FUCKED BY AN… IDOL?
── IN WHICH you accidentally have sex with an idol in the bathroom of a club
➛ 3.8k / 3,835
✧.* ( 박종성 ) idol AU, alcohol usage, semi-public sex, fingering, penetrative sex, r ough, praise kink, dirty talk, multiple orgasm, overstimulation,
✧ now playing: Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon ┃ masterlist
laceys note ; idek where I went with this I just though this was FUNNT ASF, anyway the writing is kinda bad but I hope yall like anyway! (kinda left yous on a cliff hanger sorry lol x) comments, reblogs and feedback means so much, plsss don’t be a silent reader cause ily all babies! pls enjoy 😚
Jay had not come to London to fall victim to a pretty face.
He’d come to perform — four nights, sold out, every seat filled with people who knew every word to every song. He’d come to give everything he had to a crowd that gave it right back, to stand under lights so bright they bleached the world white, to feel that particular kind of electric that only existed on stage.
He had not come to get distracted.
Yet.
The club was Heeseung’s idea — we have one night left, we’re in London, we are going out — delivered with the kind of finality that left zero room for arguments.
So here Jay was, drink in hand, bass vibrating through the soles of his shoes, surrounded by his members in a dark corner booth that their manager had quietly secured. No fanfare. No announcement. Just seven boys finally, finally exhaling after months of controlled chaos.
He was happy. Genuinely. The kind of loose, warm happy that only came after weeks of adrenaline finally releasing its grip on your nervous system.
He was also, apparently, very easy to distract.
Because that’s when he saw you.
You weren’t doing anything extraordinary. That was the thing that got him.
You weren’t performing for the room the way some people did — no extravagant hair flips, no eyes scanning for attention, no body angled that said look at me.
You were just — there. Present. Laughing at something your friend had said, head thrown back, completely unbothered by the hundred of sweaty bodies pressing in around you.
You were wearing something that made his mouth go dry but that wasn’t even the thing that got him. It was the way you occupied the space around you. Like you owned it without trying. Like the club had been built specifically to frame you and you alone.
Jay noticed everything about you.
“You’re staring,” Heeseung said into his ear, without even looking up from his drink.
“I’m observing,” Jay said.
“At a specific person.”
“At the area.”
Heeseung finally looked up, followed his eyeline across the dancefloor, and made a sound of quiet understanding. “Ah.”
“Don’t.” Jay said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Heeseung smiled into his drink and said nothing. Which was somehow worse.
Jay looked back at you. You’d moved slightly, swaying now to whatever the DJ had shifted into, your friends forming a loose orbit around you. Still laughing. Still completely unaware of him staring at you like you’re a goddess.
The thing was it was usually him being looked at — cameras, crowds, eyes tracking his every move from pit to balcony. People looked at Jay Park. That was just a fact of his life, as constant and unremarkable as breathing.
You weren’t looking at him and it was driving him insane.
He drained the rest of his drink in one gulp, set the glass down with a quiet click. “Back in a bit,” he said.
Heeseung didn’t even look up. “Sure you are.”
Jay was already moving.
The thing about London clubs was the heat. Thick and immediate, the kind that soaked into your skin the second you stepped onto the floor. You’d stopped noticing it an hour ago, too caught up in the music, in your friends, in the freedom of a night with nowhere to be and nothing to do but exist in it.
Your friend had said something about drinks and disappeared toward the bar. You’d stayed, unbothered, moving easily to the bass line currently vibrating through the floor, through your bones, through everything.
You didn’t hear him coming over, though you wouldn’t have — the music too loud, the crowd too thick. The first thing you registered was warmth. A presence behind you, close but not touching, giving you the choice.
You turned your head slightly. Just enough.
He was tall. Dark eyes catching the strobe light for just a second before the room plunged dim again. Sharp jaw, pretty mouth curved at the corner like he already knew something you didn’t. He smelled expensive — cedar and something warmer underneath, something that made you want to lean in to identify it properly.
A stranger. A very, very attractive stranger.
You faced forward again and didn’t move away. That was all the answer he needed.
His hands found your waist — light at first, barely there, a question more than a statement. When you didn’t pull away he settled them properly, warm and sure against your hips, and moved with you.
He was a good dancer. Effortlessly, annoyingly good. His body found your rhythm without fumbling for it, hips rolling slow and deliberate against yours, chest warm against your back. Not aggressive. Just — assured. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.
You relaxed back into him by degrees, almost without deciding to. His lips found the curve of your ear.
“You’ve been ignoring this whole room all night,” he said, voice low, cutting clean through the noise like it was meant only for you. A trace of an accent you couldn’t quite place. “How come?”
You tipped your head back slightly against his shoulder, glancing up at him from the corner of your eye. “Maybe the room wasn’t worth paying attention to,” you said.
The smile that pulled at his mouth was slow and devastating. His grip on your hips tightened — just slightly. Just enough. “And now?” he asked.
You turned in his hold then, fully, facing him for the first time.
Up close he was even more disarming — something almost familiar about his face that you couldn’t place, like a word on the tip of your tongue. You let your hands rest against his chest and felt the warmth of him through the fabric.
“Jury’s still out,” you said.
He laughed. Low and genuine, surprised like he hadn’t expected that. Like most people didn’t say that to him.
“Jay,” he said, offering his name like something casual. Like it cost him nothing and this case, it didn’t.
You gave him yours. He repeated it back to you once, quiet, testing the shape of it — and something about the way he said it made your stomach pull tight.
The song shifted. Heavier. Slower in a way that wasn’t slow at all.
Jay’s eyes dropped to your mouth for just a second. Came back up.
“Dance with me properly,” he said. Less a question, more like inevitability. You did.
He knew exactly what he was doing — every movement deliberate, every shift of his hips calculated to make your brain short circuit. His hands roamed with confidence, never rushed, tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, the small of your back — like he was learning you by touch alone and intended to be thorough about it.
You’d stopped thinking about your friends approximately four songs ago.
The music was filthy — bass so heavy it felt physical, the kind of track that gave everyone on the floor permission to stop pretending. Bodies pressed in around you both, hot and close, the air thick with sweat and perfume and the particular electricity of a room full of people who’d decided to stop caring.
Jay’s chest was flush against your back, one hand splayed flat across your stomach, the other gripping your hip hard. His mouth was at your ear, your jaw, occasionally brushing the side of your neck without quite committing to it — just enough to make you acutely aware of exactly where his lips weren’t.
You rolled your hips back against him deliberately. His grip tightened. A sharp exhale against your neck.
“Don’t start something you’re not finishing,” he murmured, voice dropped low and rough in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the noise around you.
You turned your head, mouth close to his jaw. “Who said I’m not finishing it?”
The sound he made was barely audible over the music. But you felt it — a low noise in his chest, something unravelling at the edges.
His mouth found your neck properly then and your eyes fell shut for a second, fingers curling into the hand he had splayed across your stomach.
He turned you around in one smooth motion, hands cupping your face, tilting it up. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, all that easy confidence stripped back to something more urgent underneath.
“Tell me to stop,” he said. Giving you the out.
“Jay.” His name in your mouth for the first time, and the way his jaw tightened when you said it — god. “I’m not telling you to stop.”
His thumb traced your lower lip. Just once. “Good,” he said quietly.
He took your hand.
The crowd swallowed you both as he navigated through the bodies with practiced ease, one hand firm in yours, pulling you toward the back corridor of the club where the noise dimmed by degrees — still audible, still thumping through the walls, but muffled now. Distant. Like the rest of the world had agreed to give you both a moment.
The bathroom door. He pushed it open, checked it was empty, pulled you in after him. The lock clicked behind you.
And then he turned around and looked at you in the dim light of the single overhead bulb — chest rising and falling, hair slightly dishevelled from the dancefloor, mouth curving into that same devastating smile from earlier.
Except closer now. So much closer.
“Hi,” he said softly. Almost like he was seeing you properly for the first time.
Something about it made your breath catch.
“Hi,” you said back.
He kissed you.
He kissed different to how you expected. Slower. More deliberate. Like he was in absolutely no rush despite the fact that you were in a club bathroom and the bass was still thumping through the walls like a second heartbeat. His thumbs traced your cheekbones while his mouth moved against yours, drawing you in deep and unhurried until you were gripping the front of his shirt just to have something to hold onto.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, chest rising and falling, that insufferable almost-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “how long I’ve been thinking about doing that.”
“You saw me forty minutes ago,” you managed.
“Long forty minutes.”
You laughed despite yourself and he swallowed it, kissing you again — deeper this time, hungrier, one hand sliding from your jaw into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist, your hip, the hem of your skirt.
His mouth dropped to your neck. Open and warm, tongue dragging slow across your pulse point while his fingers toyed with the waistband of your underwear — not pushing in yet, just tracing the elastic, back and forth, until you shifted your hips toward him without meaning to.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured against your throat.
“Jay—”
“Tell me.” Not harsh. Just certain. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
“Touch me,” you breathed. “Please.”
The please seemed to do something to him — jaw tightening against your neck, a low noise in his chest. “Good girl,” he said softly. “Was that so hard?”
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric. The sound you made when he made contact was immediate and mortifying — a sharp gasp that you muffled against his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He stroked through your folds slowly, gathering the slick heat of you, and made a sound himself — low and reverent, like he’d been handed something precious.
“God,” he breathed. “Already?”
“Don’t,” you started.
“I’m not teasing.” He pulled back to look at you, completely sincere, eyes dark and blown wide. “That’s — you’re incredible. You know that?”
You didn’t know what to do with that. With the way he said it — not performative, not practiced. Just honest.
He pressed a single kiss to the corner of your mouth and then sank two fingers inside you. Your head dropped back against the wall.
He worked you open with devastating patience — fingers curling, pace building slow and deliberate, heel of his palm grinding against your clit while he watched your face with an intensity that felt almost like too much. Like he was cataloguing every micro-expression, every caught breath, storing them somewhere.
“Let me hear you,” he said quietly. “Don’t hold back.”
“People will—”
“Let them.” His fingers curled harder and your argument dissolved into a moan that you couldn’t have swallowed if you tried.
“There.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “There it is. Just like that.” He did it again. Deliberately. Just to hear you repeat it.
“Jay—” His name breaking apart in your mouth, thighs trembling around his hand, the wet obscene sound of his fingers working you open loud in the small tiled space. “Jay, I’m — god, I’m going to—”
“Yeah you are,” he said, almost conversationally, eyes fixed entirely on your face. “Come on. Let me hear it. Want to hear you say my name when you come.”
It hit you like a current — rolling deep and devastating, your whole body shuddering, his name tearing from your throat exactly like he’d asked for it, fingers clenching around his wrist to hold him there while he worked you through every aftershock with merciless patience.
“Perfect,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Absolutely perfect.”
You were still shaking when he withdrew his fingers, brought them to his mouth without breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean. Your brain simply ceased functioning entirely.
“Jay.” Your voice came out wrecked. “If you don’t—”
“I know.” He was already reaching into his back pocket. “I know, I’ve got you.”
He rolled the condom on with steady hands, pushed your skirt up properly, and then his hands found the backs of your thighs and hoisted you up against the wall in one clean motion — your legs locking around his waist automatically, his forearms braced either side of your head.
He looked at you for just a second. Hair wrecked, lips swollen, holding your entire weight like it was nothing. “Still good?” he asked.
“If you don’t move right now—”
He pushed inside.
The stretch was immediate and overwhelming — thick and deep, splitting you open on a slow relentless slide until he was fully seated and you were gasping open mouthed against his jaw, nails marking into his shoulder skin through the fabric of his shirt.
He stilled. Just for a moment. Forehead dropping to yours, jaw tight with the effort of it. “Fuck,” he breathed. Genuine. . “You feel — god, you feel unreal.”
Then he moved.
Long, deep strokes that drove the air from your lungs completely — his hips snapping up into yours with a precision that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing and had zero intention of pretending otherwise. The wall creaked behind you. Your sounds were swallowed by the bass through the walls but barely, barely — every thrust punching a noise out of you that you couldn’t contain.
“Louder,” he said against your ear, low and rough. “Come on. Want to hear you.”
“Jay—”
“Louder.” His pace intensified, one hand gripping your thigh so hard you’d see it tomorrow, the other braced against the wall. “Let me hear how good it feels. Need to hear it.”
You stopped trying to muffle yourself.
The noise that left you was unrestrained — his name, fragmented and desperate, and the effect it had on him was instantaneous. His rhythm stuttered, a rough groan against your neck, hips snapping harder and more erratic.
“Yeah,” he breathed, strained. “Yeah, exactly like that, you’re doing so — fuck—”
He shifted suddenly — lowering you, turning you, bending you forward over the edge of the sink with a gentleness that contradicted the urgency of it entirely. Hands smoothing down your spine like he had all the time in the world while you gripped the porcelain edge and caught your own reflection in the mirror — wrecked and flushed, Jay behind you, jaw set with concentration.
His eyes found yours in the mirror. Held them. “Watch,” he said quietly.
He pushed back inside from this angle and the sound you both made simultaneously was obscene.
Deeper like this. Meaner. His hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with each thrust, the slap of skin loud and rhythmic and filthy. But his eyes never left yours in the mirror — watching every expression cross your face, drinking it in, that same focused intensity like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire world.
“Tell me how it feels,” he said, breathless now, composure finally fraying at every edge. “Tell me.”
“So good,” you managed, barely. “Jay — god — so good, don’t stop—”
“Not stopping.” His jaw was tight, pace relentless. “Not even close. You’re—” He exhaled roughly. “You’re unbelievable, absolute—”
The second orgasm hit you without warning — sudden and total, clenching around him so hard your vision fractured white, his name coming out of you in a broken keen that echoed off the tiles.
He followed immediately — burying himself deep with a rough groan muffled against your shoulder, hips grinding slow and deliberate while he spilled into the condom, shuddering once, twice, then going completely still.
Silence. Just breathing. And the muffled bass through the walls. And both of you wrecked and trembling and not quite ready to move.
He pressed his lips to the back of your neck. Soft. Unhurried. Like a full stop. “You okay?” he murmured.
“I don’t know what I am,” you said honestly.
He laughed quietly against your skin. Steadied you as he withdrew, disposed of the condom, smoothed your skirt back down with careful hands like you were something worth taking care of.
You turned around. Faced him in the dim light.
His hair was destroyed. His mouth was swollen. His eyes were soft in a way that felt wildly at odds with the last twenty minutes and somehow made it worse.
His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times. Something shifted in his expression — almost imperceptible, there and gone. He glanced at the screen and something complicated moved behind his eyes.
“I have to go,” he said. The words landed soft but final.
You blinked. Searched his face. “Right now?”
“Right now.” He looked genuinely pained about it, nothing like you’d have expected from a stranger in a club bathroom. Just — sorry. Actually sorry. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”
You studied him for a moment. Believed him, somehow, in a way you couldn’t entirely explain. “Okay,” you said quietly.
He stepped forward, cupped your face in both hands with a tenderness that felt wildly disproportionate to the last twenty minutes, and kissed you — slow and soft and thorough, like he was committing something to memory.
When he pulled back his eyes stayed closed for just a second longer than necessary.
“You were incredible,” he murmured against your lips. “Truly.”
And then he was gone — door swinging shut behind him, footsteps disappearing into the noise of the club, swallowed immediately by the crowd like he’d never been there at all.
You stood in the dim bathroom light. Chest still heaving. Lips still warm.
You didn’t even know his last name.
—
“Why am I here,” you said, trying and unsuccessfully to dig your heels into the pavement to stop Ava from dragging you. “You know I don’t even listen to them.”
“That’s exactly why you need to come,” she shot back, not slowing for a second. “Character development.”
“This is not character development, this is kidnapping.” She ignored you completely, flashing your tickets at the staff and pulling you inside before you could protest further. Trapping you unfortunatly.
The noise hit you immediately — screaming bleeding through the walls, that loud screeching kind that only existed at concerts. You grimaced. “I feel underdressed for this level of commitment.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I might not.”
“You will. And you’re going to thank me later.”
“Unlikely.”
She finally stopped once you were inside, turning to face you with a look that said she was entirely too pleased with herself. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being honest. Why didn’t you just bring Mei? She actually likes them.”
“She bailed.”
“Convenient.”
“Also,” your friend added, narrowing her eyes slightly, “you need to get out more.”
You let out a dry laugh. “I go out.”
“Hooking up with mysterious strangers in clubs does not count as social enrichment.”
Your stomach dropped. Just slightly. Just enough. You forced your expression to stay neutral (you’re almost certain you failed to do so though). “That was one time.”
She wasn’t listening to you anymore, instead she was shoving further through the crowd, hand around your wrist and dragging you with a lot more force than earlier. “Move, move—oh my god, move!”
“Ava—” you stumbled as she yanked you forward again, nearly knocking into a group of girls already screaming near the front. “Ava, we’re going to be squashed.”
“We are not standing in the back like losers,” Ava snapped, squeezing between people with zero shame. “I did not fight for these tickets just to see them as tiny little pixels with my own eyes.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
“Worth it for a banging view.”
You barely had time to argue before she finally stopped—right up against the metal barricade, hands gripping until her knuckles were white like she’d reached salvation and was clinging to it. “Oh my god,” she breathed, eyes wide, already completely gone. “We’re so close.”
You looked around, slightly stunned. She’d actually done it. “You’re insane,” you said.
“And yet—” she shot you a grin, breathless, “—you love me.”
You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond the lights cut. The screams that followed felt like they could tear the roof off the building. Ava grabbed your arm instantly, her nails marking crescents into your skin. “THIS IS IT.”
You winced. “You’re yelling directly into my ear.”
“Shut up, they’re coming—”
They walked out. Seven of them. You weren’t really paying attention at first — just shapes, movement, noise — until Ava started yelling next to you, gripping your arm harder now.
“That one—” she shouted over the music, pointing. “That’s Jay, I told you about him—”
You followed her finger. And everything in your body went completely still.
No.
No, that—
That’s not—
But it was.
Same face. Same eyes. Same mouth. Just under stage lights now instead of a dim bathroom light.
Jay. The same Jay that fucked you in a bathroom last night and called you ‘good girl’ and made you come until you saw stars was now standing on stage in front of thousands of people. Singing and dancing like it was normal.
Like he was normal.
Your hand flew to Ava’s sleeve and your grip tightened unconsciously around it. “That’s—” you started, but your voice didn’t come out right.
“What?” she yelled, not looking at you she’s too fixated on them (you couldn’t blame her anymore). “Isn’t he insane?”
You couldn’t breathe properly. He moved closer to the front of the stage and for a split second—
His eyes swept across the crowd. Until they locked right at the barricade. On you.
It was brief. So brief you could’ve convinced yourself you imagined it. Except—
His expression changed. Just slightly, almost barely notable until the glow of the stage lights but you noticed. It was that same flicker you’d seen in the bathroom when his phone buzzed.
Recognition.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
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