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you’ve been with mingyu long enough that his quirks don’t bother you.
he likes singing while he’s cooking. he can only fold laundry when it’s dark out. he only likes horror movies with the non-supernatural antagonists. if there’s a zombie or ghost in it, he laughs like it’s no one’s business. he cuddles into your chest like he’s trying to physically crawl inside of you when he’s bone-tired. sometimes, he forgets to put his glasses away before he falls asleep.
which is why you don’t think much of it at first. boyfriends go through phases, right? sometimes they’re obsessed with cooking elaborate three-course dinners. sometimes they get really into woodworking and build you a desk with their free time. sometimes they fix the plumbing in your apartment because you’ve complained about how your landlord hasn’t gotten to it in weeks.
and sometimes…
mingyu’s phase right now is apparently eating you out like it’s his part-time job, which— fine, you’re not complaining, but you’re also not blind. it’s gotten weirdly intense, like he’s studying you. like he’s clocking times and coming back the next night to try and shave another half-second off. he’s been treating your orgasms like he’s chasing a personal best.
first off, there’s the stamina thing. you chalked it up to enthusiasm. he’s usually the last person on the basketball court at the sunday games your friends at work organise. he spends the two extra hours you spend asleep in the morning at the gym and still has enough energy to get through the rest of the day. with sex, you just figured you got blessed with a man with a low refractory period. whatever.
but at some point you’re lying there, legs wrapped around his sculpted neck and your thighs trembling, head thrown back, and you realise he’s been down there for like, an hour straight without even breaking so much as a sweat. no cramp in his neck, no pause for air (which— actually, now that you think about it, how is he breathing?). just this damning, devastating rhythm like he could keep going all night.
sometimes he does.
you’ve tried to tease him about it, mumbled, “ever gonna come up for air?” while trying your damnedest best not to let your voice trail off with pleasure. the answer always seems to be no.
mingyu just chuckles against your thigh, his canines glinting in the light, and somehow keeps breathing fine. through what? sheer determination? your clit?
it’s in the middle of round… three? four? you’ve lost count and your brain starts connecting things you really, really don’t want to connect. how he shows up to work without a single wrinkle in his shirt, as if he ironed it with his body. how he disappears sometimes, usually followed by the absolute worst excuses (“um. i had to pick up more… cereal?”) and then reappears looking like he’s run a marathon.
you try not to spiral, but sometimes your thoughts get the better of you.
it happens one night where he’s got you sat on his face, your hands planted onto the mattress behind you. you stopped being shy after the… fifth time he convinced you you wouldn’t suffocate him, that you shouldn’t think twice about it.
you’re sure you’re drowning him in your slick, and through a hitch in your voice, you manage to say, breathless, “gyu, i think i might kill you if we keep this up.”
mingyu shifts his head just long enough to grin, curls stuck to his forehead and say, “don’t worry, baby, you won’t,” like it’s funny. like he knows something you don’t.
and god help you, your brain goes: what if my boyfriend is actually superman?
you giggle. out loud. mingyu freezes, “what?” he asks, concerned, like he’s hurt your feelings.
“nothing,” you cover your face with your hands, trying to muffle your giggles, “just— a stupid thought/“
mingyu bodily lifts you up off of him (strong, your mind supplies dumbly, before it goes, superman), before crawling up beside you, still flushed and gorgeous and unbearably earnest. he kisses your cheek, pulls you into his chest, “tell me?”
you don’t say anything, not yet. it feels crazy, like connecting a red string between magazine clippings. and besides, what would you even ask? say? how would it even come out? hey babe, quick question, are you superman or just really good at giving head?
so, no. you don’t mean to start tracking, doing some light… investigative work with your boyfriend outside the office, but it just sort of happens. call it a journalistic instinct.
for example: yes, you knew he was strong. he’s big. worked out all his life, probably picked up cows on that farm he grew up on. wrestled tractors for fun, even. but no rural upbringing in the world could explain why he can just hold you up against the wall for entire songs, plural, while eating you out without shaking even a little.
you’re gasping, clutching at his shoulders, “babe, you can put me down. i’m heavy!”
mingyu just smiles, annoyingly, sweetly, and responds, “you’re not,” like gravity isn’t even a factor for him.
there are also the little things.
his vision, for one. mingyu wears the thickest glasses known to man— black frames, almost wide enough to cover his eyebrows, but somehow finds your keys instantly when you lose them, even when you swear they’re nowhere in the apartment,
“they just slipped into the cushions,” he says simply, pulling them out between the crevices of your sofa like he didn’t just locate them in half a second without even looking.
he doesn’t get cold, either. you drag him out on winter nights for street food and snacks in just his cardigan. you shiver under your thick puffer jacket and mittens while he’s all rosy-cheeked and calm in his thin cardigan.
“i run warm, baby,” he shrugs, pulling you into his side with a simple tug to your wrist.
you don’t plan to confront him about it, obviously. you’ve kind of just been building the conspiracy board in your head for weeks now, filing away each little piece of evidence until it all just sits there, humming under your skin.
until suddenly, it doesn’t.
mingyu’s got you on your back again, thighs over his shoulders, doing that thing where he won’t come up until you’re half begging and incoherent and your brain just short-circuits. you’ve already cum four times, pulling at his hair and whining, “gyu, i can’t. i can’t, baby.”
mingyu just looks at you with his pretty eyes, serene and sweet like he could just do this forever.
that’s when it slips out. half a moan, half an accusation, “jesus christ, mingyu, are you actually superman or what?”
he freezes. stops. he never does. there could be a magnitude 7.0 earthquake and you still wouldn’t be able to pry his tongue off your cunt.
his body goes deadly still, his mouth still pressed to your inner thigh, “what?” he says. muffled, blinking up at you like a deer in headlights.
you slap a hand over your face, mortified, because of course you’d pick this exact moment to blurt it out. of course, your boyfriend’s head between your thighs is the exact time your tinfoil hat comes on.
“nothing!” you groan, “ignore me! i’m— i don’t know, crazy! whatever, just— keep, keep going.”
but he doesn’t. he pulls back, pushes up onto his elbows. his hair’s a wreck— messy from all your tugging, lips swollen and the bottom half of his face covered in your wetness, and he’s looking at you with a mix of panic and.. something else, “why… would you say that?”
you gape at him, heat rushing up your neck, “oh my god, mingyu. gyu. you’re not supposed to answer like that!”
he runs a hand through his curls, looking like the guiltiest man alive, which, honestly, might as well be a confession.
and you just start cackling, because it’s too much— the conspiracy, the orgasms, your nerdy, gorgeous boyfriend crouched between your knees looking like an overgrown, guilty puppy. “holy shit,” you snort, covering your mouth, “i was joking! but you actually… well, oh my god.”
“please don’t freak out,” mingyu straight up whines, which is absolutely the worst thing to say, because now you’re freaking out twice as hard.
you shit up, shoving at his shoulder (he doesn’t move an inch), still laughing like a maniac, “kim mingyu is superman and instead of saving the world right now you’re down here trying to give me another orgasm?”
mingyu groans, his cheeks turning the faintest pink. you’re upset to say you’re more endeared to him than you should be. “this is not how i wanted you to find out.”
“how were you gonna tell me? at dinner? in the office break room? between kissing me good morning and fucking me goodnight?” you can’t stop laughing, feeling half-hysterical, “i knew something was off! you hold me up like i’m nothing—“
“you're light as a feather, baby.”
“you don’t breathe, gyu! you literally teleport across rooms, you can basically see through walls—“
mingyu interrupts you, sounding sheepish. he scratches the back of his head, leans his head closer to your upper thigh so he can fix his doe eyes at you, drawing circles on your skin with his thumb, “i was gonna try and work up to it.”
and the worst, most ridiculous part is that you still want him, even as your world tips sideways. so you grab his wrist, sit up, tip his chin up, and kiss him.
mingyu always gives as good as he gets— more, even. he puts all his sincerity into everything he does. you really should’ve known sooner that he was superman.
when you pull away, your boyfriend looks dazed, much to your pleasure.
“okay,” you nod, and lean back against your elbows, tilting your head to the side, “long, serious superman discussion later. finish what you started first.”
mingyu’s jaw drops, “are you serious?”
“get back down there, superman.”