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gyuldaengie97 · 2 months ago

Text

EYES ON ME

OLDStranger!mingyu x YNGStranger!reader

In a moment of introspection, thirty-two-year-old Y/n finds herself at ‘Revel,’ a club catering to a more sophisticated crowd. Feeling adrift after a lackluster relationship and a stagnant career, she becomes captivated by a mysterious man named Mingyu, who exudes a calm, commanding presence. Their connection sparks an intense

Word count:2K+

Warnings: dom!mingyu, a little bit smut

My first time writting something please give love and comment,let me know what you think of it ☺️

The bass thrummed in my chest, a familiar, slightly melancholic rhythm that usually served as a temporary anesthetic for the low hum of dissatisfaction I carried around lately. It was a Friday night, and I was doing what I often did when the quiet of my apartment felt too loud: I was at ‘Revel,’ a club known for its slightly older, more sophisticated crowd than the haunts I’d frequented in my early twenties. At thirty-two, I felt adrift. My last relationship had sputtered out with a whimper, my career felt stable but uninspiring, and the future seemed less like an open road and more like a gently sloping plateau. I needed... something. I wasn’t sure what.

I nursed a gin and tonic, watching the kaleidoscope of dancers. The energy was infectious, but I felt like a spectator, separated by an invisible wall. Then I saw him.

He wasn't dancing. He stood near the bar, away from the main crush, holding a glass of amber liquid. What drew my eye wasn't his clothes – a simple dark shirt that fit well – but the sheer stillness of him amidst the chaos. He was a rock in a swirling current. He must have been in his late forties, maybe early fifties. Silver threaded his dark hair at the temples, giving him an air of distinction. His face wasn't classically handsome, but strong, with sharp angles and deep-set eyes that seemed to absorb everything without giving much away.

And then, those eyes met mine across the crowded room.

It wasn't a fleeting glance. He held my gaze, direct and unwavering. It felt like the music faded, the lights dimmed, and the surrounding bodies dissolved. There was a palpable intensity in his look, a quiet confidence that bordered on something primal. My stomach did a strange flip. It wasn't just attraction; it felt like recognition, like stepping onto solid ground after being buffeted by waves.

He didn't smile. He simply lifted his glass slightly, a silent acknowledgment. My hand trembled as I lifted mine in return.

He took a slow sip, his eyes still locked on mine. It wasn't predatory, not in a way that felt threatening. It was possessive. As if he had seen me, and I was now his to observe. My skin felt warm.

He finished his drink, set the glass down deliberately, and began to walk towards me. He moved with a calm, unhurried grace that contrasted sharply with the jerky movements of the dancers. As he got closer, the air around me seemed to thicken. He didn't navigate the crowd; the crowd simply parted for him.

He stopped a foot away, close enough that I could see the fine lines etched around his eyes, the thoughtful set of his mouth. He smelled faintly of something clean and expensive.

"Y/n," he said, his voice low and resonant, cutting through the noise effortlessly. Not soft, but controlled, like a powerful engine idling. How did he know my name? I hadn't spoken to anyone. He must have heard me talking to the bartender earlier.

"Yes...?" My voice was breathy, uncertain.

"Mingyu." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact. Mingyu. The name suited him.

He didn't ask if he could join me. He simply turned slightly, indicating the small space next to me at the bar. It was an assumption of permission, not a request. And I found myself shifting instinctively to make room.

"You looked... a little lost in the music," he said, finally breaking the intense gaze, though his focus remained entirely on me.

"Maybe just observing," I replied, finding my voice, trying to sound more composed than I felt.

He tilted his head, a small, knowing gesture. "Or waiting to be found?"

My cheeks heated. It was a bold statement, intimate, almost challenging. "Maybe," I admitted, surprising myself with my honesty.

"And have you been?" His eyes were back on mine, searching, assessing.

I held his gaze. This was different. This wasn't the usual club small talk. There was depth and intent behind every word. "I'm not sure yet."

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes, which remained serious, but it transformed his face, hinting at a warmth I hadn't expected. "Let's find out," he said.

He ordered another drink, his hand resting casually on the bar near mine. His fingers were long and strong. Every movement he made was economical, purposeful. He didn't fidget, didn't scan the room. His attention was solely on me, and it was intoxicating.

We talked for perhaps an hour, but the details of the conversation are hazy now. It wasn't about jobs or hobbies. It was about perspectives, feelings, the quiet dissatisfactions of life, the search for meaning. He listened more than he spoke, nodding occasionally, his eyes never leaving my face. When he did speak, his words were measured, thoughtful, occasionally punctuated by a dry wit that made me laugh.

He had a way of looking at me that made me feel completely seen, flaws and all, and still desired. It was unnerving and exhilarating. There was a constant undercurrent of intensity, a sense of something coiled and powerful beneath his calm exterior.

At some point, he reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek. His touch was light, but sent a jolt through me. "The music is getting louder," he observed, his voice still steady despite the rising volume around us. "Shall we find somewhere quieter?"

It wasn't a question. It was a direction. And my only thought was yes.

We didn't go to another bar. He led me out of the club, his hand lightly on the small of my back – a possessive touch, guiding me through the exiting crowd. He flagged a taxi with a decisive gesture, opened the door for me, and slid in beside me.

The ride was silent, comfortable. The air in the taxi was still, a stark contrast to the club. I could feel the warmth radiating from his side, the solid presence of him next to me. My heart hammered against my ribs, anticipation coiled in my stomach. Where were we going? I didn't ask. I trusted him implicitly in that moment, a trust born purely of instinct and the powerful connection we'd forged in the noisy heart of the club.

He paid the driver without a word, his movements efficient and practiced. We were standing in front of a modern apartment building, sleek and understated. He didn't fumble for keys; he used a card key with practiced ease.

His apartment was beautiful. Minimalist, spacious, filled with muted colours and interesting art. It felt calm, ordered, a sanctuary. It reflected him perfectly – controlled, sophisticated, with hidden depths.

He didn't turn on many lights, just a few soft lamps that cast pools of warm light. The city lights twinkled through the large windows. He offered me a drink. I shook my head, my throat too dry.

He didn't push. He simply nodded, took my hand, and led me further into the apartment. His touch was firm, confident. He didn't ask if I wanted this. He knew. And somehow, so did I.

He stopped in the middle of the living room, turning to face me. His grip on my hand tightened slightly. His eyes, in the soft light, held a depth that was almost overwhelming. The quiet confidence I’d sensed earlier solidified into something more. This wasn't about polite consent; this was about a mutual, unspoken understanding of what was about to happen, and a willingness on my part to cede control.

He didn't rush. His gaze traced my features, lingering on my eyes, my lips. It was a slow, deliberate undressing with his eyes alone. A silent command to stand still, to be looked at. And I obeyed, captivated.

When he finally spoke, his voice was even lower than in the club, a soft rumble that vibrated through me. "You are beautiful, Y/n."

He lifted my hand, bringing it to his lips. He didn't kiss it; he simply pressed his lips to my skin, a brief, focused touch that was more intimate than any kiss. It was a claiming.

Then, still holding my hand, he began to unbutton my dress. Slowly. One button at a time. Not with urgency, but with meticulous care, his eyes watching mine for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. There was none. Only a rising tide of desire and a strange sense of peace in relinquishing control.

As the dress parted, revealing the skin beneath, his gaze intensified. He didn't shower me with compliments; his focus was entirely on the physical process, the unveiling. It was incredibly erotic.

When the dress slipped to the floor, he stepped closer, closing the small distance between us. He didn't touch me yet, but I could feel the heat emanating from his body. He looked at me, standing in my slip, with an expression that was purely, intensely masculine desire, controlled and powerful.

He lifted his hands, cupping my face gently. His thumbs stroked my cheekbones. "Look at me," he commanded softly, and my eyes, which had instinctively fluttered closed for a second, snapped back open. He needed my full attention, my complete presence.

He kissed me then. It wasn't tentative or exploring. It was deep, immediate, consuming. His mouth on mine was firm, demanding, but not rough. It was a kiss that took, that claimed ownership of the moment, of my response. My hands found their way to his neck, my fingers tangling in the short hair at his nape, pulling him closer.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing heavily. "To the bedroom," he murmured, his voice rougher now. It wasn't a suggestion.

He led me by the hand, through the dimly lit apartment, towards the bedroom. The sheets on the bed were crisp and white. He didn't ask me to sit or lie down. He simply gestured, a subtle turn of his head towards the bed. It was understood.

I sat on the edge, my legs feeling unexpectedly weak. He stood over me for a moment, his gaze intense. He didn't undress himself yet. His focus remained solely on me, on my body, on my reactions.

He knelt down in front of me, slowly, deliberately. My breath hitched. He reached for my feet, his large hands gentle yet purposeful as he slipped off my shoes. Then, his fingers traced the line of my legs beneath the slip, slowly, deliberately massaging my calves upwards towards my thighs. His touch was knowing, awakening nerve endings I hadn’t realized were dormant.

He didn't ask if I liked it. He simply did it, watching my face, responding to the subtle shifts in my expression, the quickening of my breath. It was a dance of silent communication, of command and willing surrender.

He was in control, completely and utterly. And as I sat there, vulnerable and exposed under his gaze and touch, I realized with a jolt that this was exactly what I had been waiting for, what I had unknowingly craved. The relinquishing of agency, the freedom that came with letting someone else take the lead entirely. It wasn't weakness; it was a profound trust, a release.

He stood up and finally began to undress himself. His movements were slow, unhurried, building the tension. When he was naked, he was magnificent. His body was lean and strong, sculpted by time perhaps, but powerful. There was a scar on his shoulder I briefly wondered about, but my focus was drawn back to his eyes as he turned towards me.

He didn't rush onto the bed. He stood there for a moment, allowing me to look, claiming my gaze just as he claimed everything else.

"Lie down, Y/n," he said, his voice a low command that resonated deep within me.

I obeyed instantly, my body anticipating his touch. The sheets were cool against my skin. He came onto the bed, his weight settling beside me. He didn't immediately cover me. He continued to look, to touch, to explore with his hands, his mouth, his gaze.

His touch was both firm and incredibly sensitive. He knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply. He explored my body with a quiet intensity, a deliberate pleasure in discovering every curve, every sensitive spot. He didn't ask for permission; his touch was an assumption of welcome, and I welcomed it completely.

He positioned my body subtly, guiding my legs, my hips, with a firm hand. He was deliberate, taking charge of every movement, every angle. There was no fumbling, no hesitation. Just a clear, confident direction that I found myself eagerly following. It was the erotic manifestation of the control he exuded in every other aspect of his being.

When he finally entered me, it was not a sudden thrust, but a slow, deep claiming. His eyes were locked on mine, watching for my reaction, ensuring I was with him every step of the way, even as he led.

He set the pace, a steady, deep rhythm that built slowly, relentlessly. His hands were on my hips, controlling the movement, guiding me. He leaned down, his voice a low murmur against my ear, words that were both descriptive and commanding, pushing me further, urging my surrender.

I clung to him, lost in the intensity, the sheer pleasure of being completely consumed by his presence, his touch, his will. It was raw, powerful, and utterly exhilarating. Every instinct was focused on him, on responding to his commands, on giving myself over to the experience he was orchestrating.

The climax, when it came, was shattering, a wave that broke over me, leaving me breathless and trembling in his arms. He didn't withdraw immediately, holding me tightly, letting the tremors subside.

He finally collapsed beside me, still holding me, his breathing deep and even. He didn't speak for a long time. He simply held me, his hand stroking my hair.

Lying there in the quiet after the storm, wrapped in his arms, the city lights a soft glow outside the window, a profound sense of peace washed over me. It wasn't just the aftermath of physical release; it was the sense of having found something real, something intense, in a world that had felt increasingly flimsy.

I fell asleep like that, held securely against the solid warmth of his body.

The next morning, I woke slowly, the unfamiliar surroundings coming into focus. The sun was filtering through the curtains, casting soft lines across the room. I was still in his bed. He was awake, propped up on an elbow, watching me.

There was no awkwardness, no rush. His gaze was softer than the night before, but still held that depth, that steady attention.

"Good morning, Y/n," he said simply, his voice calm.

"Good morning, Mingyu."

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face, the same gesture as the night before, but softer. "Sleep well?"

"Yes," I admitted, a little smile touching my lips. "Surprisingly."

He smiled back, a genuine, warm smile that lit up his eyes. It was the first time I'd seen it fully, and it was disarming.

We talked that morning, over coffee he made with quiet efficiency. It was different from the night before. More relaxed, more revealing. We talked about our lives, our hopes, our fears. He was decisive, yes, and confident, but also thoughtful and surprisingly gentle. The dominance wasn't gone; it was woven into the fabric of his personality – his certainty, his ability to take charge – but it wasn't an aggressive force. It was a calm strength.

"I wasn't entirely expecting last night," I said, choosing my words carefully.

He leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee. "Nor was I intending it, initially. You simply... drew me in." He paused, his eyes holding mine. "You respond beautifully to direction, Y/n. There is a strength in that surrender."

My cheeks flushed slightly, but I met his gaze. He wasn't flattering me; he was stating a truth he had observed, a truth about myself I hadn't fully articulated until now.

"It felt... necessary," I confessed. "To let go."

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Sometimes, taking the lead is the only way to allow someone else to truly follow. To be fully present."

We talked for hours. About the strangeness of our meeting, the intensity of the connection, the unexpected depth we found in each other. There was no pressure, no assumptions about what this meant. But the air between us crackled with possibility.

When it was time for me to leave, it wasn't a hurried escape. He walked me to the door, holding my hand.

"Will I see you again, Mingyu?" I asked, my heart pounding slightly.

He didn't hesitate. "Yes, Y/n. I want to. Properly." He reached out and cupped my cheek. "Let me take you to dinner. Somewhere quiet. Tomorrow night?"

"I'd like that very much," I said, relief washing over me.

He smiled again, that full, warm smile. "Good. I'll text you the details."

He didn't ask for my number; he already had it, I realized, probably from the bartender connection earlier. Of course he did. He was Mingyu.

Walking out of his building, back into the bright light of day, I felt different. The plateau I had been standing on seemed to have sprouted unexpected foothills, promising new vistas. The uncertainty was still there, but it was layered with excitement and a profound sense of having experienced something transformative.

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