In Your Eyes 5

I am not meant to be here and I know it.

It does not stop me though, as I loom over the sleeping figure that has branded so many people's walls on posters, has been the face of many internet users on their profile avatars.

I am an unseen watcher: a close follower of their work. "Their" being the group this man is part of known as ATEEZ, Korean-Pop boy-group sensation. One of many in a country that churns out pop groups as easily as weeds on grass.

I'm a fan; I'm an ATINY.

It is why I decide to see things on a closer level with one member, in particular: Jung Woo-Young. I have crossed paths with them indirectly; that common fan-idol connection where the idols are always distant as they perform beneath starbursts of spotlights and do vigorous, tiring dances, and the fans cheer on and support and love them online or in the crowd, and if you're lucky, you meet eyes but they more often than not won't remember your name when it's all over. Where some relinquish that idea and cling onto some hope that they will remember me! i hope i made some impact on them! I would rather stay forgotten, reduced to a concept of "just another fan."

I linger in Wooyoung's room for different ways to breach our meeting this way.

One could say this is astral projection--how I can access and find him just by mere intention-- others would say ghostly, undead possession. But, I am not dead, and I am not a ghost. I am still attached to my own body, but tonight it will not be mine. I am alive just as much as the next fan.

Alive like him; alive like the man who has provided so many energized performances that is now asleep. His chest rises and lowers with each breath. He looks content. From their uploaded videos the tired look in his eyes was still scraping for energy, trying to find some spark on why he loved this job that tired him out so much. This is the only solace he finds during the dead of night when his job and time-tight schedule can be tucked away on the shelf, reminded just when he wakes up again from the land of temporary death: sleep.

I sit next to him-- more like float as I seldom feel a thing. He must sense me, too, unconsciously, for he pulls his blanket over his shoulders and clings onto it as if for dear life away from the sudden burst of cold.

I live some Atinys' dream to touch their idol, hover a hand over his cheek which in my incorporeal state feels warm. I phase through him but he does not react this time. Then, I plunge in.

It comes up as an intent: take over him, and I feel myself pulled in like wind by the coastal shores, then a calmness. It blankets over me and I feel a wave of tranquil, a sense of calm that has been foreign to me up until now.

Everything goes dark, the fire of a candle gone cold.

I gasp alive and sit up. The air perpetually under me has solidified to an actual mattress at my back. I am solid, I am here. For a moment, I am him.

Or, I think I am. I get out of bed to check, disregarding the cold floor that creaks with the slightest weight. I turn on the light by the door and check feverishly around for a mirror.

"Ugh, what are you doing?"

I stop in the middle of my excitement to follow the source of the voice. A roommate. Oops. I recognize him already, but silence the shyness rising up in my stomach and try to act natural; a fly on the wall prefers to stay hidden, vigilant, but invisible. It's Jongho. Irritation lightly weighs the ends of his mouth to a frown, makes his brow furrow as he can barely maintain a glare at me. too tired and sleepy. He looks like he will fall back asleep any minute.

"N-nothing," how I know the language is beyond me. It comes out as natural as water from rain clouds, pouring out even if I assume I am thinking in another language. "Go to sleep, okay? Sorry for waking you," I apologize and Jongho is too tired to press for more questions. He already lowers his head back down to the pillow and I shut off the lights, sliding into some slippers. Then, I venture down the hallways of the dorms.

My knowledge on the ATEEZ boys is surface-level, but it doesn't take a genius to navigate through this simple layout. I break free from the labyrinth of halls, doors to offices and dorms and kitchens, to the dancing room. I open it hesitantly, grateful to hear the still silence of it all. I flip on one of the light switches which has the backlights flicker on. Yep. It is how it appears in the dancing videos: a typical dancing studio with wooden floors, wall-to-ceiling mirrors all around.

I see myself-- Wooyoung-- staring at me from the reflection. I almost think it is someone else, having been used to seeing my original body of don't-you-worry-about-that. I close the door behind me and approach the mirrors, staring in fixation and admiration of finally being able to be the idol I have seen many times before. I touch Wooyoung's chiseled jawline, observe the hands that have gripped the other members' be it in lighthearted exchanges or intense choreography. In the reflection, Wooyoung copies everything I do as I move. I even arch a brow, give a flare of mischief and seduction in his eyes that is familiar in his Artist of the Month performance.

You could say I am just a casual fan, though. (Maybe.)

"Hello," I test the voice out, hearing echoes of him mimic what I say. "Damn, I look hot," I say, admiring the figure, the idol that so many have known. I feel a heat stirring up in my stomach. I first mistook it for excitement, as it started up light and fizzy in the beginning but escalated into a desire to venture more with this body, see more that not many have known.

His heart beats erratically and it's probably due to the rushing thoughts, the rushing blood going.. down.. somewhere.

"He shouldn't mind. I don't think so," I say, taking a glance back to the door. The opaque glass does not show any shadows, so that is a promising start. With it being this late, no one should come here. No one at all. I look back, meeting the eyes of my reflection, then lower my focus.

A hand snakes to grab the hem of his t-shirt and lift it, exposing his abs. With my other hand, I feel across the warm skin, ticklish to myself, but it is rock-solid. A simple flex and the outlines of his abdomen deepen. Then, the holy grail, if I follow the trail further down.

I tuck a thumb beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms and boxer-briefs, pulling it open and looking down to see it myself, without any mirror. I gasp, heart running a mile a minute, wanting to leap out of my throat. "Oh, my god," I whisper in Wooyoung's voice, lowly. This is probably just another masturbation session for him so it should not be any bad.

Steeling myself, I lower his bottoms to his knees, watching the reflection mirror the same. Exposed was his length, so innocently there, but hardening from what I can feel as a strange extension of myself. When I touch the tip, I feel a shock run through Wooyoung and I's spine, making me shiver in anticipation, in a carnal hunger that I just need to satiate.

I use Wooyoung's tongue to run over his lower lip and I take a seat down on the cold floor, disregarding how bone-cold it was. I lay down, making sure the mirror catches the entire body of Wooyoung. I believe I have seen or read enough literary works to know what to do, so I begin after a spit onto the palm of Wooyoung's-- my-- hand.

I grip the shaft, stroking it, the sensations foreign to me through this perspective. I stare up at the ceiling, adjusting my head so Wooyoung's ebony bangs don't curtain my vision. It all feels good and I feel so much of the blood draining there like a dam broken from the rest of the body, streaming directly to his manhood. It gets harder in my hand and I gasp with every other stroke, thumbing the head in slight circles that I cannot help but arch my back. I turn my head to the side to spare a glance to my reflection, seeing wooyoung do just the same. I moan aloud, his velvety-smooth voice rolling out so sensual and sultry that it gets me more stirred up and excited.

So, this is how Wooyoung looks when he's feeling himself.

I can't complain. I get the front row view of it all, feeling it as himself, experiencing it all as himself.

"Ah!" The longer time crawls up, the more shivers start wracking my body. Wooyoung's pleading expression, so vulnerable, as I look at the face I'm making in the mirror, is driving me crazy. I moan again and over and over, that I think it's a damn stroke of luck no one has found me here-- well, Wooyoung here-- doing these things.

The precum of his erection starts to go from busted garden hose to leaking sink pipe. I look down and the head is coated with his semen. The sounds of Wooyoung's moans fill my ears as I imagine this is probably how he sounds like usually when he gets in the mood or feels any typical sex-hungry urges.

"Fuck... Fuck! Oh, my god," I cannot help my volume as those fabled colors that people write about in fics start to burst around my vision. Breathing gets harder and labored, until I am moaning with every breath and groaning, soaking in the sight of the reflection, of Wooyoung with his half-lidded eyes burdened with this overwhelming lust and arousal, as every stroke on his erection just sends us higher and higher towards the peak-- then off it, climaxing.

I release so much as him that I did not care. My heart lodges in my throat, sounds of orgasm coming out in manhood spurts or myself practically gasping and moaning and whining with Wooyoung's voice. I feel lighter than even when I was a mere spectre in the room, soaring even higher than cloud nine to the point I can sail on cloud fifty-thousand or something. The euphoria leaves me stuck in a dreamlike trance for a moment, post-nut haze probably the source of how good releasing feels.

The descent of post-cum makes me dizzy and I think I crashed into a headache. I tell myself to keep this memory with me when I leave his body and return back, knowing this was not a mere dream, but that this is all real for me, treasured like my own little secret sealed in my heart.

I look to the mirror and, cliche as it may be, kiss it as some indirect way to make connection with Wooyoung. No one will believe an intruder was in the body of Jung Woo-Young anyway, just that maddening, male-horninness overrode his mind in an extra down-bad day today. Wooyoung will think that, too. "You're so beautiful, Wooyoung. A nice fuck, too," I say as if he can actually hear me use his body to tell him this.

I'd like to think he will get a hazy night of remembering that weird wet dream he jerked off in the dance room. It makes me laugh to myself.

As I am about to get up and put the clothes back on and clean up, I hear the door to the dance room turn and I am midway pulling my pants up until I spot another member stepping in: Choi San.

We lock eyes.

"Uh, you good, man? I was looking for you..."

That excitement starts building in me again and I think I'll have a round two real soon.