pairing: minho x f!reader
genre: smut (mdni PLEASE!)
warnings/tags: drinking/alcohol, degradation, edging, unprotected p in v (don’t do it!!), cream pie, blowjob, spanking, dom!minho, brat(ish)!reader, jisung mentioned/briefly appears, please let me know if i missed any so i can tag it!! minors do not interact!!
wc: ~ 6.7k
summary: you’re out at a bar one night and some arrogant asshole hits on you like his mind has already made up that you’re his for the night. have fun with where the night takes you!
a/n: guys this is my first fic DONT HATE ME IF ITS TERRIBLE!! OKAY?? promise???? please! i’m learrrrning, also idk how to format this shit. someone help me! i need tips! i’m used to ao3 lmao. anywho, minho’s so sexy i need him bad. i’m a ride or die for dom!minho dude i cant. i’m so in love with him. oh! and also i got this idea while listening to “bambola” by ten! in case anyone was curious :) LMAO
The bass was a low, pulsing thing that lived in your chest more than your ears. Lights cut through the dark in lazy sweeps of violet and gold, catching on glass and skin and the occasional flash of jewelry. The air smelled like expensive perfume, spilled liquor, and heat. You were somewhere in the middle of it all, body moving without much thought, hips rolling to a beat that felt almost too easy to follow. The girls around you weren’t really friends. Mutual acquaintances from some group chat at work that had somehow turned into “we should go out sometime,” and tonight was that sometime. They laughed too loud and leaned too close when they talked, but it didn’t matter. You weren’t here for deep conversation. You were here to dance until the edges of the day finally blurred.
You didn’t notice him at first.
He noticed you the second the crowd parted just enough.
Minho was leaning against the far end of the bar like the entire place had been built around him. Black shirt, sleeves rolled just high enough to show the clean line of his forearms. A watch that cost more than most people’s rent sat casually on his wrist. His hair was slightly messy in that deliberate way that made it look like someone had already had their hands in it. He looked bored, dangerous in the quiet way that didn’t need to announce itself.
Then his eyes found you.
There was something that shifted in his expression when he did. Not dramatic, but a slow, almost lazy interest settling over his features; like a cat deciding the mouse was worth the effort after all. He didn’t straighten. Didn’t smile. He just watched over the rim of the drink he had been nursing for the better part of an hour. The corner of his mouth curled the faintest bit, as if the sight of you already amused him.
You turned, laughing at something one of the girls said, and the movement made your hair slide over your shoulder. The lights caught the line of your throat, the curve of your waist as you moved. Minho’s gaze tracked every bit of it without shame. He took a slow sip of whatever dark liquor was in his glass, eyes never leaving you, and thought, very clearly: There you are.
He didn’t look away when one of his friends tried to talk to him. Just gave a short, dismissive hum and kept staring. The friend followed his line of sight, saw you, and smirked like he already knew how this night was going to end. Minho ignored him completely.
You were still dancing; you were still unaware. Or maybe not entirely afterall. Maybe some part of you felt the weight of being watched, because your movements slowed just a fraction, like your body had registered something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Minho’s smile edged a little wider at that and he set his glass down with a soft clink.
He wasn’t rushing this, not tonight. But he truly never did. Men who looked like him rarely had to.
Instead he stayed where he was a while longer, letting the tension stretch, letting the idea of him settle into the air around you before he even crossed the floor. He watched the way your friends pulled you closer for a photo, the way you smiled into the camera without quite meeting it; the smile you put on never quite reaching your eyes. He watched the way your body moved when the song shifted into something darker, heavier, dirtier. And the entire time, one thought sat smug and certain in the back of his mind: You’re already mine. You just don’t know it yet.
When he finally pushed off the bar, it was with the easy confidence of someone who had never once been told no and meant it. The crowd seemed to part for him without effort. People glanced, recognized, stepped aside. He didn’t acknowledge any of them. His eyes were still on you, they never left.
By the time he was close enough that the heat of the bodies around you mixed with the cooler air that seemed to follow him, you still hadn’t turned. He stopped just behind your left shoulder, close enough that if you shifted back even slightly you’d brush against him. Close enough to smell the dark, sexy scent of his cologne under the club’s heavier haze.
He didn’t touch you.
Not yet.
He just stood there, watching the way the lights moved across your skin, and waited for you to feel him. Waited for that little instinctive awareness to kick in. And when it did, when your shoulders tensed the slightest bit and your head started to turn, Minho’s voice came low and calm, right against the shell of your ear, carrying easily under the music. “You’re wasting that body on people who don’t even know how to look at it properly.” A second passed before he added, softer, almost amused, “Lucky for you…I do.”
You turned fully, at his voice in your ear.
Slowly.
The first thing you registered was the height of him, the clean line of his jaw, the way the club lights slid over the sharp cut of his cheekbones. The second thing was his eyes; dark, steady, already looking at you like the outcome of this conversation had been decided before he even opened his mouth.
Up close he was even more ridiculous. He was handsome in that unfair, almost irritating way that made people stare without meaning to. The kind of face that looked expensive even when he wasn’t trying.
He didn’t step back to give you space. He simply watched your reaction with quiet amusement, like he was already entertained by whatever you were about to say.
You recovered enough from the surprise visitor to arch a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
Minho’s mouth curved, slow and lazy. “It’s an observation. You’re dancing like you came here to be looked at. I’m just the only one doing it properly.”
Before you could answer, he tilted his head toward the bar without breaking eye contact.
“What are you drinking?”
It wasn’t really a question. It came across more like a decision already half-made.
You told him, as you walked the short distance from the dance floor to the bar tucked along the back wall. He hummed like he’d expected something exactly like that, then lifted two fingers in a brief, casual gesture. A bartender appeared almost immediately; the kind of service that only happened for people who never had to wait. Minho ordered for both of you efficiently, then finally looked away from you just long enough to glance over his shoulder.
“Jisung.”
A guy a few steps behind him straightened like he’d been waiting for the summons. Dark hair, sharp eyes, round cheeks, the kind of face that would’ve been distracting on any other night. He looked between the two of you, then grinned like he already knew exactly what this was.
Minho though didn’t bother with enthusiasm.
“This is Jisung. He’s irrelevant tonight.”
Jisung snorted, clearly used to it. “Wow. Love you too.”
Minho ignored him completely and turned back to you, as if the introduction had already used up the maximum amount of attention he was willing to spare. The drinks arrived as quickly as he had ordered them. He picked yours up first and held it out, waiting for you to take it. When your fingers brushed his, he didn’t pretend not to notice. He just watched the contact like it was something he’d already planned.
“You can thank me later,” he said, voice low enough that it stayed between the three of you. “Or not. I don’t actually need the gratitude.”
Jisung made a quiet sound of secondhand embarrassment and muttered something about getting another drink. Minho didn’t even glance at him as he disappeared into the crowd. His full attention was back on you, steady and unhurried, like the rest of the club had already faded into background noise.
He took a slow sip of his own drink, eyes still on yours over the rim of the glass.
“You’re quieter than I expected,” he said after a moment. “Most people start talking too much when I look at them like this.” A small, almost private smile. “It’s cute. You’re trying to figure out if I’m worth the trouble.”
He leaned in just enough that the next words brushed closer to your ear, still perfectly calm. “I am. But you already know that, don’t you?” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then back up. Completely shameless. “You can keep pretending you’re still deciding, if you want. I’ll allow it. For a little while.”
He straightened again, expression open and faintly amused, like this entire exchange was already going exactly the way he wanted it to.
“So.” A soft tilt of his head. “You gonna keep dancing with people who don’t matter…or are you going to finish that drink with me and see where the night actually goes?”
You took a sip from the drink in your hand, slow on purpose, letting your tongue flick out and lick a stray drop your bottom lip after, just long enough to be noticeable before looking up at him through your lashes.
“Bold of you to assume I’d want to stay here with you,” you said, voice light, almost sweet. The kind of polite that still managed to have teeth. “Maybe I like wasting my body on people who don’t know how to look at it. Maybe that’s half the fun.”
Minho’s eyes narrowed the smallest fraction. Not angry at the response in the slightest. Interested. Like you’d just confirmed something he already suspected.
“Is that so?”
You sipped your drink again, held his gaze over the rim, and gave the tiniest shrug. “Mm. You seem very sure of yourself for someone who just walked up and started narrating my night.”
A quiet huff of laughter left him. Low. Almost fond in a mean way.
“And you seem very determined to test how long I’ll let you keep talking like that.”
Before you could answer, Jisung reappeared at Minho’s shoulder with a fresh drink and an easy grin, clearly having decided the “irrelevant” comment was more of a suggestion than a rule.
“Don’t mind him,” Jisung said to you, tipping his glass in a loose toast. “He’s always like this when he finds something he wants. It’s exhausting, honestly. I’m Jisung, by the way. Properly. Since he can’t be bothered with manners.”
You smiled at him, polite, a little warmer than necessary, just to see what it would do. “Nice to meet you, Jisung.”
Minho’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air around him did. The casual tilt of his shoulders went a fraction tighter. His eyes flicked from your mouth to Jisung’s face and back again with slow, deliberate precision.
Jisung opened his mouth to say something else, probably something harmless, maybe even funny, but Minho cut across him without raising his voice.
“That’s enough.”
Two words. Flat. Final.
Jisung blinked, then lifted both hands in surrender, already backing up with a knowing little smirk. “Right. Got it. I’ll go be irrelevant somewhere else.” He glanced at you one last time, half-apologetic, half-amused, and disappeared into the crowd again.
Minho watched him go for exactly one second longer than necessary, then his attention was turned fully back to you. The patience in his expression had thinned. Not gone necessarily, just stretched tighter across the sharp lines of his face.
“You’re enjoying that,” he said quietly. Not a question.
You tilted your head, all innocent curiosity. “Enjoying what?”
“Playing.” His gaze dropped to your mouth again, lingered, then rose. “Being difficult on purpose. Seeing how far you can push before I decide I’ve had enough of the cute little act.”
You opened your mouth, probably to push a little more, but he stepped in a fraction closer. Close enough that the next words were meant for you alone.
“I’m done waiting for you to finish pretending.”
His voice stayed calm. Almost soft. But there was no mistaking the shift underneath it.
“I’m taking you home.”
He said it like a fact. Like the weather. Like something that had already been decided the moment he first looked at you across the bar.
Then, quieter, eyes locked on yours, “You can keep being a brat about it in the car if you want. I’ll even let you, I encourage it a little. But you’re coming with me.”
A moment of silence stretched between the bass and the heat and the weight of his stare.
He already knew the answer.
And so did you.
You held his stare for a long second, then let a slow, deliberate smile curve your mouth.
“Alright,” you said, voice light, almost thoughtful. “I’ll go with you.”
Minho’s expression didn’t change much, but something satisfied settled behind his eyes, like a box being checked.
You took another sip of your drink, then added, casual as anything, “Although…Jisung is really pretty. What if I liked him better?”
The sound Minho made wasn’t quite a laugh. It was lower. Shorter. More of a huff that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not tonight.” He said it flatly, already turning just enough to guide you with the barest pressure of his hand at the small of your back. He wasn’t pushing really, just directing you exactly where he wanted you.
“Sometimes I let him play with my toys,” he continued as he steered you through the crowd, voice calm and almost conversational under the music. “When I’m feeling generous. Or bored.” His fingers pressed a fraction firmer against your spine. “Not you. Not tonight.”
You glanced up at him, still smiling that same polite, bratty little smile. “Possessive already? We just met.”
“I’m always like this,” he answered without looking at you. “You’ll get used to it.”
The night air hit cooler when you stepped outside. A sleek black car was already waiting at the curb, engine running, driver standing by the rear door like he’d been expecting the two of you. Minho didn’t acknowledge the man beyond a brief nod. He opened the door himself and waited, eyes on you, clearly not interested in giving you the chance to linger or change your mind.
You slid in first. He followed, the door shutting with a solid thunk. The interior smelled like leather and whatever dark, expensive scent clung to him. The partition was already up. Privacy glass. The driver didn’t ask where to go.
Minho settled back against the seat, one arm stretched along the top of it behind you, legs spread just enough to take up space. He watched you for a moment in the low light of the cabin, gaze moving over your face, your mouth, the line of your throat, like he was already deciding where he wanted to start once he got you alone.
You tilted your head, still playing, still teasing, still with that urge to push just a little further. “So this is the part where you take me back to your place and I pretend I had any real choice in it?”
His smirk playing on his mouth deepened at your words, slow and sharp.
“Something like that.”
The car pulled away from the curb smoothly. City lights slid across the windows in streaks of gold and white. Minho reached over without asking, took the nearly empty glass from your hand, and set it aside. Then his fingers found your chin, tipping your face toward him with quiet, deliberate control.
“You can keep running that mouth the whole way there if you want,” he said, voice low. “I don’t mind, baby. I actually prefer it.” His thumb brushed once across your lower lip, light, almost thoughtful. “Makes it more fun when you finally stop.”
He let go just as easily as he’d touched you, leaning back again like the matter was settled.
“You’re going to be good for me once we’re inside. Not because I’m asking. Because I’m going to make sure of it.”
The rest of the ride passed in that same charged quiet: him watching you, you refusing to look away first, the city moving past outside like it had nothing to do with either of you.
When the car finally slowed in front of a sleek, private building, Minho didn’t wait for the driver. He stepped out, rounded the car, and opened your door himself. One hand extended. Not a request.
An expectation.
“Come on,” he said, that same calm certainty in his voice. “I’ve been patient long enough.”
You took his hand.
You weren’t suddenly obedient, but the way he stood there, calm, waiting, already certain, made refusal feel like a game you’d already lost. His fingers closed around yours with quiet finality, warm and sure, and he led you inside without another word.
The building was private, understated in the way only truly expensive places managed. Soft lighting. Clean lines. No one in the lobby asked questions. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of machinery and the occasional shift of fabric when you moved. Minho didn’t crowd you. He simply stood close enough that you could feel the heat of him, eyes on the ascending numbers like he had all the time in the world and none of the doubt.
When the doors opened onto his floor, he guided you out with that same light pressure at your back as he had at the bar. His dorm was at the end of the hall. He unlocked it with a practiced flick of his wrist, pushed the door open, and waited for you to step inside first.
You did.
The space was large, dimly lit, all dark wood and clean surfaces and the faint scent of his cologne already settled into the air. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city. A low couch. A kitchen that looked barely used. A hallway that led deeper into the place.
The door shut behind you with a soft, decisive click.
Minho shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair without looking. Then he turned to face you fully, rolling his sleeves a little higher up his forearms like he was settling in for something he’d been looking forward to all night.
You crossed your arms, leaning back against the wall near the entrance just to be difficult.
“Nice place,” you said, glancing around with deliberate indifference. “Do you bring all your toys here, or am I special?”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
“You’re more talkative when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“No?” He took a slow step closer. Then another. “Then why are you still standing by the door like you’re deciding whether to run?”
You lifted your chin. “Maybe I’m deciding whether you’re worth the rest of my night.”
Minho stopped directly in front of you. Close enough that you had to tip your head back to hold his gaze. He didn’t touch you yet. Just looked. Studied the stubborn set of your mouth, the way your pulse was visible at your throat if someone was paying attention.
“You’re still playing,” he said quietly. “I’ve told you I don’t mind. But you’re going to stop when I decide you’ve had enough.”
You opened your mouth to push again, something sharp, something bratty, but his hand came up and caught your jaw, not rough, just firm. Thumb pressing lightly against the hinge, tilting your face exactly where he wanted it.
“Quiet.”
One word. Soft. Absolute.
Your breath caught despite yourself.
He watched the reaction with open satisfaction, like he’d just proven a point. His thumb stroked once along your jaw, almost gentle, before he spoke again.
“You’re going to walk further inside. You’re going to sit where I tell you. And you’re going to stop pretending you came here for any reason other than this.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered, then met your eyes once again. “I already know how this ends. You do too. The only difference is I’m not wasting time pretending otherwise.”
He released your jaw, stepped back just enough to give you space to move, and nodded toward the open living area.
“Go on then.”
You held his stare for another stubborn second, heart beating a little too hard in your chest, then pushed off the wall and walked deeper into the dorm exactly the way he’d told you to. You didn’t want to be good. But god the way he watched you, expectant, already certain you would, made resistance feel like something he was going to enjoy taking apart piece by piece.
He followed you at an unhurried pace, hands in his pockets, that same quiet amusement still sitting at the edges of his expression.
“There,” he said when you paused near the couch. “Sit.”
You did.
He stood over you for a moment, looking down like he was deciding how he wanted to play with what he’d caught and brought home. Then he crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to your eye level, and reached out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising care.
“See?” he murmured. “Not so difficult when you stop fighting it.”
His fingers trailed down the side of your neck, light, testing, and the smile that curved his mouth was slow and dark and deeply pleased.
“You’re going to be fun.”
Minho stayed crouched in front of you for a moment longer, fingers still lightly tracing the side of your neck, before he stood. He looked down at you with that same calm, assessing expression; already mapping out exactly how he planned to take you apart.
“Before I start,” he said, voice even, “we’re going to be clear.”
He didn’t ask if you were ready. He simply continued.
“Anything that’s a hard no, tell me now. I don’t guess, and I don’t care how into it we get later. If it’s a limit, I want it said while you can still think straight.”
He waited. Watched your face. Gave you the space to speak without interrupting.
Once you’d answered that there was nothing you weren’t okay with, he nodded once, like the information had been filed away.
“Good.” His gaze stayed locked on yours. “Safe word for tonight is miroh. You say it, everything stops. No questions, no pushing, no ‘just a little more.’ I stop. Immediately.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
“If my cock is too far down your throat, or you’re too fucked out to get the word out, you tap me twice. Anywhere. Arm, leg, chest, doesn’t matter. Two taps and I pull back. Understand?”
You swallowed, heat already pooling low in your stomach under the weight of how calmly he laid it all out.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved yet again; wicked, sharp.
“Yes, what?”
The correction landed soft but absolute. You felt the shift in your chest, that bratty instinct was there and wanting to push, and the stronger pull of how seriously he was taking this even while looking at you like he already owned the rest of your night.
“…Yes, sir.”
“There it is.” Satisfaction flickered across his face. “You’re going to remember that.”
He reached down, caught your chin again, and tipped your face up.
“I’m not going to be gentle with you. I’m not going to be kind. I’m going to use you exactly how I want, and I’m going to keep going until you can’t think straight enough to keep running that mouth.” His thumb brushed your lower lip, pressing just enough to part it. “You’re going to take it. And you’re going to do what I tell you, when I tell you. Because that’s what you came here for.”
He leaned in closer, voice dropping even lower.
“Do you understand?”
Your pulse was loud in your ears. The answer came out quieter than you meant it to, but steady.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
The praise was almost idle, like it cost him nothing. Then his hand left your chin, slid into your hair, and tightened, firm enough to make your breath hitch and panties dampen.
“Up.”
He pulled you to your feet with that same controlled strength, already walking you backward toward the hallway that led deeper into the dorm. His other hand settled at your waist, guiding, claiming space like it had always belonged to him.
“I’m going to fuck you stupid tonight,” he said against your ear as he moved you. “And you’re going to let me. Aren’t you?”
You didn’t get the chance to answer with words.
He didn’t need them.
The bedroom door was already half-open. He pushed it wider with his shoulder, steered you inside, and kicked it shut behind him without ever letting go of your hair. The room was dim, city light spilling through another stretch of windows, the bed large and neatly made like he’d known exactly how this night would end.
Minho turned you to face him fully, eyes dark and intent, and finally, finally, the last of that earlier patience burned away.
“Clothes off,” he ordered, quiet and absolute. “Now.”
You hesitated just long enough to be bratty about it.
Minho’s eyes narrowed. “I said now.”
The quiet warning in his voice made your stomach flip. You reached for the hem of your top anyway, peeling it up and over your head with deliberate slowness, watching him the entire time. His gaze tracked every inch of newly exposed skin like he was cataloguing it. When the fabric hit the floor he didn’t praise you. He simply waited.
Bra next. Then the rest. You dragged it out on purpose, fingers lingering on zippers and waistbands, until his patience finally snapped.
“Faster.”
He had enough of your games.
You finished stripping under the weight of that stare, standing naked in front of him while he was still fully dressed. The imbalance made heat crawl up your neck. Minho walked a slow circle around you, one hand trailing lightly over your hip, the small of your back, the curve of your ass. It was possessive, assessing, like he was deciding the order in which he planned to ruin you.
“On the bed. Back flat. Legs open.”
You climbed up, settled the way he wanted, and watched him finally start undressing. Shirt first. Then the his pants and boxers, efficient and unhurried, until he was naked and already hard. He looked unfairly good like this: lean muscle, sharp lines, cock thick and flushed against his stomach. He was long, thick and freshly trimmed, enough of a sight for your mouth to water just looking at him. He noticed you staring, thighs clenched together tightly, and huffed a quiet, arrogant sound.
“You’ll get it when I decide you deserve it.”
He climbed onto the bed between your thighs, pushed your knees wide with both hands, and looked down at you like you were something he’d bought and was finally allowed to play with. Two fingers dragged through the wetness already gathered between your legs. He clicked his tongue.
“Soaked already. I hadn’t even touched you. Pathetic.”
You opened your mouth to snap something back, but he pressed those same fingers against your clit and rubbed in slow, deliberate circles that made the words die in your throat. He worked you like that for long minutes, His touch firm, precise, never quite enough, until your hips started chasing his hand and your breathing turned uneven.
Every time you got close he eased off. Pulled his fingers away. Waited until the tension receded, then started again. Edge after edge, calm and merciless, watching your face the entire time.
“Please—” The word slipped out before you could stop it.
“Please what?”
“Please let me come.”
Minho smiled, slow and mean. “Definitely not yet.”
He dropped down instead, hooked your thighs over his shoulders, and put his mouth on you. No teasing lead-in. Just the flat of his tongue dragging hard over your clit, then two fingers sliding deep while he sucked. You arched off the bed with a broken sound. He pinned your hips down with one forearm and kept going. He was eating you out like he had all night and zero intention of being gentle about it.
You tried to close your thighs around his head. He forced them wider. You reached down and fisted a hand in his hair; he growled against you and fucked his tongue deeper in answer. When you got close again he pulled off completely, lips shiny, eyes dark.
“Beg properly.”
“Please, sir— please let me come, I can’t—”
“Hm. Good girl.”
The words hit harder than they should have. You melted under them for half a second, and he used that exact moment to seal his mouth back over your clit and curl his fingers. The orgasm ripped through you so violently your vision whited out. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, then past it, until you were twitching and oversensitive and trying to squirm away.
Only then did he rise up, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and look down at you like he’d only just gotten started.
“Turn over. Ass up.”
You moved on shaky limbs. The second you were in position his hand cracked across one cheek, sharp, stinging, possessive. Then the other. He spanked you in a steady rhythm until the skin burned and you were pushing back into every strike despite yourself. When he finally stopped he gripped both cheeks hard, spreading you open, and lined up.
He pushed in with one long, relentless thrust that stole the air from your lungs.
“Fuck—”
“Take it.”
He set a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping forward hard enough that the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room. One hand fisted in your hair and yanked your head back; the other settled around your throat, not fully cutting air, just holding, a not so subtle reminder of who was in control. He fucked you like he was trying to leave bruises on the inside, deep and punishing, angling until he found the spot that made your thighs shake.
You tried to brat through it, you really did, voice rough. “Is that all you’ve—”
He drove in harder, cutting the sentence off with a broken moan, and tightened the hand on your throat just enough to make stars burst at the edges of your vision.
“Keep talking and I’ll make sure you can’t.”
He pulled out only long enough to shove you onto your back again, climb over your chest, and push his cock past your lips. You took him deep on the first thrust, eyes watering, and he held you there; hands braced on the headboard, hips rolling in short, controlled strokes that used your throat exactly how he wanted. When you gagged around him, he groaned like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.
“That’s it. Look at you. Made for this.”
He pulled free before you could get lightheaded, flipped you again, and sank back into your pussy in one smooth motion. The new angle punched a high, needy sound out of you. He spanked you again mid-thrust, then reached around to rub your clit in tight circles while he kept fucking you stupid.
“Come again. Now.”
Your second orgasm hit harder than the first. He fucked you straight through it, never slowing, and when you clenched around him hard he cursed under his breath and buried himself as far as he could go. You felt him pulse deep, filling you in thick, hot pulses while he held you locked against him.
He didn’t pull out.
Didn’t give you time to recover.
Just stayed hard inside you, ground against your cervix, and started moving again. He went noticeably slower this time, deeper, like he was determined to pump every drop he could into you and then add more.
“Still so tight,” he muttered against the back of your neck. “Going to keep you full all night. Every time you try to be a brat I’m going to remind you what that mouth is actually for.”
His hand found your throat again. His other tangled in your hair. And he set back to work, fucking you open, marking you from the inside, using you exactly the way he’d promised from the moment he first looked at you across that bar.
He pulled out suddenly, leaving you whining at the very sudden loss, then rolled onto his back, and dragged you with him like you weighed nothing.
“Up,” he ordered, voice rough. “You’re going to ride me.”
Your thighs were already shaking. He didn’t care. He manhandled you into place until you were straddling his hips, his cock, still slick and hard, nudging against your entrance. One hand gripped your waist, the other reached up and caught a fistful of your hair, forcing your eyes to meet his.
“Sink down. All the way. Don’t stop until I’m as deep as I can get.”
You lowered yourself slowly, feeling every thick inch stretch you open again. A broken sound left your throat when you finally bottomed out. Minho’s jaw flexed, but his expression stayed controlled, almost lazy, like watching you struggle to take him was exactly what he’d been waiting for.
“Move.”
You started riding him; rolling your hips, lifting up and dropping back down, trying to find a rhythm that didn’t make your already oversensitive body tremble. He let you set the pace for a little while, hands roaming possessively over your thighs, your waist, your tits, pinching and squeezing hard enough to leave marks. Every time you tried to slow down or ease off he spanked the side of your ass in sharp warning.
“Faster. I didn’t say you could get tired yet.”
You pushed harder, bouncing on his cock with growing desperation, the wet sounds of it filthy in the quiet room. Your legs burned. Your thighs started to shake harder. Minho watched it happen with dark satisfaction, hips occasionally thrusting up to meet you, driving himself even deeper.
“Look at you,” he muttered. “Falling apart on my cock and still trying to be good. Keep going.”
You lasted as long as you could. Eventually your legs simply gave out. Your muscles locking, then failing, leaving you slumped forward with your hands braced on his chest, unable to lift yourself properly anymore. A frustrated, wrecked little noise escaped you.
That was when Minho finally moved.
One hand slid up into your hair, the other locked tight around your waist, and he hauled you down into a kiss that was nothing like gentle. It was deep, claiming, all tongue and teeth and the low groan he fed into your mouth when you whimpered. He kissed you like he’d been holding it back on purpose, like the privilege of it had to be earned by breaking first.
While his mouth stayed locked on yours he planted his feet, gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, and started fucking up into you from below in deep, punishing thrusts.
You screamed into the kiss.
He didn’t slow down. He held you completely still, forcing you to take every upward snap of his hips, using your body like a sleeve while he drove into that perfect spot over and over. The angle was devastating. Pressure built so fast and so sharp it almost hurt, pleasure twisting tight and unbearable in your gut.
“That’s it,” he growled against your lips. “Scream for me. Let me feel it.”
Your orgasm slammed into you without warning. Your whole body seized, a broken cry tearing out of your throat as you squirted around him in hard, pulsing waves, soaking his cock and stomach and the sheets beneath. The sudden wet heat and the way you clenched made Minho curse, hips stuttering.
He fucked you through it ruthlessly, chasing his own release, and when it hit him it hit hard. He slammed up into you one final time, as deep as his cock could go, and came with a low, guttural groan pulsing deep, filling you again in thick spurts while his hands held you tight against him so you couldn’t escape a single drop.
He kept you there, still kissing you through the aftershocks, cock twitching inside you as he emptied everything he had.
Only when the last tremor left him did he finally ease the kiss, forehead resting against yours, breathing ragged.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice wrecked and quiet. “Took it so fucking well.”
Minho stayed inside you a little longer than necessary, one hand stroking slowly up and down your spine while the other kept a loose hold on your hip. His breathing gradually evened out. When he finally eased you off him it was careful, almost gentle, and he immediately pulled you down against his chest instead of letting you roll away.
You were still trembling, out of breath, thighs sticky and shaking. He reached over to the nightstand without looking, grabbed a soft cloth, and cleaned you up himself, thorough but unhurried, like the mess was just another part of what belonged to him tonight. When he was done he tossed the cloth aside and settled back against the pillows, arm draped over your waist, fingers idly tracing lazy patterns on your skin.
“Still alive?” he asked, voice quieter now, edged with that same arrogance even when it softened. “I was starting to wonder.”
You managed a weak, breathless huff. He smirked at the ceiling.
“If you’re too wrecked to move I can always call Jisung. He’s good at cleaning up after me. Very thorough.” A second passed. “Want his number?”
You turned your face into his chest just long enough to hide the residual shakiness, then lifted your head with whatever bratty energy you had left.
“Yeah,” you rasped, still catching your breath. “Give me his number. I’ll text him right now.”
Minho’s quiet laugh rumbled under your ear. “Careful. I might actually do it.”
The joke hung between you for a moment, light and easy, before the silence settled again. He kept touching you. It was nothing demanding, just the slow drag of his fingertips along your side, your shoulder, the back of your neck like he was still claiming the space even while being almost sweet about it.
Eventually you pushed yourself up. Your legs protested. You ignored them, sliding off the bed and starting to gather your clothes from the floor. Minho watched you the entire time, one arm still folded behind his head, expression unreadable at first.
You pulled your top back on, then your bottoms, fingers a little clumsy. When you reached for your shoes he finally spoke.
“You can stay, you know.”
It wasn’t soft. It was more confused than anything, like the idea of you leaving hadn’t actually occurred to him until you started getting dressed. He sat up a little straighter, brows drawing together.
“The bed’s big enough. It’s late. You don’t have to go.”
You glanced over your shoulder at him, hair messy, mouth still a little swollen from earlier, looking unfairly good even in the aftermath, and gave a small, tired smile.
“No.” You stepped into your shoes. “We both know what this was.”
Minho blinked once. Twice.
People didn’t leave him. Not after a night like this. Not when he’d already decided they were staying. The confusion sat visibly on his face for a second before he masked it again, but it was too late; you’d already seen it.
You walked to the door of the bedroom, paused, and looked back one last time.
“Thanks for the drink,” you said lightly. “And the rest.”
Then you left.
The front door of the dorm clicked shut behind you a minute later. Minho stayed sitting on the edge of the bed in the quiet that followed, staring at the empty space where you’d been, looking for the first time all night like something hadn’t gone exactly according to plan.
