Hello, babies. I'm Arya and it's just my thoughts and screams.
About me: I am not a native English speaker and I continue to learn it. I'm bisexual and feminist. I'm writing lyrics, writing books (but I've given up on it). I'm sining.
My fav artist: the weeknd, ariana grande, doja cat, chase atlantic, Daniel di angelo, kiss of life and stray kids.
My type of girl: she's a girl, she have cutie eyes and she's happy.
If you see any problem in the text, please let me know.
I also attached a link to my telegram channel where you can see me.
warning(s) : Online flirtation → IRL hookup, Mirror fingering, Vein kink (explicit worship), Cock worship, Dirty talk that will get you pregnant, Ass slapping, Doggy style, Praise + degradation mix, Spit, lube, cum mention, Choking (light), Hair pulling, Marking (handprints, cum inside), Slight overstimulation, After-sex banter & bratty backtalk, Mingi being hot and knowing it. Let me know if I missed anything!
A/N : SONG MOTHERFUCKING MINGI, I WANNA SIT ON YOUR FACE TILL YOU CAN'T FUCKING BREATH😤😤
Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!
🪐smut under the cut🪐
It starts with an Instagram story.
Not even a sinful one—well, not explicitly. Just Mingi, shirtless, post-gym, flexing in the mirror like he’s auditioning for an anime reboot of Magic Mike. Traps bulging, abs glistening, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed and into your fantasies.
But it’s the veins. The veins.
His arms look like god personally sculpted them to ruin your life. Thick, pulsing rivers of blood lust crawling from his forearms up to those thick biceps. The kind of veins that scream, "I can hold your legs open and still roll your eyes back with just two fingers."
And the worst part?
You’re mutuals.
You don’t know him, not really. But you’ve exchanged likes. A few meme replies. He once retweeted your selfie with a “👀” and that alone had you contemplating the circumference of his dick.
So when he drops that mirror thirst trap with a casual caption—
“gym got me feelin like a Jojo character today lol”
—you don’t think.
You just type.
"send nude?"
It’s meant to be funny. You’re high on vein kink and zero impulse control. You expect no reply. Maybe a like at most.
Instead...
fixon_n_on has sent you a message.
You blink. Your heart skips. You open it.
@fixon_n_on : you want it from the front or the back?
You almost throw your phone across the room.
You stare at the screen, face hot, mouth dry, thighs not. You're about to reply with something dumb like “LMAO chill I was kidding,” when a photo comes through.
Not a dick pic—he’s smarter than that.
It’s him, again, in the mirror. This time in sweatpants, low enough to show that dangerous V-line. His phone’s in one hand, the other pushing his waistband down just enough to reveal no underwear. His dick’s not out, but you can see the print. And it’s…
Well. Jesus wept.
@fixon_n_on : front. want the other too?
"You’re insane"
"You can’t just do this"
"I’m literally feral now. I hope you’re happy"
@fixon_n_on : send something back then.
I wanna see what I’m working for.
You panic.
But also? You're already halfway to your bedroom, lighting adjusted, camera propped up against your dresser. You pick your best lingerie—black lace, of course—and position yourself kneeling on the bed, arching your back, head turned just enough to show the smirk on your lips.
You send it.
And wait.
It doesn’t take long.
@fixon_n_on : oh you’re a fucking problem, stay like that.
@fixon_n_on : 10 minutes.
"what?"
@fixon_n_on : I’m outside.
Your soul leaves your body. You run to the window like a girl in a teen drama and THERE HE IS. In a hoodie and gray sweats, baseball cap pulled low, looking up at your building.
You open the door in a robe and nothing else.
He doesn’t say anything when you let him in. Just walks straight past you, drops his phone on your counter, and turns to face you like you’re his final exam.
“Thought you were just horny on main,” he mutters, voice low, eyes burning.
You shrug. “You posted that photo. I was just—”
“You were asking for it.”
And then he’s kissing you. Hard, messy, hand gripping the back of your neck while the other pulls at your robe like he owns the rights to it. Tongue sliding past your lips, hips pushing into yours, and God, he’s big. You feel it, even through the layers, pressing into your stomach.
He breaks the kiss only to whisper, “Where’s the bed?”
You nod toward your room, breathless.
He tosses you over his shoulder like it’s nothing.
You barely register the way he throws you on the bed—your robe falls open, lace panties barely covering anything, tits perking up like they know what’s coming. But Mingi’s not in a rush. He kneels behind you, towering in the mirror, eyes roaming every inch of your reflection like you’re his personal slutty art piece.
"Don’t move," he mutters. His voice is deeper now—dangerously low, like sin poured over honey. "Look at yourself. Look how pretty you are when you’re about to get ruined."
You start to turn around, but his palm lands flat on your ass, making your thighs jolt. You gasp.
"Did I stutter?" he growls.
You meet your own eyes in the mirror—wide, flushed, trembling.
Then you see his hand.
Veins. Fucking ropes of them, bulging from his forearm, crawling over the back of his hand like he was engineered in a lab just to wreck lives. He slides his fingers down your back slowly, tracing the curve of your spine, dragging calloused fingertips over your lace waistband and tugging it down with a single curl.
And you swear to God, you moan at the way his forearm flexes doing it.
“S-shit…” you breathe.
He hears that.
“Oh?” Mingi leans down, chest against your back, lips brushing your ear. “You moaning for my veins, baby?”
“Maybe,” you whisper, already breathless.
He smirks. “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Then you feel it—his fingers, thick and skilled, sliding between your legs. He presses two against your slit, slow and teasing, rubbing over your folds like he’s just admiring the texture. You’re already soaked.
"All this," he says, voice hoarse, "from a fucking photo?"
"All this," you gasp, "from a fucking forearm."
He laughs. He actually laughs, low and cocky, before slowly sliding two fingers inside you.
And fuck—he knows what he’s doing.
Long, deep strokes. Curling just enough to make your legs shake. His other hand grips your thigh, and that’s when you see it—those veins again, tensing as he fucks you with his fingers, his eyes locked on your reflection.
"Touch your tits," he growls. "Wanna see how messy you look for me."
You obey.
Your back arches. His fingers go faster. The sound is obscene—wet and needy—and you're whining now, trying to hold it in, but failing.
“Look at you,” he pants, breath hot against your neck. “My needy little internet girl. You gonna cum just from my fucking hand?”
“I-I—”
“Say it.”
"Y-yes! I’m gonna cum—fuck, Mingi, your hands, your f-fucking veins—"
And then he pulls out.
You scream.
He grins like the menace he is, sucking his fingers clean, his fucking tongue dragging between them like he’s savoring the taste of your defeat.
Then?
Then comes the cock reveal.
Mingi pushes his sweats down and you actually gasp. Like, cartoonishly. Hand over your mouth, eyes wide, legs clenched.
It’s—
Baby.
It’s heavy. Thick. Veins trailing down the shaft like they belong in a goddamn museum. The head flushed deep pink, already leaking, curved just slightly upward like it was designed to hit your g-spot and wreck your life.
“No fucking way,” you whisper.
He wraps his hand around it lazily—more veins flexing in his forearm—and strokes once. Just once. And you feel your pussy throb.
"Yeah," he says, watching your jaw drop. "You're drooling."
You blink, dazed, mouth parted. Mingi’s standing behind you now, one hand gripping his cock lazily, the other on your ass, spreading you open so both of you can see how soaked you are in the mirror.
"Look at this shit," he grunts, dragging his tip over your folds. "Dripping like you were waiting for me. You been thinking about this cock all week, huh?"
"Y-yes," you whimper. “Ever since that fucking mirror selfie—”
He presses the head against your entrance but doesn’t push in. Just teases it. Rubbing circles around your clit with the head, using your wetness like lube, slick sounds making your face heat up.
“You got off to it?” he asks low, his lips brushing your ear. “Did you cum to my pic, baby?”
You nod.
"Uh-uh. Say it."
“I fucking came to it, Mingi. I rubbed my pussy to your arms and your stupid fucking veins—fuck—”
He laughs darkly. "Yeah, you’re sick."
Then—finally—he pushes in.
And Jesus fucking Christ.
Your hands slam against the mirror, breath catching, your whole body jerking forward from the stretch. He fills you like he’s trying to mold his shape into your cunt. Thick, hot, just the right curve—and he doesn’t move for a second.
Just breathes.
"Goddamn," he mutters. “You're tighter than I thought. You tryna milk me already?"
You moan, legs trembling.
Mingi grabs your hair, yanks your head up to force your gaze into the mirror again.
“Nah. You watch this. Watch how I wreck this pretty little pussy.”
He starts thrusting—deep, rough strokes. Slow at first, like he’s letting you feel every fucking inch. The mirror fogs up from your panting, from his filthy mouth in your ear.
"You like that? Huh?"
"Yes—yes, Mingi, fuck!"
"This pussy’s made for me. Look how it sucks me in."
He groans when you clench, dragging his hand from your waist to your front, pressing on your lower belly.
"Feel that?" he growls. "That’s me, baby. That’s my cock inside you. Splitting you open like you asked for it."
You’re babbling now—nonsense, cries, desperate yeses. But Mingi’s not done.
“You wanted it so bad, right? Posting your ass online, sending me slutty pics like a little tease—”
“I wanted you,” you whimper.
“Yeah, you do want me. Want me to fuck your brains out. Want me to make you drool on this mirror like the cock-drunk little whore you are.”
Your legs nearly give out. He catches you, one arm banded around your waist as he pistons into you now, rougher, faster—pure filth slapping against your soaked thighs, the sound disgusting in the best way.
"Say it's mine," he growls.
"It’s yours," you gasp.
"Say you're gonna cum all over my cock like a good girl."
You cum hard, back arched, eyes rolling, your body twitching as he fucks you through it with a satisfied grunt.
“That’s it. Fuckin’ soak me.”
He pulls out just long enough to flip you around, throws you on the bed again, and gets on top. He kisses you hard, messy, fingers in your hair, his cock still throbbing.
“You think I’m done with you?” he breathes against your lips.
You’re still catching your breath, legs shaking, mascara smudged, when Mingi pulls you up by the hips and flips you back over like a ragdoll. He drags you to the edge of the bed, feet barely touching the floor, ass high in the air, pussy still dripping.
“You think I’m done with this ass?” he mutters, palm grazing your cheek, fingers flexing like he’s about to commit a crime. “Nah. Not even close.”
You glance back, dazed, lips parted.
And he just grins.
Then—SMACK.
His palm cracks against your ass, loud and sharp. You jolt forward, a choked moan spilling out.
"Fuck—Mingi!"
"Too much?" he asks, rubbing the sting gently with those big, veiny hands. The contrast between pain and softness makes your eyes roll back.
"Not enough," you gasp.
He laughs. Dark. Delighted.
"Filthy little thing. You like getting spanked, huh?"
"Love it."
Another slap. This time harder. And another. His handprint is going to be there for days.
Then he grips both cheeks, spreading them open. He groans at the sight of you.
“God, this pussy’s begging for me.”
He strokes himself once, then lines up—and thrusts all the way in.
No teasing. No build-up. Just ruthless, deep doggystyle.
You scream into the sheets.
“Oh my fucking God—”
“That’s right,” he growls. “Take it. Let me fuck this tight little hole till I break you.”
His rhythm is brutal. Each thrust slams into you with force, your tits bouncing with every movement. You’re whining, moaning, drooling into the pillows—and he fucking loves it.
"You feel that, baby?" he pants. "Feel my cock stretching you out?"
"Yes—yes, Mingi, fuck—so big—"
He leans over you, chest to your back, one hand choking the headboard, the other sliding under to grip your throat. His lips brush your ear.
"You gonna cum again? From getting fucked like a bitch in heat?"
“Yes—fuck, please, I want it—”
He pulls your hair, forcing your head back. His breath is hot and filthy on your neck.
"Want what?"
"I want your cock—I want you to ruin me, please, please—"
"You want me to fuck you dumb?"
"Yes!"
SMACK.
Another hit to your ass—this one meaner. You fucking sob.
“That’s what I thought,” he snarls. “This pussy belongs to me now.”
And then he grabs your hips again, starts fucking you harder—if that’s even possible. You feel every vein, every ridge, every goddamn inch dragging inside you like he was crafted by the devil for the sole purpose of ending you.
You're gone.
Crying out his name. Screaming.
“Cum for me,” he grits. “Fucking cum on this cock, let me feel you lose it.”
And when you finally do—when your body seizes, your orgasm ripping through you so hard your vision blanks—he doesn’t stop.
He fucks you through your orgasm. Keeps pounding, relentless, groaning like a beast.
“Fuck—baby, I’m close—where do you want it?”
"Inside," you gasp. "I want you to fill me, Mingi—please—"
That does it.
He growls, low and feral, and slams into you one final time.
You feel it—hot and deep, his cock twitching inside as he spills everything, his grip bruising your hips. He stays buried there, panting against your back, sweating, hand still on your ass like a trophy.
