Avery @averyfromzero - Tumblr Blog

♡ pairing: office worker!mingyu x officer worker!reader ♡ genre: smut, fluff at the end, enemies to lovers typa shit ♡ word count: 3.5k ♡ warnings: semi-public hate sex (they have sex in a gym trainers office), cocky mingyu, multiple orgasms including oral (f. receiving), enemies to lovers, reader gives mingyu a half hearted handjob, reader x mingyu are work rivals to the max, mention of alcohol near the end ♡ a/n: thank you to @gotta-winwin, @lovetaroandtaemin, @mylovesstuffs, @supi-wupi and @gyubakeries for beta reading this for me! I'm very excited for you guys to read this based off the feedback I've already received <3

You've hated Kim Mingyu since the first month you joined the company.

Not because he’s rude; he’s not, exactly. It’s also not because he’s bad at his job; he’s ridiculously good at it. It’s the smirking, the way he’s always one step ahead, the overconfidence. It’s how he fills a room with his voice, presence, and his stupidly perfect tailored suits. It’s how every department head nods in agreement when he talks, and how he always has to have the last word in meetings, no matter what it’s about.

It’s the fact that when he looks at you, you’re not sure if he’s trying to win, or trying to undress you with his eyes. Probably both if you’re honest; a man his age will do anything nowadays to get laid.

This morning’s budget review is no different. You sit at the far end of the conference table, flanked by spreadsheets and your steadily cooling coffee. Mingyu sits diagonally across from you, his legs spread in that stupid fashion like he owns the floor beneath them, one hand lazily tapping a black pen against his lip. His eyes flick to you as your manager speaks, and his gaze lingers.

Your spine straightens.

He says something, a counterpoint to your ideal suggestion, and wickedly smiles like he’s daring you to challenge him. So you do, calmly and sharply. And then he does it again. And so it goes: the back and forth, the razor-thin line between argument and foreplay. No one else in the room seems to notice it, or maybe they’re just used to it by now.

When the meeting ends, you stand quickly, gathering your things and hoping to not interact with that handsome asshole again today.

“You have big weekend plans?” Mingyu drawls as he steps beside you at the door, voice low and private.

You don’t look at him, and your voice comes out sharp like a knife. “Yes. My main plan is to avoid smug narcissists.”

He laughs, deep and easy, as if he knows you were getting annoyed with his mere presence. “So I’ll see you at the gym, then?”

You halt in your tracks.

The company gym is a glass-walled, high-end escape on the 15th floor of the building. It’s rarely used, except by staff members who like the idea of working out more than the effort itself. You know Mingyu’s in there at least three times a week; how else would he have such a toned body otherwise? You only know this because you avoid those days like they’re on fire.

Your gaze finally meets his. His smile widens at the flicker of surprise you fail to hide.

“I didn’t know you went,” he says, eyes raking subtly over your outfit. “Though I’ve imagined it on more than one occasion.”

You inhale slowly, your body burning with annoyance. “Your imagination should be filed as a workplace hazard.”

Mingyu tilts his head, almost feigning innocence. Almost. “And yet, I keep getting promoted.”

You roll your eyes and walk away before your pulse, or the heat flushing your cheeks, gives anything away.

The elevator is blessedly empty when you step in after lunch, your ratty gym bag slung lazily over your shoulder. You picked today to head to the 15th floor on purpose; it was a Friday, which usually means that the office starts clearing out early so everyone can start their weekend, and it also means that you can work off the meeting rage without the risk of running into him.

But when the doors slide open on 15, you stop in your tracks immediately.

He’s already there. What the fuck is he doing here?

Tank top. Black shorts that are bordering on slightly too short. His tan skin flushed from the treadmill. He has a grey towel slung around his neck, drenched in sweat, and his damp hair is pushed back just enough so that you can see his forehead. He’s refilling his water bottle when he sees you, and he does a double-take that’s just a little too satisfied.

You step onto the floor with the same grace you’d use walking into a pitch meeting.

“Pure coincidence,” you say, not even trying to pretend it’s a question.

Mingyu grins, turning fully towards you. “You’re wearing sneakers. That’s a new look for you. What are you doing here?”

“I like hitting things when I’m annoyed.”

He chuckles, voice dipping into something that curls around your spine. “Luckily for me, I can take a hit.”

You don’t respond to him, and instead, you just march toward the free weights and drop your bag beside the bench, a loud thud echoing through the tense air.

It’s fine. He’ll just finish off his water and leave you alone to get through your workout. You’ll outlast him. He has the attention span of a golden retriever with a hefty bonus.

But he doesn’t leave.

He lingers and stretches, often letting his gaze linger on your form. He grabs a kettlebell and starts a circuit on the mat behind you, but he doesn't seem to be too interested in actually completing his circuit. You can feel him watching every time you adjust your grip or arch your back during your reps.

Petty defiance kicks in hard.

You bend over just a little slower than you normally do when picking up your weights. You hold your plank longer than you need to, your skin slick with sweat and rage, your tank top clinging just so. And you don’t look at him.

Until you do.

And he’s already looking right back at you.

Except he’s not smirking now, it’s something heavier than that. He looks controlled and focused, almost as if he’s debating the consequences of breaking something you’ve both carefully pretended not to want.

You drop your weights and stand up abruptly, your breath coming out a little too fast.

“I need a spot,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His brows lift, a gentle smirk playing on the edge of his lips. “Are you sure?”

You turn to the bench and nod towards him. “If you’re going to stare, you might as well make yourself useful.”

Mingyu crosses the space in two strides. His hands brush against your waist as you lie back on the bench, and the touch sparks like a live wire that spirals down your stomach. He positions himself above you, arms on either side of the barbell.

“Let me know when,” he says, voice low and making your legs feel like jelly.

You grip the bar intensely and try to regain your focus. You could easily lift this weight alone; you’ve done it a hundred times. But with him above you, watching, breathing so close you can occasionally feel the warmth of his breath fan across your forehead, your muscles feel traitorous.

You push your arms upward, where he follows your motion with practised ease, but his eyes never leave your face.

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs. “Are you always this intense when you do your reps?”

“Only when someone’s in my way.”

His grin is slow and hungry as he stores that information in his mind. “Is that what I am?”

You rack the bar with a hard clank and sit up quickly, your heart pounding.

“You’re… something,” you say, standing and brushing past him, as if he were a ghost.

Mingyu’s hand brushes your lower back as you pass. He doesn’t apologise, and he doesn’t pretend it was accidental.

Neither do you.

The gym locker room is much quieter than it should be, given the time of day.

You splash some cool water on your face, letting it drip down your flushed skin as your pulse tries to settle. The encounter on the weights bench left you wound up tighter than your sports bra. The sheer amount of heat in Mingyu’s voice, the pressure of his hands near your waist, the look—that look—as if peeling your clothes off would be as natural as helping you rack weights.

You don’t want to want him. That’s the worst part.

But you do.

You take your time drying yourself off, hoping that if you wait long enough, he’ll be gone when you step out. He’s not.

He’s standing at the mirror just outside the locker hallway, still shirtless, with his towel now slung over one shoulder, typing something into his phone. When he sees you, he locks the screen and straightens, eyes raking over your clean skin and damp hair with open appreciation.

“You disappear every time we spar,” he says, leaning casually on the edge of the counter.

You walk past him toward the exit. “And yet, you always look disappointed when I do.”

He follows you with keen interest, curious to know where this confrontation is going.

“Maybe I just like the chase.”

You stop and turn to face him, your face completely unreadable.

“Do you always flirt with people you argue with?”

Mingyu steps into your space, looming over your figure, and he’s close enough that the air between you seems to sizzle. “Only the ones who argue back.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His hand brushes purposefully over your wrist, fingers warm and steady. He’s not touching you intimately, not yet. But it feels like he is, and it feels like he’s about to.

And when he speaks again, it’s right in your ear.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he murmurs. “The way you watch me. You glare like you want to ruin me.”

You swallow, your cheeks warming up despite cooling them down only moments prior. There wasn't backing out of this at all. “Maybe I do.”

Mingyu’s smile turns wicked.

“Then do it.”

He steps back. The challenge is crystal clear.

You don’t think. You grab his towel and yank him toward you with it.

His mouth crashes into yours like it’s been waiting, on the edge of yearning, for permission. It’s not soft or sweet. It’s hot, and it’s messy. His hands dive into your hair, your jaw, your back. Your own hands are all over him, his shoulders, abs, the line of his hip where his shorts hang low. You bite his lip, just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back an inch, forehead pressed to yours. “Have you waited this long to kiss me?”

“You deserved the suspense,” you say, and he laughs, low and dark.

He walks you backward into the glass wall of the gym, hands on your hips, pressing you there, letting you feel what this tension has done to both of you. You gasp and feel his cool hands slide under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers skimming your stomach.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough.

You look him dead in the eye, challenging him yet again to see if he will back down.

“No.”

That’s all he needs before he drops to his knees.

You don’t recognize the sound that leaves your throat when Mingyu’s mouth meets your skin. It’s raw, unfiltered and very unlike you in every single way. What the hell is this man doing to you?

You’re still standing, your toned back pressed against cool glass, legs slightly parted, and your muscles trembling violently from both the workout and what he’s doing now. He’s on his knees in front of you like it’s where he belongs, palms firm on your thighs, pushing them apart slowly, deliberately, with a reverence that borders on worship.

“You should see yourself right now,” he murmurs against your hip bone, his lips tickling against your skin. “All that fight within you…gone. Just…this.”

His fingers skim tenderly up the sides of your legs, slow and somewhat possessive, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You’re dizzy with the sensations, clutching haphazardly at the back of his neck, your breathing becoming shallow and uneven.

“Shut up,” you manage, your voice wrecked and weak.

He grins against your skin, then bites gently. He bites just enough to make you gasp and press your hips toward him out of instinct.

He doesn’t back away.

Instead, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your leggings and looks up at you, pupils blown wide.

“Last chance.”

Your answer is breathless, “Mingyu.”

That’s all the confirmation he needs from you, and his pulse quickens seeing how desperate you are for him now.

He slides the fabric of your shorts down until they’re pooling at your feet, slow and devastating, leaving kisses in his wake; soft ones to begin, almost as if he’s testing the waters. As he progresses, they get hotter, messier and open-mouthed ones trailing along your inner thigh that make your knees buckle. His arm wraps behind one of them, anchoring you against the glass as you tremble under his skilful touch.

And then his mouth is on you just where you want him, it’s hot, skilled, and deliberate. He’s not gentle, and he sure as hell is not patient. Mingyu is taking what he wants, and has wanted, for a very long time. He sucks on your sensitive skin like he knows exactly what you need, like he’s memorized every twitch, every gasp that drops from your lips, and he won’t stop until you forget your name.

You tangle your fingers into his tousled hair, trying so hard to stay quiet, but ultimately failing when his tongue circles in just the right way, and his grip tightens to hold you steady.

“Mingyu!”

He groans into you at the sound, and the vibration nearly ends you. You grind down against his mouth, chasing that joyous wave of your orgasm. He lets you. He wants you to. Mingyu doesn’t stop moving his mouth until you’re utterly falling apart; your hips jerking, thighs shaking uncontrollably, and your body coming undone around his mouth with a moan that sounds like surrender.

Only when you’re gasping for air does he finally stand.

His mouth glistens with your juices, a stark contrast to his eyes, dark with pride and hunger. You pull him into you by the waistband of his shorts, and this time it’s you who kisses first, open, messy, and so, so desperate.

You taste yourself on his tongue, and it only makes you need him more. You need this man more than you need oxygen. Your hands slide into his shorts and wriggle their way down, your fingers wrapping around his hard erection, and he growls into your mouth, hips bucking against your palm.

“Not here,” he says, voice barely human.

You blink, dazed. “Then where?”

He glances toward the staff door near the back of the gym. “Trainer’s office. Lock. Mirror.”

You don’t wait.

The office is dim and exactly what you’d expect from a trainer's office, the evening sun slanting through crooked blinds, paired with the heat rolling off your bodies like steam. He locks the door, pushes you against it, and kisses you like a man who’s wanted this longer than he’ll ever admit.

“Take it off,” he says, tugging at your tank. You do.

He pauses, just long enough to look. His greedy gaze has your pulse pounding against your skin, almost threatening to break through the flesh.

“God fucking damn,” he breathes, hands framing your waist. “You’re... unreal.”

You don’t give him time to be poetic.

You reach for his shorts, shove them down, and he’s still stupidly hard, his cock thick and flushed and perfect. His breath stutters when you wrap your hand around him again, thumb brushing the tip where precum had begun to gather.

“So, do you still want to argue?” you whisper.

He grins, teeth flashing, the light glinting off them nicely. “Later.”

He lifts you effortlessly; his large, strong hands gripping against your thighs, your back against the door, bodies flush. You wrap your legs around him, almost instinctively, nails dragging down his back as he lines himself up with your entrance.

He pauses, just a beat. It almost seemed as if he was hesitant, but the lust eventually took over and held that dark look in his eyes yet again.

“Still good?”

You kiss him hard enough to take his breath away, a moan escaping him as you slide your tongue over his bottom lip. “Do it.”

When he sinks into you, bit by delicious bit, everything else around the two of you disappears.

The stretch is intense, slow, and unbearable in the best way possible. With every inch he presses in, you feel tears prickling at your eyes, overwhelmed with pressure. He finally presses in all the way, his forehead falling weakly to your shoulder, groaning low like he’s holding back everything at once.

“You’re so—fuck,” he pants. “So tight. So wet.”

Your answer is a whimper and a roll of your hips.

He thrusts once. Deep and precise.

You gasp.

Again. And again.

His rhythm builds up steadily, verging on punishing, but is perfect in every way. Every stroke hits something electric. The sound of skin on skin, the heavy breathing, the thud of the door behind you as he pounds you into oblivion; it’s all heat and friction and pressure.

Your hands continue to claw at his back, his hair, his jaw. He takes it and loves it. He’s everywhere—inside you, against you, in your head, your mouth. He kisses you like he owns you and fucks you like he wants to break you in half.

And you let him.

You come again with his name on your lips, your whole body trembling around him. That’s what finally undoes him—your voice, your grip, the way you clutch at him like he’s oxygen.

He groans your name weakly, his hips jerking sporadically, before burying himself deep one last time as he spills hot loads of his cum inside you, holding you through it, forehead to forehead, breath tangled with yours.

You’re still being held up against the door five minutes later, sweat cooling on your sticky bodies, lips swollen, and your body sore in the best way.

Mingyu pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression now unreadable.

“What now?” you murmur.

He runs a hand through his hair, grinning slowly.

“Well,” he says, “we still have that budget review next week.”

You groan as he kisses your shoulder, chuckling at you.

“And you still hate me.”

You shake your head. “Only when your mouth isn’t on me.”

Mingyu laughs. “Then I guess I'd better fix that.”

And he does.

Three weeks later, you’ve stopped pretending it was a one-time thing.

You still argue constantly. In meetings, emails, and even in the elevator. But now, instead of ending in a fist fight, it ends with a smirk and a brush of his fingers over any exposed skin. With his plush lips ghosting over your ear and whispered threats that have nothing to do with HR violations and everything to do with what he’s going to do to you later.

You’re not dating. Not officially.

You just… gravitate toward each other a little more than you used to.

Your gym sessions begin to sync up. Your lunches linger longer, especially when he buys you coffee. His hand purposefully finds the small of your back like it’s instinct. And last Thursday, he picked you up after work with your favourite takeout already waiting for you in the passenger seat.

“I was in the area,” he’d said, his eyes too warm to be casual.

Tonight, you’re in his apartment. Again.

Your legs are tangled in his under a shared blanket, a corny movie long-forgotten on the big screen. His hand traces absent-minded circles on your bare thigh as you nurse a glass of wine and try not to think too hard about how natural it all feels.

“You’re quiet,” he says, glancing over at you, eyes flickering with something you can't quite recognise.

You shrug, eyes not meeting his. “Just tired.”

Mingyu studies you for a beat. “You overthink like it’s a second job.”

You nudge his leg with yours playfully, a snort leaving your throat. “I have a second job. It’s called editing your terrible proposals.”

He snorts back. “You want to know why I let you rewrite my work?”

You raise a brow. “Because you’re a petty control freak with something to prove?”

“No.” He sets his glass down. “Because I knew it would piss you off. And I liked the way you looked at me when you were mad.”

You blink, surprise covering your features. “That’s pathological.”

“Maybe.” He leans closer. “But now I get to see what you look like when you’re not mad.”

You roll your eyes. “Disgusting.”

But your mouth is already tilting into a smile.

Mingyu kisses it.

Softly. No hunger, no fire. Just quiet pressure, like he’s letting the kiss ask a question neither of you has dared to voice yet.

When he pulls back, your forehead rests against his.

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.

He hums. “I know.”

“You’re still annoying.”

“So are you.”

“But I think I…” You pause. “I think this thing we’re doing is... real.”

His hand curls around your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw.

“Yeah, I think it is.”

You breathe him in. “And next week’s strategy meeting?”

“Oh,” he says, smirking, “I’m going to destroy your presentation.”

You laugh, full-bodied and unguarded.

“I’ll make you pay for it,” you promise.

Mingyu kisses you again, deeper this time. “Can’t wait.”

And just like that, you surrender fully, finally, not because he won, but because maybe you both did.

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