⟢ : AFTERS ★ .ᐟ
req by this qt anonie <3 hehe
“af·tuhrz” (n): 1. the unofficial, post-party gathering—usually at a random house/hotel after a bigger party and/or club, with tooooo much alcohol, moody lighting, and even more questionable decisions. 2. where you accidentally end up fucking baekhyun after his concert.
content: 18+/mdni. ~9.6k+ words. reverie!baekhyun x f!reader. strangers to one-nighters. fluff. smut. aftercare. praise. dry humping. fingering + oral (fem receiving), drunk p in v sex, hotel room hookup, semi-public foreplay, dirty talk, alcohol consumption, mild obsession vibes, overstim, raw juseyo, you’re both a lil unhinged and match each other's freaks lmaoooo
your throat is hoarse from screaming lyrics you didn’t realize you still knew by heart. your skin’s still buzzing, glitter catching on the collar of your top, sweat drying beneath your skirt.
baekhyun’s concert wasn’t just a show—it was an experience. a sensory overload. the kind that settles into your skin and stays there. the way he moved—fluid and precise, every step pulled straight from muscle memory and instinct—was hypnotic. the way he sang, breathless yet effortless. his visuals? unreal. almost unfair.
and the way he engaged with the crowd? grinning, teasing, soaking up the screams like sunlight—yeah, that wasn’t just performance. that was a man doing exactly what he was born to do. an idol in every sense. and it was obvious—he loves it. he lives for it.
and you—loud, radiant, maybe a little too invested—could’ve sworn he looked right at you during woo. his gaze was sweeping, fluid, made to tease, but just for a second… it paused.
row ten.
pink sequined skirt.
you froze mid-sway, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat, and you didn’t dare blink.
you told yourself it was wishful thinking. that you were just one face in a sea of thousands. but now, stepping out into the night air—still in that same outfit, skin buzzing like it’s holding onto his falsetto—you’re drunk on something more than just concert adrenaline.
your body still vibrates with the bass, your voice is hoarse from shouting lyrics like they were gospel, and your cheeks ache from smiling too hard for too long.
“oh my godddd, meeks, that was fuckin’ insane,” you pant, nearly breathless, practically levitating as you leave the venue.
your best friend, mika, laughs beside you—influencer, 125k+ on the gram, energy like a triple shot of tequila, dressed like the night owes her something.
“oh, baby,” she purrs, thumb tapping her phone like she’s conjuring magic, “the night’s just getting started.”
her screen flares to life with a flood of unread dms—club logos, kiss emojis, a string of heart-eyes from guys whose names you don’t recognize but probably should. “should we go clubbing?” she offers, eyes glinting. “wanna hit up gravity?”
you hesitate. gravity always spirals. last time, you ended up in a stranger’s penthouse afterwards with three underground rappers and a girl who swore she was hyunjin from le sserafim’s third cousin twice removed.
but fomo’s coded into your dna, and baekhyun’s voice is still ricocheting through your bones. you told yourself you’d say yes to everything tonight. so you do.
you grin, breath catching with the kind of thrill that tastes like trouble.
“fuck it,” you say, two taps away from ordering the uber. “let’s go.”
the club is a blur of lights and bass. you barely make it past the velvet rope before you’re swept inside by the gravity of mika’s orbit.
she knows everyone. the guy at the door daps her up like they grew up together. the bartender winks and sends over a tray of drinks before you even reach the bar. the DJ in the booth flashes her a grin mid-set and changes the track to her favorite remix.
you don’t wait in lines and you never check prices. you exist outside of time when you’re out with her—just a blur of laughter, glitter, and beat drops that rattle your ribcage.
you dance like your heels don’t hurt.
like you didn’t just scream your lungs out at a concert two hours ago.
your skirt swings with every sway of your hips, sequins catching the light like tiny spotlights made just for you.
you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, drunk on tequila and attention, your friends orbiting you like a constellation of bad choices and even better memories.
you feel pretty—head tilted back, hips swaying, alcohol warming your blood. a random guy tries to flirt and your friend yanks you away with a grin.
“nope,” she says. “we’re keepin’ it mysterious tonight.”
you’re drunk and dizzyo a quarter ‘til midnight when you check your phone and realize you should probably head home.
but then she leans in close and whispers, “wanna hit an afters at the ritz?”
she doesn’t say whose. she never does.
but that’s the thrill of it. the not-knowing. the possibility that tonight hasn’t even peaked yet.
you glance down at your drink—half-melted ice, lipgloss on the rim—and swallow what’s left. you’re sticky with sweat, eyes glassy, lips tingling from salt and lime.
and yeah, maybe you should go home. but you’re not in the mood to be responsible especially when the night still feels electric.
so you grin, swipe your phone off the table, and say the words you always do when mika’s got that look in her eyes.
the suite looks like it was pulled straight from a luxury travel vlog—sleek, sprawling, and softly lit in golds and shadows.
there’s music playing low—something bassy and expensive, vibrating through marble countertops and plush velvet cushions. a tray of half-finished cocktails glows under the dim, amber light, and bodies are draped across designer furniture like they were born there. heels kicked off. dress shirts half-buttoned. laughter echoing from corners you’re not quite invited into.
you’re crouched near the minibar, pretending to fix the strap of your heel, feigning fascination with the towering bouquet of flowers that probably cost more than your rent, when you spot them—faces you vaguely recognize. not close enough to be certain, but… yeah. you’ve seen them before. maybe at the club earlier tonight. the way they move—relaxed, self-assured, like people who know they’re being watched.
you don’t overthink it. just assume that’s how mika got wind of this afterparty in the first place.
and then—something shifts.
a hum in the atmosphere. like the room just hit pause.
you glance up.
and there he is.
baekhyun.
but not in silk. not in silk or leather or anything made to kill. no stage persona. no spotlight.
just… soft.
he’s near the bar, dressed in an oversized grey hoodie with faded red letters stretched across the front. the collar hangs loose, offering a peek of a plain white tee underneath. a slouchy beanie hugs his head, and strands of bleached blonde hair curl out in fluffy wisps—just messy enough to look real. freshly washed face. no makeup. no filter.
he looks like he just stepped out of a hot shower. glowing, flushed, skin catching the warm golden light like it’s gilding him from within.
he doesn’t see you. not yet. he’s nursing a drink, sleeves pushed to his elbows, shoulders relaxed in that way people get when they’ve finally made it to the other side of a long night.
and then—click.
your eyes flick across the room again. those familiar faces lounging on velvet sectionals, sipping cocktails and laughing like they’ve done this a hundred times before—now you get it.
you hadn’t realized it earlier. hadn’t connected the dots.
but now, with baekhyun standing there—unguarded, undeniably real—it all snaps into place.
this is his afterparty.
those are his people.
you tear your gaze away, forcing your attention to the condensation sliding down a bottle of sparkling water like it suddenly holds the answers to all of life’s questions. anything to keep from staring at the man who just quietly turned your whole night inside out.
you don’t expect him to move—to notice you. definitely not to approach. but he does, of fucking course he does, like the universe just couldn’t resist handing you this plot twist wrapped in cozy grey cotton and freshly washed hair.
“you always this mesmerized by sparkling water?” his voice drifts in from beside you—low, easy, just amused enough to make your pulse trip.
you blink, caught in the act. the bottle suddenly feels like a spotlight. heat crawls up the back of your neck.
“i wasn’t staring,” you blurt, too quick, too defensive—and not at all what he asked.
baekhyun hums, a quiet chuckle under his breath. “didn’t say you were.”
you glance at him—and instantly regret it. he’s even more beautiful up close. skin dewy and flushed from the shower, hoodie soft around his frame, eyes sharp and curious beneath the shadow of his beanie. he smells like detergent and something warmer—clean skin and cologne clinging faintly to the cotton of his hoodie.
“what are you doing at this party, anyway?” you ask, shooting for nonchalant but landing somewhere breathless. “shouldn’t you be off… i don’t know, being famous somewhere?”
he grins—wide and unapologetic. “my team booked out the whole floor,” he says, like it’s the most mundane thing in the world. “so technically, i am where i’m supposed to be.”
you let out a quiet snort. “that’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
he studies you—really studies you—like he’s trying to file you into a box but hasn’t quite found the right label yet.
“you here with someone?” he asks finally, voice still casual, but there’s a hint of curiosity threading through it now.
“my friend got the invite,” you say, keeping your tone even. “i just tagged along. didn’t even realize whose afterparty it was until…” your eyes flick toward him. “well. until i saw you.”
that earns you his full smile—not the rehearsed kind, but something softer, looser at the edges. whatever guarded suspicion he’d been carrying eases, replaced by a flicker of something else. amusement. maybe interest.
“so you’re not here to corner me for a selfie? no skincare interrogation?” he teases, brows lifting.
you huff a laugh. “i mean, the skin is suspiciously clear. but no.”
his grin tugs wider. he tilts his head, studying you a little longer than necessary. “you were at the show, though… right?”
you pause—then nod. “yeah.”
his eyes drop for a second. “thought so,” he murmurs, voice dipping just enough to make your breath stutter. “that pink skirt’s kinda hard to miss.”
your heart stumbles over itself.
“well,” you manage, “you put on a good show.”
“thanks,” he says, smiling like he means it. “wanna sit? it's quieter over there,” he nods toward a closed off corner of the suite—where the music’s softer, the city’s glittering outside the wide floor-to-ceiling window, and a plush couch waits like it’s part of the plan.
you blink. “with you?”
he grins. “unless you’re still committed to bonding with that water bottle.”
you settle onto the couch, leaving a polite gap between you—respectful, casual, not too eager.
baekhyun drops down beside you a moment later. easy. relaxed. his knees part just enough to ground him, like he’s done this a hundred times, but somehow doesn’t feel rehearsed.
for a beat, he just sits there, sipping from his glass. then, gently, like he’s not sure if it’s too forward:
“so… what’s your name?”
you tell him.
he nods, eyes flicking down for a second like he’s committing it to memory.
a quiet pause.
then he glances over again, one arm resting along the back of the couch. his fingers drum lightly against the cushion, and there’s a flicker of something playful in his voice.
“do you usually show up at strangers’ after parties, or is tonight a special case?”
you let out a soft laugh. “you’re not exactly a stranger. i’ve seen you shirtless before. on a jumbotron.”
he huffs a small, nose-scrunching laugh. “ah, so we’re skipping introductions and going straight to shared history.”
“basically,” you say, lifting your drink. “we're practically close friends.”
he smiles wider, the boyish kind that starts in his cheeks before it reaches his eyes. “great. and here i am looking like i just rolled outta bed.”
your eyes flick over the hoodie and the slouchy beanie barely hanging onto his bleached hair. “you mean your softboy fit?”
“hey,” he says, mock-wounded. “this is premium downtime aesthetic.”
“sure,” you murmur into your glass. “total heartbreak fit.”
he grins, turns his body slightly toward you, eyes crinkling. “don’t say that like it isn’t working.”
you’re smiling before you even realize it. the banter flows easier than you expected—natural, not forced. and the longer he talks, the more you notice things. like how deep and calm his voice is when he’s not performing. how he pauses before answering, like he actually thinks about his words. how his fingers tap lightly against his glass, how he nods when you talk, really listens.
he starts telling you about this tiny bunsikjeom he swears by back home—some blink-and-you-miss-it shop tucked between a laundromat and a vet clinic. he goes on about how their tteokbokki is the best and how the ajumma there hates him, like genuinely scowls whenever he walks in.
“i always order, like, five portions of odeng. just for me,” he says, eyes wide, hands gesturing like this is life-or-death. “and she always yells, like—‘yah! save some for other people!’ but then she gives me extra anyway. she pretends she’s mad, but she totally likes me.”
he grins, ducking his head a little. “i think she worries i don’t eat enough.”
you raise a brow. “you’re ordering five skewers and she still thinks you’re starving?”
“exactly,” he says, mock-offended.
you ask if fame ever gets lonely. he doesn’t dodge it.
“yeah, sometimes,” he admits. “but i’m used to being alone. i think i’m better at being with people now, though. or... the right people.”
you blink at that. it’s quieter than the rest of the conversation. unpolished. a little vulnerable.
and it hits you—he’s nothing like the stage version of himself. not the flirty idol who winks at cameras or sings with syrup in his voice. he’s calmer. sharper. grounded.
even the way he drinks feels different. slow. deliberate. not for show, just... because he’s thirsty.
you look at him again. really look.
and for a moment, you just sit with it. the quiet between you, the city glowing beyond the glass, the weight of something undeniably real blooming beneath the surface.
you don’t speak. you don’t need to.
because somewhere between the last laugh and the next sip of tequila, time starts to slip. the minutes blur, slow and easy, like the night’s decided not to rush. you’re both tipsy now—flushed, relaxed, limbs loose. the music plays soft in the background, and the suite glows warm and golden, like dusk frozen in place. it feels quiet. suspended. like everything outside of this cozy little corner of the suite has been paused.
he’s charming, but not in the curated way you expected.
it feels private—like he’s peeling himself back one layer at a time just for you. less idol, more man. his voice is low, his stories surprisingly unfiltered, and he’s funny—actually funny, not just media-trained clever.
you find yourself leaning in before you realize it, pulled toward the gravity of his presence like he’s something your body already knew how to orbit.
he smells like warm skin and sugared spice—notes of something expensive laced with the earthy ache of man. every time he shifts, you catch more of it, and it’s dizzying.
you weren’t prepared for this. for him.
genuine. confident in a way that doesn’t beg for attention. grounded, but just enough ego to be dangerous.
not the distant, idolized version of baekhyun the internet likes to dissect in thinkpieces and fancams.
this version is real. present. and somehow even more disarming.
“so,” he says, glancing sideways, “tell me something that’s not small talk.”
his voice is low, unhurried.
you blink. “what, like… my credit card number?”
you smile, finally letting your shoulders drop a little. “okay, fine. i always cry during the last twenty minutes of ratatouille.”
baekhyun turns to face you more fully, brows lifting. “what gets you? the rat’s speech?”
“no, it wasn’t remy,” you say with a scoff, nudging his knee lightly. “his name is remy, first of all.”
he laughs—really laughs—and the sound curls warm in your chest. “ah, my bad. remy,” he echoes, grinning. “go on.”
you exhale, letting your gaze drift toward the glowing skyline beyond the glass. “it was the critic’s review. that part at the end where he talks about discovering something new, something unexpected, and how the world is always unkind to it.”
your voice softens, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “he says the new needs friends. and i don’t know—it hit something in me.”
baekhyun stays still beside you, his hand curled loosely around his drink, forgotten now.
“sometimes it just feels like... everything’s already been done. like no one’s waiting for what you have to give. and then this bitter old man eats a meal made by a fucking rat and suddenly he’s like—shaken. changed. reminded why he ever cared in the first place.”
you pause, then shrug, barely glancing at him. “i guess it reminded me that you don’t have to be expected to be meaningful. that you don’t have to be someone obvious to matter.”
baekhyun doesn’t say anything right away.
but something shifts in his expression. his jaw ticks, just barely. his lashes dip like he’s trying to hide the flicker of emotion behind his eyes, like he doesn’t want to give himself away.
because yeah—he fucking gets it. way more than you know.
not just the movie. not just the speech. but the whole aching truth of it.
he’s been living that risk lately—leaving the comfort of the company that built him, stepping out with nothing but belief and a dream that people might still show up for him. that what he has to offer—now, as he is—is still worth something.
he hasn’t said it out loud, not to anyone. but hearing you say it—watching you light up over something so honest, so deeply felt—it stirs something in him. makes him see not just the movie differently… but you, too.
you, sitting here in front of him, talking about hope like it’s something fragile and holy.
it makes him feel less alone.
and for the first time tonight, baekhyun forgets about being careful. about being cool.
he just looks at you like he’s seeing something rare.
something that might just change everything.
"you're not what i expected," he says, voice low—almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
you glance over, one brow lifting as you tilt your head. “good unexpected?"
he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you—really looks—like he’s committing your features to memory one slow blink at a time. eyes scanning the curve of your mouth, the slope of your cheek, the way the light catches the side of your face. and then, finally, he nods. once. small, certain.
you smile, warmth curling beneath your ribs as you lift your drink and finish the last sip. the glass makes a soft sound as you set it down on the coffee table. “funny,” you say, easing back into the cushions. “i was just about to say the same thing.”
his lips twitch, curiosity sparking behind them. “yeah? how so?”
you hesitate for half a beat, choosing your words. “you’re… calmer than i thought you’d be. softer.” your voice dips, gentling. “more real. the version of you on stage is fun—electric—but it’s not this.”
his smile stretches slowly, not wide but genuine, like the words settle somewhere deep in him. like maybe they mean more than you know. “so what you’re saying,” he murmurs, “is that i’m not the guy i pretend to be when everyone’s watching.”
you bump your knee lightly against his, a tiny grin playing at your lips. “exactly.”
his gaze drops, lingers where your thigh presses to his. and when he looks back up, there’s something darker swimming there—something thick with heat.
your breath catches.
a strand of hair sticks to the gloss on your bottom lip, and before you can even lift a hand, his fingers are already there—brushing it away, tucking it behind your ear like it’s second nature. like he’s done it before.
the touch is soft. reverent. but it sets something off inside you, deep and molten. like your body recognizes him before your brain can catch up.
his gaze holds yours, gold and liquid in the warm afterparty lighting, and this time, neither of you look away. there’s no posturing. no pretending. just... him. and you.
he leans in, slow. lips brushing yours—barely there. testing the space between you.
you don’t move.
so he kisses you.
it starts soft. tentative. like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. but it doesn’t stay that way for long. it deepens too fast, mouths parting, breaths catching, lips dragging, tongues meeting like they’ve done this before. like they remember.
your knees hook over his thighs without thought, your hips shifting, sliding into his lap like you were meant to be there.
and the second you settle—flush against him—he groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked.
“fuck,” he exhales, breaking the kiss just long enough to breathe, hands curling tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. like he needs to hold you steady or he might come undone.
you rock into him slowly, your skirt hitched high, the friction between your soaked panties and the heat straining in his sweats making your thighs tremble. your head tips back, a moan slipping out that you couldn’t hide if you tried.
his lips are on your throat now, jaw, collarbone—anywhere he can reach, desperate to taste more. his hands slide lower, gripping your ass with purpose, grinding you down like he’s starving. like this is the only thing that will satisfy the ache he’s been carrying all night.
“you’re drivin’ me fuckin’ insane,” he mutters, voice shredded, fraying at the seams. “you have no idea.”
you’re seconds from cumming—lips locked, skirt hitched high, his grip on your thighs desperate, like he’s caught between dragging you closer and anchoring himself from completely losing it—when a voice slices through the air like a bucket of ice water dumped on your head.
“uh, babe? you in here?”
you both freeze.
baekhyun’s mouth stalls against your jaw. your lungs forget how to work.
and then—
pure. fucking. chaos.
you scramble off his lap, nearly kneeing him in the balls in the process, tugging your skirt back down your ass like it’ll erase the last ten minutes. baekhyun shifts too, adjusting his sweats with hands that still shake a little. your lips feel kissed raw. your thighs ache. you don’t even want to know what your hair looks like.
mika stands just inside the doorway, one brow cocked, arms folded over her sparkly top like the mom friend she definitely is when necessary. her gaze sweeps over the scene—your smeared lipstick, baekhyun’s rumpled shirt, the space between you two charged and awkward, like the tension hasn’t quite settled. and you—frozen next to the couch like you forgot what to do with your body now that someone else is watching.
“meeks,” you squeak, trying—and failing—to sound casual. “hey.”
“hey yourself,” she says lightly, voice dipped in that syrupy sarcasm only best friends can perfect. “your phone’s dead. figured i’d check you weren’t, y’know…” she pauses, eyes sliding between you and baekhyun, mouth twitching. “kidnapped. or eaten alive.”
baekhyun lets out something between a laugh and a choke. you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
and then her gaze settles on him.
his bleached blonde hair is a mess—textbook post-makeout chaos. cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, hoodie wrinkled like it’s been tugged in desperation. her gaze narrows. and you see it: the flicker. the click. the way realization sparks behind her lashes like a struck match. she knows.
of course she knows.
but mika? mika’s been around. she’s danced with indie film heartthrobs and ghosted rappers with stadium tours. she’s navigated VIP lounges and afters where NDAs are practically part of the dress code. she’s seen the famous, the infamous, and the almost-famous. and she’s never once made it weird.
so she doesn’t gasp. doesn’t scream. doesn’t say, “weren’t we just at his concert four hours ago?”
instead, she just raises an eyebrow—subtle, amused, dangerous—and shoots you a look that says i’m going to make you tell me everything.
then she shrugs. uncrosses her arms. casual as ever. “right. well. i’m heading out. you comin’ with or…?”
you look back.
and for the first time, really look.
bare skin—clean and fresh, faint traces of sweat still lingering at his hairline from earlier. his hoodie’s loose around his shoulders, the collar tugged slightly off-center, and his blonde hair sticks up in soft tufts where your fingers must’ve pulled through it.
he looks... manly like this. unstyled. real. almost heartbreakingly so.
and his eyes—they’re not teasing. they’re not flirty. not charming or rehearsed like they were earlier when he made you laugh into your drink. they’re quiet. open. like he’s asking something without saying it out loud.
you’ve never seen that look on him before.
not in music videos. not on stage. not even earlier tonight.
it’s not desire burning behind his gaze—it’s something softer. something closer to hope.
“stay a little longer, yeah?” he says, voice low. steady. like he’s giving you space to say no, but hoping to hell you won’t. “just for a nightcap.”
his thumb strokes your wrist again.
then, quieter—almost like he’s trying to make it casual, as if this isn’t something important—he adds, “i’ve got a charger for your phone you can use too.”
you don’t even realize you’re nodding until mika snorts.
“m’kay, text me when you’re done being ravished by kpop’s finest,” she calls over her shoulder as she turns to leave. “love you, don’t die.”
“mika!”
but she’s already halfway down the hallway, humming something that suspiciously sounds like ‘love shot.’
you glance back at baekhyun, cheeks burning, heart rattling behind your ribs.
he’s still holding your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse like he’s trying to soothe it—or match it. a crooked smile tugs at his lips, sheepish and flushed, whether from being caught mid-makeout or just the aftershock of it all.
like he hadn’t planned on you, but now he doesn’t really want to let you go.
his eyes find yours, soft and searching. there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but he doesn’t flash it like he does on stage or behind cameras. this one’s smaller. real.
he looks… relieved. maybe even a little stunned. like he’s not used to this—you. not just the kiss, not just the body heat, but the connection.
and there’s a flicker of something else in his expression too. not nerves exactly, but hesitation. like part of him is still processing that this is happening at all.
he rubs the back of his neck before reaching for you, voice low and careful. “i’m glad you stayed,” he murmurs, like it’s not something he says often. like it’s heavier than the words suggest.
his hand finds yours again, fingers brushing tentatively over your knuckles before he gently tugs you closer.
then he pulls you back into his lap, arms sliding around your waist, like it’s second nature—but his touch is more tender now. reverent. like he’s scared if he moves too fast, you might disappear.
you settle into him again, heart thudding, lips still tingling from the last kiss.
he exhales into the crook of your neck, voice barely above a whisper. “i-i don’t usually…” he trails off, his hold tightening slightly.
but he doesn’t need to finish.
you already know.
and that truth—that rare, quiet truth—makes your chest ache in the best way.
you smile, and before you can say something to break the moment, he’s kissing you again.
but it’s different this time.
still hot, still messy, but it lingers. it asks. his mouth moves with reverence, his hands memorizing you, like he’s been starving for touch but terrified of being fed too well.
“woulda been devastated if you left,” he rasps, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice rough and trembling with restraint.
then he nips—right below it. soft and precise. you jolt, hips twitching instinctively in his lap.
his hand moves like it has a destination. slow, deliberate, up the curve of your thigh, under the hem of your skirt. his fingers trail higher—light and teasing at first, but the moment he reaches the warm heat between your legs, everything sharpens.
you gasp.
his fingers still.
there’s a pause, heavy and humming.
you don’t have to see his face to feel the shift—the tension in his body, the hissed breath through his teeth, the unmistakable clench of his jaw when he realizes—
you’re not wearing anything underneath.
his fingers flex, knuckles barely grazing your slick folds.
“shit,” he breathes, almost to himself. “you’ve been sittin’ on me like this this whole time?”
you don’t answer. can’t. your chest is tight, lungs barely remembering how to fill.
he draws his fingers through your arousal, slow and deliberate, collecting the wetness before withdrawing. he brings his hand up, eyes locked on yours. his fingers glisten in the dim light, your slick catching the golden hue as he lifts them to his mouth.
you watch, helpless, as he slides his middle and ring fingers between his lips and sucks them clean.
his eyelids flutter, then flutter open again—gaze dark and fixed on you like he’s starving.
“where have you been all my fucking life?” he breathes, like it’s hurting him, like your taste is something he might never recover from.
his cock twitches beneath you, hard and heavy beneath the soft cotton of his sweats, straining for more contact—more of you.
you don’t answer him—not with words.
instead, you take his hand in yours, slow and sure, like it belongs to you now. your fingers wrap tight around his wrist as you guide him back down between your thighs, the same fingers still slick from earlier. you spread wider, shameless, hips tilting forward like your body already knows what it wants.
he groans the moment you press his fingers into your soaked heat again—your cunt so wet and eager that he slides in without resistance.
your back arches, lashes fluttering, a breathy moan spilling from your parted lips as he starts to move.
once.
twice.
a third time—deep, slow, curling just right, the pads of his fingers dragging against every spot that makes you whimper.
he’s watching you like he’s in a trance. like you’ve crawled out of some decadent, filthy dream with your lipgloss smudged and your hips rolling like you’re possessed by pleasure itself.
his eyes don’t leave your face.
they can’t.
you keep your hand over his, guiding the pace, the depth—controlling him like a toy you know exactly how to play with. his fingers stretch you just right, knuckles brushing your dripping folds, your slick making a mess on both your hands.
then you whimper. soft. broken.
it shatters him.
you lean in, your lips brushing his while you take those same fingers—wet and warm and still pulsing from where they were buried—and bring them to your mouth. your eyes lock on his, gaze steady, daring.
you part your lips and wrap them around his fingers slowly, deliberately, letting the gloss that still clings to your mouth coat his skin again. your tongue swirls over the pads, collecting your own taste, savoring him. his rings are cold against your lips—a metallic tease compared to the wet heat of your mouth.
his hips twitch beneath you, jaw clenching so hard you see the muscle tick.
he twitches beneath you. hips jerk. his jaw clenches so tight, you see the muscle flicker.
and you don’t stop.
you keep grinding down on him—slow, steady drags of your soaked pussy against his cock, your clit catching on the thick ridge of him through his boxers. the friction is perfect. devastating. addictive.
his eyes darken. voice drops.
“fuck,” he growls again, this time lower, more dangerous. “that’s it.”
suddenly, his grip tightens on your thighs, guiding you off his lap with shaky urgency. you stumble a little, knees weak, and he stands with you—his hand firm at the small of your back, the other sliding down to grab your wrist like he needs you moving now.
“can’t take it anymore,” he mutters, voice hot against your cheek, his breath a mess against your skin.
“i need you,” he growls, voice thick, fraying at the edges. “need to feel you wrapped around me. need to fuck the sweet, messy heaven you made on my fingers straight outta you.”
you whimper—helpless, already unraveling—and before you even register how fast you’re moving, you’re there. the hallway blurs. your hand is still locked in his, his grip unrelenting, like if he lets go now he might not get you back.
your pulse slams behind your ribs. you’re dizzy with how fast everything is unraveling. you follow him on unsteady legs, hips brushing, feet tripping over each other in the rush to get to the bedroom.
he’s not carrying you. he doesn’t have to. because he’s pulling you through the dark with a grip that says come with me. now.
he reaches the door to his room, throws it open with one swift motion. his eyes burn when they meet yours—dark, wrecked, entirely gone for you.
the door clicks shut behind you.
baekhyun’s on you in the next breath—hands cupping your jaw, mouth crashing into yours like he’s starving for it, for you. there’s no prelude. no hesitation. just heat and teeth and breath, his lips pressed hard against yours as he walks you backward, blindly, toward the bed. he groans into your mouth, dragging you with him like his hands can’t bear to let you go for a second.
the beanie he had on earlier? abandoned on the couch. long gone. forgotten the moment your sweet mouth touched his. his sweater comes off first, pulled over his head with a grunt and tossed somewhere behind him. then his sweatpants, shoved down with one hand, the other still gripping your hip like you might disappear.
you whimper when your back hits the mattress, but he’s already climbing over you—pressing himself between your legs, kissing you like he’s trying to devour the moans from your throat. and fuck, you're giving them to him. whimpers and gasps and needy little sounds he swallows down like they’re fueling him.
you straddle his lap, feel him hard and hot beneath his boxers, the outline of his cock pressing into your soaked panties. your hands explore in desperate sweeps—his toned stomach, the cut of his hips, the way his muscles twitch when you grind down just right.
his hands are everywhere.
on your ass, kneading.
on your tits, squeezing, thumbs circling your nipples through your top until you’re arching into him, chasing the friction.
every stifled moan from your mouth makes him groan harder. every shift of your hips has him whimpering against your lips like he can’t believe this is happening.
you barely register the moment his hand slides down again. his fingers slip under your panties, push past the mess of slick already dripping for him.
two fingers, knuckle-deep, curling perfectly.
you cry out, hips jerking, grinding against the heel of his palm as his fingers fuck up into you—rhythmic, practiced, devastating. his palm rocks against your clit with every motion, and it’s too much. it’s all too much. he’s kissing you the whole time, tongues tangled, teeth clashing, spit messy between your mouths.
you ride his fingers like they’re his cock. pace quickening, hips stuttering, moans breaking against his lips as your thighs start to tremble.
“baek—fuck, i’m gonna!”
“cum for me,” he breathes, lips dragging down your neck. “cum all over my fingers, baby. wanna feel it.”
and you do—with a sharp gasp and a choked sob, your cunt clenches around him, gushing slick onto his hand. he holds you through it, lets you grind it out, rubs your clit as you shake and shiver above him.
he pulls his fingers out slowly, and you whine from the loss—raw, overstimulated.
but he just smirks, lifts his hand to his mouth, and sucks your release from his fingers like it’s honey. eyes on yours the entire time.
before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your back and spreads your legs wide.
“need my mouth on you. now.”
you gasp as he drops to his knees, throws your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face in your pussy.
he devours you like a man starved—tongue dragging slow and unrelenting through your folds, lips sealed around your clit like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste. every flick is deliberate. every suck sends sparks skittering down your spine. and when he moans into you—low, guttural, wrecked—it vibrates through your core like a detonator.
his hands are ruthless on your thighs, fingers digging deep, spreading you wider like he owns the view between your legs. like he’s earned this. and maybe he has, the way he fucks you open with his mouth—relentless, greedy, like your pussy’s the only thing tethering him to earth.
you come hard. once. then again. and then again, your vision going white at the edges, your voice splintering around his name like a prayer gone hoarse. he barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s back on you, dragging you higher, refusing to let you fall.
he’s obsessed. addicted.
and he’s not hiding it.
he lifts his head just enough to speak, chin wet, lips swollen, eyes glassy with lust. “fuck,” he rasps, eyes locked on the mess he’s made of you. “you see this? see how you’re drippin’ for me? how the fuck am i supposed to stop now?”
his fingers slide back inside—two, then three—stretching you wide, curling deep. he finds your spot like it’s mapped in his muscle memory, like he’s been waiting his whole life to touch you like this. his mouth returns to your clit, licking with slow precision, sucking hard like he needs it to breathe.
“wanna fuckin’ die down here,” he murmurs against you, voice thick and ragged.
you sob his name, thighs trembling around his head, hips trying to jerk away from the overstimulation—but he groans at that. growls at that. hands dragging you closer, grinding his face deeper into your cunt like he’s chasing your next high through sheer force of will.
you cum again—this one violent, toe-curling, shaking so hard your hands can barely find his shirt. but they do. they grab, fist in the collar, tugging him up with desperation.
his mouth crashes to yours, wet and dirty, your slick still shining on his lips. the kiss is obscene. teeth, tongue, need.
and your hand’s already moving—slipping down between your bodies, palming the thick, aching bulge in his boxers.
“want it,” you gasp against his lips. “wanna feel you. want you inside me.”
his eyes darken, jaw clenched, a twitch of disbelief and desperate restraint cracking through his composure.
he exhales, like the words punch the air out of his lungs.
“how can i say no to you?”
his lips are still on yours when he lines himself up—boxers shoved down to his thighs, your legs draped open for him, panties tossed somewhere in the sheets. he strokes himself once, twice, teasing your entrance with the flushed tip of his cock, gliding it through your soaked folds.
“baby…” he groans, forehead pressing to yours. “fuck, you’re so wet.”
you nod, lips parted, eyes barely open. “please, baek. now.”
he pushes in slow—inch by inch, thick and deliberate—letting you take every bit of him, your walls fluttering from how sensitive you still are.
you cry out, spine arching, nails digging into his biceps. he groans, low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“oh my god,” he breathes, jaw tight, hips shaking as he bottoms out. “you’re fuckin’ squeezin’ me, baby—”
you whimper beneath him, completely overwhelmed—stretching around him, feeling every inch, the fullness dizzying. he stays still for a second, panting into your neck, like he's trying to pull himself back from the edge.
you clench around him again, needing more. needing movement.
he lets out a choked whine, lips brushing your skin, “fuck—feels like heaven,” he groans, voice wrecked. “you do that again and i swear i’m gonna cum just like that.”
your pussy tightens reflexively, and he moans into your throat—raw, helpless, feral.
you whimper again, your hips starting to move on instinct.
he matches your rhythm, slow at first—sensual, deliberate strokes that grind against every sensitive nerve inside you.
the room is humid with breath and want, skin against skin, the slap of his hips against your thighs growing louder as he fucks deeper, faster.
“such a good girl,” he rasps. “takin’ all of me like you were made for it.”
you fall apart again—loud, messy, clinging to him, heels digging in his lower back as your orgasm rips through you.
he fucks you through it, fingers tangled in your hair, kissing your tears away as you tremble and shiver beneath him.
round two hits different.
you’re pulled from sleep by warmth—his breath on your shoulder, the soft drag of his mouth kissing over your skin.
you stir, barely, and feel his hand cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.
his other arm’s wrapped tight around your waist, fingertips trailing lazy circles down your stomach, then lower. he’s hard again—thick and pulsing against your ass, and he ruts into the curve of your body without even meaning to.
“awake?” he murmurs against your neck.
you hum. “barely.”
“c’mere,” he whispers, rolling you onto your back.
his face is soft in the low light. it must be five a.m.—still dark, sky a velvety blue beyond the hotel windows.
you reach for him, pull him down by the face, and your mouths meet again—slow, sleepy, sensual. he sinks into you with a groan, no warning, no teasing. just raw, aching need.
you gasp into his mouth. he starts thrusting in long, slow rolls, his pelvis grinding against yours at the perfect angle. every stroke sends heat curling in your belly.
he doesn’t say a word—just exhales against your lips like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into that single breath. like if he kisses you any harder, you’ll know what he can’t put into words.
but it’s not enough.
you want more. need more.
your body moves on instinct—pushing him back against the mattress, crawling into his lap with slow, purposeful grace. your knees settle on either side of his hips, skirt riding up, your cunt slick and aching where it hovers just above the thick line of his cock.
his eyes drink you in like he’s never seen anything more stunning. heavy-lidded, lips parted, throat working around a breath he can’t quite catch.
“you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, voice low and reverent, his hands sliding up your thighs—gripping, kneading, tracing your skin like it’s holy.
you don’t answer. just sink down, slow and steady, taking him inch by thick, throbbing inch.
his breath punches out of him in a gasp, head thrown back, fingers digging into your hips. “shit—”
you ride him like you own him. hips rolling, bouncing, grinding down until your skin slaps against his with every thrust. the drag of his cock inside you is devastating—too good. too deep. and not nearly enough.
his moans grow ragged, sharp, the sound filthy in your ears. “fuck, baby—just like that. keep goin’. you feel so good—fuck, i’m gonna lose it.”
your hands brace on his chest, nails raking down the sweat-slick fabric of his shirt, chasing another high as your body trembles from the aftershocks. your pussy flutters around him, milking him greedily, overstimulated and still aching for more.
“cum for me again,” he groans, sitting up just enough to mouth at your tits, tongue dragging over your nipple through your top. “wanna feel you fall apart on my cock. wanna feel you drip down my thighs.”
and you do. again. helplessly. a cry ripping from your throat as you fuck yourself through the release, dizzy from how much he fills you. from how deep you need him. from how much you know this is going to ruin you.
and god—he loves it.
“baek—don’t wanna stop,” you pant, nearly sobbing. “feels too good.”
“then don’t,” he growls, gripping your hips so hard they might bruise. “fuck—ride me, baby, don’t stop.”
he thrusts up into you, losing control. the tempo turns messy, hungry, animalistic.
“god, you’re perfect—this pussy, fuck—it’s got me fuckin’ obsessed.”
you throw your head back, mouth open, eyes rolling as he slams up into you.
your cunt flutters around him again—tight, soaked, relentless—and he nearly loses control.
he’s shaking now, jaw locked, muscles flexing under your palms. everything in him winds tighter, like he’s seconds from snapping.
because how the fuck is this real?
he’s never felt like this. never needed someone the way he needs you right now.
he’s obsessed—with the way you smile mid-moan, with the soft whimpers that leave your throat every time he grinds into that perfect spot. your eyes—god, your eyes—rolling back, lashes fluttering like you’re seeing stars. your throat exposed when your head tips back in pleasure, that pretty, vulnerable neck he’s dying to mark up and call his.
it’s too much. too perfect. too you.
and when you fall forward, mouth crashing into his, the kiss is frantic—tongues messy, teeth clashing, like neither of you can get close enough.
your bodies are slick with sweat, pulsing with need, every nerve screaming.
and then he’s cumming. deep, thick, hard. his whole body jerks as he spills into you, hips grinding through the release like he’s trying to brand it into you—his claim, his worship, his fucking downfall.
and in that moment, nothing else exists. just the feel of you around him, shaking and perfect. just the sound of your breath in his ear.
and the quiet, terrifying realization blooming behind his ribs: you’ve already got him.
completely.
the room is quiet now. the only sound is your breathing—shaky, soft, slowing. his, too.
the sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, twisted around your ankles. your body’s still warm, flushed in places, marked in others. the air between you is thick with sweat and sex and something heavier neither of you has named.
baekhyun lies on his side, propped on one elbow. just… watching you. like he can’t not.
he brushes a damp strand of hair off your forehead, knuckles grazing your cheek. your lashes flutter, your lips part like you’re about to say something—maybe something dumb or playful or too honest—but nothing comes out. you just look at him.
and he’s struck silent all over again.
because fuck…
you’re so pretty like this. all wrecked and glowing, skin kissed raw, eyeliner smudged in the corners of your eyes. your lips are swollen from him, your pulse still visible in your neck where the marks are starting to bloom—places he’s already thinking about going back to. again. and again.
it wasn’t supposed to go this far. he was just supposed to party a little. blow off steam. it’s his first solo world tour—he’s been running on fumes and caffeine and pressure for weeks now. last night’s plan was to just fuck around a little, drink, unwind, and then move on to the next city like always.
but then you showed up.
the girl from the tenth row at tonight’s show. the one who danced like she didn’t care who was watching. the same girl he caught standing awkwardly at the bar at his afterparty, trying to act casual like she hadn’t just been screaming his lyrics a few hours earlier.
and now you’re here. in his space.
naked and tangled in his sheets, etched into the quiet of his night like you were always meant to be there. your chest rises and falls beneath blankets he never planned to share, in a city that meant nothing to him yesterday, and now feels like it’ll ache a little every time he thinks of it.
he exhales through his nose, slow and steady, voice soft against the quiet, “you good?”
you nod, lips tugging into a lazy smile, “don’t think i’ll be able to feel my legs for a few days.”
he grins, low and crooked, “yeah, me too. rehearsals are gonna be a bitch tomorrow.”
you both laugh—quiet, breathy, the kind that hums in your chest. and for a while, that’s enough. no words. no pressure to speak.
just stillness. skin against skin.
your fingers drift along the inside of his forearm, lazy and absentminded, like they’re just getting to know the shape of him. his hand rests on your hip like it’s always belonged there, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin—as if he's trying to memorize the curve of you before morning steals this softness away.
then your phone buzzes twice on the nightstand. sharp. insistent. a quiet jolt back to reality.
you glance over and notice the screen lit up, the charging icon glowing in the corner. he must’ve plugged it in for you while you slept.
something about that undoes you a little.
you shift, the weight of the moment settling over your chest. “i should probably go,” you murmur, not really wanting to.
but his hand doesn’t fall away. he just holds you a second longer—fingers tightening at your waist, like he’s still deciding if he’s ready to let you go.
“lemme get you a car home,” he murmurs, still breathless, hand grazing your hip like he’s reluctant to let go.
you nod, rolling onto your back, already feeling the loss of his warmth before he even moves.
he sits up, silent, swinging his legs off the bed and pulling his sweats back on. the soft sound of fabric, the creak of the mattress, the distant hum of the city outside—it all feels louder now.
you slide out of bed, slipping your top back on, fingers fumbling slightly at the hem. your panties are nowhere to be found. your heels are waiting by the door like they knew this was coming.
neither of you speaks as you both dress, the silence not uncomfortable—just full. full of everything unspoken. full of the way your body still aches from him.
you’re slipping your heels on by the door when something soft lands against your back.
you turn just in time to catch it—his hoodie. the same cozy grey one he wore to the afters earlier, still warm from his body.
you blink at him, lips parting, chest already tight with something you can’t name.
the hoodie smells like him—clean skin, faint shampoo, and something unmistakably you clinging to the fabric now. you pull it over your head. it swallows you instantly—the sleeves hanging past your hands, the hem brushing your thighs, heavy with the weight of the night still lingering in every thread.
his eyes follow the movement, lingering as you adjust it over your hips.
he doesn’t say a word, but there’s a shift in his face—softened at the edges. like something quiet cracked open inside him.
he grabs the suite keycard from the nightstand and slips it into his back pocket like it's second nature. you’re still tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie, swimming in it, heart doing something stupid and fluttery in your chest when he glances back at you.
you follow him toward the door, and your hand just—finds his. like it was always meant to. he doesn’t say anything, just threads his fingers through yours and squeezes once. you don’t need words. not right now.
the hallway is quiet. like 3 a.m. quiet. the kind that makes everything feel softer, heavier. the elevator dings, and you both step inside. you expect silence. maybe a head-tilt goodbye. instead, his mouth is on yours again before the doors even close.
it’s slower this time. deep. his fingers slip into your hair, tug just enough to tilt your face up so he can really kiss you. and god, he does. like he means it. like he’s trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his memory just in case this really is the last time. your hands fist in his tee, your knees go a little weak. you sigh into it, drunk off him again.
there’s so much in this kiss. things neither of you planned. things he’s not saying. things you’re definitely gonna spiral about when you’re home and alone in your bed.
the elevator chimes again. he doesn’t let go immediately. just bites down on your bottom lip—gentle but deliberate—before he finally pulls away, breath still catching in his throat.
he keeps your hand in his as you both walk through the empty lobby. his thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles, and it’s so stupidly sweet you don’t know what to do with yourself. outside, the air is crisp. the city’s winding down, the sky a soft blur of navy and gold. and the ache in your chest? yeah. that’s definitely real.
there’s a black truck waiting at the curb, engine humming low, windows tinted. you kind of hate how real it makes everything feel.
baekhyun walks you to the car without saying much, still holding your hand like it’s second nature now—like letting go would feel too final. when you reach the door, he opens it for you himself, his palm brushing the small of your back in that quiet, anchoring way. like part of him still isn't sure he wants you to leave.
you’re about to climb in when he pauses.
“i’ve got a couple more shows in the city,” he says, voice low and unreadable. his eyes flick up to meet yours. “if you’re around… and feel like crashing another afters.”
your heart stutters.
you look at him—white tee wrinkled from where you had your fists curled into it in the elevator, blonde hair still messy from your hands, from his own. he looks like no time has passed at all. like he could pull you back upstairs right now and you wouldn’t even hesitate.
you smile. “maybe.”
he nods, once. quiet. like that one word told him everything he needed to hear.
then he helps you into the car, his fingertips grazing your bare thigh as you settle into the seat. a soft touch. a question he doesn’t ask out loud.
he shuts the door gently behind you.
as the truck pulls away, you lean your cheek against the window, breath fogging up the glass. you try not to look back.
but of course you do.
he’s still there.
hands tucked into the pockets of his grey sweats, white hoodie sleeves pushed up, mouth unreadable. watching you go like he’s trying to memorize it—just in case you don’t come back.
your apartment feels too quiet when you walk in.
not peaceful. not calm.
just quiet in a way that makes the whole night feel like something you imagined. like you’re stepping out of a dream barefoot.
you toe off your heels by the door, ankles aching, thighs sore in the best, most sinful way. your lips are still tender—kiss-swollen, tingling—and you’re swimming in his hoodie. oversized and worn soft, sleeves covering your hands, the hem brushing your upper thighs with every step.
your bag slips from your shoulder and lands somewhere near the kitchen counter. you don’t bother picking it up.
your phone buzzes the second you set it down. the screen lights up with notifications in a neat little stack:
instagram story likes.
a dm from some guy you danced near at gravity.
a flurry of messages screaming “YOU WENT TO REVERIE?! SO JEALOUS”
and then, of course—mika.
meeks 🦋
BITCH WHEN U GET HOME I NEED A PLAY-BY-PLAY!!!!! i saw the way he looked at u omfg i am unwell
you laugh under your breath, thumbs hovering over the screen—still unsure how to even begin explaining what the fuck just happened.
but then another notification rolls in from a contact you don’t remember saving.
B.
your brows pinch in confusion. you don’t remember saving that contact.
you tap it open.
the first thing you see is a photo. a crisp, perfectly lit shot of an all access pass for the next two reverie shows in your city… and a sleek black suite keycard resting beside it on hotel bedsheets you recognize all too well.
beneath it, a message:
thought you might wanna crash again
your stomach flips.
you stare at the image, your thumb hovering over it like it might disappear if you blink too hard.
he must’ve done it—added his number into your phone sometime between kisses, between rounds, when you were half-dozing on his chest, legs tangled in the sheets.
quiet. sneaky. baekhyun.
a laugh escapes—disbelieving, giddy, a little breathless.
you bring the phone to your lips and smile, heart racing all over again. not from the concert. not from the alcohol.
from this.
from the realization that you almost didn’t go.
you were tired. you were going to call it a night. but mika had to talk you into one more stop—just one more before heading home.
if you’d said no…
if you’d gone to bed like you planned...
you wouldn’t be here now, wearing his hoodie, smelling like his sheets, rereading a text from him.
your fingers hover over the screen for a second longer before tapping the heart on the image.
you type back:
guess i’m yours for the next two nights then
send.
you sink into the couch, the weight of the night finally settling in your bones. you bury your face in the collar of his hoodie, still warm, still smelling like him—sweet skin and sweat and something that clings.
and for the first time all night, you’re so fucking glad you didn’t go home.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ a/n ꒱ ˎˊ˗ i think i've got my edge back 😭😭😭😭 this one's for my fellow delulu girliez, hope ya enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it hehe <333333333
