Lacy Euphoria

His Favorite Girl/Part Two: Becoming Real to Him

Originally published on AO3.

🔞 Adults 18+. MDNI. Fictional fanwork using names fictitiously for entertainment. Not real, endorsed, affiliated, or a claim of real events. All romantic and sexual content is between consenting adults. Please consume fiction with media literacy intact.

The bass reaches you before the stage does, rising through the club floor and settling in your ribs as you follow your best friend toward the raised section near the front. She notices the view immediately, turning toward you with suspicion already sharpening beneath her excitement. “You said the tickets were good,” she says, glancing from the stage back to you, “but this is not regular good.” You only lift one shoulder and tell her you got lucky, which is not entirely a lie. Luck had something to do with it once. Now Mingi’s staff knows your face.

The room darkens before she can press further. The crowd surges forward, voices breaking against one another as the opening beat drops, and then Mingi steps into the light dressed in black, the jacket open over his chest and the microphone low in one hand. He takes in the room once before his eyes find you.

The recognition lasts only a second, but you feel it.

Then the first line of “Cash Money” leaves his mouth.

“Gimme that pussy, pussy, pussy. My dick is hard. The time is now. Climb on.”

Your best friend grabs your wrist and leans toward you with her mouth open. “He cannot be serious,” she says, half laughing, half stunned, while you keep your eyes on the stage and pretend the heat moving through you has nothing to do with the way Mingi is looking directly at you.

He turns away when the verse begins, but the line stays under your skin. The time is now. Climb on. You hear it again every time he crosses the stage, every time the lights catch the familiar angle of his mouth, every time his gaze returns to where you stand.

Beside you, your best friend follows one of those looks and narrows her eyes. “Was he looking at you?” she asks. You tell her he was looking in your direction, but she does not buy it. She studies you for another second before saying, “You are entirely too calm for somebody this close to him.” You laugh and tell her she is imagining things, but she keeps watching you like she has already found the first crack in your story.

The rest of the set moves quickly, though “Cash Money” never really leaves you. By the time the final song ends, your body has been humming with the same question for nearly an hour.

A member of staff approaches while the crowd begins thinning and tells you quietly that Mingi would like to see you backstage. Your best friend goes still beside you, waiting until the staff member steps away before asking, “How exactly do you have backstage access?” You lift your bag onto your shoulder and tell her you won a private fan meet. She looks unconvinced, but excitement wins over suspicion before she can pull the lie apart.

Security leads both of you down a narrow hallway and into the backstage lounge, where the performance has already dissolved into a quieter kind of celebration. Music plays low near the bar while musicians, dancers, and staff move through the room with drinks in their hands.

Mingi is standing near the couch when he sees you.

His gaze moves over you slowly before returning to your face. The look is brief enough that nobody else would think anything of it, but you know better now. When he crosses the room, he greets your friend politely, then looks back at you and says, “You came.” You remind him that he invited you, and the corner of his mouth lifts.

Your best friend notices the exchange, though she does not get the chance to question it. The drummer appears beside her a moment later, offering her a drink and asking if she enjoyed the show. She tells him she enjoyed the drummer, which is bold enough to make Mingi cough into his glass. Within minutes, the two of them drift toward the bar and then farther into the room, leaving you and Mingi near the couch.

He sits first, one arm resting along the back cushion while you settle beside him with enough distance to appear harmless. His fingers find the back of your neck anyway, hidden beneath your hair. “You liked the song?” he asks.

You glance toward him and say, “The subtle one?”

“It was not supposed to be subtle.”

“No shit.”

His fingers move once against your skin, and the touch is so light that it almost feels imagined. “You kept looking at me,” he says.

“You kept looking back.”

“I knew where you were before I walked onstage.”

You turn toward him slightly. “How?”

“Staff told me you arrived.”

The answer settles warmly inside you. It should feel unsettling, perhaps, but it does not. It feels like proof that he had been waiting for you.

Your best friend disappears from the lounge with the drummer not long after that, sending you a single message telling you not to wait up. Mingi reads it over your shoulder and laughs softly before the room begins emptying around you.

One by one, the guests leave. Staff collects the last glasses. The music drops lower. When the final person steps out, the door closes behind them and the lock clicks.

Mingi remains beside you on the couch, watching you with the patience of somebody who already knows what you are about to ask.

You set your glass on the table and turn toward him. “That first line in ‘Cash Money,’” you begin, letting your knee brush his thigh. “You looked directly at me when you said it.”

“I did.”

The easy answer tightens something in your stomach. “Was it about you?”

“Partly.”

You study his face before asking, “What was the other part?”

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth. “You.”

The room feels smaller.

You had expected teasing, maybe arrogance, but not the truth delivered so simply. “You wrote it after the hotel?” you ask, and he nods, telling you he could still smell you everywhere and could not sit still long enough for Seonghwa to stop laughing at him.

You move closer, letting your hand settle against his chest. “So when you said your dick was hard, you meant because of me?”

His hand closes around your waist. “Yeah.”

You slide your palm lower, feeling the answer beneath his clothes before asking, “Is it still hard?”

The laugh that leaves him is quiet, but it breaks when your hand strokes him through the fabric. “You waited all night to ask me that?”

“No.” You lean close enough for your mouth to brush his jaw. “I waited to find out whether the time is still now.”

His breathing changes.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “And whether you still want me to climb on.”

For one suspended second, he only looks at you.

Then both hands close around your hips and pull you over his lap.

The kiss is immediate, but not careless. It carries every glance he had to hide from the stage and every hour spent pretending you were not the reason behind the song. His mouth opens beneath yours while his hands settle firmly against your waist, drawing you closer until the hard length of him presses between your thighs.

You roll your hips once and feel his breath break against your mouth.

“Was the whole song about me?” you ask.

“Who the fuck else would it be about?”

The confession lands harder than the lyric.

You kiss him again while your fingers open his shirt, and his mouth moves down your throat with the same hunger that has been waiting beneath his restraint all night. “Everybody heard you say it,” you breathe when his teeth graze your skin.

“I was saying it to you.”

His hand slides beneath your dress and finds the wet heat between your thighs. The first touch makes your hips jerk against him, and he stills for half a second before looking at you. “Since the song?” he asks.

You nod.

One finger slips inside, then another, his thumb moving slowly over your clit while he watches your face. You grip his shoulders and try to hold still, but the rhythm he finds makes that impossible.

“You sat there beside your friend like nothing happened,” he says.

“My friend was beside me.”

“You could have come back sooner.”

“You were working.”

“I would have stopped.”

“For me?”

He curls his fingers, pulling a sharp breath from your mouth before leaning closer. “For my favorite girl.”

The words undo what remains of your patience.

You slide from his lap and sink between his knees, opening his pants while he watches you with the same hunger you felt from the stage. His dick springs hard into your hand, and when you stroke him once, his head tips back against the couch.

“So this was the inspiration?” you ask.

“Part of it.”

“And the rest?”

“You.”

You lower your mouth over him before he can say anything else.

His hand settles in your hair, not pushing, only holding while you take him deeper. You let your tongue move along him slowly, then faster, listening to the restraint leave his breathing one piece at a time.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I missed your mouth.”

You pull back enough to look up at him. “You have known my mouth for barely a day.”

“I missed it anyway.”

The answer makes you take him deeper.

He stops you before he can lose control, pulling you back onto your feet and kissing you without caring what he tastes on your mouth. His hands grip your thighs and guide your legs around his waist while he carries you toward the wall.

Your back meets it with a controlled impact, his body pressing against yours while his mouth returns to your throat. He pushes your dress higher and pulls your panties aside before asking, “You want me?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

His breathing breaks. “That is not enough.”

You reach between your bodies and close your hand around him. “I want your dick inside me.”

His eyes close for half a second.

“Now,” you add. “The time is now.”

He laughs against your mouth, already wrecked. “You are never going to let me live that line down.”

“No.”

He retrieves protection and rolls it on before guiding himself between your thighs. The head presses against your entrance, and he looks at you once more. “Still want to climb on?”

You lower yourself onto him.

The stretch steals your breath.

His hands tighten beneath your thighs while he holds still, giving your body time to open around him. You press your forehead against his and breathe through the fullness until the tension slowly leaves your muscles.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

You lift slightly and sink down again.

The groan that leaves him vibrates through both of you.

His mouth finds yours as he begins moving you against the wall, lifting and lowering your body while your legs lock around his waist. Each thrust reaches deeper, your back pressing into the cool surface while his chest remains hot against yours.

“This what you wanted during the song?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You pictured this?”

“Yes.”

“Against the wall?”

You tighten around him. “Everywhere.”

Something in his expression shifts.

He carries you toward the couch without pulling out, lowering you onto the cushions before settling between your thighs. The new angle drives him deeper, and your cry catches against his mouth while his pace turns faster.

His hand moves between your bodies, fingers finding your clit while he keeps thrusting. “I wanted you thinking about me,” he says.

“I was.”

“All night?”

“All fucking night.”

The pressure builds quickly. You feel it gathering beneath his hand, sharpened by the way he watches you and the way his mouth keeps finding yours between broken breaths. When the orgasm hits, your body tightens around him and your legs lock at his waist.

He holds you through it.

Then you push against his chest.

He stops instantly, concern flashing through his face until you guide him back against the couch and climb over him.

Understanding replaces it.

You lower yourself onto him, facing away this time, and the new angle makes you gasp. His hands close around your hips while his mouth moves along your back. You begin to ride him slowly, then harder, rolling your hips until the pressure finds exactly what you need.

“This what you wanted?” he asks against your shoulder.

“I wanted to climb on.”

His laugh breaks when you sink lower around him. Then his hands tighten at your waist and he drives upward.

“Then ride me.”

You do.

Every movement becomes rougher, wetter, more desperate. You use his thighs for balance while his fingers slide between your legs and return to your clit. The second orgasm catches you before you are ready, your body tightening around him while your rhythm breaks apart.

Mingi wraps one arm around your waist and holds you against his chest. “That is it,” he says near your ear. “Let me feel it.”

You collapse back against him, shaking.

He turns you carefully onto your hands and knees across the couch, his palm moving over your ass before he positions himself behind you. “You said every inch of the room,” he reminds you.

You look back at him. “I did.”

He pushes inside.

The first thrust knocks the breath from your body.

His hand closes around your hip while the other slides along your spine, keeping you pressed forward as his pace begins. The couch groans beneath both of you, every movement driving you deeper into the cushions while he fucks you with the same restless energy he carried across the stage.

“You wrote that line because of me?” you ask, voice breaking.

“Yes.”

“You were thinking about this?”

“Yes.”

His fingers find you again while he keeps moving. “Your mouth. Your pussy. You on top of me.”

The words pull you closer to the edge.

“You wanted the whole crowd to hear it?”

“I wanted you to.”

Your body tightens around him again.

He feels it and lowers his mouth to your shoulder. “Come for me.”

“I cannot.”

“You can.”

“Mingi.”

“Come for me.”

Your body obeys before your mind does. Pleasure crashes through you, muscles clenching around him while your arms nearly give out beneath you. He catches your waist and keeps you upright, thrusts turning uneven as your body pulses around him.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I am close.”

You push back against him. “Then come.”

His grip tightens.

“Come for me,” you say, looking over your shoulder. “I want to feel you lose it.”

The last of his control disappears.

His rhythm breaks apart, every thrust rougher than the one before until he presses deeply inside you and comes with your name torn from his mouth. His body folds over yours, chest against your back while both of you struggle to breathe.

For a while, neither of you moves.

The bass from the club still vibrates faintly beneath the floor while his mouth rests against your shoulder.

You laugh first.

Mingi lifts his head. “What?”

“The time was definitely now.”

He drops his forehead against your back and groans. “I hate you.”

“No, you do not.”

“No,” he admits, kissing your shoulder. “I really do not.”

Later, with the room quiet and the first pale light beginning to reach the windows, you lie beside him on the couch with your leg resting across his waist. He draws slow circles against your thigh while you trace one finger along his chest.

“You never answered properly,” you say.

“Answered what?”

“The song.”

His expression softens. “What about it?”

“You said it was partly about you.”

“It was.”

“And the rest?”

Mingi brushes your hair away from your face. “It was always about you.”

The answer settles more quietly than everything that happened before it.

You kiss him.

This time, neither of you is in a hurry.