hungry.
"Sweetheart." The nickname is a low rumble that vibrates in your chest.
He steps closer, one hand rising to rest flat against the small of your back, his thumb tracing the bare skin there with maddening pressure. Heat radiates from his palm, seeping into your bones. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
"I knew you were beautiful," he breathes, and his voice drops to that gravel-deep resonance that makes your knees weak. "But seeing you like this… it makes me want to take you back inside your apartment."
Your breath catches. The dress suddenly feels thinner, more revealing. Every point of contact between his hand and your back sparks with electricity.
"Later," you manage, surprised by the steadiness in your voice. "We have a dinner to attend."
His thumb presses harder, a promise and a warning. "Later," he agrees.
The restaurant sits tucked behind an unmarked door in the city's most exclusive district. A private entrance leads you past security that feels more suited to a diplomatic function than a family dinner, into a soundproof room washed in amber light and dressed in white linen.
You see her, she rises from the table the moment you enter, and your heart stutters.
She is stunning. A sleek black bob frames sculpted features, high cheekbones catching the candlelight. Her cream sweater and tailored trousers whisper of money and taste, but her eyes—sharp, intelligent, warm—hold something more. She moves with the grace of someone who has spent decades commanding stages, and when she smiles, you understand why stadiums fell at her feet.
"You must be the famous lady," she says, extending a hand. "The teacher Miguel cannot stop talking about."
Her English flows with the faint lilt of someone who has lived in a dozen countries. You take her hand, noting the firm, confident grip.
"It's lovely to meet you," you reply, falling into the polished rhythm of your upbringing. "Your son is extraordinary."
Something flickers in her gaze—curiosity, assessment, perhaps a hint of surprise. She gestures for you to sit, and you find yourself placed between her and Wonwoo, Miguel's small form contentedly coloring at the far end of the table.
The first course arrives. Conversation flows, and you navigate it with an ease that surprises even yourself. You discuss a photography exhibition you attended last month, transitioning seamlessly into a conversation about the intersection of classical composition and modern jazz. Her eyes light up, and she mentions a choreographer who worked with Miles Davis in the eighties.
Wonwoo's hand finds your thigh beneath the white tablecloth.
The grip is firm, proprietary. His palm radiates heat through the thin silk of your dress, his thumb tracing lazy circles that make it difficult to focus on the conversation. Every time she laughs or references a shared memory—"That tour in Berlin, do you remember the blackout?"—Wonwoo's fingers tighten, grounding you, reminding you of exactly who you belong to.
She mentions, almost casually, that she's been staying at Wonwoo's house during her visit. "So generous," she says, smiling at him. "He insisted. Why waste money on a hotel when the guest room sits empty?"
Your heart sinks. They've been living together—low-key, domestic—for days. The image of them sharing morning coffee, of Miguel bounding between his beautiful parents, of them being so close to each other at night, sends a cold spike through your chest.
Wonwoo's thumb presses harder into your thigh. His gaze flicks to yours, reading the shift in your expression. He leans close, his lips barely grazing your ear.
"Don't," he murmurs. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."
But you can't help it. The seed has been planted, and it grows in the silence between courses.
Halfway through the main course, Miguel's eyelids begin to droop. Wonwoo stands, lifting the sleepy boy into his arms with practiced ease.
"I'll take him to the restroom," he says quietly. "Freshen him up before we go."
The door clicks shut behind him.
The room transforms. The air grows heavy, charged with a new intensity. She sets down her fork and reaches for the wine bottle, pouring you both fresh glasses with deliberate care.
"He looks at you differently," she says.
You blink. "What?"
"Wonwoo." She studies you over the rim of her glass. "When you walked in tonight. I haven't seen that look on his face in years."
Genuine curiosity flickers in her sharp eyes. She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, a woman entirely comfortable in her skin.
"I was the storm," she continues, her voice softening. "Chaos and movement and light. But Wonwoo… Wonwoo craves the earth. He needs roots. Someone who can hold his weight in the quiet." She tilts her head. "You have that stillness. That grounding."
The confession catches you off guard. You expect territorial hardness, a subtle warning to stay away. Instead, you find something far more complicated.
"I'm not here to reclaim him," she says, reading your silence. "My life is stages and airports. It always will be." A flicker of melancholy crosses her features, quickly suppressed. "But I protect what matters. Miguel. And Wonwoo's peace."
She sets down her glass. Her gaze holds yours with fierce, unflinching clarity.
"Loving someone like him isn't simple. His past comes with shadows you can't imagine. Fans who think they own him. Memories that haunt him." She pauses. "Are you ready for that?"
Your heart pounds against your ribs. You feel the weight of the question pressing down, demanding an honest answer. You think of the breakroom, his desperation, the way he'd held you afterward like you were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
You straighten your spine, letting your classical poise harden into something rawer.
"I'm not afraid of the dark," you say. "And I'm willing to try to turn that darkness into brightness."
She studies you for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she smiles—a genuine, warm expression that softens her sharp features.
"Good," she says. She reaches across the table and takes your hand, her grip firm and reassuring. "Take care of them both."
The door opens. Wonwoo steps back inside, Miguel drowsy against his shoulder. His gaze finds yours immediately, questioning, intense.
Something has shifted. You feel it in your bones.
The goodbye is bittersweet. She presses a kiss to Miguel's forehead, whispers something to his ear that makes him smile sleepily. Then she turns to you, pressing a folded piece of paper into your palm.
"My number," she says quietly. "If you ever need anything."
And then she's gone, swept away by a waiting car, leaving behind only the faint scent of expensive perfume.
The drive back is quiet. Miguel passes out almost immediately, his small body curling trustingly across your lap. You stroke his hair absently, staring out at the passing streetlights while Wonwoo navigates through the dark.
When he pulls up to your building, neither of you speaks. He kills the engine, comes around to open your door, and carefully lifts Miguel into his arms. You lead them upstairs, the silence stretching taut between you.
Inside your apartment, you gesture toward your bedroom. "Lay him down. He can nap for a bit before you head home."
Wonwoo disappears down the hallway. You hear the soft click of your bedroom door, the creak of your mattress.
Then footsteps returning.
He stops in the entryway to your living room, backlit by the streetlight filtering through your curtains. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.
And then he moves.
The restraint of the evening shatters. He crosses the space between you in two strides, pinning you against the wall beside your front door. His hands find the elegant fastenings of your dress, fingers working with desperate urgency.
"I thought about this all night," he growls against your mouth. "Watching you. Wanting you. Trying to focus on conversation when all I could think about was getting you out of this dress."
He captures your lips in a kiss that tastes like hunger, like gratitude, like something unnamed and devastating. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming, demanding. You moan into him, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the smooth fabric of his blazer.
He sheds the jacket without breaking contact. His silk shirt follows, pulled over his head and tossed carelessly aside. Then his hands are on you again, sliding beneath the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up your thighs.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathes, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your throat. "The way you talked tonight. The way you held yourself. You have no idea what it does to me."
Your head falls back against the wall. His mouth finds your collarbone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Heat pools low in your belly, want coiling tight.
"Bedroom," you gasp. "Miguel—"
"He's fast asleep. He won't wake."
He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you to the couch instead, laying you down on the cushions with reverent care. He stands over you for a moment, chest heaving, eyes blazing with naked desire.
Then he descends.
His hands work your dress up your hips, exposing you to the cool air. He groans at the sight of your underwear—delicate, matching, chosen specifically for tonight. He hooks his fingers beneath the lace and pulls it down your legs slowly, torturously.
"Waited all night for this," he murmurs, settling between your thighs. His breath ghosts over your most intimate flesh, and you shiver. "Let me show you what you do to me."
His mouth finds you.
The first stroke of his tongue steals every coherent thought from your mind. He works you with patient, devastating precision, learning your rhythm, your gasps, the way your hips roll against his mouth. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you still.
You thread your fingers through his styled hair, messing the careful arrangement, and he groans against you. The vibration makes you cry out, your back arching off the couch.
"Wonwoo—" His name breaks apart in your mouth.
He doesn't stop. He brings you to the edge slowly, backing off each time you grow too close, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling, desperate. Only then does he finally give you what you need, sucking your clit into his mouth with firm pressure.
Your orgasm crashes through you. You bite down on your hand to keep from screaming, your whole body shuddering. He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down.
When you finally open your eyes, he's staring at you with raw, vulnerable hunger. He reaches for his belt, the metal clink loud in your quiet apartment.
"I need you," he says roughly. "I need to feel you."
You reach for him, pulling him down into another kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, and something about it sends another pulse of heat through your core.
"Then have me," you whisper against his lips.
He sinks into you slowly, inch by devastating inch. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming. He stills once he's fully seated, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.
"Thank you," he breathes, barely audible. "For coming tonight. For stepping into this. For seeing me."
Your heart cracks open. You cup his face, thumbs stroking his sharp cheekbones.
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
He moves with deep, reverent strokes. This isn't like the breakroom—desperate and frantic. This is something else entirely. A claiming. A promise. He worships you with his body, his lips brushing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips like prayers.
"I spent years being looked at," he whispers against your skin. "Millions of eyes. None of them saw me. Not like you do."
Tears prick your eyes. You pull him closer, wrapping yourself around him completely.
"I see you, Wonwoo."
He shudders. His rhythm falters, grows more urgent. You feel him losing control, that carefully constructed facade crumbling. He buries his face in your neck, groans your name like a benediction.
When he finally comes, he pulses inside you with a broken sound that might be your name. He collapses against you, his weight grounding and real. You hold him through the tremors, your fingers tracing patterns on his sweat-slicked back.
The city glows beyond your curtains. Somewhere, his past waits with all its complications. But here, in this moment, there is only the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours.
You close your eyes.
And for the first time in years, you feel exactly where you belong.
The Noise of the City
Mingyu x f! Reader | Idol x Staff
Mature | Explicit | Angst | MDNI
The suffocating reality of the city hits hard as the secret physical language of your Jeju getaway is repackaged into a public performance.
Part 7 Part 9
The air in the rehearsal studio hangs heavy, a thick, recycled chill that tastes nothing like the salt-tinged breeze of Jeju. It smells of industrial floor polish, the metallic tang of camera equipment, and the faint, lingering musk of bodies pushing through choreography. For three days, the quiet of the villa had been your reality—the sound of waves, the warmth of Mingyu's skin, the luxury of existing in a world where time moved slow and sweet. Now, the city has you in its teeth again.
You adjust the weight of the stabilizer in your palm, your fingers numb from the cold and the constant grip. The monitor shows a wide shot of the main rehearsal hall, the polished wood floors reflecting the harsh overhead lights. The production crew moves around you like a single, multi-limbed organism, adjusting light stands, checking audio levels, shouting coordinates. You are back to being a ghost behind the lens, a professional observer, invisible and essential.
"Everybody, gather around! We're running the final solo routine in five!" the floor manager shouts, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation.
You shift your position, moving to the edge of the semi-circle forming in the center of the room. The dancers stretch and crack their necks, their faces already glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. The mood is tense, focused. This isn't the playful chaos of a variety show shoot; this is the engine room of the CxM Asia Tour, where every angle, every breath, every hip thrust is calculated for maximum impact.
The male head choreographer and the lead female dancer take the floor. They are professionals, their bodies lean and efficient machines. The music hits—a dark, bass-heavy R&B track that vibrates in your chest. It’s sensual, slow-burning, designed to make the audience hold their breath. Mingyu's solo.
You lift the camera, muscle memory taking over. Frame the shot. Check focus. Roll.
The choreography is immediately provocative. It’s an intense, intimate story told through heavy hip lines, lingering touches, and breathless proximity. The female dancer arches her back, her spine curving like a bow as the choreographer’s hand slides down her ribcage, resting heavy on her hip bone. It's clinical, precise, executed with the cool detachment of two artists showing the mechanics of a machine.
But you aren't watching them.
Your lens, almost of its own volition, drifts to the side of the frame. Mingyu stands across the room, arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of pure, hyper-focused intensity. He isn't Mingyu right now—he's the Idol, the Dior Prince, the product. His eyes are dark, tracking every fluid movement of the dancers with a clinical calculation, stripping the routine down to its parts, preparing to mimic it.
He is watching another woman's body move in ways you know intimately. He is studying the curve of her spine, the arch of her back, the way her chest rises and falls. You feel a sharp, irrational spike of heat in your stomach. It’s not just jealousy; it’s the jarring dissonance of seeing the man who held you under the stars now preparing to simulate that same intimacy for twenty thousand screaming fans.
The demonstration ends, and the room erupts in polite applause. Mingyu steps forward, shedding his jacket. "Okay," he says, his voice low and serious. "I'm ready to learn."
"Take the far corner," the choreographer instructs, pointing to the dimly lit edge of the studio. "We need to lock in the body contact."
Mingyu nods, walking past you without a glance. He doesn't see you. He is already in the zone, his gaze fixed on the female dancer following him. You force yourself to move, swinging the camera toward the staff adjusting the light stands, or Seungcheol stretching his hamstrings in the corner. You pretend to adjust your aperture. You pretend to be professional.
But your eyes betray you. Every few seconds, your gaze snaps back to that corner like a magnet to steel.
They are close now. Too close. The choreographer is molding them together, pushing Mingyu's chest flush against the dancer's back. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches the bass of the track still looping in your head.
"Arch your back more," the choreographer says, his hand pressing on the dancer's lumbar spine. "Mingyu, you need to feel the curve. Your hips need to lock here."
Mingyu's large hands settle on her waist. It’s a standard dance hold. It means nothing. But to you, it’s a violation. You remember the weight of those hands. You remember them sliding down your own sides, hot and possessive, in the dark of the villa. You remember them gripping your hips as he moved inside you, the way his thumb pressed into the soft flesh of your waist as he held you open for him.
Now, those same hands are public property. They are tools of the trade.
"Look at the angle of her shoulders," the coach says, adjusting the dancer's posture. Her body bends backward, her head resting on Mingyu's shoulder, her neck exposed and vulnerable.
The sight hits you like a physical blow. It triggers a vivid, agonizing flashback. The kitchen island. The morning sun cutting across the marble floor. You were arched back just like that, your head thrown back against his shoulder as he stood behind you, his body supporting your weight while his hands explored your front. You remember the coolness of the countertop against your spine and the scorching heat of his chest against your back. You remember the exact angle of your hips, the way he had groaned your name into your ear, a sound meant only for you.
"Hand on the ribs," the choreographer commands.
Mingyu obeys. His hand flattens against the dancer's lower ribs, his fingers splaying wide.
A physical ache blossoms in your chest. You remember the cliffside soaking tub. The steam rising around you. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus. You remember his hand resting in that exact spot, the oil making your skin slick, the way his thumb had traced lazy circles over your ribcage while he whispered about wanting one more night. You remember the intimacy of that touch—the tenderness of a man caring for you, washing you, worshipping you.
Now, his hand is performing. It is a prop in a story meant for the crowd. The realization crashes over you with a suffocating weight: his body, which felt so entirely yours just days ago, is a commodity. And you are just another member of the audience, watching from the dark, holding a camera, capturing the fantasy for someone else.
"Quick break! Thirty minutes!" the manager yells.
The spell breaks. The dancers separate, Mingyu stepping back with a polite nod, his face instantly shifting into a mask of charming exhaustion for the staff nearby.
You don't wait. You don't look at him. You grab your gear bag and slip out the heavy soundproof door, desperate to escape the image of them burned into your retinas.
The hallway is empty, sterile. You walk fast, your heels clicking on the linoleum. You bypass the breakroom where the smell of delivery boxes and coffee wafts out. You can't eat. You can't sit there and pretend to smile while the ghost of his touch haunts you.
You find a vending machine in a quiet corridor. You feed it bills, grabbing an iced coffee even though your hands are shaking. You down it in four long swallows, the cold sugar rushing through you, doing nothing to settle the churning in your gut. You hide in the bathroom for twenty minutes, splashing cold water on your face, trying to wash away the jealousy, the insecurity, the gnawing feeling that you are losing him to the machine that created him.
By the time you return to the studio, the break is nearly over. The main overhead lights have been killed, leaving the massive room in a heavy, dim twilight. Only the foot lights along the baseboards glow, casting long, distorted shadows up the walls. The audio monitors hum with a faint hiss.
You push the heavy studio door open just enough to peek through the narrow glass slit. You need to check if everyone is back before you barge in with your equipment.
You freeze.
The room isn't empty.
The solo track is playing softly over the monitors, looping a specific, slow section of the bridge. The bass pulses, a low heartbeat.
Mingyu and the female dancer are in the center of the floor. But they aren't practicing the routine. This dance is different—raw, effortless, stripped of the mechanical precision of the coaching session.
There are no mirrors to check angles, no coaches to correct form. It’s just movement.
Mingyu is standing directly behind her. Their bodies are flush, pressed together from chest to hip. She isn't arching away; she is melting back into him, her head tipped back against his shoulder, her hands looped up and wrapped securely around the back of his neck.
His hands are clamped firmly around her waist, anchoring her to his stride. They move together in a slow, grinding sway, hips rolling in perfect sync. It looks comfortable. It looks practiced. It looks like muscle memory.
Your heart jumps into your throat, choking you.
The silhouette is a perfect, cruel mirror of the night on the beach. The way he held you on the grey sand, watching the stars wheel overhead. The way your body fit into the curve of his like a puzzle piece. The way he moved with you then—not for a camera, but for the sheer pleasure of being inside you.
The jealousy that had been a knot in your chest suddenly tightens into a noose. It’s visceral. You can't breathe. You can't think. You are paralyzed by the sight of him holding someone else with that same easy intimacy, the intimacy you thought was exclusive to you.
"In order to execute a number like this well, they have to build absolute chemistry together," a low, casual voice says directly behind your shoulder.
You spin around, your pulse skyrocketing, a gasp catching in your throat.
The head choreographer is standing there, clipboard in hand. He isn't looking at you; he's looking through the glass, nodding with professional approval. He doesn't know. He doesn't see the ruin in your face.
"It needs to look real," he continues, his tone clinical, cold. "The audience needs to believe it. They need to believe he's in love with her for those three minutes."
The words ground you like glass.
Believe he's in love with her.
In this world, the intimacy you shared in Jeju—the whispers, the confessions, the desperate, sweaty tangle of limbs—is yours. It belongs to you. But the performance? The fantasy? That belongs to everyone else. He is selling a dream, and you are just the witness, trapped behind the glass, watching the dream be built for someone else.
You feel sick. You feel hollowed out.
"I… E… Excuse me Sir, I have to go," you stammer, clutching your camera bag to your chest like a shield.
The choreographer looks at you, surprised. "We're starting again in five."
"I'm not feeling well," you manage, your voice thin. "I think it's something I ate. I need to go home."
He frowns but waves you off. "Fine. Get some rest."
You don't wait for permission. You turn and flee down the corridor, the sound of the bass-heavy track fading behind you.
You don't remember the drive home. The city blurs past the windshield—neon signs, traffic lights, the endless stream of headlights. You are operating on autopilot, your mind screaming. You walk into your apartment and drop your keys on the floor. You kick off your shoes. You fall onto the sofa, fully clothed, and stare at the ceiling.
The silence is deafening. It doesn't have the warmth of the villa. It just has the echo of your own spiraling thoughts.
Is it real? Is any of it real?
A buzz on your phone vibrates against the cushion. You ignore it. Another buzz. Then another.
Finally, the screen lights up with a call.
Mingyu.
You let it ring until it cuts to voicemail. A minute later, he calls again.
You turn the phone over, pressing your face into the pillow, trying to drown out the noise, trying to drown out the image of his hands on her, the choreographer's words echoing in your head.
They have to build absolute chemistry together.
You squeeze your eyes shut, but the darkness offers no relief.
Changkyun x Kihyun
Mature | Explicit | MDNI | One-Shot
After a reunion dinner during Changkyun’s military leave, Kihyun gifts him a luxurious hotel room to relax, but the night takes a starkly intimate turn when their unspoken tension follows them into the bath.
The grill smoke curled toward the ceiling vents in lazy ribbons, carrying the scent of samgyeopsal and garlic. Minhyuk’s laugh cut through the haze—that staccato cackle that hadn’t changed in years while Hyungwon swatted his arm and told him to keep his voice down, they were kind of in public.
Changkyun sat in the center of it all.
Not dominating the table. Not commanding attention. Just there, at the center, like the fixed point around which the chaos orbited. His shoulders had broadened. The military had carved new lines into his jaw, his neck, the set of his mouth. He moved poised now. More deliberate. When he reached for his soju glass, the movement came with a quiet precision that hadn’t existed before enlistment.
“You’re chewing differently,” Jooheon said, pointing at him with a pair of metal chopsticks. “That’s what it is. You chew like a soldier now.”
“How does a soldier chew?” Changkyun asked, one eyebrow lifting.
“Efficiently. Like you’re counting bites.”
The table erupted. Hyunwoo, who had been quietly grilling another portion of pork belly, let out a low chuckle. Changkyun’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close—and he shook his head, the overhead pendant light catching the shorter crop of his hair.
Kihyun sat diagonally across from him, nursing a glass of whiskey. He’d been watching Changkyun all evening. Not obviously. Not in any way that would draw attention. But his gaze kept drifting—to the way Changkyun’s fingers wrapped around his glass, to the new calluses visible when he gestured, to the small scar on his forearm that hadn’t been there before.
The restaurant’s private room was all warm wood and paper screens, the kind of place that charged for privacy as much as food. Outside the window, the Seoul skyline glittered through the summer haze. Inside, six men filled every inch of the space with noise.
“Remember when he used to be the quiet one?” Minhyuk asked no one in particular. “Now look at him. Silent and intimidating.”
“He’s still quiet,” Hyungwon said. “Just more… concentrated.”
Changkyun laughed—actually laughed—and the sound was rougher than before, stripped raw at the edges. “I missed you idiots.”
The confession landed softly. For a beat, the table stilled, and something passed between them all—a recognition of the gap that military service had carved, the strange dislocation of returning to people who had continued living while you were suspended in barracks life.
Then Minhyuk was refilling everyone’s glasses, and the moment dissolved back into noise.
Kihyun leaned back in his chair, his whiskey glass halfway to his lips, and watched Changkyun through the steam rising from the grill. Watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed. Watched the way his eyes crinkled now when he smiled—deeper lines than before.
He’s different.
The thought arrived without permission. Kihyun filed it away, somewhere between his ribs, and took a longer sip of whiskey than he’d intended.
The dinner wound on. Plates emptied. Bottles accumulated along the edge of the table like glass sentries. Somewhere around the third round of soju, Kihyun reached into his jacket and slid an envelope across the polished wood.
It stopped just short of Changkyun’s elbow. Sleek cardstock. No branding. Weighted with something rectangular inside.
Changkyun looked down at it, then up at Kihyun. His brow furrowed, those deeper lines appearing between his eyebrows.
“You’ve been sleeping in barracks for months,” Kihyun said. His voice was practical. The same tone he used when organizing schedules or reminding someone to eat. “You deserve a massive bed, room service, and actual peace for two nights. Keycard’s inside. Hotel across the street. Don’t argue with me.”
“Hyung—”
“Don’t.”
The other members caught on immediately. Minhyuk whistled. Jooheon slapped the table. “Kihyun with the silent heart of gold!” Hyungwon leaned over, trying to peek at the envelope. “Which hotel? The one with the infinity pool?”
“The one across the street,” Kihyun said flatly, not breaking eye contact with Changkyun. “Top floor.”
Their eyes met.
The noise around them continued—Hyunwoo was asking Hyungwon something about the pool, Minhyuk was already planning an impromptu hotel party.
Kihyun’s expression didn’t change. His mouth remained composed, his posture relaxed. But his eyes—dark and steady, the eyes that had watched Changkyun grow from an awkward teenager into a man—held something that didn’t match his practical tone. Something that lingered a half-second too long.
Changkyun’s fingers brushed the envelope. He didn’t look away from Kihyun.
“Thank you hyung,” he said, and his voice had dropped. Lower. Rougher. The kind of pitch that came from somewhere deeper in his chest.
The moment broke when Minhyuk leaned across the table, nearly knocking over a water glass. “Are we all invited? Because I’m inviting myself.”
“It's up to Changkyun,” Kihyun said, finally looking away from Changkyun to roll his eyes. “But like we could stop you.”
And just like that, the thread between them went slack. The table roared back to life. But Changkyun’s hand stayed on the envelope for a long time, his thumb tracing its edge, his gaze flicking back to Kihyun more than once through the rest of the meal.
—
The hotel suite was an exercise in restrained opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the corner of the building, Seoul’s lights sprawling beneath them like a circuit board of amber and white. The carpet swallowed footsteps. The king-sized bed sat in the center of the room like an altar, its white linens so pristine they practically glowed under the recessed lighting.
Minhyuk kicked off his shoes immediately and threw himself onto the bed, arms spread wide. “This is what I deserve. This exact bed. Every night. For the rest of my life.”
“You’d destroy it in a week,” Hyungwon said, settling into a leather armchair by the window.
“A week is generous,” Kihyun murmured.
The minibar didn’t stand a chance. Hyunwoo, who rarely drank much, surprised everyone by cracking open one of the miniature whiskey bottles and raising it in Changkyun’s direction. “To your first military weekend leave.”
“Don’t remind me,” Changkyun said, but he clinked his glass against Hyunwoo’s anyway.
Somewhere in the next hour, the careful boundaries of personal space that had naturally developed during their time apart simply dissolved. Jooheon leaned his full weight against Changkyun’s side while showing him a video on his phone. Minhyuk draped his legs over Changkyun’s lap from his sprawl on the bed. Hyungwon’s hand found the back of Changkyun’s neck at one point, squeezing briefly, a gesture so casual and familiar that Changkyun’s eyes fluttered shut for just a moment.
Kihyun noticed.
He was sitting on the windowsill, the city at his back, watching the easy physicality that had always defined them as a group reassert itself. But he was also watching Changkyun’s micro-expressions. The way he leaned into every touch. The way his body, so disciplined and controlled now, softened incrementally with each point of contact.
Touch-starved.
Kihyun recognized it because he understood the feeling. Had felt it himself during Changkyun’s absence—the strange, hollow ache of missing someone whose presence you’d taken for granted for years.
He didn’t sit beside him. Didn’t join the pile of limbs on the bed. But his eyes kept finding Changkyun through the room’s warm light, tracing the new topography of his face, cataloging the changes.
Time moved differently in the suite. The clock on the nightstand ticked past midnight, then one, then two, and no one seemed to notice until Hyungwon yawned—a full-body, jaw-cracking yawn that set off a chain reaction through the group.
“I’m dying,” Minhyuk announced, pulling himself upright. “In a good way. But dying.”
Jooheon was already texting someone, probably his manager, probably arranging a ride. Hyunwoo stretched, his joints popping audibly, and began collecting scattered bottles to deposit in the recycling bin like the responsible leader he’d always been.
One by one, they gathered themselves. Shoes found feet. Coats found shoulders. Hyungwon mumbled something about an early schedule, Minhyuk was already half-asleep on his feet, and Jooheon promised to text when they got home. Hugs were exchanged—tight, lingering hugs that said more than words—and then the door was opening, the hallway’s cooler air spilling in.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Silence rushed into the space like water into a vacuum.
Changkyun stood near the foot of the bed. Kihyun was by the door, hand resting on the sleeve of his coat where it hung on a hook, halfway through the motion of putting it on. The suite, so fully occupied moments ago, now felt cavernous. The city lights through the window seemed to have dimmed. The hum of the air conditioning became suddenly audible.
“You should sleep,” Kihyun said, pulling his coat off the hook. “Really sleep. Not barracks sleep.”
Changkyun didn’t answer immediately. His eyes tracked across the room—the empty chairs, the rumpled bedspread where Minhyuk had sprawled, the glasses scattered on every flat surface. When he spoke, his voice came out differently. Quieter. A confession.
“Hyung... I don’t want to sleep alone.”
Kihyun’s hands paused on his collar.
“Not tonight,” Changkyun continued, and he turned to face the window, his back to Kihyun, his reflection ghostly against the cityscape. “The barracks are never quiet. Someone’s always coughing, or the heating pipes are clanging, or there’s a drill at four in the morning. You get used to the noise. To bodies in the bunks around you. To never being alone.”
His shoulders rose and fell—a breath, maybe a shrug.
“This room is too big. Too quiet. I don’t know how to sleep in silence anymore.”
Kihyun’s coat slid from his fingers back onto the hook. The sound of fabric against wood was small, but in the quiet room, it was everything.
“Are you sure?”
Changkyun turned. Their eyes met across the length of the room. The distance between them felt both immense and nonexistent.
“I’m sure.”
Kihyun nodded once. A small, practical nod. The kind of nod that made him the backbone of the group, the one who handled logistics and solved problems and never made a big deal out of being needed.
“Then I’ll stay.” He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt—restrictive, formal, unnecessary now. “I don’t have an early schedule tomorrow anyway.”
Relief flickered across Changkyun’s face. Fast. Almost invisible. But Kihyun caught it.
“There’s another bottle in the minibar,” Changkyun said. “Wine. The red one.”
“You raided it already?”
“Minhyuk raided it. I just checked.”
The corner of Kihyun’s mouth lifted. “Of course you did.”
Changkyun retrieved the bottle while Kihyun found glasses. They moved around each other in the suite’s small kitchenette with an ease that spoke of years of shared spaces, years of navigating tight quarters without collision. When they settled on the edge of the massive bed—neither choosing the armchairs, neither acknowledging the choice—a foot of white linen stretched between them.
The wine was good. Full-bodied. It left purple stains on their lips.
“I missed this,” Changkyun said, swirling the wine in his glass. His voice had gone rougher again, the rasp catching on certain syllables. “I missed the group. I missed this kind of noise. I missed—” He hesitated. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “I missed you.”
The words hung in the air.
Kihyun didn’t deflect. Didn’t make a joke. Didn’t do any of the things he might have done with the other members present. He just looked at Changkyun—really looked—and set his wine glass on the nightstand.
“You look older,” he said quietly. “Sharper.”
His hand lifted. No preamble. No warning. His fingers slid directly through the coarse, short strands of Changkyun’s buzzcut, tracing the sharp contour of his skull. The touch was gentle and firm, grounding almost, if not for the way his palm lingered against the closely cropped hair at Changkyun’s temple, feeling the heat radiating beneath it.
Changkyun’s breath caught. Audibly.
Kihyun’s thumb traced the hairline, following it down toward his ear. “The military did this.”
“The military did a lot of things.”
Kihyun’s fingers stopped just above Changkyun’s ear. Their faces were closer now than they’d been all evening. The wine was on both their breaths. The city lights painted shifting patterns across the ceiling, across Kihyun’s cheekbones, across the new lines around Changkyun’s mouth.
Then Kihyun pulled his hand back. The motion was smooth, almost casual. He stood up from the bed, glass in hand, and said, “I’ll take the couch.”
“No.”
Kihyun paused, halfway through the motion of turning toward the seating area.
Changkyun looked up at him from the bed. His eyes were dark. Unreadable. But his voice was steady. “Share the bed. It’s big enough for three people. We can share.”
The silence that followed was not the comfortable silence of years of friendship. It was something else. Something heavier. It pressed against Kihyun’s chest, against the inside of his ribs, against all the words he wasn’t saying.
“Okay,” Kihyun said. Then, with a small, decisive nod: “But I need to be clean first. I’m not getting on those sheets smelling like grill smoke and whiskey.”
Changkyun exhaled. “The bathroom’s through there.”
Kihyun was already moving. The bathroom door swung open, and he reached for the light switch, expecting some standard hotel arrangement of marble and glass. What he found stopped him in his tracks.
A bathroom. If you could call it that. More like a spa that happened to have a toilet. The tiles were heated—he could feel the warmth through his socks. The shower was a rainfall fixture large enough to accommodate two people comfortably. But it was the bathtub that held his attention.
Freestanding. Deep. White porcelain that gleamed under soft recessed lighting. A tray beside it held bottles of oil, bath salts, a loofah still in its packaging. The window beside it looked out over the same skyline, and the angle was perfect—you could sit in the tub and watch the city sleep beneath you.
Kihyun’s hand found the faucet before his brain gave the order.
The water came out hot, almost immediately. Steam began to curl upward, fogging the lower edge of the mirror. He tested the temperature with his wrist, adjusted it, and watched the tub begin to fill.
Through the open bathroom door, he called out, “Changkyun-ah.”
“Yeah?”
“Go to sleep ahead. I’m going to enjoy this bath first.”
Then he stripped off all his clothes and underwear, neatly folded it and put it on a counter.
Sinking into the steaming water, Kihyun let out a long, ragged breath, the tight knots in his shoulders finally unraveling as he closed his eyes and let the warmth claim him.
He had just drifted into a hazy, peaceful state of relaxation when a sudden, low rumble cut through the quiet, "Hyung."
Kihyun’s eyes snapped open, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of Changkyun standing right beside the edge of the tub, completely naked, his broad, shadowed silhouette looking intensely beautiful in the dim, humid light.
Kihyun sat up without a word, water lapping against the porcelain sides. His heart knocked hard against his sternum, but his hands were steady. The steam curled around them both, thickening the air, blurring the edges of the mirror.
He had fully expected the younger to sit across from him, but instead, Changkyun sank down right in front of him, settling flush between his legs with his broad back pressed solidly against Kihyun’s chest.
Then Changkyun exhaled, a long, ragged thing, and the tension in his spine dissolved against Kihyun's chest.
"That's it," Kihyun murmured, barely audible. His arms came around Changkyun's torso, palms flattening against the younger man's stomach. The muscles there jumped at the contact. Kihyun's fingers traced the new topography—the harder ridges of his abdomen, the scars that hadn't been there before, the dusting of dark hair that trailed downward beneath the bubbles.
Changkyun's head fell back against Kihyun's shoulder. His eyes were closed. His breathing had gone shallow.
Kihyun's hands moved upward, mapping the expanded territory of Changkyun's chest. Thumbs brushing over nipples that tightened at the touch. Palms dragging slow paths across pectorals that military drills had carved into something denser, more substantial. The bubbles parted around Kihyun's wrists.
Time stretched. Became elastic. Minutes passed—or maybe only seconds—with nothing but the soft slosh of water and Changkyun's deepening breaths and Kihyun's hands moving across his skin like he was memorizing a language he'd forgotten.
Then Changkyun's hand closed over Kihyun's wrist.
Not hard. Not demanding. Just a grip, warm and damp, guiding Kihyun's hand downward. Past the navel. Past the trail of hair. Lower, until Kihyun's fingers brushed against something hot and rigid beneath the water's surface.
Kihyun's breath caught.
Changkyun was hard. Achingly, unmistakably hard, his cock rising from the nest of dark hair at his groin, the head slick and flushed even beneath the bubbles. The size of him—Kihyun's fingers couldn't quite encircle it—sent a hot pulse straight to Kihyun's own groin.
"Hyung." Changkyun's voice was barely a whisper, rasped at the edges. He turned his head, temple pressing against Kihyun's jaw. The word landed like a confession. "Please."
Kihyun wrapped his fingers around Changkyun's cock.
A sound escaped Changkyun's throat—low, broken, almost pained. His hips bucked once, involuntarily, pushing himself deeper into Kihyun's grip. The water rippled. Bubbles slid from his shoulders.
Kihyun began to move. Slow at first. Experimental. His thumb traced the ridge of the head, smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there. Then his fist tightened and he pumped—one long stroke from base to tip—and Changkyun's entire body shuddered against him.
"Like that?"
"Don't stop."
The water made everything slick, warm, frictionless. Kihyun's hand moved in a steady rhythm, his grip firm, his pace unhurried. He was cataloging every response—the way Changkyun's stomach hollowed when Kihyun twisted at the head, the way his fingers dug into Kihyun's thigh beneath the water, the way his breathing fragmented into short, sharp gasps.
Changkyun tilted his head. Turned. Their mouths were suddenly inches apart. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and Kihyun could see every detail—the water droplets on his lashes, the flush spreading down his neck, the way his lips parted around the next exhale.
They kissed.
It wasn't tentative. Wasn't exploratory. Changkyun's mouth met his with a hunger that spoke of months of isolation, of barracks and drills and cold showers and nothing, nothing that felt like this. His tongue swept past Kihyun's lips, and Kihyun opened for him, and the kiss deepened until Kihyun's hand faltered on Changkyun's cock, rhythm lost to the overwhelming press of mouth and tongue and teeth.
Changkyun broke the kiss first, breathing hard. Water sloshed as he shifted, turning in the tub, his legs sliding against Kihyun's until they were tangled together, chest to chest. His cock bumped Kihyun's hip. Kihyun's own arousal—neglected, aching—pressed against Changkyun's thigh.
"Kihyun hyung," Changkyun said, and the name fell from his lips like something sacred.
Then his mouth was on Kihyun's again, and his hands were everywhere—cupping Kihyun's jaw, sliding down his neck, his shoulders, his chest. Fingers found Kihyun's nipples and rolled them, drew a moan that Changkyun swallowed with another kiss. Then his mouth left Kihyun's and traveled downward, tracing the line of his throat, his collarbone, until he reached Kihyun's chest.
Changkyun's tongue circled one nipple. Kihyun's back arched. A sound punched out of him—high and desperate—as Changkyun's lips sealed around the tight bud and sucked.
"Changkyunnie"
But Changkyun was already moving lower, his hands gripping Kihyun's hips, his muscles flexing as he shifted their positions. Water surged dangerously close to the tub's rim. Kihyun found himself pulled forward, straddling Changkyun's lap, thighs spreading to accommodate the width of the younger man's body. His knees pressed against the porcelain on either side.
Changkyun looked up at him. Water beaded on his shoulders, his chest, the tattoos on his forearm. His cock pressed against Kihyun's entrance, the head nudging, teasing.
"Hyung." His voice was wrecked. "Can I?"
Words failed. Kihyun nodded.
The head pushed past the tight ring of muscle, and Kihyun's vision whited out. Slowly—Changkyun was going slowly, inch by torturous inch, his hands steady on Kihyun's hips, his eyes fixed on Kihyun's face. Watching every flicker of expression. Every wince. Every gasp.
"Okay?"
"More."
Changkyun's hips rolled upward. Kihyun sank down. The fullness was overwhelming—a stretch that bordered on pain, then tipped into something else entirely as Changkyun shifted, found the right angle, and Kihyun's nerve endings lit up like the city skyline beyond the window.
He began to move. A rhythm established itself—not hurried, not gentle, but deep. Kihyun's thighs flexed with each rise and fall. Changkyun's hands guided his hips, sometimes pulling him down harder, sometimes holding him still while Changkyun thrust up from below. The water churned around them, threatening to flood the bathroom floor.
Changkyun's hand closed around Kihyun's cock.
Kihyun cried out—a broken syllable that might have been Changkyun's name. The dual sensation was too much: the thick pressure splitting him open from below, the tight grip stroking him from above. His rhythm stuttered. His thighs trembled. Changkyun's thumb swiped across his slit, smearing precum, and Kihyun's orgasm hit him like a sudden, violent wave of heat.
His release spilled across Changkyun's stomach, swallowed instantly by the bathwater. His body clenched around Changkyun's cock—a pulsing, involuntary grip—and Changkyun groaned, a raw and desperate sound, his hips snapping upward once, twice, before he buried himself deep and stilled.
The warmth of Changkyun's release spread inside him.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The water settled. Steam continued its lazy curl toward the ceiling. Kihyun's forehead dropped to Changkyun's shoulder, his breath coming in ragged bursts against damp skin.
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