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dozybeez · 2 days ago

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Spin For Me (Pt. Nine)

She's the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He's the campus heartthrob who's used to getting what he wants— except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part one → part two → part three → part four → part five → part six → part seven → part eight

→ part ten coming soon

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 5.8k

content warnings: slowish burn, smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size, possession, and innocence kink. drugs & alcohol. MDNI

The door slammed behind you.

Muted bass pulsed from inside the house, thumping like a heartbeat you were trying to forget. Mingyu didn’t speak. His hand closed around yours like instinct, like reflex, like he’d do it in his sleep—and maybe he would’ve. Maybe after tonight, he would. That same hand—so big, so warm—then pressed low on your back when the crowd thickened at the sidewalk, guiding you like it wasn’t even a question.

A couple voices called out to him. One girl, sharp and too sweet, laughed a little too loud when you passed. Mingyu didn’t look. You saw his jaw tighten instead.

The rain hadn’t stopped completely, but it had thinned—soft mist now, cold against your cheeks. Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, casting the neighborhood in long smears of silver and gold.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

It was the quiet kind of tension, the kind that sat heavy in your ribs—not panicked, not loud. Just the weight of it. The way shared silence says more than it should.

He opened the car door for you. Always the gentleman, even now. Always careful with you. But this time—this time he hesitated before shutting it again. Hovered for a second.

Then, crouched.

Your brows pulled together as you looked at him, half-sitting in the passenger seat, half-stunned at the way he just… dropped to his knees beside the open door like he didn’t care if the pavement was wet or cold.

His eyes met yours. Open. Bare.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

You nodded too fast.

“Really?” he pressed, softer now. “Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” you whispered. “I promise.”

But he didn’t move.

He just stared up at you like he needed to memorize you all over again. Like he wasn’t ready to let go of this moment until he could convince himself you were safe. That you weren’t quietly breaking beside him.

Your chest ached.

It wasn’t just his voice—though it was gentler than you’d ever heard it. It wasn’t just the rain curling at the ends of his hair, or the glint of the streetlight catching in his lashes. It was the fact that he meant it. That he was kneeling on pavement, getting wet from the misty rain, shivering slightly, and still more worried about you.

You reached out—fingers grazing his damp cheek, pushing his hair back from his forehead. His eyes closed at your touch like it grounded him. Like it helped.

Only then did he exhale. A soft breath, uneven. Almost like relief.

He stood slowly, quietly shutting the door, and the car ride began in silence.

You stared out the window, counting raindrops on the glass, heart still racing from everything you hadn’t said. The seat was warm. His coat still smelled like his cologne—spice and clean cotton. The hum of the heater filled the space between you.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

You swallowed. “About… everything. I should’ve told you.”

“No.” His voice was sharp. He winced. Softer now: “No. Don’t do that.”

“But—”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

His hand was gripping the steering wheel tight now, knuckles white under the city lights. You watched his jaw twitch before he looked away, like he couldn’t trust himself to speak and stay calm.

“I should’ve asked. Should’ve noticed,” he muttered. “I knew you were nervous. I just—fuck, I thought it was normal. I didn’t want to scare you. And I still did.”

“Mingyu…”

“I didn’t want it to happen like that.” His voice cracked. “Not in some gross-ass bathroom at a party full of people I don’t even like. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you didn’t. You just let the quiet sit again.

By the time he pulled into the garage of his apartment complex, you felt it—the slow creep of something bigger than shame. Guilt, yes. But also care. Fear. Longing. The kind of aching stillness that only came from feeling too much at once.

He parked.

Didn’t move.

And for the first time that night, he looked at you like he might break.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked quietly, like he was scared to even know the answer.

“No,” you whispered. “You didn’t.”

Still, he looked down at his hands. Pale now. Shaking.

“I know it wasn’t just about sex,” he said. “Not for me. And not for you. I thought I understood that. But I let the moment get away from me and I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t stop.”

You could feel it building in him—regret like a flood he was trying to hold back with words. He leaned back in his seat, palms dragging down his face, eyes squeezed shut.

“I didn’t want to treat you like all the other girls,” he said suddenly, bitter. “I didn’t want you to be just another name. That’s not what you are. But look at me—look at what I did. Against the sink in a fucking bathroom like none of it meant anything. Like you’re not—”

He broke off.

His voice cracked again, rough and thick.

“Like you’re not everything.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t even realize he’d said it. Didn’t see your wide eyes. He was too busy spiraling—drowning in his own guilt, rambling now, running his hands through his hair like he was trying to pull the shame out by the roots.

And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t think about it. Didn’t plan it. It just… came out.

“I love you.”

His whole body stilled.

You heard your own voice like it didn’t belong to you—soft, sudden, raw. Like you’d just stripped yourself bare.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not like this. Not after all this. Your mouth opened to take it back, heart climbing into your throat, panic rising like smoke.

But he turned.

Slow.

Eyes wide. Lips parted. Like the breath had been stolen from him.

And you tried to fix it. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t.”

“I know it’s too early, I know it’s crazy, we’re not even—”

“What did I say before?” he cut in.

You blinked.

He leaned closer, eyes locked to yours—something shining behind them, warm and certain.

“You never have to apologize to me,” he whispered. “For how you feel.”

Then, quieter still: “I love you too.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know when it started,” he said. “But I know that since the first times we studied together, I’ve wanted to do everything for you. Carry your bag. Walk you home. Fix your folder names.”

You laughed—barely.

His smile broke through the storm in his chest, and he leaned his forehead against yours, exhaling like he’d finally found air.

“I love you,” he repeated. “You.”

And for the first time that night, the guilt finally eased.

Because this—this was the truth.

And it was enough.

⸻

Mingyu handed you a folded stack of clothes—his hoodie and a pair of clean boxers—and nodded toward the bathroom down the hall.

“They’re gonna be huge on you,” he said, soft. “But they’re warm.”

You took them without a word, fingertips brushing his for a second too long. He caught your eyes then—still gentle, still apologizing in the quiet way he did—and you nodded once before slipping into the bathroom.

The door shut with a click.

The hoodie nearly swallowed you whole. The sleeves hung past your hands, the hem grazing the middle of your thighs, and the boxers cinched high on your waist like pajama shorts. But it smelled like him—clean and woodsy and safe—and something about that steadied the shakiness still humming in your chest.

When you padded back out, barefoot, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Mingyu froze.

His hoodie dwarfed you. His boxers peeked out just barely beneath it. Your eyes were sleepy, skin bare of makeup now, lips soft and pink from being kissed raw. And for a beat, all he could do was stare.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumbled, tugging at the hem of your sleeve.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low. “You just—you look really cute.”

Your cheeks warmed. He was already across the room before you could hide the way your smile twitched up at the corners.

“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, trying to seem casual. “I made you something.”

You blinked as he stepped aside.

On the coffee table sat a small, clumsily stacked ice cream sundae—vanilla with crushed Oreos, rainbow sprinkles, and a half-hearted swirl of whipped cream, topped off with a bright red cherry.

And behind it, the TV glowed with the opening theme of a familiar reality show.

The one you’d told him you watched religiously when you couldn’t sleep.

“I remembered you said it was your favorite,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “And that you always need something sweet after a long night.”

Your throat caught.

This boy. This ridiculous, thoughtful, wonderful boy.

“You made this while I was changing?”

He nodded. “Used like… three spoons. I panicked.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, unsteady but real. It filled the space between you like it always did—bright, familiar. And before you could say anything else, he gently guided you to the couch.

You curled into one side, pulling your knees up beneath the hoodie. Mingyu sat beside you—barefoot, legs sprawled wide, hoodie, that he changed into with sweatpants, bunched at his elbows—and passed you the sundae with a spoon already inside.

“Tell me if I did it wrong,” he said.

You took a bite.

“You didn’t,” you said thickly, mouth full. “It’s perfect.”

He smiled. Just a little. The kind of smile that reached his eyes and made his shoulders finally ease.

For the next hour, neither of you spoke much.

The show played softly in the background, light and ridiculous, and every now and then you’d glance at him and find he was already watching you. Not in that heavy, weighted way from earlier—but soft now. Steady.

Like he just wanted to be near you. Like he didn’t need to say anything else.

It was enough. It really was.

But still… you felt it. That little ache in your chest. The words clinging to your throat like they wanted to climb out.

You were quiet for a while. Just breathing beside him. Letting the comfort settle.

Then, without warning, you spoke.

“I really wanted to.”

He turned, brows lifting.

You kept your gaze fixed ahead. “Earlier. At the party. I know it was stupid. And I wasn’t thinking. But I wanted it. You.”

Mingyu’s whole body stilled.

“I just…” Your voice trembled. “I don’t want you to feel bad. I don’t want you to think you forced me into anything. Or that I didn’t want to be with you.”

His throat moved with a swallow. “Baby—”

“No, let me say it.” You turned to him then, finally. Face open. Honest. “I wanted you. Maybe I didn’t think it through. Maybe I didn’t realize how much it would mean to me until it happened. But it wasn’t just some mistake.”

His eyes searched yours.

“And I know you’re probably thinking we should wait longer now. And maybe you’re right. But I don’t want to wait because we’re scared. I want to do this when we’re ready. When it feels good. When it feels right.”

Mingyu’s jaw was tight. But his eyes… they were so full of emotion it nearly took your breath.

“Just tell me,” he said, voice low. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll listen.”

You stared at him.

The dim light washed soft shadows across his face. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, veins running along his forearms, one hand resting palm-up between you on the couch. Like an offering. Like a promise.

You reached for it.

“I want you.”

His breath hitched.

“I want to be with you. Really. Just… I want it to mean something. And I want you to know that it already does.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Then, slowly, his hand found your cheek. He leaned in—soft and close and steady—and kissed you like it was the first time all over again.

Not rushed.

Not heavy.

Just quiet.

And full of love.

The kiss was slow. So slow.

Like he didn’t want to startle you. Like he didn’t want to take. Like he needed you to feel every second of it.

His lips moved against yours with such aching care, it almost undid you.

Your fingers gripped the edge of his sweatshirt, pulling him closer before you could stop yourself. He groaned softly into your mouth — one of those sounds that vibrated all the way down your spine.

You shifted without thinking, climbing into his lap — straddling him, chest to chest. And still, he didn’t rush. He just breathed with you, one large hand anchoring itself around your waist, the other splaying wide across your thigh.

"You're so soft," he murmured, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Feels like a dream.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m real.”

His gaze burned into you. “I know, baby. That’s what’s messing me up.”

He kissed you again — deeper this time, more claiming. And when you whined softly against his mouth, his grip flexed, his hands sliding up under your hoodie, fingers painting your skin with heat.

But then — he pulled back.

Breathing hard. Hands still holding you, but not moving.

You blinked at him, lips parted. “Why’d you stop?”

His jaw tensed. “Just… I don’t want to rush you. Not after—everything.”

Your hands moved instinctively — one cupping the side of his neck, the other gripping his wrist.

“Mingyu,” you said, voice fragile but firm. “No. Please.”

That word — please — broke him open.

He exhaled slowly, grounding himself. Then: “You tell me if anything feels too fast, yeah? You lead, baby. I’ll follow.”

You nodded, eyes wide, breath shaking. “Okay.”

“Good girl,” he said — quiet, almost reverent.

You whimpered.

And he kissed you again like he meant to make you forget every bad thing that came before this.

This kiss was different. Hotter, yes. But also more sure — more his. He kissed you like he owned every breath you took, like he wanted to bury himself in every sound you made.

And your body melted for him.

His hands moved slowly — reverently — skimming under your hoodie, up the curve of your back, ghosting over your sides like he was mapping out a temple.

“You’re so small,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Look at you. Curled up in my lap like you were made for me.”

You whimpered again, your thighs tightening around his hips, and he responded with a low groan, biting softly at your bottom lip.

When his hand slid up to your ribs, under the edge of your bra, he paused — waiting.

Your eyes flicked to his, and you nodded once.

That’s all it took.

He moved with care, lifting your hoodie inch by inch, watching your face for any sign of hesitation. You helped him, pulling it over your head in one clean motion, your hair falling down around your shoulders.

And Mingyu just… stared.

You were sitting in his lap in your bra, flushed and panting, eyes wide with nerves and want, and he looked at you like you hung constellations across his ceiling.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

You flushed deeper.

He leaned forward, lips finding the top of your chest, kissing between your collarbones, down to the swell of your breast — not with hunger, but with something far more dangerous.

Devotion.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him there as he worshipped each inch he found, as if he needed to show you what he meant when he said you weren’t just anyone.

“Tell me what you need,” he breathed into your skin.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

He kissed your sternum. “That’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”

And he meant it.

In every kiss. In every whispered word. In the way his fingers laced with yours again like he knew you needed the grounding.

This wasn’t fast.

This was patient. Precious. Earned.

And you let yourself fall into it — into him — like it was the safest place you’d ever been.

Your bra slipped down your arms like something ceremonial—more than just fabric, it felt like you were letting go of every shield you’d ever worn in front of someone.

The moment it hit the floor, air kissed your bare chest and you resisted the instinct to cover yourself. You didn’t. You held still, blinking up at him, heart pounding loud in your ears.

Mingyu’s eyes darkened as they dragged over you.

He didn’t touch. Not at first.

Just looked—openly, reverently, like you were some painting he didn’t think he deserved to touch.

“Fuck,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “You’re so… beautiful.”

You flushed immediately, so warm it made your skin prickle. Your arms twitched at your sides—an instinct to fold them over your chest—but he was already moving forward, leaning in.

His hands came up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You let him touch you.

He started with the curve of your waist, thumbs stroking soft circles along your ribs like he was learning your shape by memory. Then he shifted forward on his knees, hands sliding higher until his palms cradled the underside of your breasts.

You gasped.

It was light—barely pressure at all—but the weight of it, the intimacy of the hold, made your skin feel electric.

“Still okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, breath caught in your throat.

Then he ducked his head and kissed the top of one—slow and warm and devastatingly gentle.

You let out a soft sound—something between a sigh and a whimper—and felt his lips curve into a smile against your skin.

He kissed again. Then lower.

Your hand curled in his hair without thinking.

When he finally licked over your nipple—soft and deliberate—you arched, eyes fluttering shut, and a helpless little gasp slipped from your mouth.

He groaned low in his chest. “God,” he whispered, voice strained. “The sounds you make.”

You tried to speak. To say something teasing. But all you could do was breathe out his name.

He flicked his tongue again—this time a little firmer—and your thighs pressed together involuntarily. You didn’t know you could feel like this. You didn’t know how your body would react, but it was like he was pulling things out of you that had never had the chance to wake up before.

He sucked softly, then released you with a small pop. Your nipple peaked under the cool air, slick and achingly sensitive, and before you could recover, he moved to the other.

This time, he brought one hand up with him, toying gently with the breast he’d just left while his mouth gave attention to the other. It was too much and not enough. Every flick of his tongue made your stomach twist, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“I-I—Mingyu—”

“Just feel it,” he murmured, warm breath ghosting over you. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

Your thighs shifted restlessly beneath him. Your breathing had gone ragged.

Every nerve in your chest was raw and alive now, every pass of his tongue making your back arch and your legs squirm—and somehow, you could feel yourself pulsing between your thighs just from the attention he was giving your breasts.

You didn’t know it was possible. That this kind of touch could feel this good.

When he finally pulled away, both nipples shining with his spit, he looked up at you with a heat that melted your spine.

Your lips were parted. Your breath caught.

Your body felt like it had been lit up from the inside.

“Still with me?” he asked softly, thumb brushing over your hipbone.

You nodded, dazed.

“I’ve got you,” he said, lowering you gently onto the couch cushions. “Every part of you.”

You were in just his boxers now. And somehow, you felt more seen than you ever had in your life.

He hovered above you, shirtless after his hoodie had been discarded by you long ago, hair a little messy from your fingers. His hands were planted on either side of your head. His chest moved with his breaths—deep, slow, steady.

You could see every inch of his upper body now. The firm lines of his biceps, the long dips of his collarbones, the flush blooming over his skin. It made you dizzy.

Your eyes dropped to the waistband of his sweatpants. Your heart skipped.

He followed your gaze, then looked back at you, face half-serious, half teasing. “Want me to take them off?”

You bit your lip and nodded slowly.

He sat up slightly, reaching for your hand again, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Then you do it.”

Your pulse stuttered.

Your fingers moved with nervous reverence, curling into the waistband of his sweatpants. He lifted his hips to help, and you slowly dragged them down—revealing taut, tan thighs and the long stretch of his boxers over what you already knew would overwhelm you.

You swallowed.

He kicked the sweats off and hovered over you again, still in his boxers—his arousal thick and obvious, straining under the fabric.

He watched your reaction closely. The way your eyes lingered. The way your thighs pressed tight. The way your breath stalled.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

Your heart thudded.

You didn’t feel scared. You felt charged. Like you were standing on the edge of something bigger than yourself. And he was holding your hand at the cliff’s edge.

He leaned down, pressing a long, slow kiss to your collarbone.

“I’m gonna keep taking my time,” he said. “We’ve got all night.”

And you believed him.

Because you felt it in every look. Every touch.

You’d never been undressed like this.

Never been seen like this.

And still—you’d never felt safer.

You were still catching your breath, chest rising and falling in soft, uneven waves, when his mouth started to trail lower—each kiss slower than the last.

He worshipped every inch of your skin like it had been painted by the stars—like he had all the time in the world and didn’t want to waste a second of it.

Over your sternum. The slope of your ribs. The delicate line of your belly.

You flinched when his lips brushed the dip of your navel, but he only smiled against your skin and pressed another kiss there. And another.

“Sensitive?” he asked gently.

You nodded, flushed, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of the couch beneath you.

He exhaled, nose brushing the skin just above the waistband of your underwear. “That’s okay, baby. I’ll go slow.”

And still, he didn’t pull them down yet. Didn’t rush a single thing.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, just enough to take you in again. You watched his eyes flicker across your body—raw and exposed and trembling under him. But he didn’t stare with hunger. Not like the boys who leered at you when you danced. Not with entitlement.

Mingyu looked at you like you were a wonder.

His gaze softened as it lingered on your face—your flushed cheeks, the way your lashes fanned out, your parted lips. He could see the nerves still vibrating just beneath your skin, the way your fingers tightened against the cushion like you didn’t know where to place them. Like your whole body didn’t quite know what to do with itself.

And your eyes—God, those eyes.

Wide, trusting. Full of something unspoken and impossibly open.

He could feel the weight of what this meant pressing down on him now. The bigness of it. The responsibility of it.

How could he possibly deserve this?

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, reverent.

You nodded once. Your voice came out breathy. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t move yet.

He just looked at you for a moment longer—memorizing everything. The way you looked right now would be imprinted on him forever. Your bare body stretched beneath him, trembling but not scared, waiting for him with trust in your bones. It almost made his chest ache.

You weren’t just letting him see you. You were giving him this. And you didn’t even know the kind of gift that was.

He brushed his hand gently along your thigh—just the back of his knuckles, featherlight.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t look away.

He settled between your knees, hands sliding slowly—tenderly—up the outside of your thighs. The closer they got to the edge of his boxers you wore, the more breathless you felt.

His fingers paused there, tracing the elastic slowly.

And finally, he looked up at you again, expression nothing but soft. “Still okay if I keep going?”

You nodded. “Please.”

That was all it took.

His hands were patient, careful, as he peeled the fabric down your hips—watching your face the whole time, checking for hesitation, checking for fear. There was none. Just the tremble of anticipation, the flutter of nerves alive beneath your skin.

When he slid them off completely, his breath caught.

His hands spread gently over your thighs again, thumbs brushing slow circles just above your knees. You squirmed slightly under the attention—more self-conscious than anything—but his touch was so warm. So grounding.

“You’re perfect,” he said again, and you could barely meet his eyes.

But he waited for you to. He didn’t move until you finally looked at him.

And when you did, something in his chest broke open. The rawness in your stare. The innocence. The overwhelming trust.

You didn’t even realize it, but you were holding his heart in your hands.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you.”

And when he leaned in again—kissing the inside of your thigh, so close and still not quite there—you felt it:

Not just the heat.

But the way he meant it.

He kissed higher, breath warming the skin just below where you needed him most.

And you could feel it—his restraint. Like he was holding himself back. Like if he went too fast, he’d miss something sacred.

His hands smoothed up your thighs again, spreading them slightly. He pressed a kiss to your inner knee. Then another to the soft skin of your thigh, closer now.

Your breathing hitched.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured. “So many times.”

You whimpered, quietly.

He looked up at you once more—his eyes soft, checking in.

“Still okay, baby?”

Your voice trembled. “Yes.”

And finally, finally, he leaned in.

The first brush of his mouth against you made your back arch, hips jolting before you could stop yourself. But he held you still, strong hands curling gently around your thighs, anchoring you.

It was slow at first. So, so slow.

Just his tongue—warm and deliberate—sliding through your folds. He hummed softly as he tasted you, like he couldn’t help it. Like you were the best thing he’d ever had in his mouth.

You gasped when he licked again, firmer this time, the pressure sparking something deep in your belly.

“M-Mingyu…”

He glanced up again, eyes dark with focus. “I got you,” he whispered, and then lowered his mouth to you again.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t tease.

He worshipped.

Each movement was intentional, coaxing—not demanding. His lips wrapped around your clit so gently at first it barely registered, and then— suck.

Your entire body shuddered.

“Shit—” you gasped, hand flying to your mouth to muffle it.

He grinned against you.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured, pulling back just long enough to kiss your inner thigh. “I want to hear you.”

And then he went back in.

The way he used his tongue—broad strokes and tight circles, gentle flicks followed by firm pressure—made your head spin. He was reading every reaction, every twitch of your hips, every gasp that slipped past your lips. Adjusting. Adapting. Memorizing you.

When he moaned against you—genuine, low, hungry—it sent another wave of heat flooding through you.

And then his grip on your thighs tightened, spreading you further, and he devoured you.

You didn’t mean to buck your hips—didn’t mean to cry out his name like that—but the pleasure hit in waves now, strong and climbing. Your fingers twisted in the couch cushion, the blanket, him—anything to hold onto. Your whole body was tensed and trembling, unraveling fast under his mouth.

He could feel it. The way your thighs began to quake, the way your breathing grew erratic, the way your cries got higher—

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips slick with you, voice wrecked and reverent. “Let go for me.”

And then he wrapped his lips around you again, sucked, and flicked his tongue just right—

You came.

Hard.

Your whole body arched, your mouth fell open around a sound you didn’t recognize, and the world just—blinked out. Like the stars behind your eyelids exploded all at once.

He didn’t stop right away.

He licked you through it, soft and slow, like he was guiding you down from somewhere far away. Only when your body went boneless, twitching from overstimulation, did he finally pull back.

You blinked up at the ceiling, chest heaving, skin flushed and glowing.

Mingyu crawled up beside you, resting on one elbow. His other hand found your cheek, thumb brushing away the hair stuck to your face. You could see his mouth shine a little in the glow of the TV light, but his eyes—his eyes were impossibly soft.

“You’re okay?” he asked gently, his voice hoarse now.

You nodded, too breathless to speak.

He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth—sweet, slow, grounding.

“You’re incredible,” he said. “You know that?”

You closed your eyes for a second and let the moment settle. The weight of him next to you. The warmth of his palm on your hip. The quiet.

And underneath all of it—the knowledge that he meant every word.

He wasn’t asking for anything in return.

Not tonight.

Not until you were ready.

Your body was still humming—warm, loose, floating in that post-storm softness that only he ever seemed to bring out of you. Your breathing had just started to steady when you felt his fingers ghost along your thigh, careful and patient.

“Let me help you,” Mingyu murmured.

You blinked at him—still a little hazy—and watched as he reached for his hoodie, the one you’d worn earlier. He helped guide your arms through the sleeves, pulling the thick cotton gently over your head, smoothing your hair when it caught. Then the boxers, bunched at the foot of the couch. He crouched to lift your foot, one at a time, slipping the fabric up your legs with the kind of reverence that made your stomach turn to air.

“There we go,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

You managed a soft breath of a laugh. “You really didn’t have to—”

“Yes I did,” he said, already tucking the hoodie down around your hips, making sure everything was comfortable.

And then he looked at you—really looked.

The kind of look that made you feel like you were made of glass and light all at once. Like you were precious.

He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back.

You blinked. “Mingyu—”

“I’ve got you,” he said.

He lifted you before you could protest again. Your cheek landed against his shoulder, the crook of his neck warm and steady. His scent was everywhere—soap and cotton and something softer. The apartment hallway was quiet and dim, the faint glow of the kitchen light spilling across the floor.

“You don’t have to carry me,” you murmured again.

He smiled, brushing his nose lightly against your temple. “Yes I do.”

The hallway to his room was dim and quiet. The only light came from the TV still flickering faintly in the other room. You heard the soft creak of the floor under his steps, the distant patter of rain still lingering outside.

When he gently laid you down on his bed—cool sheets, soft pillows—you immediately curled toward the center.

He reached for the blanket, pulling it over you with care before sitting on the edge of the bed beside you.

And you couldn’t help it.

Your eyes drifted lower.

To the way his sweatpants he put back on were pulled taut over his hips. To the clear, unmistakable outline beneath the fabric.

Your breath caught.

Your voice was barely audible. “I… want to go further.”

He stilled.

Looked at you.

And then he reached out—tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes lingering on your face like he was memorizing it.

“Not tonight, baby,” he said softly.

You frowned, just slightly. “But… you’re—” You glanced again, cheeks warming.

He gave a low chuckle, then leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispered. “I’m fine.”

“But—”

“You’re not a solution,” he murmured, eyes closed now. “You’re not a fix for the way I feel. You’re not a reward, or something I get for being good. You’re just… you. And that’s already more than I ever thought I’d have.”

Your throat tightened.

The air between you shifted—gentler now. Safe. Something sacred.

And when he kissed your forehead, it wasn’t possessive or hungry or impatient.

It was grounding.

Loving.

“Sleep,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

You didn’t argue.

He climbed in beside you—careful not to crowd your space, but close enough to keep the edge of your pinky hooked against his.

And just before your eyes fell shut, you whispered, barely audible:

“I really wanted it. Just so you know.”

He exhaled slowly. “I know, baby. I wanted it too.”

A pause.

“Still do.”

You smiled into the pillow.

And then, in the quiet of the room, with your heartbeat finally steady and his body warm beside yours—you let yourself rest.

⸻

// enjoy the good vibes before I kick things back up again whoops

Tag List: @sojuxxi @belovedgyu @bingumingoo1004 @burnerforfiction @jujuz251013 @dmstoyangyang @armycarat2612 @eisaspresso @svthinker @babycaratdeul @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @iluvhosh @caratcak3 @anateeso @tooflef @cocoalmond @mayalou @aeerio

(Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3)

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dozybeez · 3 days ago

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I have the craziest idea for a Dokyeom fic that I wanna write so bad </333 I’m in the constant struggle of indecisiveness regarding which fics to post next it’s my downfall lol! I’m just such a sucker for angst and plot twists when I write which is so ironic because I only like reading straight fluff no angst!

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dozybeez · 3 days ago

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Hi everyone! Does anyone have fic recs for seokmin (preferably a series)? I feel like I’ve read all the ones I can find but it wasn’t many:( if you can’t tell he’s my bias lol and I haven’t been able to find anything new in a while!

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dozybeez · 3 days ago

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Spin For Me (Pt. Eight)

→ part one → part two → part three → part four → part five → part six → part seven

→ part nine coming soon

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 5.5k

It wasn’t like you weren’t talking. You still texted. Still sent each other videos you found funny. Exchanged sleepy goodnights and grainy voice notes when you were too tired to type. But the days since the rain had stretched—thin and hollow—and left him with too much time and not enough of you.

He hadn’t seen you in person since that night in your bed. Since he’d left your dorm at 1 a.m., still dizzy with your scent on his skin and your breath in his lungs.

And then there’d been the dream.

That fucking dream.

He couldn’t forget it—your body, your mouth, the way you looked up at him, all wrong. Too performative. Too sure. Not the you he knew, not the one who scrunched your nose when you laughed or curled your fingers nervously at the hem of your sleeves. Not the you who had shyly pressed your cheek to his chest like it was the safest place in the world.

It rattled him—because he didn’t want the version of you his mind had conjured. But part of him feared that no matter how much he cared, he’d still end up treating you like every girl before you.

It made him feel disgusting. Like his old self. Like the guy who fucked to forget things, to prove things, to feel less alone for twenty minutes at a time.

And now you—real you—had slept against his heart, legs tangled with his, trusting him with the smallest bed in the world. You’d let him in, quietly, sweetly, without needing anything back.

So he held back. Just a little.

Didn’t ask to see you, even though the urge to be near you curled under his skin like a second heartbeat.

But he still texted—because even a few minutes without you in his orbit felt too quiet, too far.

He kept telling himself: give her space. Don’t overwhelm her.

But God, he missed you.

He missed the way you rolled your eyes when he teased you—like you were pretending not to like it, even though your smile always gave you away.

He missed the way your fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket when you stood beside him, like some unconscious tether you didn’t realize you were reaching for.

He missed your voice. Not just the sound of it, but the way it changed when you were tired, or excited, or trying to hide how flustered you were.

He missed all the little things—the ones you probably didn’t even know you gave him. And it was starting to feel like he’d gone too long without air.

So when his phone rang—actually rang—and your name lit up the screen, he didn’t hesitate.

⸻

You hadn’t meant to disappear.

It wasn’t like you were ignoring him. You still responded to his texts. Laughed at his stupid memes. Sent him sleepy voice notes with your cheek smushed into your pillow and your words slurring into nonsense.

But between work, both at the club and for school, and the constant hum of exhaustion in your bones, something had slipped. Not him—but the space between you. The closeness that had started to feel like second nature.

Your sleep schedule was a disaster. Your body ached from work. The last time you’d eaten a real meal that wasn’t lukewarm ramen was… days ago. Maybe longer.

And you missed him.

You didn’t let yourself say it out loud, but you did. You missed the steadiness of his voice. The easy way he found your hand without looking. The way he made you feel like you could let your guard down without the world collapsing.

You thought about texting him first. A few times.

But then the doubt crept in—the voice that whispered he's probably busy too. Don't be needy. Don't make it weird. And so you waited.

Waited until you cracked.

Until the quiet got too loud.

Until you opened your phone, saw his name at the top of your messages, and hit call before your brain could catch up.

The moment it started ringing, you wanted to throw it across the room. But then:

“Hey.”

And your heart sank in that stupid, inevitable way it always did when it was him.

His voice was instant. Warm. Soft. Like he’d been waiting.

You blinked. “Hey.”

A beat passed. Then:

“I was literally about to text you.”

Your lips twitched. “Yeah?”

“Swear.” A pause. “You okay?”

You hesitated. Then: “I have the next couple days off.”

His breath caught, just barely. “You do?”

“Yeah. And… I was wondering if…” You licked your lips. “If you wanted to hang out?”

The silence wasn’t silence—it was a rush of breath, an exhale held too long.

“Baby,” he said, voice lower now, almost sheepish. “I want to more than anything.”

Heat crawled up your neck. You couldn’t believe you actually called. That you said it out loud.

“I, uh—I did tell one of my buddies I’d show face at his party tonight,” he added. “But we don’t have to stay long. I figured… maybe we go for a little, then grab dinner after? Just us?”

You nodded before you realized he couldn’t see. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”

And it did.

It sounded really good.

⸻

He smiled into the phone. He couldn’t help it. He could practically hear your nervous fidgeting on the other end, and it made his heart ache—in that good way. The way that meant you were still you. You hadn’t changed. You still wanted him.

You’d asked him first.

That meant something.

“I’ll pick you up,” he said. “And… wear something cute. I wanna show you off.”

You scoffed, but he could tell you were smiling. “Gross.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

He exhaled. “Yeah. You will.”

When the line went dead, he let the phone rest against his chest, fingers loose around the edges.

He still felt guilty. Still hated that dream. But tonight—tonight would be different.

Real.

He’d take care of you. Like he always meant to.

Like he still meant to.

⸻

Mingyu knocked twice.

Soft. Confident. Like he already knew you were on the other side of the door, standing just out of reach and pretending you weren’t nervous.

You smoothed your palms down the sides of your dress again, heart thrumming a little too fast. It was nothing extravagant—just a polka-dotted mini dress, black and white, fitted at the waist with a flowy hem that swayed against your thighs every time you moved. The thigh-high socks hugged your legs in soft black cotton, a quiet contrast to the oversized light denim jacket draped over your shoulders. You wore it for warmth… but also for the way it felt like armor. Just a little. Just enough to hide the parts of you that felt too seen.

You opened the door.

And forgot how to speak.

He was leaning casually against the frame like he had all the time in the world. Like he hadn’t just knocked the breath out of your chest with one look.

White tee, plain but somehow perfect—loose but not shapeless. His black jacket framed him too well, broadening his already unfair shoulders and tight at his biceps. And his jeans—dark and worn-in—sat low on his hips, the waistband of his Calvin Kleins just barely peeking out beneath the hem of his shirt when he shifted.

He looked warm. Effortless.

Like someone who belonged in every room and never tried too hard to take up space.

And then his eyes landed on you.

And stayed.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just looked.

It was soft and slow, like the first inhale after holding your breath too long.

His gaze dragged from the tops of your thighs up to the collar of your jacket, to your lips, to your eyes.

And when he smiled—

That quiet, crooked thing that crinkled at the corners—

You thought you might melt.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmured.

You tried not to squirm. “It’s just a dress.”

He tilted his head, eyes still fixed to you. “That’s the problem.”

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t hide your grin.

He held out his hand and then he nodded toward the hallway. “C’mon.”

Your boots clicked beside his sneakers, the hallway quiet around you. He didn’t try to make conversation. He didn’t need to. There was something about the silence between you tonight that felt fuller than noise.

⸻

His car was already waiting out front.

It was low, sleek—black and sharp-edged, with windows tinted dark enough to see your reflection. The kind of car you’d expect in a music video. The kind of car that would normally make you scoff at the ego behind it.

But here, with him, it just fit.

He opened the passenger side door for you without a word.

You slid in slowly, the leather seat cold against the backs of your thighs. The hem of your dress pulled a little higher as you shifted, and you quickly tugged it down—more out of habit than embarrassment.

The door shut gently behind you. You could hear him moving around the front. Then the driver’s side opened, and the second he climbed in, the air changed again.

The car was warm from the engine, and it smelled like him—cedar and something a little sweet, like laundry soap and mint gum.

He glanced at you once, brief but loaded.

“You really do look beautiful,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You stared out the windshield, heart racing. “You’re just saying that because I wore a dress.”

He shifted the car into drive, the engine humming smoothly beneath you. “No. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

The words settled somewhere below your ribs. You said nothing.

For a while, the only sound was the soft whoosh of tires on damp pavement. The windows were fogging slightly, blurring the streetlights into soft golden halos.

Then—

At the next red light, his hand left the gearshift.

And found your thigh.

Just a soft press at first. His palm warm. Solid. His thumb brushing the hem thigh highs in one lazy arc, but never lifting it. Just sitting there. Anchoring you.

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at you.

Just held you there, casual as ever, like he didn’t know that every inch of your body was humming now. Like he didn’t know you were already dizzy from the feel of him.

You stared straight ahead, jaw tight.

But your thigh shifted toward him just barely. Almost involuntarily.

And he noticed.

His thumb traced one small circle on your skin—nothing more.

But it was enough.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice low, as the light turned green.

You nodded without turning your head. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

He squeezed your thigh once, slow and deliberate, then let his hand rest again, heavy and warm. The kind of touch you could still feel even after it was gone.

He drove like that the rest of the way.

Like he wasn’t thinking about how badly he wanted to touch you more.

And you sat beside him, with your heart in your throat and your legs burning with anticipation, trying not to wonder if tonight would be the night you’d finally give in.

⸻

The music hit before the door even opened.

Low, thumping bass—so loud it vibrated through the pavement as Mingyu pulled the car into a spot a few houses down. People milled out front, red solo cups in hand, their voices climbing in tipsy laughter that melted into the cold air.

Mingyu shifted the gear into park, but didn’t move right away.

He glanced over at you, hand still heavy on your thigh.

“You okay?”

You nodded before you could think about it too hard. “Yeah. Just… haven’t been to one of these in a while.”

His eyes softened. “We don’t have to stay long. I promised I’d show face, that’s it. Half an hour tops—then we’ll dip and go eat somewhere quiet. Just us.”

“Okay.”

He watched you for a beat longer, like he didn’t totally believe you were fine, but was giving you the space to be anyway.

Then he squeezed your thigh gently—once—and let go.

“Let’s go, pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, but your smile gave you away.

⸻

Inside, it was chaos.

Bodies packed wall-to-wall, lights dimmed low and flickering with the beat, something fast and bass-heavy blaring from a Bluetooth speaker tucked in the corner. The air reeked of beer and cheap cologne and someone’s perfume, a cocktail of everything you’d forgotten about college house parties.

It was like walking into heat and motion and noise all at once.

But you didn’t get more than two steps in before Mingyu’s hand found your lower back.

Firm. Present. Just a small anchor behind you, but undeniable.

It was instinct now—he didn’t even think about it. Just touched you like it was his job.

And you… you let him.

You shouldn’t have liked it as much as you did. The possessiveness of it. The way it said she’s with me without ever needing to speak.

He led you through the crowd with casual ease, nodding hellos, dapping up a couple of his friends near the kitchen. You caught the glances—how a few heads turned as you passed. How some eyes dragged a little too slow down your legs. You even heard a girl whisper something behind her hand.

You straightened your spine. Kept your chin high.

You didn’t belong here. Not really.

But then Mingyu’s hand towards your waist, almost pulling you into his side as he talked to someone else.

Like he could feel your unease without even looking at you.

And just like that, it was fine again.

⸻

You stood beside him, silent but smiling politely as he caught up with a guy named Seokmin. He was nice, at least—charming in that golden retriever way, like someone who didn’t know how to take anything seriously.

“I don’t think I’ve seen Gyu this domestic since… since ever,” Seokmin teased, glancing at the way Mingyu’s hand curled around your waist. “Look at you, all boo’d up.”

Mingyu didn’t blink. Just said, “Yeah,” like it was nothing.

Like it was obvious.

Your cheeks burned.

You turned your face slightly to hide it, only to catch two girls across the room glaring at you over their drinks. One of them leaned in and whispered something. The other rolled her eyes.

You didn’t need to guess.

You weren’t an idiot.

You knew what Mingyu’s reputation used to be.

You knew you didn’t look like the kind of girl Mingyu usually brought to parties—because he didn’t bring girls to parties. He met them here. They moved like they belonged in the center of the room, all glossed lips and sharp laughs, loud enough to drown out the ache in their chests.

But you— You were different. And tonight, your softness was showing too loud. The curve of your smile. The quiet way you stood beside him, shoulders brushing but not clinging. The way your eyes scanned, wary and small, trying to take up less space. You didn’t walk like you owned the room. You walked like you weren’t sure if you should be in it at all.

And still—he hadn’t left your side. Not once.

⸻

Mingyu didn’t let go of your hand.

Not when you moved through the crowd, not when someone bumped into you with a sloshing drink, not even when you reached the kitchen and paused at the counter where someone had dumped a bowl of lukewarm punch.

He just shifted behind you—broad chest to your back, hand curled at your waist again, thumb brushing tiny circles into your coat like it soothed something in him to touch you.

Like maybe he needed the anchor now, too.

You glanced over your shoulder. He was already looking at you.

And not like he had before—not the soft, reverent gaze he gave you in quieter moments.

This was… heavier.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Your throat tightened.

He leaned down. “Want a drink?”

You shook your head. “Already dizzy.”

That made him smile—but only just. The corner of his mouth twitched before falling back into something unreadable, something taut. Like he was holding a string between his fingers and didn’t know how much tighter it could pull.

A group of girls passed behind him, giggling too loud. One of them touched his arm—lightly, carelessly, like she’d done it before. You didn’t catch what she said, but you saw the flicker in her eyes when she saw you.

Mingyu didn’t even look at her.

Didn’t move, didn’t turn—just stood steady, now in front of you, like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

You tried not to let your cheeks burn again. But your hand tightened in his.

He smiled, all teeth now. “Wanna dance?”

You blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. “Might as well give them something to talk about.”

And just like that, he pulled you in.

Your bodies fit together too easily. Like the music faded, like the lights blurred, like the whole room turned its head to look and it didn’t matter because he only saw you. One hand at your waist again—lower this time. One at the back of your neck, barely there. You moved slow, like syrup, like sin.

Your head tilted up.

His dropped.

And for a second, that was it. Just a breath between your lips.

You didn’t kiss.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

⸻

The music blurred behind you, a dull heartbeat of bass and haze, as the crowd shifted in ripples. Someone bumped your shoulder on the way past, but you barely registered it—not with Mingyu this close, not with his hand spanning across your back like it was meant to be there.

It wasn’t even that he touched you all that much.

It was the way he held you. Just… steady. Warm. Like he wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost in the noise.

The lights flickered dim and gold overhead, painting the room in shadow. You felt them more than saw them—his eyes, his breath, the fingers pressing against the fabric of your dress like he was thinking about how delicate it was. Or maybe how close he was to skin.

You swallowed.

You weren’t used to this—the noticing. The way your body reacted when his hand slid slightly lower without meaning to. The heat that crept up your neck when his nose brushed your temple while he leaned down to say something you couldn’t even hear. You didn’t lean away.

If anything, you swayed forward.

And he caught you. Not obviously. Not all at once.

Just a shift of his hips. A subtle tilt of his chest against yours. Like gravity was doing the rest for you.

There wasn’t space to dance properly. But you moved anyway. Slow, barely-there movements—your thighs brushing his. The hem of your dress catching in the curve of his jeans. You could feel the press of him through every breath. Every slight movement.

And he…

God.

He didn’t even do anything. He just stood there—tall and solid and him. He smelled like warm laundry and the cold night air still clinging to his jacket. His jaw brushed your hair once, maybe by accident, but the way he tensed…

You knew he felt it too.

There was nothing overt about it. No kiss. No whispered lines.

But the heat between you built so slowly you didn’t realize it had caught fire until your hands met in the dark.

You didn’t reach for him.

Not really.

But your fingers brushed as the music dipped, and his closed around yours like instinct. Like you belonged in the space just beside him.

And then he turned his head slightly—just slightly—like he was about to kiss your cheek. Or maybe your neck. You weren’t sure which. But his breath hit your skin, and your whole body went still.

You weren’t sure if it was anticipation or fear or want.

All you knew was that it felt like drowning in something that didn’t want to hurt you.

His lips didn’t touch you.

They hovered.

Warm and soft and right there, and for a second, you thought—

But then the song changed.

And with it, the moment shifted.

Mingyu blinked like he’d just remembered where he was. He pulled back, just a little. Enough for air to settle between you again. His hand never left yours.

His other slid from your back with agonizing slowness, fingers dragging lightly down the curve of your waist like he couldn’t bring himself to let go just yet.

Your chest rose with every breath, but it didn’t steady you. Not really.

You were warm all over. Achey. A little confused.

But you knew—deep down—that this was only the beginning.

You were starting to want more.

And he was doing everything in his power to wait for you to ask for it.

⸻

You weren’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was the way the crowd started pressing in—shoulders brushing, bass-heavy music curling through the air like smoke. Maybe it was the heat of his eyes, the way he watched you like he wasn’t allowed to touch but couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or maybe it was just you.

Maybe you wanted him too badly to keep pretending.

You stepped closer.

And he didn’t stop you.

His hand found your waist, low and steady, and the look in his eyes shifted—turned darker, softer. Protective, but burning.

He leaned in slightly, and his lips brushed your ear.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, but words didn’t come. Couldn’t. Not when your whole body had gone weightless under his palm.

And then—he spun you gently.

One smooth pull and you were facing away from him, back to his chest, the move dizzyingly intimate. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading slow. Holding you close. Your breath hitched as you felt the solid warmth of him pressed against your spine, chest rising and falling with yours. The party blurred—just noise and lights in the background now.

He ducked his head beside yours, mouth ghosting along the shell of your ear. “You’re killing me,” he murmured.

You could feel the words more than hear them.

Your hips moved before you could stop them, a slow grind back into him—tentative, unsure, but real. And when your body met his like that—firm and unmistakable through the denim—you felt his breath stutter, his grip on your waist twitch.

“Fuck,” he whispered, barely audible.

And then his hands slid up.

Over your ribs, under your arms—gentle, never pushing. Like he was just feeling that you were real. That you were here. That you were letting him do this.

Your head tipped back instinctively, resting lightly against his shoulder. He was so tall behind you, so warm, the curve of his nose nudging into your hair.

It didn’t feel dirty.

It felt inevitable.

Like a song you’d been humming under your breath for weeks and finally remembered the words to.

You moved together in the dark, your bodies slow and lazy like you were alone. Like he didn’t care who saw. Like you couldn’t have cared if they did.

Your hands reached back, caught in the fabric of his jacket. His chest curved into your spine. His mouth grazed the edge of your jaw and your pulse jumped.

You felt it when he kissed you there—just once.

Soft.

Sweet.

Too sweet for the way your thighs clenched.

And when you turned around again—when you couldn’t stand not looking at him—his mouth found yours like it had been waiting for permission.

The kiss was desperate.

But not rushed.

Hungry. But warm.

And the world around you might as well have vanished, because all you knew was the way his lips moved like he needed you. The way your hands curled into the soft cotton of his shirt. The way your hips kept rolling, just slightly, still tangled in the rhythm only your bodies knew now.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, his hands still heavy at your waist— “We can’t,” he said again, trying to find control.

But his voice broke at the end.

And the way he looked at you said everything he couldn’t.

You didn’t speak.

You just reached down, slowly, and laced your fingers with his.

Then tugged.

Softly.

Toward the hallway.

⸻

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you.

Your back met the counter.

Your breath? Gone.

Mingyu’s gaze dropped to your lips—and then lower. To your dress, the one he hadn’t been able to stop touching all night. You were flushed, flustered, nervous in that way that made you even more irresistible to him. His restraint had already been hanging by a thread. Now it snapped.

He kissed you—hard. Deep. His hands spread wide across your waist, and the second he felt your body give, melt into his, he pulled you closer. You felt the smooth drag of his teeth, the warm heat of his tongue, the slow, deliberate grind of his hips against your stomach. And God—he was already hard.

"Tell me if you wanna stop,” he murmured between kisses.

“I won’t,” you whispered, and you meant it.

His mouth caught yours again—needier now. One hand cupped your cheek while the other dragged down your spine, slow and certain. When he reached the hem of your dress, he paused.

Then pushed it up.

You gasped as his hand dipped beneath the lace of your underwear. His fingers teased first, knuckles brushing against your inner thigh like he wanted to memorize the feeling of your skin. You tensed, and he kissed your neck—soft and slow.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

You couldn’t help it. He was too much. The heat of him. The smell. The way his hand moved so gently between your legs.

But your voice still came out steady. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Two fingers slid through your slick—light, teasing, patient.

"God,” he groaned, voice low and almost reverent. “You’re so wet.”

You whimpered, and he smiled against your throat.

“Don’t be shy now,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

He rubbed slow circles over your clit with his thumb, watching the way your mouth dropped open, the way your hands flew to the edge of the sink like you were trying not to fall.

Then he eased a finger in.

You clenched around it—hard—and he stilled.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re tight.”

You nodded, trying to focus on breathing, on staying grounded. The stretch of him inside you was like nothing else. Hot and unfamiliar and dizzying.

He watched your face carefully.

“You okay?” he asked, and when you nodded again, he kissed your temple. “Good girl.”

A second finger joined the first, and your whole body arched.

It wasn’t too much—but it was close. And the friction when he started moving them in slow, steady thrusts had you gasping.

You buried your face in his chest, and he chuckled low.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he said, curling his fingers just right. “So fucking pretty.”

Your whimpers were barely audible over the bass of the party outside, but you felt him smile against your cheek anyway.

It was heady. It was good.

You were so far gone you didn’t think twice when he pulled your underwear down your thighs and dragged the condom from his wallet.

“Still okay?” he asked, already kissing along your jaw.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I want to.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Turned you around, your palms landing on the counter, his hand braced against your hip.

You felt him line himself up.

The blunt press of him was slow at first—careful—but your breath still caught when he started to push in.

Half an inch. Then your body seized.

Your breath hitched—sharp and high—as pain lanced up your spine. You tried to muffle the sound, biting down on your lip, but it was enough. He heard it.

Mingyu froze.

“Wait—what is it?” His voice was quiet, urgent.

You didn’t answer right away.

But your hands gripped the sink tighter.

And then he felt it.

The resistance. The tension. The way you clenched around him like your body didn’t know what to do with this.

And when he gently eased out—just slightly, barely—and glanced down, he saw it.

A trace of red.

Everything stopped.

He blinked. “Baby…” His voice dropped to something ragged. “Are you—fuck, are you a virgin?”

The silence that followed said everything.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just kept your head low, trembling.

He turned you toward him with so much care it nearly broke you. His hands on your waist were steady but gentle, guiding. He tilted your chin up, eyes scanning your face—until he saw it: the panic. The shame. The way your bottom lip quivered as you tried to hold it in.

His heart sank. “Oh, baby…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I almost did,” you whispered, eyes glassy. “But…”

“But what?”

You hesitated. Then let it fall out of you in a rush—too fast, too afraid you’d lose the nerve otherwise.

“Because you would’ve looked at me different,” you said, voice barely audible. “Even if it was just for a second.”

Mingyu flinched.

You shook your head, voice trembling. “I knew—I know you’re not like that. I know you wouldn’t judge me. But… I’ve spent so long pretending to be someone else. Dancing like it means nothing. Laughing it off. Looking men in the eye like I wasn’t afraid of them.” Your breath broke. “And if you’d looked at me—you—like maybe I was lying or trying to play some innocent act, I… I wouldn’t have been able to come back from that.”

Your voice dropped even further.

“And I know how it sounds. A virgin? Who works at a strip club? It doesn’t add up. It doesn’t make sense.”

Mingyu’s stomach twisted.

Shame poured through him so hot it made his ears ring.

He looked around the room—this dim, grimy, echoing bathroom with fluorescent lights and peeling wallpaper—and hated himself.

“Baby,” he breathed. “Look at me.” You didn’t.

So he reached out, cupped your face gently in both hands—steady, warm, trembling just slightly. “Please. Look at me.” You did.

And what you saw in his eyes wasn’t pity.

It wasn’t judgment.

It was heartbreak.

“You think I would’ve looked at you different,” he said quietly, voice rough with pain. You blinked hard.

He shook his head. “You don’t get it. You think it doesn’t make sense—being a virgin, being a dancer—but to me, it just doesn’t matter. Because that’s you. You do hard things without letting them harden you. That’s not confusing. That’s strong. You’re you and thats who I want.”

His thumbs brushed your cheeks.

“And fuck,” he whispered. “If I had looked at you different—if I ever made you feel smaller or faker or less than—then I didn’t deserve to touch you in the first place.”

His voice cracked then. Just slightly.

“You are not dirty. You are not a liar. You are not some contradiction I have to figure out. You are the most honest thing in my life.”

You didn’t mean to tear up. But it came anyway. Quiet and sharp and sudden.

And Mingyu just leaned in—forehead pressed to yours.

“I hate that I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me,” he said. “I hate that I let this happen in a fucking bathroom like this is all you’re worth.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

He wiped it gently with his thumb.

“If anything,” he whispered, “I should’ve asked. I should’ve known. I should’ve taken my time, made it special. Not in a fucking bathroom. I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I rushed you,” he said. “Even if you said yes—I should’ve known you were nervous. I should’ve seen it.”

You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

He had failed. Fully, entirely. Not just in some abstract, half-hearted way—but in the one promise he’d made to himself the night he woke up sweating, aching, ashamed. After that dream—that fucking dream—he told himself he wouldn’t let you become like the rest. That you weren’t some faceless girl he could fuck and forget. That he’d wait. Be patient. Make it mean something. Make you feel safe.

And now?

Here you were—eyes wide, lips bitten raw, legs trembling—and there was blood on the tip of his dick. There was pain in your breath. You were standing with your underwear at your knees in the dingy bathroom of a house party you never asked to be taken to. And he had been the one to bring you here. He hadn’t protected you the way he swore he would.

And it gutted him.

His thumbs lingered at your hips as he looked down at you again.

This time, the panic had melted from his face.

What was left was sorrow—and care.

He moved slowly—so slowly. He reached between you and lifted your underwear back into place with hands that barely touched. He didn’t want to add pressure, didn’t want to hurt you. He then eased your dress back down, smoothing the fabric carefully over your thighs, tucking you back together like you were something delicate he’d accidentally bent.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, voice low.

You shook your head.

He kissed your cheek—soft, reverent.

Then he held out his hand.

“We’re leaving,” he said gently. “I’m taking you to my place. We’re gonna get warm. You’re gonna let me take care of you. And if you still want me after that, we’ll do it the right way.”

You stared at his hand.

Then took it.

And this time, it wasn’t nervous.

It was trust.

Because he didn’t flinch when you told him your worst fear.

Because when it counted most—he stayed.

Because Mingyu didn’t just want your body.

He wanted you.

All of you.

⸻

// brahhhh writing smut is so hard. im almost 22 but I feel so guilty doing it.

(Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3)

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dozybeez · 4 days ago

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Hi everyone! Probably no update tonight </3 I’m driving home from college so I’ll be stuck in the car all day. So sorry!! I’ll try to do a double? update tomorrow!

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dozybeez · 5 days ago

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Spin For Me (Pt. Seven)

→ part one → part two → part three → part four → part five → part six …

→ part eight coming soon...

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 5.9k

songs for this chapter:

- All I Need by Radiohead

- Champagne Coast by Blood Orange

- Chihiro by Billie Eilish

You weren’t sure why you agreed to meet at the library.

Maybe because it was the only place that still made you feel like you had rules. Like there were boundaries and whisper-level expectations and hard, grounded things like books and schedules and homework—things that didn’t shift beneath your feet the way Mingyu had.

Because ever since last night, ever since him, ever since the weight of his hands and the press of his mouth and the way he kissed you like he was afraid of doing it wrong, and then like he didn’t care if he did—ever since that—

Everything else had felt unstable.

You kept trying to convince yourself you were fine. That it wasn’t that big of a deal. People kissed people all the time. It didn’t have to mean anything.

Except it did.

And that was the problem.

Because it hadn’t felt like just a kiss. Not with the way you both had confessed before. Not with the way he looked at you afterward—soft and breathless, like he’d just witnessed something, not done it. Like you had done something to him. And now… now you were sitting across from him at a wide wooden table tucked in the back corner of the third floor, staring down at a half-annotated page of notes you couldn’t read, pretending you weren’t unraveling.

Mingyu hadn’t said much when you met up earlier. Just gave you a little smile when you arrived and shifted his bag to the floor so you could sit. No big deal. No weird tension. No “so about last night…”

He’d just… gone right back to normal.

Like he always did.

And it was killing you.

Because you didn’t know what to do with normal anymore. Not after the way he held your waist like it meant something. Not after the way he leaned into you like gravity pulled him there. Not after the way he whispered your name against your mouth like he’d been waiting all his life to say it that way.

But now—now he was flipping through a textbook like nothing happened.

And you were losing your goddamn mind.

Your knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. You tried to press it flat to the floor. That didn’t help. You crossed your legs. That made it worse. You uncapped your pen, then capped it again. Then again.

Then you started chewing the cap like it was a piece of gum and you were fourteen and on the verge of a panic attack in health class.

“You’re nervous,” Mingyu said, voice low—barely above a whisper.

He didn’t even look up when he said it. Just kept reading, scribbling something in the margin of his notebook like he hadn’t just cracked open the floor beneath you.

“No, I’m not,” you said, way too quickly.

His pen paused. A beat.

“You’re chewing the plastic like it owes you something.”

You dropped the pen immediately, too hard against the table. The cap bounced off the wood, rolled once, and clattered to the floor.

You didn’t move to pick it up.

“…Shut up,” you muttered.

He looked at you then.

And it wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even that soft, teasing grin he always wore when he got under your skin just to see what you’d do.

No—this was different.

He looked at you like he saw through you.

Like he already knew what you were trying not to admit. Like he could hear the words you hadn’t even said yet.

And then, like it was the simplest thing in the world, he said, “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked down at your notes again, pretending to read. The text blurred almost instantly. You didn’t respond.

Mingyu didn’t push.

He just sat back in his chair a little, his body language as open as always—elbows loose on the armrest, legs long beneath the table. His thighs, thick and steady, bracketed yours beneath the wood, spread just wide enough that you sat between them without realizing it at first. Like he’d built a quiet shield around you without even trying. Like his body knew how to protect yours before you even thought to ask.

Maybe that’s what made it worse. That patience. That quiet steadiness. That willingness to sit across from you and be there even when you weren’t sure you could meet him halfway.

Because you wanted to.

You really did.

But part of you still didn’t believe this was real. That someone like him could look at you—at all your jagged edges and nervous glances and late-night spirals—and still… stay.

Still choose you.

Still kiss you like that.

“Do you regret it?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Your voice barely made it across the table. But he heard you.

His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing—not confused, not insulted, just… careful.

“No.”

That was all he said.

But it didn’t sound like a dismissal. It sounded like the kind of answer that didn’t need explanation. Like no was the only word he needed. Like anything else would’ve cheapened it.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Still, you couldn’t quite look at him.

Instead, you picked up your highlighter and dragged it across the sentence you’d read fifteen times but still didn’t understand. Your hand was shaking just enough to make the line uneven.

Mingyu noticed. You knew he did.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Not yet.

He just let you sit there—heart pounding, skin prickling, mind racing—until the silence felt less like pressure and more like space. Like safety.

And then, when you finally looked up—

He was already watching you.

Like always.

And for the first time all day, something in you started to settle.

Not completely. Not all at once. But enough to exhale.

Mingyu didn’t press the moment. He just leaned back in his chair, his lips tipping into a quiet half-smile like he could tell the worst of your storm had passed. One arm stretched behind his head, casual, easy—like the tension hadn’t touched him at all. But you knew it had. You knew he’d felt it from the second you sat down.

“You always go quiet like that when something’s wrong,” he said eventually, voice low but gentle.

You blinked, surprised. “I’m literally working.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes.”

You exhaled, not quite rolling your eyes. “You’re very observant.”

“I know,” he said, and the smile on his face was soft. “It’s kind of my thing.”

You tried not to return it—but it happened anyway. Small, reluctant. Honest. Your shoulders dropped, finally. Your breath came easier. That was what he did to you—tethered you back to the ground without ever asking you to fall.

He didn’t fix anything. Didn’t offer advice. He just... stayed. Soft and steady. Something solid to lean against even when you didn’t know you needed it.

And for the next two hours, you actually got work done.

Between the soft rustle of paper and the quiet tap of keyboards, the library slowed into something calm. Safe. Every now and then, he’d lean over to glance at your screen. Sometimes he made little comments under his breath—correcting a typo, teasing your terrible folder organization, murmuring something about how good your analysis was.

It was steady. Collaborative. Almost domestic.

You split a granola bar he pulled from his backpack and shared a single charger when your laptop started dying. When your fingers got cold, he wordlessly unzipped his hoodie and draped it over your lap like a blanket. It smelled like his detergent—like warm cotton and something slight, something you couldn’t name but was just so Mingyu.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, you forgot to feel guarded.

You let yourself exist there with him—just quietly, fully, without needing to prove anything. You caught yourself staring once or twice, watching the way his brow furrowed as he read, the way his bottom lip tucked under his teeth when he focused. You looked away every time, pretending you weren’t curious about the shape of his hands on the table. The quiet strength in them. The way they’d held your waist just a night ago like he hadn’t wanted to let go.

Eventually, the rhythm faded. The room got colder. Your focus unraveled. The page in front of you blurred, unreadable.

And then you yawned. Hard.

Immediately: “That’s it,” Mingyu said. “Bed time.”

You blinked at him. “What—”

“I’m not letting you fall asleep at a library table,” he said firmly but gently, already gathering his things. “That’s when someone takes a picture and you become a meme forever. No way.”

You rolled your eyes, but your body didn’t argue. The exhaustion hit you in waves—gentle, slow, like he’d lulled it out of you just by being here. You stood and stretched your arms above your head.

And before you could even reach for your things, Mingyu grabbed your bag and slung it over his shoulder.

You frowned. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said, tone easy, almost absentminded—as if the thought of not taking care of you had never even crossed his mind. He waited by the door, calm as ever, not even looking back to see if you'd follow. He just knew you would.

⸻

It started drizzling halfway between the library and your dorm.

He’d insisted on walking you back—said it was late, that he didn’t like the idea of you walking alone, even though campus was quiet this time of night. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, just held the door open for you with a casual “C’mon,” and offered his hand like it was muscle memory now.

And of course—you took it.

Fingers interlacing like they always did these days. Like something natural.

At first, the rain was just a mist. Gentle. Barely there. You didn’t even register it until Mingyu glanced up toward the clouds, his brows furrowing.

Then came the wind. The sudden heaviness in the air.

And then—thunder.

Loud and rolling, cracking in the distance like a warning.

You winced slightly. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

Mingyu’s hand tightened around yours.

A moment later, the rain came down in earnest—sheets of it, cold and fast, soaking through your coat within seconds.

“Shit,” you breathed, ducking your head. “This is—ow—it’s like actual needles—!”

Mingyu let go of your hand just long enough to shrug off his jacket and toss it over both your heads like a makeshift roof. His arm immediately came around your shoulders again, drawing you into his side.

“Come here,” he muttered, guiding you forward, his voice half-laugh, half-command. “We’re gonna drown.”

“We’re already drowning!” you gasped, teeth chattering.

“Okay, fine. Then we’ll drown together.”

You elbowed him. “That’s not romantic.”

“It’s a little romantic.”

The wind shoved the rain sideways again, soaking your legs. His jacket was too short to cover both of you properly. You were still cold. Still soaked.

But somehow, you were laughing.

“You realize this is your fault,” you shouted over the wind, clinging to his arm now as he led you down the puddled sidewalk.

“Oh, totally,” he grinned. “I control the weather now.”

“You dragged me out here.”

“I escorted you. Because I’m a gentleman.”

“Some gentleman—my socks are squishing!”

He laughed again—harder this time, breath fogging in the air—and you felt it more than heard it, the way his body shook beside you, the sound of it warming the cold between you.

“You’re a mess,” he said, glancing at you.

You were already looking at him.

Soaked hair, rain dripping from his eyelashes, his shirt clinging shamelessly to his chest. Water streaking down his jaw, catching on the curve of his lips.

And despite everything—despite your wet sleeves, your numb fingers, the ache in your calves from half-running—

You smiled.

“You are too.”

And then—

He dropped the jacket, flung his arms up toward the sky, and let the rain hit him full force.

You stared, open-mouthed. “Mingyu?!”

“This is it,” he said dramatically. “This is how I go. Tell my professors I died a scholar.”

You burst out in giggles, doubling over.

He grinned and spun half a circle, still ridiculous. Still soaked.

“Come on,” he said, catching your hand again. “You already look like a drowned rat. Might as well commit.”

“I hate you,” you gasped, but let him pull you forward.

And just like that—you were running.

Down the street, through puddles, slipping and stumbling and breathless with laughter. His hand in yours, pulling you along like a lifeline. The world around you blurred into silver water and amber streetlamps. Everything else disappeared.

When you finally reached the steps to your dorm, you stopped under the awning, drenched and panting, hearts pounding like fists in your ribs.

Mingyu bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, water dripping off his nose.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to catch your breath. “This is—this is not how I thought tonight would end.”

He glanced up, wet hair plastered to his forehead. “No regrets though, right?”

You looked at him.

Everything in you softened.

“No,” you said. “No regrets.”

Then your eyes dropped to his soaked shirt. The way it clung to his chest. The way his jeans were dark with rain. He shivered, just barely.

You frowned. “You’re not walking home like this.”

He blinked at you. “What?”

“You’ll get sick,” you said, already pulling your keycard from your pocket. “Come up. Just until it lets up.”

There was a beat of silence.

You both knew what this meant.

What it didn’t have to mean.

But also what it might.

He studied you—quiet, unreadable—then finally nodded.

“Okay.”

And his hand found yours again. Just like always.

You turned and led him upstairs, the rain still coming down in thick, unapologetic sheets behind you.

⸻

Your dorm room was warm in that small, lived-in kind of way. A lamp cast a low amber glow across the cluttered desk. String lights you barely used blinked faintly in the corner, forgotten from months ago. Rain thrummed against the windowpane in soft, steady taps, and somewhere beyond the glass, thunder grumbled like a lullaby, low and distant.

Mingyu stepped inside behind you, ducking slightly through the doorway, still dripping.

The quiet hit both of you at once. The soft hush of the room, the contrast of storm against stillness—it was the kind of silence that made everything feel louder. His breathing. Your heartbeat. The faint sound of water dripping from your coats onto the floor.

He stood there for a second, not moving. His presence filled the space instantly, like the room had shrunk to accommodate him.

You watched a droplet trace down his neck, slip beneath the collar of his shirt. Watched his chest rise with each breath, soaked fabric clinging like second skin. And suddenly, the distance between the door and the bed felt impossibly loaded.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned to you with that unreadable look again, like he was still trying to decide if this was real.

That’s when it hit you.

You hadn’t thought this through.

At all.

It was a blur getting here—laughing and running and pulling him along, both of you breathless, soaked to the bone, adrenaline still buzzing from the thunder and closeness and the way he kept reaching for your hand like it was second nature now.

But now? Now he was standing in your room.

Wet.

Tall.

Ridiculously broad.

And you had nothing—nothing—for him to change into.

Your eyes darted to your dresser out of instinct. But it was laughable. You couldn’t even picture it—Mingyu in one of your oversized hoodies, the sleeves barely covering his forearms, the hem hitting awkwardly at his ribs. Your sweatpants would be highwaters at best, and your shorts? God, he’d rip through the waistband like the Hulk.

He couldn’t stay in his wet clothes. He’d freeze. Or get sick. Or sit there half-naked while you tried to pretend like you weren’t combusting inside.

Your stomach flipped.

The realization was heavy and ridiculous and somehow the most intimate thing that had happened all night: there was only one option.

No clothes. Just boxers. Under your blanket.

You swallowed, hard.

A silence settled between you. That kind of charged quiet where neither of you said what you were thinking—but you were definitely thinking the same thing.

Mingyu’s brows lifted, subtly, like he’d arrived at the same conclusion.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Your heartbeat thrummed loud in your ears, and the air in your dorm suddenly felt warmer than it should have.

“I’m gonna change in the bathroom,” you blurted.

He blinked.

You backed up toward the door, grabbing your dry clothes from your desk chair. “You—uh. Just. Get under the blanket. Right away. Or you’ll get sick.” Or… right away, so you can’t see him naked.

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once, like he understood the quiet threat of the situation. His eyes flicked toward the bed, then back to you.

You turned before you could catch whatever expression was on his face.

The hallway was cold and sterile, but your face was burning.

And all you could think—over and over—was: he’s going to be in your bed. Half-naked. Under your blanket. Waiting for you.

⸻

By the time you stepped back inside, the storm had softened into a lull. Rain tapping gently against the windows. Distant thunder folding itself into the sky like a secret being tucked away. The light from your desk lamp cast a warm glow across the room—muted and honey-like, softening the edges of everything.

You stood in the doorway for a second, still.

Now in your hoodie and sweatpants, your damp hair tucked behind your ears, the scent of your clean skin and lavender detergent clinging to your sleeves. You’d changed as fast as you could. But not fast enough to quiet the rush in your chest.

Because there he was.

Mingyu.

In your bed.

He’d done exactly as you asked—gotten under the blanket right away. His soaked clothes were neatly draped over the desk chair, dark with water. And he—he looked like a scene from some forgotten dream. Hair still wet. Blanket pulled up to his chest. Feet hanging off the end of the mattress. One arm folded under his head. The other resting on the sliver of mattress beside him like it missed you already.

He looked at home.

And completely out of place.

Too big for your bed. Too beautiful for your tiny dorm room. His body took up space in a way no one else ever had—broad shoulders stretching across the width of your mattress, collarbones shadowed under the dim light, the line of his jaw soft with tiredness.

Your eyes dropped—just for a moment.

You could see the curve of his chest beneath the blanket. The blanket had slipped slightly down one side, revealing the slope of his shoulder, the edge of his bicep—warm and golden and very much bare.

You swallowed.

He looked at you then. Soft. Open. Like he’d been waiting.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Just that.

But it landed somewhere low in your stomach.

You crossed the room without saying anything, trying to ignore the way your hands fidgeted at your sleeves. You hung your clothes to dry, each movement deliberate, focused, slow. You weren’t stalling—you just needed a second. Just a breath. Because this? This was new. This was different.

This was real.

You turned back to him after a beat, and he was already shifting—scooting toward the edge, arm lifting to make space. Without a word, he offered it to you.

The silent invitation was enough to make your heart squeeze.

You climbed into bed—awkwardly at first, knees bumping his, hands brushing, laughter caught in your throat like you were teenagers with secrets. He let you climb over him to take the wall side—because of course he did. You didn’t even have to ask. He just moved with this quiet instinct to protect, to make room for you even when there wasn’t any.

And then—you settled.

Tucked in beside him.

A tight fit, shoulder to chest, hip to thigh, your legs barely avoiding tangling. The blanket scarcely stretched to cover you both, but his warmth made up for it—radiating off him like a promise you hadn’t asked for.

You tried to find a neutral spot to rest, somewhere polite, somewhere safe—but the second your head hit the pillow, he moved.

Without hesitation.

Like it was natural. Like it had always been this way.

He pulled you in.

Nuzzled closer.

One arm wound around your waist like it belonged there, anchoring you. His face pressed gently to your neck—his breath warm against your collar, nose brushing behind your ear. His thigh hooked over yours, his chest settling behind you like a second spine. He fit around you too easily.

And then, his voice—muffled, sleep-heavy, half-laughing:

“You smell good.”

You froze.

Every muscle in your body tensed, breath snagged halfway to your lungs.

His arm tightened.

“Relax,” he whispered. “You’re warm.”

He said it like it was a comfort. Like it meant something.

You blinked up at the ceiling. The glow of your desk lamp caught in the limits of your walls, flickering faint shadows across the ceiling.

And all you could think was:

He’s here.

He’s really here.

Half-naked. Wrapped around you. Smelling you. Trusting you with his sleep and silence and something deeper than either of you had words for.

And God—you felt everything.

The heat of him at your back.

The weight of his arm draped over your ribs.

The way his breath found your pulse.

You lay there, unmoving, pretending to adjust, pretending to breathe normal. But your thoughts were unraveling thread by thread, undone by every inch of him—his skin, his scent, the press of his body to yours.

The tension wasn’t loud. It wasn’t hungry. It was quiet and aching, steeped in safety, the kind of heat that built slow and didn’t ask for attention until it was already inside you.

You weren’t ready to sleep.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you lay like that—pressed together, surrounded by quiet. The storm outside had faded into something gentler now. Just the hush of rain tracing down the glass, thunder rolling soft and far like a lullaby. It was the kind of night that wrapped itself around your bones. The kind of quiet that made everything else feel a little farther away.

And then, from behind you:

“…I’m sorry,” Mingyu muttered, voice muffled and strained, “but your plushies are gonna have to take the floor.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They’re digging into my spine.”

You choked back a laugh, twisting slightly in his arms to glance at the small army of stuffed animals you’d arranged across your bed earlier this week, mostly for decoration—or so you told yourself. Their soft little limbs were now smooshed between the mattress and his back, clearly losing the war for real estate.

“I didn’t expect to have a six-foot-two human in my bed,” you whispered.

He groaned playfully. “Well, the elephant’s trying to puncture a lung.”

You stifled your laugh into your sleeve as he shifted a bit, reaching back with his free arm and one by one plucking the plushies from behind him and tossing them—gently—to the floor beside the bed. He handled them like they were fragile for someone so massive, murmuring little apologies under his breath as they landed with soft flops against the rug.

But then he paused, holding one.

Your Bambi plushie.

You didn’t even have to look—you could feel the stillness in his body, the beat of quiet recognition.

“This is Bambi,” you said, voice barely audible. “He’s... my favorite.”

You felt him smile without having to look at him.

“I figured,” he murmured. “He looks well-loved.”

His fingers brushed over the plush deer's worn ear, thumb smoothing over the softened fabric like it deserved reverence. And then, instead of tossing it with the others, he reached across you, gently placing it at the top of the bed near your pillow.

“Bambi stays,” he said, like it was law. “Honorary exception.”

Your heart tightened.

It was such a small thing. Barely a sentence. But the way he said it—without teasing, without judgment—just warm, quiet affection… it made something in your chest ache a little.

“Thanks,” you murmured, suddenly unsure where to put all the emotion welling behind your ribs.

His arm tucked tighter around you in response, as if he could feel the shift. As if he knew what that gesture had meant without you having to say a word.

“I like the idea of him watching over you,” he whispered.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust your voice to come out steady.

So instead, you just pressed your hand over his where it rested on your stomach—and held it there.

Fingers twined.

His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.

And somehow, with the rain humming outside, your favorite plushie by your pillow, and Mingyu—warm, huge, real—curled around you like a secret he planned to keep forever...

You finally felt safe enough to close your eyes.

⸻

It happened sometime after one in the morning.

You weren’t even fully asleep—drifting more than resting, your cheek pressed into the warm indent of his chest, your legs tangled with his. The storm had quieted outside, nothing but the soft whisper of rain against the window and the hum of your old dorm heater. Everything was still and hushed, the world reduced to the sound of his breathing, steady and close, and the slow pull of his fingers brushing absentmindedly against your arm.

Until he rolled the wrong way.

There was a thump. A startled grunt. And then a muffled “fuck”, low and disoriented.

Your eyes flew open.

For a second, all you saw was blanket. Your blanket—now entirely yours again, still tucked tight around your frame. The warmth of Mingyu’s body was suddenly gone, replaced by a draft of cool air, and you blinked, dazed, until you heard a soft groan from somewhere below.

You leaned over the edge of the bed.

There he was.

On the floor.

Lying flat on his back in nothing but black boxers, one leg still hooked dramatically over your fallen plushie army. His hair stuck up in every direction. His eyes were squeezed shut like he was reconsidering every decision he’d made that led him here.

“Are you alive?” you asked, struggling not to laugh.

He cracked one eye open and looked up at you like a man betrayed. “I just lost a fight with a twin bed,” he said hoarsely. “And I’m not sure I’m gonna recover.”

You snorted, clutching the blanket tighter around yourself. “I warned you.”

Mingyu turned his head, spotting your Bambi plush across the room, where it had clearly been launched mid-chaos. He pointed. “That deer’s got it out for me. I saw it in its eyes.”

“Bambi’s literally smiling.”

“Exactly. It’s sinister.”

“Bambi would never,” you said, then bit your lip when his gaze flicked to the stuffed deer beside him. A slow smile curved over his mouth.

He looked ridiculous and unfairly hot all at once—bare chest rising and falling with slow, sleep-warmed breath, the planes of his stomach catching the gold light of your desk lamp. Long legs sprawled out, boxers riding low on his hips, skin flushed slightly from sleep and the fall. And he wasn’t even trying. That was the worst part. He just existed like this—half-naked and boyish, laughing at himself like he hadn’t just made your throat go dry.

You swallowed and looked away too fast.

But not before he caught the way your eyes lingered a second too long.

His grin softened. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, heart tripping in your chest. “I just—thought you’d stay in the bed longer.”

He stood slowly, brushing lint from his thigh. “Well, your mattress disagreed.” His voice was easy, teasing, but when he looked at you again—really looked—something shifted behind his eyes. “I should probably get going.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

He glanced toward the small pile of his now-dry clothes hanging over your desk chair, then back to you. “Didn’t want to overwhelm you. Thought maybe… we had a good night. I should leave it at that.”

The words landed with a quiet weight.

You didn’t answer right away. Just curled the blanket tighter around your knees, unsure what to say. Because he was right. It had been a good night. Maybe the best one in a long time. And part of you—the scared part, the one that still didn’t trust good things to last—wanted to let him go so nothing could ruin it.

But another part—a louder part now—wanted him to stay.

Even if you didn’t know how to say that yet.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” he said, already reaching for his shirt. “Don’t worry, I’ll survive the walk.”

You nodded, eyes on his back now, wide and solid and familiar.

And when he turned again, coat in hand, he paused. His gaze dropped to your bundled figure on the bed, hair tousled, eyes still sleep-hazy, your blanket curled under your chin like armor.

He crossed the small room in a few steps and knelt beside the bed.

You froze.

He reached out slowly, gently, like he was afraid to scare you off. Then, without saying anything—without giving you time to overthink—he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

It was feather-light and warm, impossibly tender. His lips lingered for just a second longer than necessary.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, voice rough with something you couldn’t name.

You didn’t trust your voice enough to respond. You just nodded, eyes wide, heartbeat hammering too close to your throat.

Then he stood, gave Bambi a mock-salute, and disappeared into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And the room was quiet again.

But this time… it didn’t feel the same kind of quiet.

It felt like something had been there.

And now it was missing.

⸻

You climbed into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times before.

No hesitation. No bashfulness. Just confidence—slow, liquid, certain—as you straddled him on the bed, your fingers curling into his hair as if they belonged there, your mouth brushing his like the kiss was an afterthought.

He groaned low when you ground down once—friction sparking like a fuse—and his hands flew to your hips instinctively. His back hit the headboard. You followed, eyes lidded, mouth parted.

“God,” he whispered, watching you roll against him. “You’re…”

You smirked—actually smirked—and cut him off with another kiss. Wet. Eager. Familiar.

But too familiar.

Your hands weren’t trembling. Your breath didn’t catch. You didn’t hesitate like you did when your feelings got too loud. There was no pause. No blush. No moment of “is this okay?” that usually made his chest ache.

This wasn’t you.

This was your face. Your voice. Your weight on top of him, moving against the tent in his boxers until he couldn’t think straight. Your breath on his jaw, your thighs bracketing his hips.

But the way you touched him?

It wasn’t real.

You palmed him through the fabric—slow, smooth, practiced—and his head thudded back against the wall with a curse. His hips bucked. His fingers dug into your waist. He could feel himself getting closer with every shift of your hand.

But something felt wrong.

Because when he looked up, you were watching him—but not the way you usually did.

There was no softness. No shy flicker of amusement. No trace of that guarded, sarcastic spark that made him want to unravel you.

There was distance.

You were beautiful, yes. But it was hollow. Performance.

Like every other girl.

And suddenly, the pleasure felt more like shame.

He opened his mouth to say your name.

But the room vanished.

He woke up with a gasp, body lurching upright in bed, chest heaving like he’d run five miles. He had to remind himself where he was—his apartment, not your dorm, not still tangled in the warmth of your bed. Just his own room, quiet and empty, where he’d collapsed after walking back from your dorm like he knew he should… even though every part of him had wanted to stay.

The sweat hit him first—cold against his spine, pooling at the base of his neck. Then the ache in his groin. Still hard. Still throbbing. His boxers damp with need that hadn’t gone anywhere.

He looked down, blinked, and cursed softly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

His sheets were a mess. His breathing unsteady. And he hadn’t even come.

Didn’t even want to anymore.

Not after that.

He let his head fall into his hands, elbows braced against his knees. He felt like he was burning. From the inside out.

Because that dream?

That wasn’t you.

Not really.

That version of you was a collage of every other girl who’d ever touched him without caring who he was beneath the surface. Who reached for him because of his face, his body, the image. Not because they saw him.

And the worst part?

That version of you had come from him.

From somewhere in the recesses of his brain that still didn’t know how to separate lust from meaning. From all the years he’d spent pretending intimacy was just another game.

But now?

Now he’d felt what it was supposed to be like.

You had kissed him like it was terrifying. Like it was a leap. Like it meant something.

And now his subconscious had warped that into something easy and empty and fake.

He leaned back slowly, rubbing his palms over his face, trying to breathe.

His erection still hadn’t gone away. But he didn’t even want to finish. Not like this.

Not when it made him feel like he’d betrayed something sacred.

Because your real smile—your real self—was soft. Messy. Honest. You were all pauses and second guesses and things unsaid. You were comfort and chaos and care disguised as sarcasm. And he loved that.

But now?

Now he’d let his mind twist you into a fantasy. One that didn’t even touch the real thing.

And that made his chest ache more than anything.

He looked up at the ceiling, jaw tight, heart pounding. Somewhere outside, thunder cracked softly in the distance, and he closed his eyes.

“Get a grip,” he muttered.

But he knew—deep down—what it really was.

It wasn’t guilt. Not exactly.

It was the ache of knowing. Of having tasted something real.

Of realizing that nothing before you had ever truly meant anything. That nothing after you could ever feel the same if he lost this.

It wasn’t grief for something that had happened— It was grief for who he used to be. The version of him that hadn’t known the difference.

And now, he did. Now, he knew you.

And he couldn’t unknow it.

⸻

// really not feeling too happy with my writing this chapter. feels like my brain hit a fog when I was rewriting it. hope you guys enjoy it at least.

Tag List: @sojuxxi @belovedgyu @bingumingoo1004 @burnerforfiction @jujuz251013 @dmstoyangyang @armycarat2612 @eisaspresso @svthinker @babycaratdeul @my-atiny-kookie-rkive

(Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3)

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dozybeez · 6 days ago

Text

Spin For Me (Pt. Six)

→ part one → part two → part three → part four → part five

→ part seven coming soon

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 6.3k

songs for this chapter:

- Waiting All Night by Rudimental & Ella Eyre

- Everlong by Foo Fighters

- Midnight City by M83

- Coming Home Soon by High June

Time didn’t move right after.

You stood there, eyes locked, your breath fogging faintly between you. The rooftop noise blurred—music, laughter, the low crackle of heaters and clinking glasses. None of it seemed to matter. Not with the way he was looking at you.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you looked away.

You weren’t touching, but it felt like you were. That kind of closeness. That kind of pause. His eyes held you still, like they were asking something unspoken—and you, too stunned or too afraid to answer, stayed perfectly still. Waiting. Bracing. Wanting.

And maybe it was the alcohol, or the quiet, or the rooftop air brushing cold against your legs… But your brain betrayed you.

Because suddenly—vivid and whole and burning—you were remembering that night.

The club. The lap dance.

His body beneath you, huge and grounded, muscles taut under your palms. The slick grind of your hips against his thighs, the control it took for him not to touch you. His jaw clenched. His eyes never leaving your face.

You hadn’t let yourself think about it—not really. Not after how everything cracked open after. But now… now he was this close again. And all you could think about was how his body had felt under yours. How good it felt to lose yourself like that. In him.

You’re just friends, you told yourself. You’re friends, right?

And that thought—that—was what made you step back.

Not far. Just enough to breathe again. To remind yourself where you were. To remind yourself who you were pretending to be.

“I should, um…” You glanced toward the crowd, the hum of the party reminding you who you arrived with. “Probably go find my friends.”

Mingyu didn’t argue. He just nodded once, slow.

And that should’ve been it. The end. A quiet retreat.

But then—his eyes flicked to your hand.

The cigarette between your fingers had burned halfway down. Smoke curled softly in the cold, your fingers trembling faintly.

“Can I?” he asked, voice lower now—gravel threaded through warmth.

You followed his gaze, confused. Then you realized.

You blinked. Then nodded slowly, lifting the cigarette between you, expecting him to take it with his hand.

But he didn’t move like that.

Instead, he stepped closer. Just a fraction. And tilted his head. His eyes didn’t leave yours for even a second as he parted his lips—just slightly.

Not a smirk. Not a joke. Just a quiet, controlled command.

Your heart thudded hard.

He wanted you to give it to him. Not pass it. Not toss it. Feed it to him.

And the way he was looking at you…God.

There was heat in it. Stillness. Something deeper than teasing. Like he was waiting to see if you’d flinch. If you’d touch him again. If you’d dare.

You stepped in. Slowly.

Your breath hitched.

Even in your kitten heels, you had to rise on your toes, your wrist brushing his chest, knuckles trembling as you brought the cigarette to his mouth.

Your hand was so close to his face, your knuckles nearly grazing his jaw. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. See every little detail up close—the faint scar above his browe, the fullness of his bottom lip, the freckle on the tip of his nose.

His lips closed around the cigarette. Soft. Deliberate.

And he didn’t break eye contact—not once.

His mouth stayed on it for a beat longer than necessary. Then he inhaled, slow and deep, the smoke curling between you like tension made visible. His cheek hollowed slightly with the drag, and something in your stomach fluttered at the sight of it.

He exhaled through his nose, lazy and calm, like this wasn’t undoing you completely. But you felt undone.

Then you pulled away. And so did he.

He didn’t take the cigarette. He didn’t even speak.

He just let the silence buzz between you.

Your arm dropped back to your side, fingers still tingling from where you touched him. From where you almost did.

“I’ll come with you,” he said.

You blinked. “To find my friends?”

“To wherever you’re going.”

A beat passed.

“You don’t even know where that is.”

He smiled—tilted, lazy, just the corner of his mouth—and shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

You stared at him for another second, unsure if this was real. The noise of the bar behind you pressed louder, voices rising with the music.

He waited.

And somehow, even without saying it, you already knew what he was going to ask next. You felt it before the words left his mouth.

Quietly, his voice low, deep, and steady—he said, “How about we get out of here?”

The words weren’t cocky. Weren’t slick. Just real. Confident. Assured.

Your heart kicked once, hard in your chest.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him.

And that’s when he reached out.

Fingers warm, slow, extending toward your free hand—offering, not demanding. He didn’t grab. He didn’t push.

Just waited.

The silence pulled tight between you. And you… gave it to him.

Not quickly. Not casually.

You placed your hand in his, deliberate and certain— but maybe a little shaky— while your other hand still held the cigarette at your side.

His fingers curled around yours with quiet weight.

And then he turned, tugging you gently with him—toward the far stairs that led down the back of the building, away from the crowd, the lights, the noise.

You followed. Quiet. Barely breathing.

And just before you reached the top of the stairs—while his back was turned, one step ahead of you—you brought the cigarette back to your lips.

You weren’t thinking about the nicotine.

You were thinking how the cigarette had touched his mouth. About the way he looked at you when you pressed it there. About the heat of his hand still gripping yours.

You took a slow drag. Held it. Let it burn.

Then flicked the cigarette off the side of the building, sparks tumbling into the dark.

And followed him into the night.

⸻

The street felt colder than before.

Or maybe it just felt real.

No lights strung overhead. No bass thumping through the floor. Just pavement, low clouds, and the hum of the city winding down. It was late—past midnight—but not late enough that everything had shut off. The bars still buzzed faintly in the distance. A car passed. Somewhere, someone laughed.

But between the two of you, everything was quiet.

Mingyu didn’t let go of your hand.

Not once.

Not when you stepped off the last stair. Not even when you adjusted your coat tighter around yourself. He just kept walking beside you, steady and warm, your fingers caught between his like they belonged there.

His hand was so much bigger than yours—long fingers, calloused palm, his grip firm but easy, like he was made to shield. But it wasn’t just the size. It was the weight of it, the quiet certainty in the way he held you. Protective without smothering. Easy without careless. The kind of touch you didn’t realize you’d been craving until it was already there. Not claiming, not possessive—just protective. Naturally.

That kind of presence you didn’t know you needed until it was right there, guiding you forward like something steady in a storm.

He stopped in front of a small, beat-up pizza place—neon sign buzzing, windows fogged from the oven heat inside. He glanced at you once, then stepped inside like he’d already made the call.

“Give me the best you’ve got,” he told the guy behind the counter, voice low but sure.

Two slices hit the counter in less than a minute along with two bottled beers pulled from a cooler. Condensation gathered quick on the glass before Mingyu quickly paid and the two of you headed back into the night.

Outside, you found a quiet stretch of curb just beyond the pizza place. The night air was cold, but your coat did most of the work, fur brushing against your cheeks as you sat down beside Mingyu. A streetlamp buzzed overhead, and every now and then the clouds shifted, letting the moon spill silver over the sidewalk.

He sat next to you, just close enough that his shoulder warmed the space between you. Two folded paper plates balanced between you both—each one weighed down with a single, hot, slice. Two beers clinked together in your free hands like there was something to celebrate.

“To what?” you’d asked, eyes glinting beneath the streetlight.

He looked at you—really looked—and smiled. Not wide, not loud. Just soft, sure, and full of something that felt like adoration. And in that quiet curve of his mouth, you heard the answer he didn’t say.

Now you sat quietly beside him, your hands chilled even more so by the beer bottle, the heat of the pizza cutting through the chill just enough to make the moment feel suspended—somewhere between cozy and unreal.

You tried not to watch him, but it was impossible.

When he pulled out his keys to open your bottle, your eyes followed the motion. His hand grazed yours, slow and unhurried, then closed around the bottle with that same assured grip he always seemed to have. He didn’t ask, just hooked the edge of the key under the cap and popped it off against his thigh in one clean, practiced move.

Your gaze trailed up the subtle shift of his forearm, the flex beneath his sleeve, the way his veins pushed against skin in sharp lines. It was ridiculous how distracting it was—how something so small could feel so... intimate.

He handed it back to you without looking, murmuring, “Here,” like it meant nothing. But it did something to you. You could feel it in your throat.

When he did his own, using your own bottle as leverage, you tried not to look. You really did. But your eyes betrayed you. The way his forearm flexed, veins catching the glow of the streetlight. The soft clink of metal against glass. The calm precision of it, like even this—cracking open a beer—could be done with assured, deliberate ease. You stared too long. And he felt it.

His eyes flicked toward you. Not teasing. Just quiet, steady, curious. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. But you saw the grin tug at the corner of his mouth, slow and knowing. Like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

God. You turned away too quickly, eyes wide, face warming.

He didn’t call you out. Didn’t press. Just leaned back, one hand on the sidewalk, the other still wrapped around his beer. His thigh brushed against yours. Not enough to mean something. But not nothing either.

And all the while, in the back of his mind—he was thinking you were so fucking cute. The way your eyes darted when you got flustered. The way you tried so hard not to be obvious, but still couldn’t help yourself. He didn’t say it. Wouldn’t dare. But it was all over his face.

And you felt it—without him ever saying a word.

Calming down your blush, you took a bite of your pizza, chewing slowly, your eyes drifting toward the skyline—just to have somewhere to look that wasn’t him.

Still, you could feel his gaze.

Not heavy. Not invasive. Just… there. Like he was memorizing something.

You took another sip of your beer, the fizz chasing warmth into your chest.

And when he shifted beside you, you saw it again—the flex of his arm, the movement under his shirt, the quiet strength he never had to announce. The kind of presence that made you feel... steadier. Like nothing bad could touch you if he was close.

You hated how much you liked that.

You turned your head, caught his eyes on you.

He didn’t look away.

And you didn’t either.

⸻

When the last bite of pizza was gone and your beer bottles sat empty between you, a soft hush fell over the curb.

The kind of quiet that felt deliberate.

You tucked your hands into your coat, shoulders curling slightly against the chill. Mingyu hadn’t said much in the last few minutes, but you could feel him watching you. Not in a way that demanded anything—just a calm, persistent presence. Like a current you’d stepped into without realizing.

Then—

“I’ve got a spot,” he said suddenly, voice low, like the thought had just occurred to him. But when you looked over, he was already standing.

You blinked. “A spot?”

He didn’t explain. Just held out a hand, eyes glinting. “C’mon.”

You stared at it for a second.

You didn’t need a reason. You never really did when it came to him.

Your fingers found his again—smaller, colder, but he wrapped around you without hesitation.

He helped you up, brushing his palm lightly over the back of your coat as you straightened. You tossed your beer into a nearby recycling bin, and the two of you drifted back into the streetlight’s glow, feet tapping rhythmically on the pavement.

You didn’t ask where he was taking you.

Somehow, that made it feel safer.

The city quieted as you walked. Less traffic, less buzz, fewer people. Just a stretch of damp pavement, a few scattered streetlights, and the hush of everything winding down.

Mingyu still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Even now—blocks later—his fingers were laced with yours, easy and warm. He’d slowed his strides to match yours, which at this point was comical considering how long his legs were. Still, you had to push just a little harder to keep up.

You didn’t say anything. At first.

But then came the slight limp and the continued slow pace that caught his attention.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You good?” he asked, glancing over at you.

You gave a casual shrug. “Thriving.”

He looked down at your feet.

Then back up at you.

“You’re limping.”

“I’m walking with flavor,” you said, deadpan.

“Uh huh.” He didn’t look convinced. “Let me guess. Shoes?”

“No, it’s your massive ego. The weight of it is throwing off my balance.”

He blinked, then huffed a short laugh. “That’s crazy. I was gonna say the same about yours.”

You glared at him like he insulted your most sacred belief—like he'd just disrespected pizza, or your skincare routine, or the exact order in which you watch your comfort shows.

That earned a quiet laugh from him. “You always this dramatic?”

“You always this observant?”

He raised a brow. “Only with you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Great. Love that for me.”

But still—you were slowing down. Even sarcasm couldn’t disguise the fact that every step felt like your heels were being personally punished by Satan.

Mingyu stopped walking.

You blinked at him. “Why’d you stop?”

“Give me your bag.”

“…What.”

“Just for a second.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you’re about to rob me—”

But you handed it over anyway, watching him sling it over one shoulder. Then, without warning, he crouched.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh my God. Mingyu, no—”

“Yup.”

“I swear to God, I will scream.”

He ignored you. One arm hooked behind your knees, the other behind your back, and then—up.

You yelped. “This is so unnecessary.”

“You can’t walk.”

“I can!”

“You’re limping and in pain.”

“I have danced in stilettos for three hours straight!”

He glanced down at the dainty kitten heels dangling from your feet. “Yeah, and these are breaking you. That’s actually impressive.”

You scowled. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re smug.”

“You’re blushing.”

Your mouth snapped shut. Not because you weren’t—but because he wasn’t supposed to notice that.

His shirt brushed your jawline as you curled instinctively closer. He adjusted you slightly in his arms, like it was nothing. Like you were nothing—at least in terms of weight. The man carried you like a backpack.

And God help you… you didn’t hate it.

You tried not to look at him. Really tried. But your eyes flicked up anyway.

His jaw was set. His gaze fixed straight ahead. And even though his expression barely changed, you could feel the tiny little smirk he was holding back.

You groaned into his shoulder. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“People are staring.”

“No one’s out here but us.”

“…I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

You didn’t answer. Not out loud. But when your cheek brushed his chest again, your eyes fluttered shut just for a second. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid press of his arms around you—everything about it felt absurdly comforting.

And maybe it was the beer, or the night air, or just how much had been simmering between you lately, but the warmth blooming in your chest had nothing to do with embarrassment anymore.

You let out a long breath.

“You do realize this is not helping your case,” you said.

He looked down at you, one brow raised. “What case?”

“That this is just casual. That we’re still playing the former project partner, maybe-friends game.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just smiled—wide, boyish, a little infuriating.

“Good.”

⸻

You weren’t sure what you expected when Mingyu said he had a spot.

Somewhere cliché. Somewhere easy.

But this—this wasn’t what you pictured at all.

He led you around the side of a class building, steps quiet, the cold night thick with city hush. He hadn’t said much since your little detour, since your heart had just barely returned to its chest after being carried in his arms like some smug, grinning idiot had dreamed of doing it for years. You were still breathless from his presence—still warm from pizza grease and the ghost of his fingers laced through yours.

But that warmth turned curious when he stopped in front of a tall gate, chain link and padlocked, barely lit by a single orange light above. You blinked at it, confused.

“This is your spot?” you asked, eyeing the rusted metal.

He didn’t answer. Just looked over his shoulder with a smirk and jerked his chin toward the side.

You followed him, more curious now than anything. He cut down a narrow path behind the ticket booth and stopped beside a warped section of fencing. It bent just enough from the bottom to be yanked back with a grunt and a squeal of metal.

“You’ve broken in here before,” you whispered, grinning despite yourself.

He gave you a glance. “I prefer the term ‘slipped in.’”

You rolled your eyes. “So what—you just sneak into the football stadium for fun?”

“Not for fun,” he said, lifting the fence just enough to let you duck under. “For space.”

You slipped through first, the cold grass crunching under your boots. He followed, and the fence clanked shut behind him.

You were fully inside now.

The air changed.

The city noise faded behind the concrete walls, and the vast, open bowl of the stadium stretched around you in silence. The field was empty—just a dark sea of turf and painted lines, faintly glowing under the ghost of moonlight above. The bleachers loomed, huge and skeletal, like a silver spine arcing into the night sky.

You turned in a slow circle, breath caught.

It was so quiet. So massive. So still.

“This feels illegal,” you whispered, a little breathless.

“Probably is,” he replied. “But it’s worth it.”

He started toward the bleachers. You stood there for another beat, just letting yourself take it all in.

Everything felt… suspended.

The way the lights of the city barely reached over the edge of the stadium walls. The moon slipping behind clouds. The cold creeping up your legs, tugging at your coat. It was like the world had been placed on mute—just for the two of you.

You followed him up the stairs, metal clanging underfoot. They echoed differently in a space this wide. It wasn’t just noise—it was sound stretching into something else. Something emptier. You found yourself holding your breath, just to keep the moment from breaking too soon.

By the time you reached the top, your lungs felt full of cold air and something you couldn’t name.

You sat down beside him, both of you slightly out of breath, shoulders brushing faintly.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just leaned forward, forearms resting loosely on his knees, eyes on the field below.

You sat beside him, letting the silence settle.

Then, finally, he spoke—quiet, almost like he was talking to himself.

“I used to come here when I felt alone.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look back.

“Even though…” He exhaled, slow. “I’m always around people. Class. The guys. Parties. Just—noise. Constant noise. But sometimes I’d leave and feel like I hadn’t said a single real thing all day.”

Your heart tugged.

He shifted, elbows resting on his thighs, gaze steady on the field.

“I don’t even know what I was looking for. Just—space, I guess. Somewhere no one expected anything from me. Somewhere I didn’t have to be anything.”

Your breath caught.

Because you understood that. Deeply.

He didn’t wear it like you did—didn’t crumble or spiral. He wore his weight differently. With easy smiles and group laughs and late arrivals that somehow still earned forgiveness. But in this silence, in the curve of his shoulders, in the steadiness of his voice… there it was.

The loneliness.

The ache.

Not loud. Just there.

And now you were here, too.

The moment thickened, stretching out between you like something unspoken that might crack if either of you moved too fast. You looked up again, letting the sky fill the space instead.

Clouds drifted, slow and silver-edged, parting just long enough to let the moon glow through. The stadium lights were off, but the world still glowed faintly—just enough to see him by.

And when you turned your head, just a little—

He was watching you again.

Just quietly. Like something about this moment demanded stillness.

Like he didn’t want to miss a single detail.

Above, the clouds drifted. Below, the stadium stretched endlessly—row after empty row, towering seats climbing into the dark like cliffs. Built to hold ninety thousand voices. Now holding none.

Just the two of you.

And somehow, even with all that space yawning out around you, it didn’t feel empty. He’d spent so much of his life surrounded by people—cheering crowds, parties, girls, noise. But this— Just the two of you on a cold bench, your knees barely brushing— was the least lonely he'd ever felt.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you sat like that—both of you quiet, side by side, watching nothing in particular and everything all at once.

The stars had started to peek through, scattered faintly between moving clouds, like they were being stingy about showing up for you tonight. A single one blinked low on the horizon, barely there, almost shy.

You pointed at it. “There. Proof we won’t die in jail.”

Mingyu glanced at you, brow raised.

You nodded toward the sky. “That one star. A good omen. Definitely means we won’t get caught.”

“Ah,” he said. “Astronomy-based legal defense. Solid plan.”

“If we go to court, I’ll represent us.”

“Oh, we’re going to court together now?”

“Obviously.”

He snorted, soft and warm. “You’d throw me under the bus so fast.”

“I’d cry in court. They’d never suspect me.”

“They’d take one look at you and believe anything.”

You turned to look at him, half-smiling. “That supposed to be flattering?”

He shrugged, easy. “Maybe.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, leaning back against the bleachers behind you. They were cold against your coat, metal digging a little into your shoulder blades. Mingyu followed your movement without comment, stretching his legs out long in front of him.

A beat passed.

Then you both lay back fully—shoulder to shoulder now, the only space between you stolen by clothing. The sky opened above you like a dome, half-clouded and faintly glowing.

“Wait,” Mingyu said softly, just as you started to settle.

You turned your head, brow raised.

“Lift your head for a sec.”

You did.

Without fanfare, he shifted his arm under you, letting it curl under your head as he leaned into the same angle, his arm brushing yours. “So you’re not laying straight on the metal,” he muttered, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the most thoughtful thing anyone had done all week.

You said nothing. But you didn’t move away.

You let the silence cover it—like that small gesture didn’t make your ribs ache a little.

The sky opened above you like a dome, half-clouded and faintly glowing.

“You can see more stars than I thought,” you murmured.

He hummed low in agreement, voice almost lost in the distance of it all.

Another pause. Another drift.

And then—

“...You cold?” he asked, not quite looking at you.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

“You’re shivering.”

“No I’m not.”

“You lie like it’s a sport.”

You rolled your eyes toward him, but didn’t respond.

Instead, you tucked your arms tighter across your chest and exhaled. The silence between you was different now—not stiff or strange, just… softer. Like it understood something you hadn’t said.

And then your elbow bumped his. Not hard. Just a nudge.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

Eventually, you let your arms fall open, fingers brushing the hem of your coat—and just slightly, the edge of him. Barely a whisper of contact. But you could feel it. The static hum of something not quite accidental.

The kind of closeness that wasn’t deliberate, but wasn’t innocent either.

He turned his head then, slow, and your eyes caught his in the dark.

He didn’t say anything. Just… looked.

Like he was taking you in—or maybe he wasn’t thinking anything at all. Just being there. Just being with you.

“You make things feel quiet,” he said finally, voice quiet as the wind. “In a good way.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked away too fast—upward again, letting the sky fill your gaze like a shield. You didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to hold something so gentle without accidentally breaking it.

But the moment didn’t ask for a reply. It just kept breathing.

Minutes passed—or maybe seconds. You weren’t sure.

Then: “We should probably head back.”

You said it, but you didn’t move.

Mingyu didn’t either.

Your head shifted, just slightly, turning to look at him again. And the movement—lazy, unconscious, warm—landed you closer than you realized.

Because now your cheek was against him.

Not his shoulder. Not the space beside him.

His chest.

The soft press of your cheekbone over his heartbeat, solid and steady beneath his coat. His breath hitched faintly—and then, slowly, his arm moved around you and not just under you. A palm, gentle, curled against your side.

Not pulling.

Just resting there.

A question. A reassurance.

You closed your eyes.

His warmth seeped into your skin like it had always belonged there. Your entire body seemed to still—like the night paused for you again, just briefly, to let you feel it.

Him.

Just this.

And it hit you suddenly how easy this was. How quiet. How inevitable.

The sound of his heart beneath your cheek.

His hand, wide and warm, holding you like he meant to stay.

The way the stars were still trying—just barely—to break through the clouds.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

And neither did he.

Because right now, there was no rush.

There was only this.

Two bodies under a barely-there sky, hidden in a stadium built for thousands, and somehow… finally not alone.

⸻

The walk back was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comforted. Not the good kind.

You held his hand the whole time—his fingers laced through yours, warm and steady like he had no intention of letting go. He didn’t rush, even slowed his steps to match yours, like he was drawing out the night, refusing to let it end.

But you felt the tension building in your throat anyway.

The closer the dorm got, the louder your thoughts became. Familiar patterns creeping in like shadows at the edge of light. You could feel yourself slipping. Rebuilding. Reinforcing. Your spine straightened. Your jaw set. Your smile softened into something more practiced, less real.

You didn’t know why you did it—only that it was automatic.

And Mingyu noticed.

He always did.

By the time you reached your dorm steps, the warmth had started to fade from your fingers. You let go of his hand first, and the chill that followed wasn’t from the cold.

You didn’t look at him when you said, “Thanks for tonight.”

He looked at you. Fully. Brows drawn together, mouth parting like he couldn’t believe that’s all you were giving him.

“You’re welcome,” he said slowly. “But why does it sound like a goodbye?”

You exhaled, eyes flicking up to the dorm door. “Because it is.”

His expression didn’t change. Not really. But something in his posture shifted.

“Right,” he said. “Just a one-night thing.”

“Exactly.” You nodded too quickly, too sharp. “We had fun. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” he repeated. Like he was testing the taste of it. “Is that what you really think?”

“What else would it be?” You crossed your arms, suddenly cold beneath your coat. “We’re not dating.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “We’re not. But you don’t act like this is just fun, either.”

“I’m sorry,” you snapped, “did I miss the part where you became an expert on my feelings?”

“I don’t need to be an expert to see the difference between you being scared and you being cruel.”

Your jaw tensed.

That one landed.

“I’m not scared.”

He stepped forward. “Then look me in the eye and tell me none of this means anything to you.”

You met his gaze.

And lied.

“It doesn’t.”

The silence was so sudden it felt like the air thinned.

Mingyu’s eyes didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

You felt sick.

He laughed once, quiet and bitter. “Right. Of course.”

“You’re reading too much into it,” you said, softer this time, like that would somehow make it better. “We had a good night. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” he said again. “You think I hold your hand like that for fun?”

“You hold everyone’s hand, Mingyu,” you said. It came out meaner than you meant it to. “That’s what you do. You charm. You touch. You flirt. It’s not special.”

The look on his face—

God, you wished you could take it back.

But you didn’t. You held your ground, even as your chest ached. Even as everything in your body screamed to pull him back in.

“You don’t get to act like this doesn’t matter,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse. “Like it’s just a joke to you.”

“I never said it was a joke.”

“But you’re pretending like it is.”

You looked away.

He took another step closer. “Why?”

“Because it’s easier!” you burst, hands flying up. “Because if I let myself think it’s something else, then I have to admit that it scares the shit out of me! That I like you. That I think about you all the fucking time. That I can’t stop replaying everything and wondering what it means, and I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t.”

His face changed slowly.

You felt your throat go dry.

“I don’t do this, Mingyu,” you said. “I don’t let people in. I don’t let them stay. Because they don’t. Because they never do.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly: “You could’ve just said that.”

“I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”

He laughed under his breath, sad and almost amused. “Of what? Knowing that you’re human?”

“No,” you said. “Of knowing that you’re the first person who’s ever made me feel like maybe I’m allowed to want more.”

And then it happened.

He looked at you—really looked—and something inside you cracked.

The silence wrapped tighter.

The night was cold. Your coat wasn't doing enough. Your heart was doing too much.

He stepped forward, eyes flicking to your lips like he was finally going to do it—like this was the moment, the break, the fall.

And you—

You stepped back.

Just a little.

The heartbreak on his face was instant.

Like you’d slapped him. Like he’d misread the whole night. Like he’d just exposed something deep and stupid and real—and you’d looked it in the eye and said no thanks.

His chest rose once. Sharply. And for a second, he just stared at you.

But then his jaw clenched. His eyes shuttered. And he stepped back too.

One pace. Then another.

No curse. No snide comment. No save.

He just turned. Shoulders tense. Hands fisting in the sleeves of his hoodie.

Started walking. Not storming off, not slamming a door behind him— Just… leaving. Like he’d already decided that trying again would hurt worse than whatever this was.

Like this is exactly why he never let himself hope too hard. Why he didn’t tell people when things hurt. Why he never showed this version of himself to anyone.

Because every time he did to you— you stepped back.

And it split you open.

You hadn’t meant to hurt him. God, that was never the point. You were just scared. It was you you didn’t trust.

He was leaving.

And that, more than anything, made you move.

You lunged forward without thinking, your fingers wrapping around his wrist before he could get more than two steps away. His skin was warm, solid under your grip. He stopped instantly, the tension in his arm stiff, confused—but he didn’t shake you off.

He looked down, startled— eyes wide, confused, defensive.

And before he could say your name—before he could ask anything—

You pulled him toward you.

Your other hand found his chest, fisting into the fabric of his shirt, and you kissed him.

No warning. No plan.

Just instinct and heat and desperation all tangled up in a moment that had waited too long to happen.

His breath hitched. His whole body froze, like his brain hadn’t yet caught up to what was happening—like he wasn’t sure this moment was real.

But then—

He kissed you back.

Hard.

His hands found your waist like he’d been dreaming of this—like they knew exactly where to go. Fingers curled tight into the fabric of your coat, like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on. And then, without even meaning to, he pulled you closer—lifted you just slightly off your toes, like his body couldn’t help but bridge the last bit of distance. Like needing you closer wasn’t a choice, but instinct. And then his mouth— God, his mouth.

It crashed into yours like every argument, every glance, every silence had been leading here—like the space between you had only ever been waiting to collapse.

There was nothing tentative about it. No slow build. No shy uncertainty.

It was fire.

All of it.

Heat and breath and the sharp, staggering ache of something that had been simmering too long. His lips were warm, almost feverish against yours, and when they parted slightly—just enough for him to inhale your gasp—you swore you forgot how to stand.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean.

It was messy. A little frantic.

Teeth and lips and months of tension exploding into something that didn’t know how to be polite.

Your hands slid up his chest without thinking, fisting into the collar of his button up to pull him closer, closer, until you could barely breathe and didn’t care. You could feel the sound he made in his throat—a low, guttural thing that shot down your spine—right before his hand splayed against your lower back and pressed you flush against him.

There was no space left between you. None.

Just heat and motion and everything unsaid.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He kissed you like he needed to get it out of his system. Like he needed to taste every part of your anger, your silence, your deflection. Like if he kissed you hard enough, deep enough, it would make up for every time he’d held back. Every time he’d walked away.

Your back hit the nearest tree but the roughness of the bark barely registered. Not with the way he cupped your face—like his hands had to relearn gentleness just to hold you. His broad palms cradled your cheeks, thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones, while his fingers curled back into your hairline, slipping through strands like he couldn’t get close enough. You felt impossibly gathered in his grip, not fragile, but contained—like he could cradle all your sharpness and still call it soft. You were small under his hands, but not diminished. It wasn’t fragile. It was steady. Certain. Like he knew exactly how to hold you, and had just been waiting for the moment you’d let him. Not with the way his mouth broke away just long enough to catch his breath, his forehead falling against yours with a soft thud like even he couldn’t believe it.

Your breaths tangled in the small space between you, hot and uneven, mouths barely an inch apart. You opened your eyes just in time to see his—stormy, stunned, and burning. Like he wasn’t sure if he was more wrecked by the kiss or by the fact that you’d finally kissed him first.

This wasn’t just desire.

This was everything.

Anger. Longing. The ache of wanting something for so long you started convincing yourself you didn’t. This was every walk away that met his eyes. Every brush of hands. Every almost.

It was inevitable. It was too late. It was perfect.

And it was enough to undo you completely.

Your lips found his again, slower this time—aching now instead of furious. And this time, he kissed you like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. Like if he wasn’t careful, you’d vanish. Like the moment would end.

But it didn’t. You didn’t.

And neither of you let go.

⸻

Tag List: @sojuxxi @belovedgyu @bingumingoo1004 @burnerforfiction @jujuz251013 @dmstoyangyang @armycarat2612 @eisaspresso

(Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3)

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dozybeez · 6 days ago

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Hi everyone! Hope your day is going good! Just wondering what everyone’s favorite part/chapter of Spin For Me has been? Just wanna get input that way when I rewrite/fix the upcoming parts, I have an idea in mind of of what everyone likes:) <3

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dozybeez · 7 days ago

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Spin For Me (Pt. Five)

→ part one → part two → part three → part four … → part six

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 6.9k

authors note: combined my original parts five and six together, so please enjoy this now one long chapter <3

songs for this chapter:

- Sure Thing by Miguel

- In This Darkness by Clara La San

- Little Bit by Drake & Lykke Li

- Sweater Weather Young Saab Remix by The Neighbourhood

You wake on his couch, barely catching the soft light filtering through the blinds.

For a moment, you forget where you are. The air is cool and still. Pale morning seeps into the room, quiet and unhurried. It’s that hour where everything feels like it’s holding its breath.

Then the details come back—the late conversation, the city humming low outside, the way you’d drifted off mid-sentence, sleep curling over you like a tide.

There’s a blanket draped over your legs.

A pillow tucked gently beneath your head.

You didn’t have either when you fell asleep.

Your eyes shift toward the armchair across from you—and there he is.

Mingyu.

Fast asleep, his long frame crumpled into a piece of furniture too small to hold him. One leg spills over the side, the other bent awkwardly, his shoulders slouched in a way that looks nothing short of uncomfortable. His head’s tilted back, mouth parted slightly, and his hair’s fallen over his forehead in messy waves.

He looks too big for the chair. Too real like this.

There’s no trace of charm or performance left. Just him, deeply asleep in the hush of early morning, all edges softened by exhaustion. You wonder if this is the first time you’ve actually seen him—not just watched him, but really seen him.

Something pulls in your chest.

You sit up slowly, the blanket slipping down your legs. You gather it in your hands, holding the warmth for a second longer than you need to.

Then you rise, stepping quietly across the room. The rug cushions your feet. The only sound is the faint rustle of fabric in your hands.

You stop in front of him.

He doesn’t stir.

Gently, you unfold the blanket and lay it over him—careful not to wake him. It catches on his shoulder at first, so you smooth it down with your fingers, adjusting it so it covers most of him, even if it barely reaches past his knees.

But he looks peaceful. Like maybe, finally, he’s getting real rest.

You linger for a breath.

Not to memorize the moment, not even to understand it—just to feel it.

Then you glance at the coffee table. The empty water glass still sits where you left it. You don’t move it.

You don’t wake him.

You don’t say goodbye.

You just step toward the door, hoodie sleeves pushed over your palms, head a little clearer than it was the night before.

You leave quietly, slipping out into the hushed hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.

And for the first time in a long while, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

You don’t know what comes next. You’re not pretending you do.

But there’s something lighter in your stride as you walk down the stairs.

Not relief. Not closure.

Just… space.

And it almost feels like freedom.

⸻

He sees you for the first time since that night.

It’s late morning, campus buzzing in that quiet, half-distracted way it always does between classes. He’s cutting across the lawn, trying to get to the other side before the next wave of students crowds the paths—when he spots you.

You’re walking alone, bag slung loose on one shoulder, hair catching the light in a way that makes him slow down without meaning to. You don’t see him at first, too caught in whatever song’s in your ears, eyes focused somewhere ahead.

And then—like the universe decides to look directly at him for a second—you lift your head.

Your eyes meet his.

And you don’t look away.

You hold the moment. Unblinking. Calm. There’s no surprise in your expression, no anger, no hesitation. Just something level. Open. And then—so slight it could almost be imagined—your mouth curves, just a little.

The faintest smile.

And then you’re walking again, like you never stopped. Like the moment was enough.

He stays rooted for a second, like his body forgot how to move.

It’s not avoidance. Not distance, not really. Just something careful. Something that says: I’m still here, but I don’t know where we go from here.

He exhales slowly, eyes trailing after you even as you disappear into the crowd.

It’s stupid, how hard his heart kicks.

You’re always beautiful to him—since the very beginning. But there was always that furrow of your brow, the wall in your eyes, that he always had just wanted to wipe away.

But that smile today—quiet, fleeting, real—it undoes him in a way that nothing else can.

It’s not just that you’re beautiful when you smile.

It’s that when you do, he feels like the world makes sense for a second. Like maybe you’re healing, even if slowly. Like maybe he didn’t lose you completely.

And he’d do anything to be the reason you smiled more often. Not out of politeness. Not as a shield. But something genuine. Something just for him.

He doesn’t follow.

He lets you go, lets you have the space you never asked for but still needed.

But he thinks about you constantly.

You live in the quiet between his classes, in the music he plays too loud in his car, in the notes he pretends to take but never actually reads. You’re everywhere, tucked into the ordinary parts of his day like a secret he doesn’t want to lose.

And he doesn’t know what happens next.

But he knows this: whatever it is, he wants to be ready when it comes.

⸻

You stare at your phone longer than you'd ever admit.

The message sits in your drafts, your thumb hovering over Send like it’s some irreversible confession.

“Do you want to study? No pressure.”

It looks so… light. Effortless. Like you didn’t retype it four different ways. Like it doesn’t carry all the weight of what comes after everything.

Because this wouldn’t be like before. Not the forced library sessions or the pretense of a shared grade holding you together. The project’s done. There’s no reason to meet now. No structured excuse.

If he says yes, it’s not because he has to.

It’s because he wants to.

And if you’re honest with yourself… you want to. Not just to study. But to sit near him again. To hear the way he taps his pen when he’s thinking. To argue about which color highlighter deserves retirement. To just—be.

You inhale. Then press Send.

One breath. Two.

Buzz.

“Name the place.”

You blink at the screen.

You’re not sure what to do with the warmth that fills your chest, but you don’t fight it this time.

⸻

He sees your name light up his phone screen and nearly drops it face-first onto his nose.

He was mid-scroll — watching some dumb reel about how to fold fitted sheets — and then suddenly?

None of it matters. Nothing matters except that little blue bubble from you.

“Do you want to study? No pressure.”

He blinks. Reads it again. Then one more time, just to make sure he didn’t hallucinate it.

His heart lurches like someone grabbed it with both hands and gave it a tug. A good tug. An oh my god, you texted first kind of tug.

He tries not to respond right away — not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s trying not to look unhinged. Which is hard when he's grinning like an idiot at a screen.

He flops back dramatically onto his pillow, phone clutched to his chest like it holds the meaning of life. His leg bounces once, twice, betraying him.

Somewhere in the background, his brain is screaming: Play it cool. Be normal. Don’t sound like you’ve been waiting for this for days. (He has.)

He types out something chill. Casual. Like he didn’t nearly sprain a muscle smiling:

“Name the place.”

Then he tosses the phone aside like it’s on fire — face-down, like that’ll stop him from staring at it. It doesn’t.

He’s never been this excited over a text from a girl. Ever. His Instagram is full of unopened DMs — names he half-recognizes, girls with profiles full of thirst traps and most with intentions to hook up.

He hasn’t opened them.

Because here he is: basically vibrating with joy over a casual invite to the library.

The library.

If his friends saw him right now — flushed, flailing, actually considering what hoodie makes him look the most approachable — they’d think he’d lost his mind.

And maybe he has.

But if you’re the reason? He’s fine with that.

⸻

The back corner of the library is quiet.

Not silent — not the kind of pin-drop hush that makes you self-conscious of every breath — but soft in the way only a tucked-away spot can be. Pages turn somewhere behind you. A mechanical pencil clicks. There’s the occasional squeak of a chair shifting, or a throat being cleared gently, like a polite apology for existing.

You’re early.

You don’t know why that makes you nervous. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s no excuse this time — no looming deadline, no group project, no mandatory reason to be here.

Just… him.

And that’s new.

You settle into the table you used to claim together. It’s hidden near the tall windows, a little too cold from the nearby vent and dimmed by the shadow of overstuffed bookshelves. It’s the kind of spot most people overlook. But he always liked it just like you did. He said it felt “like a secret room no one else knows about.” You kind of loved that about him.

Your fingers run along the zipper of your pencil case, organizing things you don’t really need organized. A comfort habit. He’s late by exactly three minutes, not that you’re counting.

And then he shows up.

No dramatic entrance — just a warm breeze of movement, his usual hoodie, and that subtle knock on the edge of the table before he slides into the seat across from you like no time has passed at all.

“Hey,” he says, a little soft, a little unsure.

You nod. “Hey.”

You pull out your laptop. So does he. And just like that, you both settle into the rhythm of quiet productivity.

But it’s not quite the same as before.

Because this time, when your knees bump under the table, neither of you flinch.

Because this time, there’s no notes scattered between you. No shared Google Doc. No deadline looming over your heads, forcing interaction, structuring your dynamic.

You’re here just to be here.

Mingyu says something under his breath after a few minutes — a dumb pun about mitochondrial functions, of all things. You don’t even mean to react, not really. But something about the way he says it, trying not to smirk, so proud of the delivery, so very him —

It slips out before you can stop it, before you can cover it with an eye roll: a real laugh.

Quiet, but honest.

His eyes lift immediately.

And then he smiles.

Not the usual grin he throws around to charm people. Not the polished, camera-ready version of himself that the world gets. No — this smile is quieter. Like something cracked open inside him.

Like you just gave him breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you for a second too long, like if he blinks, he’ll miss it — that softness in your face, the way your eyes crease at the corners when you’re not overthinking, the realness of your laugh.

He thinks you’re beautiful always. He knows that.

But when you're relaxed? Unburdened, unguarded, even for a second — it kills him.

He’d give anything to see you like this more often. To be the reason that lightness shows up on your face again and again. Real and unforced.

You catch him staring, and he looks back down at his notes too quickly to be casual.

But neither of you comment on it.

The rest of the might unfolds in gentle, quiet beats.

You work. You talk. You fill the silence with little updates — classes, the weather, the weird soup from the dining hall — nothing big, nothing urgent. But everything still feels like it matters.

Time passes strangely here. Not fast. Not slow. Just… calm.

There’s nothing pulling you apart. No reason to stay, either.

But you do.

⸻

The library echoes with soft taps from students packing up and heading off into the night. It’s late. Quiet. The kind of late that wraps around your shoulders like a blanket.

You sling your bag on, mutter something about needing to go, and he nods like he was waiting for you to say it.

Then, as you step outside together into the cool night air, he says it like it’s a fact, not a question:

“I’m walking you to your dorm.”

You blink. “No, you’re not.”

His brow lifts, amused. “It’s dark.”

“I’ve walked alone in the dark before.”

“And now you won’t. Problem solved.”

You stare at him. “Do I look like I need a bodyguard?”

“No,” he says, without missing a beat. “You look like someone who’d argue just to prove a point, even if she wants what she’s fighting against.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. “Wow.”

He grins, hands sliding into his pockets, shamelessly pleased with himself. “That’s a yes, then.”

You roll your eyes, hard. “I don’t need a babysitter, Mingyu.”

“I know,” he says quietly, and there’s no teasing in it this time. Just steady warmth. “But I’d feel better walking with you.”

And there it is — that damn soft note in his voice that unhooks something in your chest.

You hesitate. You want to argue. You want to say you’re fine, that you don’t need him, that he should get back to whatever life he pauses for you like it’s nothing.

But instead, you just… breathe.

Because the truth is, you don’t really want to say goodnight yet.

So you nod once. Barely.

He doesn’t react like he’s won anything. Just falls into step beside you, like he was always supposed to.

You walk in near silence, your shoulder almost brushing his with every step. His strides are longer, but he adjusts them without thinking. And he keeps to the side closest to the road — not in some big dramatic gesture. Just naturally, instinctively. Like something built into him.

You glance at him once, and your mouth quirks before you can stop it.

“What?”

“You always do that,” you say.

“Do what?”

“Walk on that side.”

He shrugs. “Guess I like being between you and danger.”

You scoff, dry. “Oh, please. You think someone’s gonna jump out of the bushes on campus?”

“I think I’d rather it be me they jump than you.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels warm. Annoyingly so.

You walk in silence for a while. The night is still, the streets mostly empty. Somewhere in the distance, you hear laughter and the low hum of a car radio. The city feels far away. Or maybe just… quieter, with him next to you.

You keep your gaze forward, but your voice is soft when you say it.

“I’ve been trying to stop thinking about you.”

He stops walking for a split second.

Then: “Me too.”

There’s a beat. A breath.

“It didn’t work,” he adds.

You don’t look at him.

But a smile pulls at your lips anyway. The kind you hate letting out. The kind he always seems to earn without trying.

And beside you, without even needing to look, you know he notices.

And if you did look, you’d see him — tall, shoulders a little hunched from the cold, biting back the kind of grin he gets when you say something that knocks the wind out of him. The kind that says: God, I’d give anything for that smile to stay on your face. For real. For good.

Neither of you says anything else.

But the silence is different now. Not heavy. Not awkward.

Just full.

And when you reach your dorm, you both slow down like maybe neither of you is quite ready for the night to end.

You turn to him— finally— your eyes subconsciously flicking to his lips. “Thanks for walking me.”

He just nods, voice low while his eyes fall to the same temptation as yours. “Anytime.”

And somehow, you believe he means it.

⸻

It’d been a few days since the library. Since the walk home, the quiet, the almost of it all. Since that not-quite moment at your dorm steps—the weight of something unsaid lingering between you like fog.

You hadn’t talked about it. Whatever existed between you now sat somewhere undefined—too familiar to be strangers, but was it too distant to be friends? To be more? No long messages. No clarity since then.

Just a handful of TikToks exchanged—dumb ones, mostly. A raccoon in a hoodie. A skit. Something about soup again. And once, a passing comment about your professor’s outfit being “a war crime,” which made you snort into your pillow.

That was it. Nothing definitive. Nothing you could point to and name.

Still, something was different. Curious around the edges. Like two people circling the same question without daring to say it out loud.

What are we? Are we even friends? Does this mean anything?

You hadn’t figured out the answer yet. And neither had he.

Which is why, when the knock came at your door, it took you a second to remember you still had a life outside of him.

You didn’t even hear the knock the first time. It was the second—louder, followed by an exaggerated groan—that made you glance up from the half-written sentence glowing on your laptop.

Then came the voice. Muffled, familiar, and pushy in the way only someone who really loved you could get away with.

“Open the door. You’re not ghosting us tonight.”

You blinked, confused. It was nearly eight. You hadn’t made plans. You hadn’t made any plans in weeks outside of Mingyu and yours library meetup.

When you opened the door, your friend stood there already dressed like they were heading out—heels, hoops, something sparkly. Behind her, two more hovered in the hallway like backup dancers, all glossed lips and expectation.

“What—?”

“You’re coming out.”

You leaned against the doorframe, crossed your arms. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I have work tomorrow.”

“You always have work.”

“I don’t go to places like that anymore.”

One of them stepped forward. “That’s the point. We can’t remember the last time you did anything that wasn’t your secret job, studying, or crying.”

That made you flinch. The honesty of it. The way they said crying like it had been frequent enough these past weeks to be categorized.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, already backing away.

But they weren’t having it. “You’ve seemed better lately. Calmer. Like something shifted. Which is why this is the perfect time. Before you spiral again.”

“I’m not—”

“You were,” your closest friend cut in gently. “When you and that project guy—the one you still won’t tell us his name for some reason—when you stopped talking, you weren’t okay. We gave you space. We weren’t gonna crowd you. But now, I don’t know what changed. But you’re the best I’ve seen you in a month and we can’t let it go to waste.”

Now, you had no excuse. That’s what they didn’t say.

“You don’t have to get wasted. Just come. You used to like going out.”

You tried to remember the last time you went out for yourself. Not for a shift. Not under the lights. Not in three-inch heels for a packed room of strangers whose eyes never looked kind. Just… out.

Before the job. Before everything got complicated.

“I don’t even know what to wear,” you said finally, quiet.

Three grins bloomed at once.

⸻

The streets near campus were louder than usual tonight and also colder. It was that odd in-between weather—spring on the calendar, but winter clinging stubbornly to the air. A biting breeze swept between buildings, lifting the hem of your dress, brushing across your bare legs. Your coat did most of the work, but still, you tucked your hands into the fur sleeves like you could disappear inside them.

You walked quietly beside your friends. Music bled out of cracked-open car windows. Laughter drifted from sidewalk tables. A group of frat boys jogged across the street yelling something unintelligible, already buzzed, already careless. You walked in silence beside your friends, white kitten heels clicking softly against the sidewalk.

The brown mini dress hugged you tightly at the waist and fluttered at the bottom in loose, ruffled layers. It wasn’t what you would’ve picked on your own—too showy, too pretty—but when your friend held it up in her dorm mirror, something about it made you pause. Feminine, yes. But not helpless.

Paired with your oversized fur coat—off-white with a pattern almost like a deer’s print, vintage, and swallowing—it made you look like a contradiction. Soft but guarded. Bold but hidden. The coat hung off your shoulders like a statement. But really, it was armor.

Your friends chatted as you walked, buzzing from their dorm pregaming, high off sugary seltzers and the adrenaline of going somewhere. They’d talked you into it by calling it “mandatory,” but the truth was, they were worried.

So here you were. Walking through the chilled wind toward the rooftop bar that anyone who was anyone loved. Your friends were excited. You were mostly… enduring it.

The club was perched at the top of a former warehouse—a multi-story maze of graffiti-tagged stairwells, exposed brick, and steel beams. Now it was one of the most popular spots on campus. Part bar, part rooftop dance floor, part social battleground. Everyone who was someone showed up here on the weekends.

And with finals nearing around the corner, no one needed an excuse to drink.

You bypassed the line outside thanks to a friend’s boyfriend who knew someone. The bouncer nodded, the elevator doors opened, and suddenly— Heat.

The rooftop was buzzing with bodies and noise. String lights glowed overhead in golden arcs. The air still held a chill, but the crowd made up for it—warmth clashing with cold in every direction. The bass from the speakers was low and constant, more heartbeat than music at first.

You stepped out of the elevator last.

Everything about you looked intentional. The coat draped slightly off one shoulder. The dress clinging in the right places. Kitten heels with a heel that gave enough to make your legs look endless. But underneath all of it was something else entirely. Not confidence. Readiness. As if you had to brace yourself to be seen.

You wove through the crowd toward the bar, laughing, dodging elbows, already yelling over the music. Someone offered you shots. Someone else asked where you bought your coat. You smiled tightly.

You hadn’t been out in months, maybe a year now—not like this. Not for fun. Not just to be.

Your friend leaned close and shouted, “You look insane tonight.” You laughed softly. “That bad?” “No,” your friend grinned. “Like... movie-scene-level hot. You’re main character.” You shook your head and reached for your drink.

Then it happened.

You didn’t see him first. You felt it. The shift. The weight. Like the room caught its breath.

People turned. Subtle at first. Then less so. Eyes trailed. Whispers began. Girls tapping shoulders, murmuring. And when you followed their gazes— There he was.

Mingyu had just stepped off the elevator. A beat behind a group of guys, but somehow already ahead of them all. Black jeans snug at the thighs, a white button-up tucked cleanly in, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was pushed back in that slightly tousled way that looked like it happened by accident—but didn’t.

People noticed. Of course they did. Because when Mingyu walked into a room, it didn’t matter what anyone else was doing. The air just bent toward him.

He scanned the space. Easy. Casual. But his eyes were sharp. And then— He saw you.

Your eyes met like an impact. Slow and sudden, all at once. For one breathless second, nothing else existed. Just your heart, stuttering in your chest. Just him, motionless, expression unreadable. The cold air. The noise blurring around you. The coat sliding further off your shoulder.

And then— Your friend grabbed your arm, snapping the moment. “Do not look at him like that,” she warned with a smirk. “You don’t want to get caught up in that kind of thing.” You blinked, shaken. “What?” “That’s Mingyu,” your friend said, exasperated. “Come on. You know him. Campus heartthrob. One-night stand champion. People don’t get close to him. He just flirts, ghosts, then flashes his smile and does it again.”

Your throat tightened. You said nothing. Because they didn’t know. Because they couldn’t. They had no idea you’ve already been pulled under.

⸻

He was late on purpose. That was kind of his thing—showing up after the hype had already cracked open and spilled across the floor. It made an entrance without trying to make one. And by now, he didn’t need much effort to draw attention anyway.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.

Instant warmth hit him—the familiar crush of bodies, the spill of bass-heavy music, neon lights flickering against steel beams and golden string bulbs overhead. The rooftop was already packed. It always was this time of year, everyone drunk on the idea of finals being just close enough to ignore for one more weekend.

He stepped inside like he belonged. Because he did.

Mingyu was used to this kind of room. The way it pulled around him. The way people looked. The nods, the grins, the raised glasses. Girls whispering to each other before approaching. Guys dapping him up like they knew him—because in some shallow, surface-level way, they probably did.

He played the part well. The charm. The laugh. The casual lean on the bar. The way he said hey like a secret. It was all muscle memory now. No effort. No meaning.

Until he saw you.

It didn’t happen slowly. It happened all at once. Like someone stopped the record mid-spin and cracked the vinyl.

There you were. Across the room, framed by the soft flicker of the heaters and the golden lights, standing still in the middle of motion. You hadn’t seen him yet, which meant he got a full second—just one—to look.

And he did.

Your coat was the first thing he saw. Oversized, creamy-white and tan fur, that reminded him of Bambi, draped around you like it was made to protect something delicate. It slid just enough off your shoulder to show the brown dress underneath—short, soft, ruffled. It knocked the air out of his lungs despite the fact he’s seen you in a lot less, or well he has seen Fawn in a lot less.

You looked… like yourself. And completely different.

Not the girl in baggy clothes, hair braided, eyes shielded behind exhaustion. Not the performer in the dark, on stage, half-lost in a mask of smoke and spotlight. But something in between. Something real.

You looked stunning. But that wasn’t what hit him.

It was the tension in your shoulders. So subtle no one else would notice. The way you were standing a little too straight, chin tilted like a dare. The flicker of stillness in your eyes beneath the calm, like you were holding your breath behind the smile you gave your friends.

He knew you well enough by now. He could read your body language like a second language.

And he could tell—you were pushing yourself to be here.

No one else would catch it. Not with that coat swallowing your frame like armor, not with your legs bare and your hair curled to fall just right. You looked untouchable. But he saw the edge beneath it. He always saw it with you.

His stomach tightened. You still hadn’t looked at him.

He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here, honestly. It had been a long week. He’d told himself he needed to blow off steam, clear his head, have a drink or three and let the music wash out the leftover thoughts of you that kept threading through his quiet moments.

But now you were here. And the whole night shifted.

He watched as someone bumped into you at the bar. You barely flinched. Smoothed it over with a polite smile and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The fur collar swallowed your jaw, made you look smaller than you already were. He wondered if you felt cold.

Then you turned.

Your eyes lifted. Met his. And the world dropped out from under him.

It was like being sucker-punched with silence. Everything slowed. The music warped. All the noise bled away until it was just you and him and the sudden, sharp electricity between you.

Your gaze didn’t waver. Neither did his.

He wanted to cross the room. Right then. Wanted to brush your hair behind your ear and tell you you looked beautiful and ask why you didn’t say you’d be here, even though you didn’t owe each other that. Even though you were still figuring out what you were allowed to be.

But before he could move— one of your friends grabbed your arm and yanked you away, muttering something. You looked down. Broke the eye contact. Let yourself disappear back into the crowd.

And just like that, the connection severed. But it left a bruise in its wake.

Mingyu exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening as he turned toward the bar. Someone was already sliding him a drink—someone always was—but he barely looked at it. He nodded in thanks, but his mind was elsewhere.

He could still see you in his periphery. Still feel your presence like a static hum across his skin.

Everyone else in the room was still talking, still drinking, still circling the same music and mess and firelight. But all he could think about was how different you looked out here. How right it felt and wrong it felt all at once.

Because part of him loved seeing you like this. Out. Free. Dressed in something that made you shine in the dark.

But another part of him—something quieter, something selfish—wanted to wrap that coat tighter around your shoulders. Wanted to walk you back home and tuck you into the space between the world and his chest and say, you don’t have to pretend to be okay for anyone. Not even me. Especially not me.

He took a slow sip of his drink and let the burn settle in his throat. This night wasn’t over. And he had a feeling you weren’t done crossing paths. Not yet.

⸻

It was too loud. Too many people. Too much laughter that didn’t feel real. Too many elbows and perfume clouds and camera flashes that snapped before you could blink. Your cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, and your heels pinched just enough to remind you this wasn’t comfort—it was performance of its own.

Your friends had disappeared to the bathroom. Maybe to touch up their makeup, maybe to gossip about who they wanted to take home. Maybe even to talk about you. You couldn’t tell anymore.

All you knew was that for the first time all night, you were alone. And it was a relief.

You stepped past the edge of the main rooftop crowd, weaving between string-light posts and heat lamps until you reached the metal railing at the far side. It overlooked the campus skyline, all glittering windows and distant towers bathed in gold. The air up here was cooler, quieter. More real.

You leaned against the railing, both elbows perched, head tilted back.

The fur coat still draped over your shoulders like armor, swallowing your frame. You hugged it closer, your fingers tugging at the sleeves. You just needed a minute. Just one.

You reached into your purse, fingertips brushing the slightly crushed cigarette pack you hadn’t touched in weeks. You didn’t really smoke—not in any real way. But after long, disparaging nights at the club, when your muscles still twitched with leftover adrenaline and shame, sometimes you’d share one with the other girls on the back steps. Just to wind down. Just to breathe.

You pulled one out now with trembling fingers. Slipped it between your lips. And flicked your lighter.

Click. No flame. You tried again. Click. Nothing.

Your jaw tensed. You flicked again. The spark caught briefly—then died before it reached the cigarette. Your thumb was starting to sting. The wind wasn’t helping.

You tried once more. Again. And again.

Frustration bubbled in your chest. Your eyes pricked with the kind of hot, humiliated pressure you hated. Not from the cigarette. Not really. But from the feeling that even now—even now—you couldn’t get a single moment of quiet without something falling apart.

You exhaled sharply, lips parting, ready to curse under your breath—

Click.

A flame bloomed beside your face. Steady. Warm. Controlled.

You froze. Your eyes lifted slowly, drawn like a magnet to the source of the light. And there he was. Mingyu.

Standing so close you could see the flicker of fire reflected in his dark eyes. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other extended, holding his lighter out for you like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t undoing you from the inside out.

Your breath caught. You didn’t move. He didn’t either. Just waited.

The flame didn’t waver, and neither did his gaze. And maybe it was the booze, or the rooftop wind, or just the way the world seemed to stop when he looked at you like that—but you leaned in. Slowly.

The tip of the cigarette caught with a soft sizzle. You inhaled—light, shallow—then pulled back.

Mingyu flicked the lighter closed with a quiet snap before putting it back in his pocket. But he didn’t step away. Didn’t speak. And you couldn’t either.

Your heart was a metronome in your throat. The fur collar of your coat brushed your jawline, but you felt bare under it. Seen.

He didn’t look you up and down like most guys did when they noticed you. It wasn’t crude or obvious. Just a slow, quiet sweep—eyes catching on the curve of your jaw, the way the coat swallowed you, the way the cigarette trembled slightly between your fingers.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” he said finally, voice low.

“I don’t,” you replied, your voice shaky. “Not really.”

He tilted his head, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Figured.”

You looked down at your hand. The smoke curled up in lazy spirals.

“I only do sometimes,” you said. “After… long nights.”

He nodded. And you didn’t have to explain. He knew.

There was a pause. Then his voice dropped an octave—soft, steady. “You okay?”

You hesitated. “I’m fine.”

Mingyu didn’t push. But his eyes told you he didn’t believe it.

“You look…” he started. Then stopped.

“What?”

He gave a short breath of a laugh. “Beautiful. And like you’re trying really hard not to fall apart.”

The words didn’t shock you. Not because of how he said them—gently, without edge—but because he wasn’t wrong.

You turned away, just enough to hide the flicker in your expression. Took another drag.

“You always see too much,” you muttered.

“Only because I’m looking,” he said.

God. Why did that feel like the most intimate thing anyone had said to you all year?

The silence stretched. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. The wind tugged at the hem of your coat. Your dress rustled faintly. And still, he didn’t step back.

You exhaled slowly, smoke curling upward as your eyes scanned the skyline like it might offer answers.

“I thought this would feel like a break,” you said. “Being out. With people. Music. But I just… feel tired.”

Mingyu’s voice was quiet, low, shaped like something unspoken. “Yeah. This place does that.”

You turned to look at him again.

He was still watching you — not the way guys looked at you in the club. No hunger, no calculation. Just that calm, patient intensity. Like he was memorizing something he didn’t want to forget.

“I like your coat,” he said suddenly. A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s dramatic as hell.”

You huffed out a short breath, maybe even a laugh. “It’s ridiculous.”

“I still like it,” he said. “It suits you. Makes you look like you don’t need anyone.”

You quirked a brow. “I don’t.”

“I know.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But I still want you to need me.”

The words hit low in your chest — sharp and unguarded. Not possessive. Not manipulative. Just honest.

You didn’t know what to say to that. Your lips parted, then closed again.

The silence buzzed, heavy between you. But his presence didn’t press in on you — it anchored you. Steady, unmoving. Like he’d stand there all night if you didn’t tell him to go.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

You hesitated. “Because it feels like you mean it.”

“I do.”

And God— Why did that feel more intimate than if he’d kissed you?

⸻

// things are going to be heating up from here on out. hope you enjoy!

Tag List: @sojuxxi @zealousnutstudent @bingumingoo1004

(Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3)

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dozybeez · 8 days ago

Text

Practice Makes Imperfect (Pt. One)

A perfectionist ballerina struggles to find her rhythm-not just in her mandatory hip hop class, but in life itself. When she turns to Hoshi, a laid back hip hop major, he helps her see there is more to life than just structure and control.

→ part two coming soon

pairing: college au! kwon soonyoung x ballerina f!reader

word count: 2.1k

content warnings: slowish burn with eventual smut, internalized perfectionism, performance anxiety, academic and artistic burnout, emotional repression, subtle corruption kink, drugs and alcohol. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I'm a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- My Body Is a Cage by Arcade Fire

- Liquid Smooth by Mitski

You wake up before your alarm.

Not because you want to. You never want to. But because your body doesn’t know how not to obey the rules you’ve beaten into it. The light isn’t even up yet when your hand smacks the alarm off out of pure reflex. You’re already moving, already stretching your calves against the edge of your mattress like you’re warming up for war. In a way, you are.

You move through your morning like a machine. Hair in a bun. Breakfast by 6:00. Coffee black. Gym by 6:30. Run four miles. Stretch. Shower. Be on campus by 8:00 with enough time to revise yesterday’s math notes before your 9:00 a.m. class.

It’s exhausting, but it works. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

You’re double majoring in Ballet and Mathematics. Most people can’t wrap their heads around it when you tell them. As if they’re opposite sides of the spectrum. But they’re not—not really. They both depend on precision. Repetition. Obedience. Structure. The ability to show your work and leave no room for interpretation.

People think ballet is art. Sometimes it is. But mostly, it’s numbers. It’s angles and physics and symmetry. It’s learning how to master your body so completely that it all becomes invisible to the audience. Seamless. Effortless. That’s the lie. That’s the goal.

You’ve been dancing since before you could spell your own last name. You don’t remember a version of yourself that wasn’t chasing perfection. That wasn’t stretching through injury, re-tying pointe shoes with shaking hands, staring into studio mirrors until your own reflection looked back at you like a stranger.

Everyone thinks you’re talented. What they don’t understand is that it’s not talent—it’s terror.

You don’t know how to be bad at something. You’ve never been allowed to be.

Your ballet instructor always said that if you have a backup plan, you’re already planning to fail. So you never told her about your math major. About the hours you spend calculating things no one will ever dance to. About the tiny voice in the back of your mind that keeps whispering: What if you don’t make it? What if all of this wasn’t enough?

You lug your backpack to every rehearsal even though everyone else just brings a water bottle and their shoes. But you can’t not bring it. You’d feel naked without it. Inside are your lecture notes, your meal plan, your backup charger, your vitamin C tablets, and three different highlighters. Control, contained in a zippered compartment.

There are no missed classes. No spontaneous nights out. No caffeine after 7 p.m. No social media during meals. Your calendar is color-coded and your playlists are sorted by tempo. You even schedule time to cry, though if it is a good day, you cancel.

It’s easier this way.

If you follow the rules, you won’t fall behind.

If you don’t fall behind, you won’t fail.

If you don’t fail, you won’t have to ask what happens next.

You’ll get the solo. You’ll join a company. You’ll make something of yourself before your body betrays you the way every ballerina’s body eventually does. That’s the plan. That has to be the plan.

There’s no room for error. No room for breaks. You’ve trained yourself out of both.

Because if you stop for even a second—everything might fall apart.

⸻

You’re not used to mirrors being this cruel.

In ballet, at least the reflection has grace. In hip hop, it just confirms what you already fear: you don’t belong here.

You’re not sure who thought it was a good idea to make Ballet majors take cross-disciplinary dance. Probably some sadistic department head who thinks exposure equals growth. Which is rich, considering all you’ve been exposed to this past hour is the fact that you move like a malfunctioning robot.

The music’s too loud. The mirrors are too honest. And your professor looks exhausted just watching you.

“Again,” she says, voice clipped.

You fall into the steps again—if you can call them that. Your limbs are tight, too calculated. You don’t bounce, don’t melt into the beat like the girl to your left does. You don’t ride the music, you choke it.

The routine ends. Everyone else is panting, laughing, high-fiving. You’re standing frozen in the mirror, jaw locked.

Your professor clears her throat. “You’re technically accurate. But there’s no flow. No rhythm. You’re… too stiff.”

The word lands like a slap.

Too stiff.

As if your body doesn’t understand what it’s being asked to do. As if discipline is a curse here instead of a gift.

You nod once, trying to swallow it down. You keep your face neutral, your spine straight. But something ugly starts crawling up your throat.

After class, you don’t talk to anyone. You shove your water bottle into your bag and speed-walk out of the studio before the tears can get any traction. It’s not even that you were the worst in the room—though maybe you were—it’s that for the first time in a long time, you felt exposed. Like the armor you’ve spent years building doesn’t work here.

⸻

You sneak back into the dance building by 10 that night before slipping into one of the vacant studios.

The lights are off, but you don’t bother turning them on. You need the quiet. The dark. The control. You shed your hoodie like muscle memory and begin putting on your pointe shoes, each movement clipped and clean. Your limbs are trembling, not from fatigue—but from something deeper. Something raw.

You throw yourself into the routine you’ve been rehearsing for months.

It’s a solo. Four minutes long. You’ve nailed it before—technique perfect, transitions seamless. But tonight, every step feels like a punishment. You slam into your fouettés too early. Miss your landing on the arabesque turn. There’s no audience, but your face flushes like there is.

You start over.

And again.

Each time harder. Tighter. You stretch until your legs scream. Force your body to obey until the pain pushes everything else out.

You dance until you can’t think.

You dance until the mirrors stop talking back.

You dance like perfection will undo the feeling of failure clawing at your chest.

Eventually, you collapse to the floor. Chest heaving. Eyes burning.

You tell yourself it’s just the sweat.

⸻

You weren’t planning to stay this late.

Your bones ached, your legs felt like jelly, and your calves had started screaming somewhere around the third hour. But you had a quiz the next morning and a ballet evaluation in two days, so your mind didn’t care how your body felt. You stayed. You always stayed.

It was a miracle you even remembered to eat.

Now, finally—finally—you were done. Kind of.

The studio clock blinked 12:47 AM in pale green. You were the only one left in the building, as usual. Just you and your exhausted reflection, slick with sweat and anxiety under the too-bright fluorescent lights.

You reached for your backpack—the one you dragged around like a safety blanket even to rehearsals. Inside was your laptop, your textbooks, and a perfectly organized stack of notes and assignments. You had submitted every paper on time, aced every test, and somehow still managed to keep your GPA intact. You didn’t allow yourself to slip, no matter how tired you were.

Because failure wasn’t an option.

Ballet helped. It always did. Or at least you told yourself it did.

For three hours, you’d been able to lose yourself in it. The lines, the form, the familiar ache of precision—each step like a prayer whispered under your breath. Your body remembered even when your mind didn’t. You didn’t have to think, you just had to obey. In the echo chamber of your movements, you could forget how humiliated you’d felt in hip hop class.

“You’re too stiff,” your professor had said earlier that day, not unkind but blunt, in front of everyone. “There’s no flow. You’re not letting the music move through you.”

Like your muscles were marble. Like your whole body had forgotten how to breathe.

The words clung to you all evening, even now, tucked into the corners of your shoulders like bruises. You knew he was right. You hated that he was right.

In ballet, you didn’t have to flow. You had to be exact. You had to hit every count with razor-edged sharpness. You could be a machine. You could be perfect.

So you stayed late.

Practiced harder.

Punished yourself, maybe.

Because you didn’t want to be bad at something. And if you couldn’t make yourself flow like the music wanted, you’d at least do what you knew: outwork the ache.

You didn’t even glance at the mirror before leaving. You already knew what you’d see.

The hallway was still, almost eerily so. The kind of quiet that makes you realize how loud your brain is. Your shoes scuffed softly against the tile, the only sound between the studios and practice rooms. You were already rehearsing a mental to-do list—shower, email Professor Greer, review unit circle identities, remember to check if the spring showcase had updated the cast list—

Then you heard it.

A low thump. Then another. Music.

Not piano. Not violin. Not anything meant for pliés and pirouettes.

It was deep and pulsing, like a heartbeat echoing through the building’s chest. You froze mid-step, your brows knitting as you tilted your head toward the sound.

It was faint, but rhythmic and you followed it.

The sound drew you past Studio A, past the empty dressing rooms and vending machines that hadn’t worked since freshman orientation. You hesitated as you neared the last door: Studio C.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough to let the music bleed out into the hallway. A shadow moved inside. Someone was still dancing.

You should’ve kept walking.

But your hand moved without thinking, fingers curling around the edge of the doorframe as you eased closer, careful not to make a sound. You peeked through the narrow crack.

And there he was.

Back to you. Shirt damp. Hair a mess.

His whole body moved like it was made of smoke and sound. Controlled chaos. You couldn’t look away.

Up close, he was… beautiful. But not in the polished, pristine way you were used to.

His dyed blonde hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty strands, the ends curling a little at the nape of his neck. His skin glowed under the studio lights, warm and flushed with exertion. A silver chain swung around his throat, catching light every time he moved. His black tank top clung to his toned frame—shoulders strong, arms cut and lean like he was built for this exact kind of motion.

And his legs—his whole stance—radiated confidence. Power that wasn’t rehearsed or clean. It was raw. Unapologetic. Loose.

You stared, transfixed, while your lungs forgot how to function. His body carved shapes through the air, and it was messy—but in a way that worked. He danced like he didn’t give a single fuck about what anyone thought.

God. What was that like?

You leaned closer without realizing it.

And then—he turned.

You hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t even breathed, but his head snapped toward the door like he’d felt you watching. His eyes landed directly on yours.

Time stopped.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared.

His chest rose and fell beneath the clinging fabric. Sweat glistened along his jaw. His mouth parted slightly in surprise—just enough to knock the air clean from your lungs.

Your entire body went rigid.

You stumbled backward, your bag thudding against your hip as your heart sprinted into your throat. You didn’t wait to see what he’d say. You didn’t want to know.

You turned.

And bolted.

Your steps echoed as you power-walked down the hallway, mortified and breathless, arms clutched tightly around your middle like you could somehow hold all your shame in. Your face burned. You didn’t stop until you were out of the building, into the night air, and halfway across the quad.

He’d seen you.

Worse—he’d caught you watching him.

You dragged your palms down your face and groaned into the dark. What the hell were you thinking?

But the image wouldn’t leave.

The way he moved. The beat pulsing beneath his skin. The look on his face when he saw you.

You lay in bed later, twisted in sheets and guilt, staring at your ceiling like it held answers.

But all your brain played was him.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop replaying that moment. Over. And over. And over.

You didn’t even know him.

But now you couldn’t get him out of your head.

⸻

let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list for this <3

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dozybeez · 8 days ago

Text

Spin For Me (Pt. Four)

She's the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He's the campus heartthrob who's used to getting what he wants-except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part one → part two → part three ... → part five

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 4.3k

content warnings: slowish burn, smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size and innocence kink. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I'm a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Rosyln by Bon Iver

- On Your side by The Last Dinner Party ☆

- Possibility by Lykke Li

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of your laptop screen and the tired yellow from the hallway light spilling through the crack in the door. It’s late — too late — the kind of hour where everything feels louder: the hum of the air vent, the clicking of your mouse, the dull pulse in your chest.

You log into the student portal with half a mind to close it again. You tell yourself it’s habit. That it doesn’t matter anymore. The presentation was a week ago. The final checkpoint. The last shared effort.

Your finger hovers, then clicks.

There it is.

A neat, clinical verdict sitting beside your names. Just a letter and a symbol. Clean. Impersonal. Perfect.

You stare at it.

You should feel something. Accomplishment. Relief. Maybe even a flicker of pride.

But there’s nothing. Just a cold stillness spreading across your chest. Your last tie to him now severed.

Your throat tightens — not in pain, exactly. It’s more like a knowing. That this was never about the grade. That the work had become secondary a long time ago.

You lean back in your chair, arms folded tight against your body like you’re trying to keep something from leaking out.

Your head is loud lately.

It tells you you should move on. It tells you you were smart to walk away. That trusting him would be foolish.

Not after that original night, months and months ago.

Not after the private dance, when he followed you outside and looked at you like he knew you.

Not after the hallway, when you fell apart, rejected him after his confession, and left him standing in the silence you created.

You should know better.

And yet — Your heart keeps pulling.

It clings to the softness in his voice during your last few study nights. The steadiness in his presence. The way he looked at you like you meant something.

You want to believe him. Want to believe there’s a version of the story where he’s not the villain — or worse, indifferent.

But wanting and trusting aren’t the same.

And hope has never been safe ground.

So you swallow it all down. Close the tab. The screen goes black, and in the reflection, you see your own face: tired, guarded, unrecognizable.

You turn the laptop off.

The room is dark again. Quiet again. But your mind won’t stop replaying the same unspoken things between you, over and over — the kind of ache that even an A can’t bury.

⸻

It’s been days since you saw the grade. Days since you sat on your bed, blinking at the big A glowing on your screen like it meant something. Like it should’ve been enough. But the presentation, the grade, even the hours you spent preparing — it all feels like a closed chapter with the last page ripped out.

You haven't been able to stop thinking about him.

Not when you're dancing, not when you're working, not even when your body is so exhausted you should be dead asleep. You just lie there at night, flat on your back, staring at the ceiling as if it might blink first.

Your mind plays it on loop — the way he looked at you in the hallway. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… lost. Like he was trying to understand you, even when you’d turned your back on him.

He told you he liked you. Just like that. And you walked away. No explanation. No apology. Just rejection and retreat.

You keep trying to convince yourself it was right. That you were protecting yourself. Because your head still screams the truth you’ve built your walls on.

But your heart — your stupid, stubborn heart — won’t let it go.

It keeps dragging you back to the quiet. To the moments in the library when you studied with your knees brushing, or when he teased you just to get a hint of a smile. To the softness in his voice when he asked if you were okay, and actually waited for the answer.

There’s a whisper in you that keeps returning, quiet but relentless:

What if you already pushed away the only person who saw you and didn’t run?

You don’t cry. You just lie there, wide awake, full of things you can't say and feelings you wish you didn’t still have.

Because it’d be so much easier if you hated him. But you don’t. You’re just afraid.

And you don’t know how to stop.

⸻

You see her at the campus café. The same girl from the library — the one who leaned in too close to Mingyu, the one who touched his arm like she knew what it felt like under her fingertips. The one with the glossed lips and the air of someone who always gets what she wants. She’s laughing too loud at something her sorority sisters just said, iced latte in hand.

Your heart’s been aching for days — an ache you thought would dull with time. But instead, it’s only sharpened. Every hour, every memory, every almost between you feels louder now. You haven’t slept properly. Your appetite’s gone. This restless, gnawing ache in your chest? It doesn’t want logic. It wants answers.

You can’t take it anymore.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, your feet are already moving. Your heart is a drum in your chest, drowning out the logic in your head. This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea. But for once, you let the voice in your chest win.

You cut across the grass, slow and deliberate, like you’re not about to do something reckless. Like your pulse isn’t tripping all over itself.

“You know Mingyu, right?” you ask once you reach the girl’s table.

The blonde glances up from her phone. Smirks. “Oh, do I know him.”

You don’t flinch. “I need his address.”

A laugh bubbles out of the girl. “Why would I give you that?”

You tilt your head, lashes low. “Because I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

That does it. You watch the girl’s expression shift — just a flicker, but enough. No comebacks. No sarcasm. Just a pause, the smallest hesitation.

And you know. You don’t know the details, don’t need to. But Mingyu hasn’t been around. Not for this girl. Not for anyone. His silence isn’t casual — it’s heartbreak. You saw it in his eyes the night you walked away. Something raw and real.

The girl sighs, dramatic, and then — without a word — holds out her hand.

You blink. “What?”

“Your phone,” the girl says, waving her hand impatiently. “Unless you want me to shout it across campus.”

You slip your phone from your hoodie pocket and hand it over. Calm on the outside. But inside? Your fingers are cold. Your throat is tight. You have to stop yourself from bouncing your leg, chewing your lip, running.

The girl types something into Notes. Then hands the phone back without looking up.

You take it, tuck it away.

“Thanks,” you say — not warmly, not even politely. Just enough.

You turn before the girl can say anything else.

As you walk away, you let yourself smile for half a second — just a twitch of the lips. But then the nerves creep in again. Fast, hot, sharp.

You have the address. The final barrier is gone.

No more pretending. No more running. And maybe finally answers to the night that started this all.

⸻

The knock startles him.

He wasn’t expecting anyone. Definitely not this late.

He’s in pajama pants, a ripped t-shirt, hair a disheveled mess from hours of running his hands through it. There’s an untouched bowl of ramen on the kitchen island and a half-finished drink he forgot he even poured. The glow from the paused TV screen throws dull shadows across the walls.

He drags himself to the door, slow. Heavy.

When he checks the peephole— His heart stops.

Her.

Standing in the hallway like a ghost that wouldn't stop haunting him. He blinks, then looks again. Like maybe his mind is playing games. But it’s real. She’s real. She’s wearing that hoodie she always shrugs into like armor. Her hands are in her pockets. Her eyes, unreadable. Not angry. Not soft, either. Just… steady.

He freezes, forehead pressed to the door for a second before he forces himself to unlock it.

The door creaks open.

He doesn’t say anything. Can’t. His throat’s dry and his chest feels too full, too tight. Her gaze flicks over him—messy hair, the bags under his eyes that no amount of sleep has fixed.

But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t comment.

Just looks up at him like she’s trying to figure out if this was a mistake.

They stand in that charged silence for a beat too long.

And then—

“Can I come in?”

Her voice is quieter than she expected. Even, but quiet.

He swallows. Steps back. Nods.

She walks past him, slow, the air between them static. Her fingers tremble inside her pockets, but she doesn’t let it show.

The apartment is quiet. She spots the cold ramen. The drink. The half-open blinds. Papers scattered across the coffee table like he had given up on school.

He closes the door gently behind her. Turns. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t speak.

Neither does she.

Because the words don’t matter yet. Not until the silence’s done saying what it needs to.

But even now, in the quiet—

She can feel it. He’s unraveling. And she’s finally here.

⸻

You stay standing.

Even after he gestures subtly toward the couch, you shake your head. Not yet. Your spine holds tension like a fault line, arms crossed but loose, not defensive. Just… bracing yourself.

The apartment feels warmer than you expected, dim and lived-in, like he hasn’t left it in days. Mingyu leans back against the kitchen counter, hair a mess, face tired in that way that’s not just physical — like he hasn’t slept right in a while.

It makes your stomach twist. But you don’t soften.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” you say quietly. “I came to ask you something.”

He just nods. Doesn't try to speak.

You inhale sharply, pushing the words out before you second-guess them.

“There was a night... months before we ever got assigned to work together. You probably don’t remember it. But I do.”

Something in his eyes changes.

“I was working,” you continue. “At the club.”

You watch his expression carefully. Still, no denial. Just stillness.

“It was late. I had just come off stage. Still in heels. Still sweating. Heading backstage, trying to get to the dressing room.”

You cross your arms.

“There was a group of guys near the VIP lounge. Loud. Rich. Drunk.”

You close your eyes like it’ll help block the memory. It doesn’t.

“One of them pointed at me. Then he said, loud enough for half the room to hear—”

Your voice shakes. But you force the words out.

“That one’s probably had half the city in her mouth. Wonder if she even charges anymore or just takes it for fun.’”

Your voice stays flat, emotionless. It’s the only way you can say it.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens.

You don’t stop.

“Another guy laughed and said, ‘She probably blows the bouncers just to keep her job. Look at her. You think she’s got any self-respect left?’”

You hear Mingyu’s breath hitch.

“The last one looked right at me — and I mean, really looked — and said: ‘I wouldn’t even fuck her if you paid me knowing how many dicks have been in her. But I’d spit on her for free.’”

The silence that follows is brutal.

Silence. Thick. Horrible.

“I remember every single word,” you say, voice flat. “I remember the way people stared. Some laughed. Some just looked away. Like I was nothing.”

Your eyes land on him, sharp and wounded.

“I didn’t say anything. I just kept walking. Fast. I wouldn't argue that I couldn't even have the courage to give a lap dance — well until you—you paid. It didn't matter anyways, I already heard loud and clear what they thought of me.”

Your jaw clenches.

“Walking away I heard laughter. I don’t know who. Maybe all of them. Maybe none. But you were there.”

Finally, your big watery eyes meet his.

“You were standing near the edge of the group. I remember your face. You looked right at me.”

You inhale. Your arms tighten across your chest, like holding yourself together.

“I didn’t know who you were at the time, besides being the popular guy at my school. Just that you were with them. And that you didn’t stop it.”

A pause.

“So when we got paired up, when you started being kind, thoughtful, sweet… I kept wondering: was it real? Or were you playing some long joke I didn’t understand?”

Your voice lowers.

“And then the night you confessed, something in me wanted to believe you. God, it did.”

Another breath.

“But the part of me that remembers that night—remembers how I felt, how I still feel thinking about it—kept screaming not to trust you.”

You finally say, eyes burning:

“I came here because I need to know who you are. Not what people say. Not the guy everyone likes. You.”

⸻

He’s never hated himself more.

Because he remembers.

The throb of music, the liquor-heavy air, the fake laughter around him. And you — glittering under stage lights, leaving the stage after your solo.

Then the words. Crude. Vulgar. Dehumanizing.

He remembers flinching. Remembered wanting to vomit. And he remembers leaving — not standing up, not saying anything, just walking away.

Because he froze.

Because he was afraid of making a scene. Afraid of being that guy. The one who calls shit out. The one who makes things “awkward.” The one who ruins the vibe.

Because being liked had always been easy for him. Too easy. And he’d wrapped his whole identity around it.

He’d gotten so used to playing that role that he’d started to believe it was who he was.

So he didn’t speak.

He just stood there, heart pounding, throat closed, skin crawling. Then turned and walked away like a coward.

And now? He’d give anything to go back and be that guy — whether it was you or not being victim to those words.

“I remember the night,” he says hoarsely. “I remember all of it.”

Her face doesn’t change.

“I didn’t laugh,” he says quickly. “I swear to god. But I didn’t stop it either.”

“I left. I went outside. I thought… maybe if I wasn’t around them, it meant I wasn’t part of it.” A bitter laugh escapes him and then a long beat.

“I hated myself for it the second it happened. And I still do.”

His voice dips lower.

“Later that night, I found one of them. Outside, alone. Told him if I ever heard him talk about a woman like that again, I’d break his fucking jaw.”

A pause. Something heavier pressing against his chest.

“I haven’t talked to any of them since that night.”

He looks up at her again — fully this time. No excuses. No posturing.

He shakes his head.

“But it doesn’t matter. Because you didn’t see that part. Didn’t know that. You saw me standing there. With them. Silent.”

He finally looks up, voice quieter.

“And you were right not to trust me.”

Another pause, then softer:

“I’m not like them. But I let them think I was. And for what? So I could keep being the guy everyone liked?”

He swallows hard. He takes one slow step forward, careful not to crowd you.

“I don’t deserve it. But I’m here. And I’ll tell you anything. Everything. If you still want the truth. The real me.”

⸻

A few minutes pass.

Not many. But enough for the weight of what was said to settle between you like dust in the air, too heavy to shake off.

Still wrapped in your hoodie, now sitting on the edge of his couch, hands clenched in your lap. Your fingers won’t stop twitching, like your body hasn’t caught up to your decision to stay.

You hear him move—soft footsteps in the kitchen. The clink of glass. Running water. He doesn’t speak. You don’t either.

The silence doesn’t feel cold. It feels full — not with anger, not with blame, just something raw and thick and unspoken. Your throat burns with it.

When he comes back, he sets the glass of water on the coffee table, a small act of care he doesn’t call attention to. Then, without asking, he lowers himself to the floor across from you.

He doesn’t sit on the couch beside you. Doesn’t close the distance.

Just settles in with his back against the armchair, legs bent loosely, head tilted slightly like he’s waiting for you to speak, or not.

You stare at the glass. Don’t pick it up.

The city beyond the windows hums with life — cars, a siren, the faint pulse of a distant song — but here, it’s still.

You finally take the glass. Hold it. Don’t drink.

Your voice, when it comes, is soft and steady.

“Tell me the truth,” you say, meeting his eyes for the first time since you stepped through the door. “And I’ll listen.”

He holds your gaze. Nods. Doesn’t say thank you, doesn’t make it a performance.

He just nods. Like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

And you don’t talk about that night. Or those guys. Or what came after.

Not yet.

Instead, you talk about everything else.

Stupid things, at first — favorite colors, high school nicknames, which fries on campus are the most overrated. You say you hate grape-flavored candy. He feigns heartbreak. You roll your eyes. Almost laugh.

Then deeper — the last time he cried. The first time you ever danced just for yourself. What keeps you up at night. What you miss about being younger. What you hope doesn't follow you into adulthood.

And then—somewhere between a sigh and a pause—he says it.

“I feel like I’m not a real person to anyone anymore.”

You look up.

“I’m just this… thing people like to look at. Talk about. Put on a shelf. Say they know.” His voice cracks, soft around the edges. “But no one actually knows me. Not even close.”

Your hand tightens around the glass.

“I get that,” you say. “At the club, they don’t know I’m a student. On campus, no one knows I’m her. It’s like I’m split in half. Too much of something in one world, not enough in the other.”

You don’t say Fawn, but it hangs there anyway. And he hears it. All of it.

“I’ve gotten good at switching masks,” you admit, quieter. “But sometimes I forget which one is mine.”

He nods slowly. “I know what that’s like.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel crazy for saying it.

With him, it feels like the noise drops out. Like you can exist between versions of yourself without being asked to choose.

He doesn’t demand the good version. Or the mysterious one. Or the broken one.

Just you.

And you think maybe—just maybe—he feels the same.

No touches. No tears.

Just two people. Talking.

You just sit there — cross-legged across from each other in the soft wash of streetlight, the hum of the college town dulled beneath the rhythm of slow, steady breath.

Time fades.

Conversation trickles. More questions. More quiet. And eventually—without realizing when—sleep begins to fold around you.

Not out of exhaustion.

But peace.

⸻

→ part five

Tag List: @sojuxxi @zealousnutstudent @bingumingoo1004

#seventeen fanfic #mingyu smut #svt angst #svt fanfic #svt x reader #svt fluff #svt imagines #seventeen x reader #kim mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #kim mingyu fanfic #mingyu fanfic #mingyu fluff #mingyu imagines #kim mingyu x reader #kim mingyu fluff #kim mingyu angst #kim mingyu

131 notes · View notes

dozybeez · 9 days ago

Text

dozybeez’s MASTERLIST

SEVENTEEN…

→ Choi Seungcheol

→ Yoon Jeonghan

→ Joshua Hong

→ Wen Junhui

→ Kwon Soonyoung

Practice Makes Imperfect - ongoing… A perfectionist ballerina struggles to find her rhythm—not just in her mandatory hip hop class, but in life itself. When she turns to Hoshi, a laid back hip hop major, he helps her see there is more to life than just structure and control. Part One

→ Jeon Wonwoo

→ Lee Jihoon

→ Lee Seokmin

→ Kim Mingyu

Spin For Me - ongoing… She's the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He's the campus heartthrob who's used to getting what he wants — except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew. Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine

→ Xu Minghao

→ Boo Seungkwan

→ Chwe Hansol

→ Lee Chan

73 notes · View notes

dozybeez · 9 days ago

Text

Spin For Me (Pt. Three)

She's the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He's the campus heartthrob who's used to getting what he wants—except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part one → part two

→ part four coming soon

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 4.7k

content warnings: slowish burn, smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size and innocence kink. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I'm a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Pyramids by Frank Ocean

- Cold Sweat by Tinashe

- Gilded Lily by Cults

The heavy bass still echoed in your chest as you stepped off the stage, breath shallow and skin damp beneath the soft sheen of sweat. Your thighs ached from holding each spin, and your calves trembled faintly. The crowd’s cheers had already started to blur into a wall of white noise, fading behind you and replaced by the quiet thrum of your pulse.

You were halfway to the dressing room when your manager caught up to you.

He called out your name with that smug look on his face—like whatever this was, the decision had already been made for you.

“Private room three. Some guy just offered triple the other girls’ rates for ten minutes with you.”

You paused, furrowing your brows. “I don’t do private—”

“I know,” he cut in, expression unbothered. “But this isn’t a request. You want to keep your spot? You do this one.”

The ache bloomed in your chest. That old, familiar mix of shame and survival clawing its way up your ribs like a splintered memory. You stood there for a long second, jaw clenched tight.

You could walk. You could quit. It’s not like you didn’t think about it every night when you got home, eyes gritty and bones sore.

But three times the rate.

Two months of rent. Groceries.

The pressure cracked something in your chest, and your voice came out colder than you meant it.

“Fine. One time.”

It was probably just some old creep anyway. Someone hoping to find the youngest girl in the club. As long as it wasn’t your professor, you could stomach it.

You adjusted your outfit. Reapplied your gloss. Pulled the familiar black mask over the upper half of your face—it made you feel a little less naked, a little more untouchable despite the circumstances.

⸻

The hallway to Room Three felt long. The lights above flickered like they were judging you.

You pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Darkness greeted you. The red lights were dimmed to a low hue.

You looked up—and froze.

Legs spread slightly, sleeves of his button-down pushed to his elbows, head tilted like he was just relaxing on some frat couch after class.

But even in the dim light, you could tell. You could feel it in your bones.

Mingyu.

Your mouth went dry.

It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Your heart slammed so hard against your chest you were sure it echoed.

No. No. This can’t be real.

What the hell was he doing here?

Had he—had he really requested you? Spent that much money on you?

But he looked so calm. So relaxed. Like he didn’t recognize you at all.

Maybe he didn’t. You were in full gear—thigh-highs, gloves, the mask, even a different lipstick than usual. No one ever recognized you. That was the entire point of Fawn.

Still, your body wasn’t listening to logic. Your pulse spiked. Your palms turned slick with sweat.

Even in the dim amber lighting, you could make out his sharp jawline. The slow, easy curve of his smile.

Every part of you screamed: Leave.

But you didn’t.

You walked forward, slow and deliberate, keeping your eyes slightly averted, your face mostly hidden behind your signature mask.

His eyes followed you. Careful. Curious.

The music started—slow, deep bass. Cold Sweat by Tinashe. Something far more sensual than your usual main stage routine consisting of divorced dad rock.

You took a breath.

Your hips began to sway. Your hands slid down your own body, grazing your waist as you stepped closer. Your thighs brushed his knees when you turned, pressing your back flush to his chest—close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

You bent at the waist, slowly, your hands on his thighs as you rolled your ass up against his lap. You felt him tense beneath you.

You kept going, rolling your hips in smooth circles as you sat more firmly against his groin.

His breath hitched.

A rush of adrenaline flooded your limbs.

You arched your back a little deeper, let your ass drag forward, then back again—this time slower, more deliberately.

Still, you didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You’re nervous,” he murmured behind you, his voice low and laced with something darker. “It’s cute.”

You swallowed hard and rose from his lap, turning to face him. Your knees settled on either side of his thighs as you straddled him now, chest inches from his, arms braced on his shoulders.

He didn’t touch you. His hands remained clenched on the chair.

You began to roll your hips again—slow, sensual. Grinding softly against him through the layers of his clothes, your body trembling despite the heat in the room. He was watching you too closely. It made it impossible to think.

You felt ridiculous.

Embarrassed.

And yet… something warm lingered in your chest that had nothing to do with nerves. There was a part of you that didn’t want to get up. Not because it was Mingyu, the campus heartthrob. But because it was Mingyu. And even if he didn’t know it was you, you liked being close to him. You liked the quiet way he watched you without touching. You liked that he didn’t laugh when you stuttered and got shy at the library. That he seemed… patient. Here and then.

“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he whispered, voice truthful. “Except one.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

Your rhythm faltered—just for a beat—but you corrected it quickly, dragging your body back down in another smooth grind. You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t react.

Your fingers moved up to his lips, pressing gently to silence him. Your hands were trembling.

He didn’t flinch. Just kissed your fingertips softly and let you keep them there.

“I won’t talk,” he murmured after you removed your fingers. “If that’s what you want.”

Your face burned. Your thighs were trembling. But you kept moving—hips rocking slowly, drawing tight, sensual circles against the obvious bulge between his legs.

His lips parted. A faint groan escaped him.

“You remind me of someone,” he added a moment later, voice barely audible over the music.

You stopped breathing.

You dropped your gaze to his chest and ground against him one final time, slower now, lingering, trying to finish the set with control.

The timer beeped softly. Ten minutes.

You were about to get off his lap when he whispered your name, your real name. Not Fawn. You.

Your whole body froze.

Your breath caught painfully in your throat. Your stomach dropped through the floor.

He knew.

You jerked away from him like you’d been burned. Stumbled off his lap. Nearly tripped over your heel.

He didn’t move.

Just sat there.

Watching you.

You didn’t wait. Didn’t speak. You pushed the door open and ran—down the hall, past the dressing rooms, through the back exit.

Your breath came in shallow gasps as you leaned against the alley wall, hand over your chest, lungs struggling to catch up with your heart.

He knew.

⸻

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he booked the dance.

Maybe just to confirm it. Maybe just to see you move up close, without the safety of distance and dim lights. Maybe to stop pretending he hadn’t recognized the way you touched the pole—awkward at first, then ethereal. He’d memorized your body long before tonight.

But the moment you walked in, it hit him like a sucker punch to the chest.

It was you.

Your figure. Your soft, nervous energy. Your walk. Your hips.

You.

Fawn.

Same damn person.

He kept his expression unreadable, though inside he was burning—heart pounding, breath stuck somewhere between his lungs and throat. You didn’t know he knew.

Not yet.

But when you climbed onto his lap? When you bent over and rolled your hips against him like that, your soft curves brushing over his groin with each slow, sensual drag?

He nearly lost it.

You were nervous—he could feel it in the way your thighs trembled against his, in the tiny stutter of your rhythm, the way you refused to speak.

And it only made you more real.

He’d thought Fawn was just some unattainable fantasy. A beautiful, untouchable performer with a mask and a stage between them. And you—you were the girl who made his heart race, with sarcasm in your smile and eyes you wouldn’t let him hold too long. A contradiction. A puzzle.

But here you were.

On him.

Gripping his shoulders with soft, shy fingers and grinding yourself against him in slow, burning circles.

And fuck—you were gorgeous. And so, so cute. Especially when you tried to act like you weren’t shaking. Like your heart wasn’t racing.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to groan. He wanted to grab you by the waist and pull you close and tell you you didn’t have to be scared.

But mostly?

He wanted to tell you you had him.

He wasn’t sure when it happened—maybe back when you first told him off in class, or when you laughed behind your laptop screen, cheeks pink, thinking he hadn’t noticed—but now it was like every version of you had collided in front of him. And he couldn’t unsee it.

Fawn.

And you.

And suddenly, every time you’d tucked your face into your hood, every time you’d ignored his flirting, every time you’d squirmed when he leaned too close during study sessions—it all made sense.

He bit back a groan when you rubbed down against him again, the friction dizzying. You were trying so hard to stay composed, even as your body betrayed you.

When he whispered your name, it was a whisper of reverence.

A test.

And a confession.

You froze.

And then you bolted.

He didn’t expect you to run like that. Didn’t expect his chest to hurt the way it did watching you stumble off his lap, eyes wide with terror, mask still on, but everything else exposed—emotionally, physically, completely.

Fuck.

He didn’t move at first.

He sat there, jaw clenched, fists pressed into his knees, trying to absorb the moment.

Then he was up.

Out of the room.

Down the hallway.

Past the blinking exit signs and down the side corridor he’d seen dancers use earlier. He didn’t know where you’d gone—just knew he had to find you.

He wasn’t chasing Fawn.

He was chasing you.

And now that he knew they were one and the same, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop.

⸻

The cold hit you the second you burst out the side door.

Your heels clacked against wet pavement as your breath clawed at your lungs, coming in sharp, painful bursts. Your mask—your armor—was clenched in your trembling hand now, crushed in your palm like it was the reason any of this happened.

You hated this.

You hated the way your heart was racing. Hated the fact that your eyes were burning. Hated that your lips still tingled from being that close to him. From touching him outside of just brushes in the library. From hearing him whisper your name like it meant something.

You didn’t know what to feel.

And then you heard him.

His expensive shoes hit the pavement behind you, steady, fast, familiar.

You didn’t have to turn to know. His presence was unmistakable.

A breathless gasp of your name escaped from his lips— like he was in pain for even saying it aloud.

You whirled around. “Don’t.”

His eyes went wide. His hands froze halfway in the air, jacket in one of them, like he didn’t know whether to touch you or not. He looked… helpless. Still in that sleek black button-down, eyes soft like he didn’t know how to fix this.

And you hated him for it.

Because you wanted to crumble.

“Don’t come near me,” you whispered, your voice cracked and wild. “I mean it.”

But he took a step anyway, slowly, silently, and then put his jacket on your shoulders. “It is freezing, you’re gonna get hypothermia.”

You looked down. Your arms were trembling. Your stage outfit was barely anything. Your skin was goosebumped, your breath fogging in the night air.

You hated that you were cold. That his jacket—that smelled like the cologne you would crave to smell once more after he left your study sessions—helped.

So when he gently placed it over your shoulders, you let it sit there for a second before shoving it off. “Don’t pretend to care now.”

He flinched.

“I don’t need you to play the good guy,” you continued, voice rising. “I don’t need you to make me feel better after—after whatever the hell that was in there.”

He tried to speak. “Wait—”

“No, seriously. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” you laughed bitterly.

“Little shy girl from class turns out to be some pathetic stripper who rubs herself on strangers for rent money. Must be your dream, huh? Something about the thrill of it?”

His face fell, completely, and you hated that too.

“You think I’m easy now, don’t you? That I’d do anything for the right price?” you spat. “Is that why you offered that much money? ‘Cause you knew I was too poor to say no? Or because it turns you on to play pretend with some dumb girl who sits next to you at the library and then dances for you at night?”

“no—” His voice broke around your name.

But you didn’t let him speak.

“You probably think I’ve slept with half this town, don’t you?” Your mascara was streaking now, dark lines down your cheeks. You were spiraling. “You probably think I’d fuck you if you just waved enough cash in front of me. You have half the campus wanting to sleep with you. But that’s not enough for you. It’s the degradation of paying for it, right? God, I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not—” He stepped forward, but you shoved him.

Hard but he barely even moved. Stepping back on his own accord to give you space.

“I said don’t touch me.”

You stood there, breath shaking, heart splitting open. You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t handle the way he was looking at you like you were made of glass and heartbreak.

“I hate that you saw me like that,” you whispered, the tears leaving streaks in your makeup.

And then you turned, heels scraping against the concrete as you pushed the door back open and vanished inside.

Mingyu didn’t follow.

He stood in the alley, alone, staring at the spot where you’d been—jacket on the ground, mascara-streaked tears still carved into his memory.

And he couldn’t move.

He couldn’t fix it.

Not yet.

⸻

Two weeks.

Fourteen days of unanswered texts, unread emails, and skipped classes.

You had vanished like smoke.

At first, he thought you were just avoiding him. Understandable. After what happened in the alley behind the club—the breakdown, the look on your face when he said your name—he figured you needed space.

But then you missed your scheduled study session. Then another. And another.

No café sightings. No familiar shape curled into your favorite corner of the library. No nervous voice during lectures. You’d gone ghost completely, and it was killing him.

He sent you everything—paragraph-long messages, quick check-ins, even just: “Are you okay?”

Nothing.

The silence was starting to scream.

By the time the morning of your presentation rolled around, he’d convinced himself you wouldn’t show. He’d rehearsed the whole project alone,and planned to tell the professor you were sick and pray he wouldn’t tank your grade. You did most of the project anyways, while he would sit there in the library making googly eyes at you.

He was never mad. Just worried.

And heartbroken.

So when you walked into the classroom twenty seconds before you were set to begin, Mingyu nearly dropped his notes.

Your usually clean and soft hair was tied in a loose, uneven braid, strands sticking out. Your hoodie swallowed your frame. Your under eyes were darker than he remembered, and your jeans were baggy, wrinkled, like you hadn’t done laundry in weeks.

You looked like a ghost of yourself.

But you were there.

He didn’t get to say anything. The professor called your names, and you quietly stepped to the front beside him without a word.

The presentation went… surprisingly well.

Your voice was quieter than usual. You stumbled over one or two slides, but nothing major. Mingyu picked up where you wavered, and you fell into that unspoken academic rhythm you’d formed weeks ago—two very different people functioning as one oddly cohesive unit.

He kept glancing at you from the side. You didn’t meet his eyes once.

As soon as you finished and the applause from the class died down, you muttered a thanks to the professor, and beelined out the door.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then he ran.

The sound of your name was yelled from his eager lips.

You didn’t slow down.

But his legs were longer, and you were moving slower than usual—exhausted, probably, or maybe just trying not to cry again.

He reached you at the edge of the courtyard, just past the main entrance, and gently grabbed your wrist.

“Wait,” he said softly. “Please.”

You froze. Didn’t look at him. But you didn’t pull away.

His chest tightened.

He stepped in front of you, moving you just behind one of the large pillars near the side of the building—more private, out of the flood of students filing out after class. His hand never left your wrist, but his grip was feather-light.

“Just… let me talk,” he pleaded, voice low. “Please let me fix this.”

You scoffed bitterly, and finally, finally looked up at him.

“Oh my god,” you snapped, voice hoarse. “You really can’t take it, can you?”

Mingyu blinked. “What?”

“You,” you said, shaking your head like you couldn’t believe him. “Mr. Perfect. Campus golden boy. Everyone likes you—how could they not? Tall, hot, charming. You’ve got girls lined up around the block for you, and yet—”

You laughed, but it cracked. “What, because you didn’t get the stripper? Is that what finally broke your ego?”

“You couldn’t fuck me, so now your world’s imploding?” you pushed, venom in your voice but pain behind your eyes. “I must really be something, huh? That even you—the notorious playboy Kim Mingyu—lost your mind over a hooker who told you to fuck off.”

His heart clenched.

“That’s why you asked me out on that date, right? Made me think you actually liked me for me. But this whole time you were chasing after the thrill of sleeping with Fawn. Paying for Fawn. What an act.”

“You think I care because I didn’t get to sleep with you?” he whispered.

“You don’t care. You just hate the idea that someone out there thinks less of you. That you couldn’t get the one girl you assumed would be easy just because she takes her clothes off for money! What, your dick doesn’t get hard anymore for a girl who doesn’t need money to sleep with you?”

“Stop,” he said, gently but firmly.

“Go post a shirtless mirror selfie and cry about it—”

He whispered your name softly, not a warning but rather a plea for you to just breathe.

“I’m sure your fans will stroke your ego back to life—”

He moved quickly—his large hand reaching up, cupping over your mouth gently, the entire bottom half of your face fitting beneath his palm. Not forceful. Not angry. Just… quieting you.

Your eyes went wide.

“Please,” he said, voice barely audible. “Just… breathe.”

You were trembling beneath his touch, every bone in your body radiating with exhaustion and rage and something even worse—hurt.

His hand stayed where it was until your breathing began to slow. Just slightly.

Then he dropped it.

You looked away again, eyes glassy.

“I’m not in love with Fawn,” he said softly.

You flinched.

“I’m not. I never was. I only started going to see her to help distract myself for what I actually felt—what you made me feel,” he said. “I was… intrigued by Fawn. She reminded me of someone. And then… when I realized it was you—”

“Stop,” you croaked.

“I can’t. Not now.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, big doe eyes looking up at him with too many emotions swirling in them.

Mingyu shoved his hands through his hair, exhaling.

“I like you. I liked you way before I even knew it was you at the club. Your sarcasm. Your awkward little shrugs. The way you never look me in the eyes for more than three seconds without panicking.”

He smiled, soft and sad. He looked at you hopefully, like maybe, this would finally fix things.

A tear slipped down your cheek.

And then you remembered.

You remembered that night, months ago—the reason you brushed him off since the beginning of your study sessions, the reason you never let him get too close. The same reason your walls were so carefully built… until he started dismantling them, piece by piece.

Your eyebrows pulled together—not in anger anymore, but in something far heavier. Pain. Betrayal. Mistrust. He had just laid his feelings bare, but could you believe them? Could you risk it?

No. You couldn’t afford to.

Wordlessly, you wiped your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie, the fabric trailing past your fingers like a shield you no longer had the strength to hold up. Then you gave him one last look—full of sorrow, maybe even regret—before turning away.

Walking away from him.

From his feelings.And from your feelings.

⸻

258 notes · View notes

dozybeez · 10 days ago

Text

Spin For Me (Pt. Two)

→ part one

→ part three

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 7.3K

content warnings: slowish burn, eventual smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size and innocence kink. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I'm a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

You always looked small compared to him. Not just short, but like a different tempo entirely. While he was all warmth and swagger and shoulders that barely fit through classroom doorframes, you were quiet and elusive. Like smoke you couldn’t hold in your palm.

He finally stepped forward. “Good morning, partner.”

You startled, tugging your earbuds out. “Don’t sneak up like that.”

He grinned, slinging his bag into the seat beside you, spreading his legs with the kind of ease that made the chair look too narrow for him. “You’re the one zoning out. What were you watching?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, closing your laptop. “Let’s just start.”

You worked in relative silence—him highlighting a section of the textbook, you typing notes. Occasionally, he’d ask a question he already knew the answer to, just to hear you talk. You always answered like you were trying to be as efficient as possible. Minimal words. Maximum escape.

Half an hour passed before he leaned back and stretched, his long arms brushing the edge of your chair. “You always look so tired during our sessions.”

You blinked. “I do?”

“Yeah. You ever sleep?”

You paused. “I have a job.”

He tilted his head. “Where?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He didn’t push. But he filed it away.

A beat of silence. Then—

“You know, most girls would kill to get stuck on a project with me,” he teased, clearly joking.

You gave a small, unimpressed glance.

Mingyu laughed, loud and bright. “You’re the only person I’ve met who looks annoyed when I walk in.”

“I don’t look annoyed,” you muttered. “Just…neutral.”

He didn’t tell you that “neutral” on you still meant that little furrow between your brows and a mouth pressed into a pout you didn’t know you had. Or that you looked especially cute today in your usual minimal makeup, your skin glowing beneath the lights.

Girls wandered past your table, lingering longer than needed—some even leaning down to say hi to Mingyu, hair flipped, lip gloss fresh. He was polite, charming, but he didn’t even stand up. Just gave them his usual smile and waved them off.

You stayed quiet through it all. Only once did you glance up from your notes.

When the last girl finally walked away, Mingyu let out a low breath and glanced sideways. “Sorry about that.”

“I don’t care,” you said, typing again.

But he caught the slight tension in your jaw.

He nudged your shoe with his. “You jealous?”

You scoffed, not looking up. “Of what? That your fan club follows you to our psych project meeting?”

“Maybe,” he grinned.

“You’re delusional.”

And yet—for the first time, he swore he saw a smile threaten your lips. You were still looking at the screen, but your fingers paused over the keys.

He leaned closer, voice quieter now. “So…what is your job?”

You closed your laptop with a snap and stood. “We’re done for today.”

He blinked up at you, surprised. “What—why?”

“Because I’m tired,” you said, throwing his own words back at him.

Then you walked out without saying goodbye.

He watched the door you disappeared through, heart thudding harder than he cared to admit.

Whatever you were hiding—it wasn’t just a job. And suddenly, he wanted to know everything.

⸻

Mingyu didn’t usually think about people this much.

He was popular, sure—he’d always been popular. It wasn’t something he chased. Things just happened around him: girls handed him their numbers, professors smiled too wide, strangers followed him on social media for reasons he didn’t fully understand. It was easy to coast through campus on charisma and height alone.

But you didn’t care.

And that made you impossible to stop thinking about.

He hadn’t seen you for three days—not in class, not at the café where you always sat with a tiny paperback and earbuds. When he walked into their Wednesday lecture, he instinctively scanned the rows for you—no messy hair, no oversized sweater or sunglasses perched on your head.

He texted you once. Just a casual:

u good? want to go over the next section early?

No reply.

He thought about texting again. Then deleted the draft.

⸻

You came to class Thursday. Barefaced. Wearing an old black tank top and sweats that swallowed your legs. You looked like you’d just rolled out of bed—but still somehow ethereal. Your long hair was pulled into a messy braid, but under your eyes, a faint shadow rested.

Mingyu didn’t sit beside you. He watched from a few rows back, not wanting to startle you again.

But halfway through the lecture, you turned. Just a glance. Almost like you felt him.

Your eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then you looked away.

And he couldn’t focus on anything after that.

⸻

You met again in the library two days later—your idea, surprisingly. You texted him out of nowhere:

Let’s meet. Need to finish the outline before Monday.

You didn’t apologize. He didn’t ask.

You were already seated when he arrived, same table as always, hair tucked behind one ear. Your laptop was open, tabs scattered across the screen. You wore a soft grey cardigan over a white baby tee. You looked tired again, but more alert this time—like you’d made peace with it.

He sat across from you. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

You didn’t look up at first. But when you did, it hit him again—that softness. Those big eyes. How small your hands looked compared to the laptop keys beneath them. He watched you tuck your legs up under your chair, posture shrinking inward like you wanted to disappear.

“Still not gonna tell me what your job is?” he asked lightly.

Your eyes flicked up. “Why are you so curious?”

Mingyu leaned back, stretching. “Because you look like you moonlight as a spy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You show up to class looking like you’ve fought demons and survived. Then you ghost for days. And I know you’re not sleeping because you always look like you drank six Red Bulls and cried.”

Your mouth dropped open. “That’s so rude.”

He grinned. “I’m just saying—whatever your job is, it’s intense.”

You clicked something on your laptop. “So is this psych presentation. Let’s focus.”

But he didn’t look away.

There was something about you today—an extra layer of tired around your eyes, the faint shimmer of body lotion on your collarbone where your cardigan slipped. Not seductive. Just…real. Soft. Almost heartbreakingly human.

“You smell good,” he said before he could stop himself.

Your fingers paused over your trackpad. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “I mean. That’s not—like, I wasn’t trying to be weird—”

“It’s vanilla,” you mumbled, suddenly flustered. “Body lotion.”

He nodded slowly. “Cool.”

The air between you shifted again. Unspoken tension settled quietly between pages and click-clicks of your typing. With you curled up in the chair, sleeves pulled over your hands, you looked like a girl trying to disappear.

But you weren’t invisible. Not to him.

He didn’t know yet that you had 200k Tumblr followers obsessing over your masked pole dancing routines or your artfully posted outfit photos—black thigh-highs, worn paperbacks.

He didn’t know you were a secret muse to an entire internet subculture.

But he didn’t need a Tumblr persona to show him your worth, because here he was, obsessing over the girl sitting in front of him.

⸻

The library smelled like pencil shavings and burnt coffee. You sat curled into your side of the study table with your legs folded underneath your oversized jeans, your laptop glowing dimly in front of you. A pen rested between your fingers, untouched. You chewed the end absently, eyes narrowed at the document on screen, though you hadn’t typed anything for five minutes.

Mingyu, across from you, was watching. Not obviously. He had his laptop open and his hoodie pulled halfway up his arms. Occasionally he tapped something into the shared Google Doc, but mostly… he stole glances at you.

You were quiet, but not cold—not really. Your voice always came out small and soft, your words clipped like you were used to being interrupted. But your brain worked fast. Your sarcasm was dry. You were the kind of girl who said smart things like she was afraid they’d make her unlikable.

“I can tell when you’re zoning out,” he said casually.

Your eyes flicked up. “I’m not zoning out.”

He smiled slowly. “You’re literally chewing on your pen cap like no tomorrow.”

You blinked, flustered, and dropped the pen immediately, sitting up straighter. “Shut up.”

He laughed. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”

You shot him a look, but it lacked real heat. “And you’re loud when you breathe.”

“Damn.” He leaned back in his chair, hand resting behind his neck. “That’s the third time this week you’ve gone for me for no reason.”

You shrugged, but your lips twitched. The teasing had become something like routine now. It made the silence less heavy. Made the project slightly more tolerable.

Still, you didn’t offer much. Not about yourself. You showed up, you worked, you disappeared. No parties. No friends. No Instagram that he could find, not under your real name anyway. But you had that sort of… presence. That vibe that some people wore like perfume. Like you belonged somewhere else, like you knew something he didn’t.

“How’s work?” he asked suddenly.

You stiffened.

Shit.

You blinked, then looked down at your screen.

He waited, but you never answered. Just went back to editing the paragraph you’d worked on earlier, your nails tapping softly against the keyboard.

“Do you work late?” he added.

“Yeah.”

“Like… off-campus?”

You looked up this time. There was something unreadable in your gaze. Not fear exactly. Just… a line being drawn.

“Yeah,” you said again, quieter this time.

He nodded slowly. “Cool.”

You tilted your head. “Cool?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just never met someone who’s immune to small talk.”

“I’m not immune,” you said dryly. “I’m allergic.”

He grinned again. “Right. Of course.”

The moment passed. But it lingered in him long after—like a shadow stretched under the skin.

⸻

The library was almost completely silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the scratching of your pen on your notebook. Your laptop was closed for once, a rare sign you were mentally drained. You sat slouched, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, lower lip caught between your teeth.

Mingyu stepped into the room carrying a brown paper bag and two drinks.

Your head lifted at the sound of the door.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said, holding the bag aloft.

You blinked. “What… is that?”

“Peace offering.”

“We weren’t fighting.”

“I know.” He grinned. “But you looked like you were about to commit murder in the library when I passed by, so thought I’d try to de-escalate.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical but not rejecting it outright. He took that as a win and plopped the bag down on the table beside you.

“Grilled cheese,” he said. “And I got you that plain tea you always get from the café.”

Your expression faltered — just barely — like you weren’t used to people noticing things like that.

You eyed him, guarded. “Why?”

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “You forget to eat when you study.”

“Do not.”

“You do,” he said, leaning against the desk beside you. “You get all shaky and mean.”

You huffed, but your lips twitched.

Mingyu sat beside you, close but not too close. “I didn’t cook it or anything. I’m not trying to poison you.”

You reached for the drink first, lifting the cup slowly and taking a sip like you didn’t quite trust him. Your expression softened at the taste.

“You really remembered?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he said, too casually.

You pulled a piece of the grilled cheese apart and chewed slowly, thoughtful. The silence stretched comfortably for a while — rare, but not awkward.

“You always do this?” you asked eventually.

“Do what?”

“Try this hard.”

Mingyu glanced at you. “Only when I want to.”

You swallowed. Looked away.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you added, voice quieter now.

“I know.”

“Or a savior.”

“I really know.”

More silence.

You toyed with the edge of the food wrapper. “Then why bother?”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you. The way you ate like you hadn’t in hours but still tried to be polite about it. The way your fingers curled tightly around the drink, like it was anchoring you in place. You weren’t the kind of girl who tried to be mysterious — you just were. You kept everything close to the chest, like you’d learned somewhere along the way that being open cost too much. But still, you showed up. Still, you were kind in your quiet way — bringing him notes when he forgot, correcting his grammar without making him feel dumb. You didn’t laugh to fill silences or flirt to get something. You just were. And maybe that’s what made you magnetic. He liked how careful you were with your words. How sharp your humor was when it slipped through. How you always seemed like you were halfway between running away and staying.

And he wanted — more than he probably should’ve — to be someone you stayed for.

But instead of all that, he just said, “Because I like being around you.”

Your eyes flicked up, startled.

He didn’t smile this time. He just held your gaze, gentle and serious.

You looked at him like he’d just handed you something too heavy to hold.

Then — without a word — you stood up.

“Thanks for the food,” you mumbled, stuffing the rest of the grilled cheese into your bag.

“I’ll finish the notes later. You don’t have to wait,” you added.

And just like that, the wall was back. Not slammed up — just slowly, quietly rebuilt, brick by careful brick.

Mingyu sat in the quiet for a long time after you left.

⸻

You didn’t usually get nervous before going onstage.

Not anymore.

Your heart still pounded when you touched the cold brass of the pole — a mix of adrenaline and muscle memory — but that was part of the process. You liked the way the lights felt on your skin. The way the bass pulsed through the floor. You liked the way the crowd got quiet when you danced to something unexpected. Something slow. Heavy.

But tonight your hands were shaking.

Because he was here.

Kim Mingyu was sitting in the low velvet booth near the bar — the one that had the best view of the stage. Legs spread like he owned the world, head tipped back slightly as he sipped something dark from a glass, his eyes scanning the dancers with a casual kind of curiosity that made your stomach clench.

You hadn’t seen him when you first walked in. Your shift started later than usual, and you’d been rushing. The moment you caught sight of him in the dim light, you froze.

You ducked behind the dressing curtain, heart in your throat.

“Yo, Fawn.” One of the girls clacked past you in rhinestone stilettos, blowing a puff of glittery setting spray into the air. “You’re on in five.”

You nodded stiffly and adjusted the mask on your face — black satin, molded like a delicate masquerade cutout. It had become your thing. The mask. The mystery. The anonymity. No face. Just vibe. And it made the guests crazy for you.

You didn’t think anyone could connect the dots.

But now Mingyu was here. And he was looking.

Not like the other guys. Not like the regulars who stared with open mouths or tried to slip phone numbers under their drinks. Mingyu watched like he was trying to figure something out. Like he already knew something.

And it was starting to mess with you.

⸻

You stepped onto the stage barefoot today.

Tonight’s outfit was deceptively cute — a soft ruffled black two-piece with garters and sheer mesh gloves. It clashed with the track you’d queued: “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails — seductive, dark, hypnotic.

The club fell quiet the moment the lights hit you.

You let the music carry your body into the first spin, ignoring the weight of his eyes.

Don’t look at him. Don’t.

But you did.

And he was staring — not in recognition, but in something worse: fascination.

His jaw was slack. His brows pulled slightly together. His eyes fixed on your movements like he couldn’t look away.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood.

He didn’t recognize you. He couldn’t.

You moved like a ghost in the smoke — twisting, folding, slowly unraveling yourself with each beat. Every time your skin touched the cold metal of the pole, you grounded yourself. Every time the lights dimmed, you let the shadows swallow you.

When you finally climbed to the top and held yourself mid-air with just your thighs, the song peaking in slow ache, you made the mistake of glancing down again.

He was still there. Still watching.

But it wasn’t just lust. It was… something else. You knew that look.

It was the same way he’d looked at you earlier that week during your study session, when you’d accidentally fallen asleep with your cheek on the table and woken up to find a croissant and a hot tea next to you with a post-it note:

You were snoring. Kind of cute. – MG

It was a look that scared you more than if he had recognized you.

⸻

After the set, you fled backstage before the lights fully dimmed.

You yanked off your gloves, heart hammering. Your palms were damp. Your thighs ached.

A few of the girls were laughing and chatting behind you, fixing hair or changing outfits, but you didn’t join. You just stared into the cracked mirror above the vanity and waited for the burning in your chest to settle.

Mingyu didn’t recognize you.

But what if he came back?

What if he kept coming back?

You didn’t know what would be worse — if he kept staring at Fawn… or if one day he started staring at you that way, too.

⸻

Mingyu didn’t usually come to clubs like this alone.

The first time had been a birthday thing. One of his friends booked a table, ordered numerous bottles, and the rest was history.

He remembered the lights. The music. The haze.

And you.

He didn’t know your name. Just your stage one: Fawn.

Masked, and untouchable.

He hadn’t been able to look away the first time he saw you. Something about the way you moved — elegant but strange, like you didn’t belong here either. Your outfit had been soft. Innocent. Like something stolen from a doll and repurposed for war.

You didn’t dance for the crowd. Not really. Your music was weird — haunting. The way you clung to the pole was like watching a dream try not to fall apart.

You didn’t look at anyone.

Except once. When your eyes met for half a second.

And something in his chest went still.

So he came back. Just once, he told himself.

He thought it would help him get over you. The real you. That maybe watching an exotic dancer he was in awe by months ago would help him get clarity and stop his relentless daydreaming over his psych partner.

But now after seeing Fawn again, he wasn’t even pretending it was curiosity. He was obsessed.

Because every time he watched Fawn, he swore she looked familiar — not in the obvious way. Not like “I’ve seen her in class” familiar. No, this was deeper. A sort of ache in his teeth. A knowing without knowing.

Fawn reminded him of a girl — the one who always wore oversized clothes and weird Mary Janes. The one who glared at him when he complimented her hair and only laughed when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

The one who looked so small when she curled her legs under her during study sessions and chewed her pen when she was concentrating.

He hadn’t told anyone how into you he was.

Mingyu didn’t know when it started. Maybe the second study session, when you’d admitted you hated presentations and he offered to do the talking if you made the slides. Or maybe when you smiled at him, just barely, and your nose crinkled like it had never done that before.

But he was sure of one thing now: he liked both of you.

Fawn.

You.

And that was impossible.

⸻

“Your usual?” the bartender asked, knowing the tall man’s order after his frequent recent visits.

Mingyu nodded, keeping his eyes on the stage.

The lights shifted.

A figure stepped out from behind the curtain, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was her.

Tonight, Fawn was wearing something red and sheer, with off the shoulder straps and white thigh-highs. Her legs were bare, smooth, glowing under the blue light. Her long dark hair was loose, her mask tied snugly across her face.

She moved with slow, surreal purpose — not like she was trying to be sexy, but like she was trying to say something. He had no idea what it was, but he wanted to know. He needed to.

The music started — something moody and distorted. He didn’t recognize the song, but it felt like it was inside his bones.

His drink sat forgotten in front of him.

She spun once, slow, body arching like a question he didn’t know how to answer. When she caught the pole and flipped into a hold, her strength stunned him. He knew dancers were athletic, sure — but this was something else. It was art. Painful, beautiful art.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

And for a split second, he swore her eyes locked with his again.

The same jolt. The same flicker of panic and… recognition?

But then she looked away, and he shook his head, scoffing softly.

It reminded him of…

God. What was wrong with him?

He laughed to himself, low and dry. The idea that Fawn could be you was… insane. You, with your oversized sweaters and chipped nail polish, who scribbled your thoughts in the margins of your notebook like no one else would ever read them. You, who flushed pink when he held a door open too long. You who got flustered ordering coffee. He couldn’t even imagine you holding hands with a guy, let alone doing something like this. Not in a judgmental way — it was just… you were so mundane. Ordinary in the most oddly comforting, magnetic way. He kind of loved that about you. You were real. Tangible. Fawn, on the other hand, was a fever dream. A fantasy built of velvet and smoke. A current escape to get his mind off of you.

No way they were the same.

No. Fucking. Way.

He stopped the thought before it finished.

⸻

After the set, Fawn disappeared. No lingering glances.

Mingyu sat for another half hour, staring into his glass like it could answer questions he wasn’t ready to ask.

Why did she feel so real?

And why, when he closed his eyes, could he suddenly picture Fawn curled up in an oversized hoodie with chipped nail polish and sarcasm in her voice?

⸻

On the drive home, Mingyu pulled out his phone and opened his texts with you.

He hadn’t sent the last message. It was still sitting there:

you wanna get coffee after the next study session? just us? i won’t make any bad jokes (probably).

He deleted it before you could see it.

Then typed a new one.

Don’t forget your notes for Friday. I’m expecting color-coded perfection.

You replied five minutes later:

You’ll be lucky if I show up at all.

And yet… he smiled.

⸻

You could barely focus on the words on the page.

The letters blurred. Your pen tapped against the edge of your notebook in a restless rhythm, like your thoughts needed somewhere to go and your body was offering to help carry them. You sat cross-legged on the library chair , oversized jeans bunched at your ankles, an old sweatshirt tattering at the wrists — something you grabbed without thinking. It didn’t matter. You didn’t care what you wore right now. You were too busy watching.

Or… monitoring.

He sat across from you, back propped against his chair, hair still damp from a shower he must have took before he came, gray sweats, and his phone abandoned beside his open laptop. He looked relaxed. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t spent the night before practically drooling over you.

Fawn.

You swallowed.

He hadn’t recognized you. You knew he hadn’t. There had been no shift in his expression — no flare of surprise or knowing gleam in his eyes. Nothing in the way he greeted you today, casually tossing you a banana muffin and saying, “You didn’t eat last time. So. Here.”

Not even the way he sat closer today — like an inch closer — felt suspicious. It just felt… warm.

Still. You couldn’t help but test him.

“You looked tired this morning,” you said, not looking up.

He glanced at you, halfway through writing a formula. “Late night.”

Your stomach flipped. “Out?”

He shrugged. “Just a bar near campus. My friend dragged me.”

Your jaw clenched, just for a second. Liar. But maybe not technically — technically there was a bar connected to the club. Still, it stung. Not that you had expected him to admit it. You wouldn’t either.

He chuckled. “You’re still awful at pretending you don’t want to know.”

That got you. Your ears flushed. You wanted to snap back — I don’t care what you do, or God, you’re not that interesting. But the truth was you had cared. You cared the entire night, hovering on the pole with shaky legs and a stuttering heartbeat, eyes tracking his every movement like he was made of glass and you were the hammer.

But he had looked so… unbothered. Unchanged.

You almost wanted to believe him.

So you studied him carefully as he leaned over your notebook, pointing out a minor mistake in one of your citations — gentle and teasing. “You keep using MLA. It’s APA.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding the twitch of your lips that almost turned into a smile.

He grinned. Wide and boyish.

Not for the first time, you found yourself melting a little at that grin. Too much teeth. Too much charm. Too goddamn easy.

And still, no sign that he recognized you.

Good. Terrifying. Confusing.

You picked at your notebook edge. “You ever figure out what you want to do after graduation?”

Mingyu looked surprised at the question, but thoughtful. “Honestly? Not really. I keep saying marketing or content creation because it sounds good, but… I don’t know. Something where I get to be around people. Make stuff.”

You nodded slowly. “You’re good with people.”

“And you’re not?”

You paused. “I’m good at faking it.”

He didn’t argue with that. Just studied you for a second too long, eyes narrowing the way they did when he was trying to piece something together. Your chest tightened. You rarely ever complimented him.

But then he smirked. “Is this your way of asking me out?”

You shoved your pen at him, deadpan. “I’d rather combust.”

He laughed again, and this time, something in you softened.

Because he really didn’t know.

And he really had started liking you before that night — you could feel it. In the way he watched you when you talked. In the way his leg always inched closer when you sat on the floor. In the way his voice got lower when he teased you.

Fawn may have intrigued him.

But you were the one he was falling for.

You just didn’t know if you could let him.

⸻

MINGYU’S POV

He noticed something off about you today.

Not in a bad way. Just... twitchier than usual. Your voice was quieter, your eyes flicking to his face more often than your notebook. You barely touched the muffin he gave you, which — for you — was saying a lot. You treated pastries like oxygen.

He caught you staring at him while he wasn’t looking once. Twice. Four times, maybe.

And yeah, fine. He was counting.

But still — weird.

He racked his brain, trying to remember if he’d said something off, or if he’d gotten too close the last time you studied. But he kept coming up blank.

You were just... different today.

He should’ve asked.

Instead, he cracked some joke about you asking him out — which earned him a well-deserved jab in the ribs with your pen — and you moved on.

But the truth was? Mingyu had a whole different problem he was keeping to himself.

Fawn.

Or rather — the idea of Fawn.

He hadn’t meant to go back to the club. Not really. He told himself it was a one-time thing — a distraction, that the drinks were good, that it was just something to do. But that was bullshit.

He went back to see her again.

The masked dancer. The one who looked like she’d been carved from something delicate and unreal. Her movements hypnotized him — slow and sinuous, not trying to be sexy in an obvious way. She didn’t do the crawling or the overt grinding that some of the other dancers did. She moved like water. Or smoke. Or a song he couldn’t name.

Every time she took the stage, he held his breath. Every time she left, he cursed himself for being that guy. A little obsessed. A little too into it.

The worst part?

She reminded him of you.

He’d been embarrassed by that at first. The girl was nothing like you — not in the way she moved, or looked under those low lights, or held herself with that kind of ease. Fawn had power. She commanded the room.

For one split second the night before, Mingyu had actually thought—

He’d said your name under his breath, not even consciously, and immediately laughed at himself for it. The you he knew was too awkward to even raise your hand in class without turning red. You flinched when people complimented your shoes. You looked like you’d burst into flames if anyone ever tried to hold your hand, let alone—

No. Impossible.

He liked your mundaneness. He liked your pale pink notebooks and your awful pen doodles and the way your lashes curled without mascara. You were ordinary in a way that made him feel normal again. Safe. And he loved that about you.

Fawn was a fantasy. You were... real.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Even now, sitting across from you, watching your mouth form words about random psych topics, he was hearing your voice echo in his head from earlier: “You looked tired this morning.”

Had you known?

Had you been there?

God, he was losing it.

⸻

You didn’t like the feeling creeping into your chest every time the velvet curtain parted and you stepped onto the stage.

Not lately, anyway.

There used to be a thrill — the subtle hush that spread through the crowd, the press of cool air on your bare skin, the way the bass from the Deftones track seemed to move with your limbs instead of beneath them. It was a strange sort of catharsis. Disappearing behind your mask, losing yourself in motion. You never had to be the quiet girl who couldn’t make eye contact in class or stumbled over her words when the guy next to you reached for the same textbook.

Up there, you were Fawn.

But now — ever since he started coming back — the stage didn’t feel like an escape.

It felt like a risk.

You saw him the second he walked in. It didn’t matter that the lights were dim or that you were already halfway through your routine, gripping the pole with one hand and spinning slowly downward like honey dripping from a spoon. You could feel him. His height, his presence. That confident lope in his stride that somehow made everything around him feel smaller.

Kim Mingyu.

God.

You nearly missed your landing.

You caught yourself — barely — before your ankle rolled on the final pivot, but it took everything in you not to look at him again. Not to freeze mid-pose, rip the mask off your face, and just run.

He was here. Again.

Three nights in a row now.

And always alone.

He’d sit near the bar, eyes low, pretending not to watch. But you knew he was. He wasn’t exactly subtle — not with how his gaze followed you like a second spotlight.

Your skin prickled.

Your routine ended slower than usual — maybe because you kept spacing out, maybe because you were stalling. You slunk into your final pose, stretching your back into a lazy arch, one arm hooked high above your head.

Applause.

A few cheers. Money flying on the stage.

A voice — someone called out your stage name — but you couldn’t even hear it over your own heartbeat.

You rose, mask still in place, and walked offstage in your heels, fingers trembling at your sides.

In the dressing room, you locked yourself in the tiny bathroom and stared at your reflection in the mirror. Sweat at your temples. Black smudge beneath one eye. That same little mole on your shoulder that he’d probably never noticed in class, even though you always wore tanks and tees when it got warm.

He doesn’t know, you told yourself.

He can’t.

The mask was simple — lace over satin, shaped like a tiny masquerade piece. You wore it every time. It was iconic now; the manager even bragged about it. The faceless dancer. The mysterious Fawn. No private dances, no touching, no exceptions.

It had been your idea.

A shield.

But nothing about tonight felt safe.

You pulled on your hoodie and slid into your flip flops, body still humming with adrenaline. Your locker door clanged shut too loudly. One of the older girls shot you a look from across the bench.

“Someone’s got you nervous lately.”

You blinked. “What?”

She gestured toward the curtain. “The tall guy. Pretty. Quiet. Keeps coming back.”

Your heart stumbled.

“I don’t— I don’t know him.”

She smirked. “Didn’t say you did.”

You turned away before your expression could give anything else away. You tugged the hood over your hair, pulled the drawstrings tight. You didn’t go back out to the floor.

Not tonight.

You couldn’t risk it.

Not when he was here, and watching, and — God, what if he did recognize you? What if that was why he kept coming back?

He doesn’t know, you told yourself again. He couldn’t possibly. You’re nothing to him but a group project partner. A girl who always smells faintly like vanilla and hides behind baggy clothes.

Not this.

Not Fawn.

Still, your stomach wouldn’t settle.

Even as you left through the back exit and slipped into the night, Mingyu’s eyes burned in your mind.

⸻

You felt it coming before he said a word.

Something in the way he kept glancing up from his annotated copy of your project outline, the way his leg bounced just a little under the table, like he was working up the nerve for something. You tried to focus on the page in front of you, but your stomach dipped the way it did before a test — that terrible, anticipatory flutter you couldn’t quite control.

You were at the café, late afternoon sun bleeding through the windows, casting golden light across Mingyu’s face. You hated how good he looked in it.

“I was thinking…” he began, trying for casual but missing by a mile.

You didn’t look up.

Mingyu shifted. “Since we’re basically almost done with the project in the next couple weeks… maybe we could go out sometime? Like—just us?”

Your hands stopped moving.

You stared down at the table. The air between you felt charged, like it was waiting for your next move.

“Dinner, or—whatever you like,” he added quickly, like he was trying to soften the edges of it. “Not as a study thing. Just… because I want to.”

You looked up at him then. His eyes were warm, a little nervous. Hopeful in a way that made something in your chest ache. You’ve never seen the campus’ most famous man ever look this uneasy before.

And for a moment, God, you almost said yes.

Because he was funny. Because he looked at you like you mattered, even when you were wearing your raggedy clothes and hadn’t brushed your hair.

But the feeling didn’t last.

That familiar, cold weight settled in your chest. A memory you kept tightly locked away — one that surfaced now like a bruise when pressed too hard.

You remembered the noise. The music. The flicker of lights. The sound of someone’s voice — sharp and careless. The way it had made your stomach turn. The way you’d wanted to disappear. The whole reason you’ve always tried pushing him away. Never letting the comfortability you felt around him truly develop.

“No,” you said, sharper than you intended. “That’s not a good idea.”

Mingyu blinked. “Oh. Okay.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Was worth a shot.”

You nodded, jaw tight. “I just… don’t think of you that way.”

That was a lie.

You were starting to. And that terrified you.

Mingyu stood, brushing cookie crumbs off his hoodie. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, not looking at you now.

“See you Thursday?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

He gave a little wave before walking off, the late sun catching in his hair like he was made of it. You didn’t watch him go, but you felt the empty space he left behind like a phantom ache.

You sat there for a long time after, hands clenched around your coffee cup, the laptop screen dimming in front of you.

You told yourself you were protecting yourself. That you knew better.

But it didn’t make the guilt sting any less.

⸻

Mingyu slid into the seat across from you, the air between you heavy with something unspoken. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. After everything—the rejection, the silence, the distance—this felt fragile, like the smallest wrong move could shatter it all.

You kept your eyes on your notebook, pretending not to notice the way his usual confident smile was gone, replaced by a shadow of disappointment. It hurt more than you wanted to admit.

Your thoughts drifted as you started to work, and you caught yourself wondering why Mingyu hadn’t been around lately—not just at the club, but anywhere. You hadn’t seen him in days. The thought prickled your nerves, but you quickly shoved it down.

He probably has a million girls lining up for him anyway, you reminded yourself coldly. He’s just a stuck-up party boy. Nothing to care about.

You forced your fingers to move across your notes, trying to focus on your project, but the tension between you was suffocating.

When Mingyu glanced at you with a tentative smile, guilt stung somewhere deep. But just as quickly, anger bubbled up. You weren’t going to be the fool who got hurt. Not again.

Suddenly, it became too much. The room seemed to close in, the weight of all the feelings you refused to face pressing down.

“I’m going to the restroom,” you said abruptly, standing before he could respond.

Your footsteps echoed as you hurried into the bathroom, the cool tile walls grounding you.

Leaning against the sink, you stared at your reflection, willing yourself to feel nothing.

He’s just some arrogant boy, you repeated silently. Not the kind of guy who’d want someone like me. I’m not that easy.

Your heart felt tight, but you forced the lie down deep, where all the other ones lived.

⸻

Back at the table, your laptop sat open — and with it, your carefully hidden secret.

You hadn’t meant to leave your Tumblr dashboard up. It was a dumb mistake, careless and distracted.

The moment you left the study room, Mingyu felt it — that flicker of unease. The quiet you left behind buzzed with everything unsaid.

His eyes landed on your laptop. The screen was still open, the page glowing softly in the afternoon light.

Curiosity tugged at him like a string he couldn’t stop pulling.

He leaned forward. Your dashboard loaded fully — dark, moody, carefully curated. The feed was full of grainy film stills, denim jackets, flickering motel signs, old books, scratched records. A world of aesthetic and emotion that felt raw and intentional.

And then he saw the number of followers.

His eyebrows rose.

Whoever you were in this corner of the internet, it was big.

He scrolled — and stopped on a video.

The thumbnail was dim and unmistakable. A masked figure, poised mid-spin, caught in shadow and light. Her silhouette fierce and fluid.

His stomach dropped.

He clicked play.

The music started low — a haunting familiar Deftones track that tugged at his chest. On screen, the dancer twisted and flowed, all grace and tension, spinning in perfect rhythm.

You.

He knew it before the video was halfway through.

Your body, your posture, the way your shoulder curved when you reached up — the same way it always did when you stretched in your seat in class. The small mole near your collarbone. The shape of your legs. Even under the mask, even under the light — it was you.

His breath caught in his throat.

The shy girl with ink on your fingers and holes in your jeans — the one who never made eye contact and bit your lip when you were nervous — was Fawn.

The mysterious dancer who moved like music. The woman who has been haunting his thoughts right next to you.

He stared at the screen, heart thudding against his ribs, mind racing.

It’s her.

It didn’t make sense, and yet it made all the sense in the world.

He watched the video again. Slower this time. Reverent.

He saw the artistry now — not just the seduction. The emotion behind every spin. The ache you carried in your body, how you held tension in your hands like a story.

You weren’t just dancing.

You were saying something.

He was still watching, stunned silent, when the door creaked open and he quickly shifted.

You stepped back into the room slowly, eyes wary, hands stuffed in your pockets.

You met his eyes. His expression was unreadable, his fingers tight on his notebook, eagerly looking at the pages in front of him.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”

But you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

And he didn’t say anything else. Not about what he’d seen. Not about what he knew.

But you felt it hanging between you — heavy and fragile.

He’d seen behind the mask.

And now, nothing would be the same.

⸻

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dozybeez · 10 days ago

Text

Spin For Me (Pt. One)

She’s the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He’s the campus heartthrob who’s used to getting what he wants—except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part two

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 2.3k

content warnings: slowish burn, eventual smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size and innocence kink. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I’m a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones

- Robbers by The 1975

- That Funny Feeling by Phoebe Bridgers

The lecture hall smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and cheap coffee. It buzzed with that mid-semester kind of tired—hoodies tugged over faces, headphones in, eyes on the clock instead of the slides.

You weren’t invisible.

Not in the way people usually meant it.

You were seen—just misread. Easily boxed in, easily ignored. In lecture halls filled with raised hands and loud, overconfident voices, you were the person in the back row with your hood pulled over your ears, black flats tapping lightly against the floor while you took neat, quiet notes.

No one looked twice. And if they did, it was only to borrow a pen.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

Until Kim Mingyu walked into class ten minutes late.

The door swung open like he owned the place. Sunglasses perched on his nose despite the cloudy forecast and a white tee stretched across his chest like it was tailored just to show off how broad and well-built he was. That half-grin had made him the most followed student on campus—15K and counting. He had a height that forced anyone to lean around him just to see the board whenever he was in a row in front of them. He gave the professor a lazy nod and ignored the dozen girls who immediately perked up in their seats as he dropped into the chair beside you like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t already trying to disappear.

You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him look at you.

“Group project presentations,” Professor Norris announced, clapping once to pull focus. “Partners are posted. No trades. Don’t ask. You have three months.”

Your stomach sank before you even looked.

A rustle of movement. Groans. Whispers about how unlucky they were not to be matched with Mingyu.

You flipped open your laptop to check the pairing list and whose name resided in the spot next to yours.

Kim, Mingyu

No.

No no no.

You felt him turn toward you the second he saw the same list. You couldn’t even process how he was able to match your name to your face, never having interacted with the campus heartthrob before.

“Looks like it’s you and me,” he said, smiling wide like it was good news.

You didn’t return it. “Great.”

No giggle. No flip of your hair. No “Oh my God, I totally follow you on Insta!” like the girl in front of you had said during the last class lecture. You just stared back at your laptop like you weren’t next to the most popular guy on campus. Like you hadn’t seen his face on flyers, tagged in party pics, or shirtless in more thirst traps than you could count.

Something in your tone made his smile falter—just for a second. But then he laughed like you were kidding, like you couldn’t possibly mean it.

“You free after class?” he asked. “We can talk through a game plan.”

You closed your laptop slowly. “I have work.”

“Okay, then maybe—”

“I’ll email you.”

And with that, you stood, shoved your laptop into your tote, and slipped out the side exit before the rest of the room even processed the assignment.

⸻

Mingyu stared at the empty seat you’d left behind.

It wasn’t that people didn’t say no to him. It happened. Sometimes.

But they didn’t say it like that.

Like they’d already decided who he was.

He scratched the back of his neck, still watching the door you’d walked out of.

⸻

The library study rooms on the second floor were always just a little too warm.

Mingyu tugged his sweatshirt over his head and dropped it onto the empty chair across from him. Underneath, his designer top showed his shoulders too well. He wasn’t trying to show off—well, not really—but he also wasn’t apologizing for it either.

You walked in exactly two minutes late. Oversized black hoodie, hair up in a messy claw clip. Your flats were silent on the tile. You didn’t look at him as you sat down.

You pulled out a worn spiral notebook instead of a laptop. Mingyu blinked. “Going analog?”

“It doesn’t die on me.”

He opened his laptop. “Fair.”

Silence. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“So, uh… should we just start with the topic?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were flipping through the first few pages of your notebook, all neat handwriting and annotated margins. When you finally glanced at him, it was like you’d only just remembered he was there.

“I already picked one,” you said. “You can veto it if you want.”

Mingyu leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Taking charge, huh?”

You stared.

He threw his hands up. “No complaints. What is it?”

“Emotional repression and memory retention.”

Mingyu blinked. “That’s… intense.”

You shrugged. “It’s Psych 3023.”

“I was thinking something lighter. Like social media attachment.”

“You mean influencers?”

He grinned. “You say that like it’s a dirty word.”

You didn’t grin back. “Isn’t it?”

Mingyu let out a soft laugh. You were sharper than you looked. He wasn’t used to that. Most people talked to him like he was a golden retriever with a ring light. But you? You looked at him like he was a pop-up ad you didn’t remember clicking on.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go with yours.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m flexible.”

You narrowed your eyes. He noticed—again—how big they were. Soft, doe-like. You blinked twice and looked away, like you were annoyed you’d been caught looking at him at all.

“Fine,” you muttered, uncapping your pen. “We’ll split the research. Half each. Meet again Friday?”

“Works for me,” he said, folding his arms behind his head. “Your place or mine?”

You looked at him flatly.

“Or the library,” he clarified with a grin.

“You’re not funny.”

“I kinda am.”

You stood before he could finish the thought, already packing your things. “Friday. Four. Don’t be late.”

He watched you walk out again. Same way you had in class—fast, focused, like you couldn’t wait to get away from him.

Mingyu let out a low breath.

He was used to people liking him right away.

But you?

You didn’t just not like him—you looked at him like he was a disappointment you’d already predicted.

And for some reason… that made him want to try harder.

⸻

You had two hours before your shift started. Enough time to switch.

Your dorm room was small and cluttered—textbooks in one corner, a makeup bag you rarely touched sitting unopened on the dresser.

The two-piece was already laid out on your bed. Pale pink, almost childish, with a satin ribbon tying across the back of the top. It looked like it belonged to someone with gum in their mouth and sparkles in their hair.

You pulled it on in silence.

You tied the ribbon. Adjusted the straps. Then you sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the mirror while you tied your notorious soft satin half-mask with little black lace trim.

You blinked slowly at the person staring back.

Fawn blinked back.

⸻

At Club Indigo, Fawn didn’t have to speak unless she wanted to. The lighting was dark—deep cherry reds and pools of purple. You took your time stretching backstage, your body moving to the low pulse of the music already spilling out from the main room.

Your name was on the lineup—third from the top.

You didn’t strip. Never had. You didn’t even give private dances. That was the rule. That was how Fawn stayed safe while working in your college town. Mentally and physically.

You danced.

And when the first notes of Deftones’ ��Change (In the House of Flies)” echoed through the room, you stepped onto the stage, barefoot with light delicate steps, and climbed the pole.

Above the noise and lights and breathless stares, you finally felt in control.

⸻

The library smelled like burnt coffee and printer paper. You were already regretting agreeing to this study session.

Not because of the material—but because Mingyu had an undeniable way of drawing attention just by existing.

The tall ones always did.. and the ones that had faces like Kim Mingyu.

He sauntered into your corner of the library a couple minutes late, hoodie bunched at his elbow, still somehow managing to look like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot. His laptop was tucked under one arm, headphones tangled in his fingers, and two girls from across the room immediately perked up when they saw him.

You pretended not to notice.

He spotted you and smiled, bright and lazy. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, collapsing into the seat beside you. “Had to walk a friend to class.”

You nodded without looking up. “We’re already behind on the lit review.”

“Always so serious,” he muttered, pulling out his charger.

Another girl drifted by your table—a blonde in a tennis skirt who paused, leaned down, and touched Mingyu’s shoulder like she had every right to.

“Hey, you still coming Friday?”

You didn’t look up.

Mingyu glanced at you briefly before answering. “Probably not. Got a thing.”

“A thing?” The girl smiled, tilting her head. “You ditching me again?”

He laughed, low and polite. “Work. Group project.”

She blinked down at you like she hadn’t noticed you until just now. “Oh.”

You just kept typing.

“Good luck then,” the girl said after a moment, her smile fading, before walking away.

Mingyu sighed and leaned closer. “Sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“The plague of being stupidly charming.”

You shot him a deadpan look.

He grinned. “Kidding.”

You didn’t smile, but you also didn’t tell him to shut up. Small victories.

⸻

That night, you sat curled up at your desk, the glow of your laptop the only light in the room.

You’d just finished editing a short pole routine—a slow, eerie clip to “Robbers” by The 1975. Your grip was clean. Your spins, effortless.

You wore a mask in the video, just like always. Your hair swayed over your bare shoulders like curtains.

You uploaded it to your Tumblr. Two hundred thousand followers. Dozens of reblogs in seconds.

You closed the tab before the notes could start piling up.

This part of your life—your secret Tumblr, the masked Fawn, the quiet kind of fame—none of it existed outside of your laptop.

You went to bed in an oversized T-shirt and socks, not checking your phone.

⸻

The study session was, miraculously, productive.

At least until you hit a new section, and you leaned forward to help explain the concept to Mingyu, only to realize Mingyu’s arm was stretched across the back of your chair.

He wasn’t touching you. Not really. But he was close—close enough to be noticeable. He wasn’t even looking at you, just staring at the screen, listening with his brow furrowed like he was genuinely trying.

Still. You scooted half an inch away.

“You always do that?” he asked after a while.

“Do what?”

“Lean away whenever I move.”

You blinked. “I don’t.”

“You just did.”

“I just—” You paused, frowning. “You’re tall. You take up space.”

He smiled. “So it’s a spatial issue.”

“Yes.”

“Got it.”

A pause.

Then, under his breath, he added, “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone so easily flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pink.”

You shut your laptop a little too hard. “We’re done for today.”

⸻

Back in your room that night, you pulled your laptop into your lap, opened a private browser tab, and typed in your Tumblr handle.

Your latest video had almost 60,000 notes. Just you, in your usual black ruffle set, spinning slowly on the pole in a dim-lit studio. The mask covered most of your face, and your hair was down, hiding the rest.

Nothing overtly sexual. Just movement. Art. Mood.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then closed the screen.

⸻

Mingyu liked the campus café in the morning because no one expected him to talk.

He kept his sunglasses on and his hood up as he leaned over the counter. “Two sugars, no cream.”

The barista nodded—she already knew.

He’d barely sat down when the bell above the door jingled again.

You.

You were in your usual morning armor—giant hoodie (navy this time), jeans cuffed at the ankle, and mary janes. A spiral-bound book was hugged to your chest like a shield. You didn’t look around. You didn’t see him.

He almost didn’t say anything.

But then again… almost wasn’t really his style.

“You stalking me?” he asked casually as you approached the counter.

You flinched. Just slightly. Then rolled your eyes. “God, do you live here?”

“Only when I’m hungover or avoiding the gym.”

You ordered tea—no milk, no sugar—paid in exact change, then turned and caught him still watching you.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t peg you as a tea person.”

“And I didn’t peg you as a person who reads.”

Mingyu clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Ouch.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. It was tiny—barely there—but it was the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t a wall.

He tapped the empty chair across from him. “Come on. Sit. We’re supposed to be friends now.”

“We’re not.”

“Okay. Co-researchers?”

You hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t ask about your tragic backstory.”

You rolled your eyes again, but you sat.

You sipped in silence for a while. Outside, campus was already coming alive—groups of girls in tennis skirts, someone skating by with a speaker, a guy on a bike nearly running into a recycling bin. The usual.

Mingyu noticed your eyes flick to a group of laughing students by the window. You looked at them like they were a movie you’d already seen too many times.

“You don’t hang out much, huh?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I don’t like noise.”

“That’s probably why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You just don’t like me.”

You met his eyes then. “You’re loud. And everyone’s always looking at you.”

He tilted his head. “And that’s bad because…?”

“It’s not bad,” you said slowly. “It’s just… everything you do seems like it’s for show.”

That caught him off guard.

You went on before he could respond. “You know how some people walk into a room and it feels like they’re trying to win something?”

Mingyu blinked. “You think I’m trying too hard?”

“I think you’re used to being liked,” you said simply. “And when you’re not, it bugs you.”

You picked up your tea and took a sip, calm as ever.

Mingyu just stared. He wasn’t used to being read like that. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

But he was sure of one thing: you saw through people like glass.

And now he was dying to know what else you’d see if you actually looked.

⸻

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