LTF || Song Mingi
Summary: Mingi’s strokes so good he rearranges your living room. That’s it. That’s the summary.
Warnings: idol!Mingi x grad student!f.reader, Mingi’s hips,minimal plot, cuddling, kissing,smut, MDNI!, dry humping, fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex, couch sex, riding, mating press, vocal Mingi, as usual I may have forgotten something.
W.C: 5k
A.N: LTF: Lovin, Touchin, Fuckin. My man told me to bring my ass home and stop straying in these streets.
You’re bundled up on your couch like a little blanket burrito, deep into an episode of Gachiakuta when you hear the familiar beep of the keypad on your door being unlocked. You don’t get up; you already know who it is given that only one other person has the code. The sound of him kicking off his shoes echoes down the short hallway, followed by the distinctive drag of his feet, that lazy shuffle he does when he’s exhausted.
“Fuck, baby, why’s it so cold in here?” Mingi’s voice carries from the hallway before he even rounds the corner. You hear him pause at the heating panel on the wall, and you can picture the exact expression on his face; that mix of concern and exasperation he gets when he thinks you’re not taking care of yourself properly. “Six degrees? Six? Are you trying to become a popsicle or something?”
“I have a heat pack and I’m comfy. Didn’t wanna get up,” you mumble from your cocoon, though the excuse sounds weak even to your own ears. The truth sits heavy between the words you don’t say; that you’d been watching the utility costs climb, doing the math in your head about what you could cut back on this month.
But Mingi knows better. He’s always known better.
You hear him drop his bag and outerwear near your bedroom door with a soft thud before his footsteps approach. Then he’s there, towering over your bundled form on the couch, his ashy silver-purple hair slightly mussed from the winter wind outside, cheeks still flushed from the cold. There’s something in his eyes—soft and a little sad—that tells you he understands exactly what you’re not saying.
“I’ll handle your utilities this month,” he says matter-of-factly, already reaching down to pull you up and closer. His long fingers work to unwrap your blanket burrito with practiced ease, and you want to protest but the words die in your throat when you see his expression. “And before you argue, I’m also ordering groceries this week.”
“Mingi, you don’t have to—” you start but his arms wrap around you, cutting off your protest.
“I want to.” He repositions you both on the couch, wrapping the blanket around your bodies together like a shared shelter, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His warmth immediately starts to seep into your cold limbs, better than any heat pack. “You’re my girl. Let me take care of you, yeah? Now what episode are we on?”
The finality in his tone leaves no room for arguments but it’s the gentleness in how he holds you that really makes your resistance crumble. He settles back against the couch, adjusting you more comfortably against his chest and you feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his hoodie.
He knew your scholarship didn’t cover much, the same way he knew rent wasn’t cheap in Seoul, especially not in a decent neighborhood close enough to campus. Even with your on-campus departmental assistant job, you deprived yourself of a lot of things simply to save money. You’d been so used to handling everything on your own, so accustomed to being self-sufficient since you’d moved here, that even after almost two years of dating, you still found it hard to let him do things for you. To let him in like this, past all those walls you’d built out of necessity and pride.
“I watched two without you, but I didn’t really pay attention,” you admit quietly, letting yourself relax against him, breathing in his familiar scent. “We can rewatch them.”
You don’t put up a fight because you knew how Mingi could get when it came to taking care of you, stubborn and immovable as a mountain. You knew that he knew exactly why you were sitting in the cold of your apartment rather than turning the heating on, counting every won and making sacrifices you thought he wouldn’t notice.
But he always noticed.
“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.
That conversation was an hour and those two rewatched episodes ago—episodes that neither of you pay attention to because you kept pausing to talk, to catch up on everything you’d missed in each other’s lives. He tells you about the comeback preparations, the choreography that was killing his back, the way Yunho and Seonghwa kept stealing his and San’s snacks. You tell him about the grades you received for the last semester, the remote job you were struggling with and wanted to quit, the way your neighbor’s cat had somehow ended up in your apartment last week.
But eventually the conversation had shifted, grew quieter, more intimate. The touches lingered longer. His hand on your thigh. Your fingers tracing patterns on his hand. The way he looked at you had changed too, darkened with want that had been building for weeks of separation.
Now the “Are you still watching?” screen on Netflix stares back at you both, forgotten and irrelevant.
You hadn’t seen your boyfriend since the end of December; nearly three weeks of your relationship sustained only through phone screens and late-night video calls that always ended too soon, interrupted by his impossible schedule or the need for sleep. You’d missed the solid warmth of him, the way he smelled like his cologne mixed with laundry detergent and something uniquely him. Missed the way his laugh sounded in person, richer and fuller than through phone speakers. Missed the weight of his gaze on you, the casual touches, the intimacy of just existing in the same space.
And as much as sitting cuddled up like this was great, as much as you wanted to savor this reunion, it was getting increasingly hard to keep things innocent.
Especially when his big hands started wandering from their safe position on your waist, rubbing slow circles on your stomach that gradually drifted lower. When his fingers started tracing the curve of your hip through your sweatpants, then growing bolder, gripping and kneading the soft flesh of your thighs with a possessiveness that made heat pool low in your belly, like he was reacquainting himself with the geography of your body.
“Mingi,” you breathed, half warning, half plea and you felt his lips curve into a smile against your neck.
“Mm?” The sound rumbled through his chest and into yours where you were pressed against him. “Just missed touching you, bonita. It’s been too long.”
“You’re distracting me from the show,” you murmur, though you make no move to stop him.
“What show?” His voice is already rougher, deeper than usual, vibrating against your back where you’re pressed against his chest. “It’s been asking if we’re still watching for like twenty minutes now. Just missed touching you, baby.”
And it had been. Too many weeks of aching for this, for the weight of his hands on you, for the heat of his breath against your skin.
His face finds the curve of your neck, lips brushing against sensitive skin, and you can’t help the way you turn your body around to face him; a leg hooked over his hip as you tilt your head to give him better access. He takes immediate advantage, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point in a way that makes you gasp and arch into him. His hand finds your ass and when he squeezes, fingers digging into the soft flesh with a possessiveness that makes you shiver, you couldn’t help the small sound that escaped your throat.
“Missed you so fucking much,” he murmurs against your skin between kisses, and you can feel how much he means it in the way his arms tighten around you, in the way his breathing has already gone uneven. “Three weeks is too long. Way too long.”
“I know,” you breathe, fingers threading through his soft hair, tugging gently in the way you know he likes. “I missed you too.” You continue like you both haven’t gone longer without seeing each other.
“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower, rough around the edges in that way that always made heat pool low in your belly. “You missed this too?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and shifted against him; feeling exactly how much he’d missed you, hard and insistent against your hip.
“Fuck,” he groaned, low and drawn out, his other hand coming up to thread through your freshly pressed hair, tilting your head back so he could access more of your throat. “You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about this. About you.”
His lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear and you gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “Baby, please—”
“Please what, mama? Tell me what you need.” His teeth grazed your pulse point and you could feel your heart hammering there, could feel how he paused to feel it racing under his tongue. “Use your words.”
“Need you,” you managed, breathless already and he’d barely touched you. “Need you so bad.”
The groan that pulled from his chest was pure satisfaction. “That’s my girl. Always so good for me when you remember to ask.”
One of his hands slides up under your sweater and shirt—his sweater and tshirt, actually, ones you’d stolen months ago—his palm hot against the small of your back, exploring skin he’s been denied access to for weeks. The other hand is still gripping your ass, pulling you harder against him and you can feel him hardening even more beneath you.
“Can I—” he starts, but you’re already shifting so you can straddle him properly as he sits up.
“Yeah,” you say, and then your mouths finally meet.
The kiss is immediately desperate, weeks of longing poured into it. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours like he’s trying to make up for lost time. Your hands cup his face, feeling the warmth of his flushed cheeks, while his grip your hips hard enough to bruise in the best way.
When his tongue traces your bottom lip, you open for him immediately, and the kiss deepens into something filthy and consuming. He tastes like coffee he must have had on the way over and underneath that, just him. One of your hands tangles in his hair, pulling harder now, and he groans into your mouth; a sound that goes straight through you, making you grind down against him.
“Fuck,” he gasps, breaking the kiss to look at you with hooded eyes, pupils blown wide. His hands slide under your shirt properly now, pushing it up, and you help him pull it over your head. The cold air hits your skin but you barely notice because he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.
“No bra?” His thumbs brush over your nipples that were already peaked and sensitive. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Missed these. Missed all of you. Missed seeing you like this.”
“You know I don’t like wearing any at home,” you admitted, gasping when he pinched lightly, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. “plus, it’s winter. Who’s gonna know with all the layers?”
“I know,” he grins as his mouth finds your collarbone, kissing and sucking marks into your skin that you’ll definitely have to cover up later, but right now you don’t care. Your head falls back as his lips trail lower, hands now cupping your breasts as he continues to pinch your nipples in a way that makes you whimper.
“Mingi, please—”
“I got you, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Gonna take care of you.”
He moves one hand to your hip to pull you flush against him and then his mouth is on you, hot and wet, tongue circling one nipple while his fingers work the other. You’re grinding against him properly now, seeking friction, and he’s meeting your movements, hips rolling up to meet yours.
The layers between you are too much, too frustrating. You need more, need him closer, need—
“Off,” you manage, tugging at his hoodie, and he pulls back just long enough to yank it over his head along with the shirt underneath. Then his hands are on you again, pulling you back flush against his bare chest, skin to skin finally, and the contact feels so good you could cry.
You kiss him again, slower this time but no less intense, pouring everything you feel into it. Love and want and need and come home and I missed you and please don’t leave again. His hands map your body like he’s relearning every curve, every sensitive spot that makes you gasp or shiver.
“Mingi—” His name came out broken, desperate.
“God, I love the way you say my name like that. Like you need me. Do you need me, baby?”
“Need you,” you whisper against his lips, and you feel him shudder.
“Yeah, okay, fuck—” His hands move to the waistband of your sweatpants, fingers dipping inside, and you lift up enough for him to slide them down along with your underwear.
The blanket has long since fallen away, forgotten on the floor, but you don’t need it anymore. Not with the heat building between you, not with the way he’s touching you like he’s been starving for it.
His fingers find you already wet, and he groans at the discovery. “You’re soaked. All this for me?”
“Three weeks,” you remind him breathlessly, rocking into his touch. “Three weeks of just my hand and thinking about you.”
“Fuck, bonita,” he breathes, circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that have you trembling. “Tell me what you thought about.”
“This,” you manage. “Your hands, your mouth, how you—ah—how you feel inside me.”
He rewards you by sliding two fingers inside, and the stretch makes you moan loud enough that you briefly worry about your neighbors before you stopped caring entirely. He curled his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made your vision go hazy, and set a rhythm that had you clutching at his shoulders.
“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.” His thumb found your clit and you nearly sobbed. “Let me hear how good I make you feel. Missed these sounds so much. Used to replay the videos you sent me every night, you know that? Every night on tour, every night away from you, wishing it were my fingers inside you instead of yours.”
The image of him touching himself to videos of you made everything feel hotter, tighter. “Min, I’m—”
He works you open carefully, thoroughly, fingers curling to continuously hit that spot that makes your thighs shake, thumb still working your clit. You bury your face in his neck, breathing hard, hands gripping his broad shoulders for support as he builds you higher and higher.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs encouragingly. “Let me hear you. Missed those pretty sounds you make. It’s been too long since I’ve heard them in person.”
You’re close, embarrassingly close already but before you can tip over that edge, you pull back. “No, wait…want to come with you. Need you inside me.”
His eyes darken impossibly further and he withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean while maintaining eye contact. The sight of it, the hungry look in his eyes, nearly undoes you on the spot.
“Missed your taste too,” he says, voice absolutely wrecked. “Missed everything about you.”
You make quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down just enough to free him, and then he’s there, hard and heavy in your hand. He’s already leaking and when you stroke him once, twice, his head falls back against the wall with a thud, and the sight made your mouth water.
“Next time,” you promise, twisting your hand around him and earning a sharp hiss of pleasure. “Next time I want you in my mouth.”
“Fuck, don’t…don’t say shit like that right now or this is gonna be over way too fast.” He catches your wrist gently, stilling your movement. “It’s been too long, baby. I need to be inside you. Need it so bad.”
“Now,” you say, positioning yourself over him. “Please, baby, now.”
His hands grip your hips, guiding you as you sink down onto him slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation. It’s been too long, and the stretch of him filling you is almost overwhelming.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Mingi’s head lifts off the wall slightly to look at you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So tight. So perfect. Fuck, you feel like heaven. Missed this,” he gasps, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips and ass. “Missed you. Missed being inside you.”
You took him fully, settling in his lap, and paused to adjust to the stretch, to the fullness of having him inside you again after so long. His hands roamed your back, your sides, pulling you close so your foreheads pressed together.
“Okay?” he murmured, and despite the strain in his voice, despite how you could feel him twitching inside you with the need to move, he waited for your signal.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”
“Then move for me, baby. Show me how much you missed this cock. Wanna watch you ride me.”
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep grinds that have both of you breathing hard. His hands guide you up and down, finding a rhythm together, relearning each other’s bodies. Every slide of him inside you feels incredible, hitting deep, the angle perfect from this position; it makes stars burst behind your eyelids, and when you cry out, he does it again, harder.
“There it is,” he praises, voice rough and breathless. “Right there, yeah? That’s the spot?”
“Yes, fuck, yes, right there—”
“That’s my good girl. Taking me so well. Look at you.” One of his hands comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. “Look at how beautiful you are when you’re riding my cock. Wish you could see yourself. Wish you could see what I see.”
He leans forward to capture your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your moans as you ride him faster, chasing the pleasure building in your core. One of his hands slides between your bodies to find your clit again, rubbing tight circles that make you clench around him.
“Fuck, yes, just like that,” he breathes against your lips. “You feel so good, so perfect. Taking me so well.” His words make you clench around him and he groans, low and long. “Fuck, do that again. Love feeling you squeeze me like that.”
You did, deliberately this time, and his hips bucked up involuntarily, driving him deeper. The rhythm was getting faster now, more desperate, the slap of skin on skin mixing with your combined moans and the creak of the couch beneath you.
“More,” you whimpered and felt him smile against your skin.
“Greedy girl. I love it. Love you.” He nipped at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Love how you get like this for me. So needy. So perfect.”
The praise sends heat coursing through you, spurring you on. You grip his hair tighter, pulling his head back so you can kiss down his throat, biting and sucking marks into his neck the way he did to you, not caring about his upcoming schedule,if he had any.His hips start thrusting up to meet you, driving deeper, and the change in intensity makes you cry out.
“That’s my girl,” he groans. “Let me hear you. Don’t hold back.”
“Min, baby, I’m close—”
“I know, baby, I can feel it. Can feel you getting tighter. But not yet, okay? Just a little longer. Want to make this last.” His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your thighs shake. “Want to feel you for as long as possible.”
“Mingi…baby,”
“You can take it. You’re doing so good for me, mama. So fucking good.” His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling your mouth to his for another messy, desperate kiss. “Just a little more. Can you do that for me?”
You nodded but even as good as it feels, the angle isn’t quite enough. You need more, need him deeper, need—
He seems to read your mind, because suddenly he’s shifting, movements purposeful and hungry with need.
“Hold on,” he murmurs, and then in one smooth motion he’s lifting you, pulling out only long enough to flip you both. Your back hits the couch cushions and he’s above you, those broad shoulders blocking out the world, making everything narrow down to just this, just him. “Want to see your face. Need to see you when you come.”
He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half, and when he pushes back inside you from this angle, you both moan at how impossibly deep he goes. The angle makes you cry out; he was so deep like this, hitting spots that made you see stars. “Need to fuck you properly. Need to hear you scream my name.”
Then he was moving, and God, he wasn’t holding back anymore. Each thrust was hard and deep and purposeful, driving into you with a force that had the couch protesting beneath you, had you clutching at his back, nails digging into his skin.
“God, fuck, Mingi—”
“Fuck, yes, just like that—” He’s panting, each word punctuated by a thrust. “So good, baby. Taking me so fucking well. Love watching your face when I’m this deep. Love hearing those sounds you make—”
The sounds you were making were obscene, high-pitched whimpers and moans that you couldn’t control, couldn’t hold back even if you tried. And from the way Mingi was groaning in response, he didn’t want you to.
This is what you needed. This intensity, this closeness, him taking control and giving you exactly what you’ve been craving for three agonizing weeks. Each thrust hits that spot inside you that makes your vision white out, and you’re already so close, wound so tight you might break apart.
“Louder, bonita. Let the whole building know who’s making you feel this good. Let them hear who you belong to.”
“Mingi, fuckkk, Mingi—” His name was a chant, a prayer, the only word you could remember.
“Look at me,” he commands, and when your eyes meet his, the intimacy of it, the love and want you see reflected there, steals your breath. “That’s it, baby…that’s my girl. Want to see those pretty eyes when I make you come.”
He’s driving into you with a force that has the couch protesting beneath you, the frame creaking, and you swear you can feel it shifting across the floor. But you can’t focus on that, not when he’s hitting so deep, not when his fingers find your clit again and start rubbing in time with his thrusts.
“Fuck, you sound so pretty when you say my name like that. Say it again.”
“Mingi, please baby, I need…I need to—”
“I know, I can feel you,” he groans and he does look wrecked, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, lips swollen from kissing, eyes dark and desperate. His angle shifted slightly and you nearly screamed. “Right there? That what you need?”
“Yes! Oh god, yes, please don’t stop—”
“Not stopping. Never stopping. Gonna fuck you until you can’t remember your own name, until the only thing you can remember is mine.”
The couch was definitely moving now, you could feel it sliding with each powerful thrust, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when he was filling you so perfectly, not when every nerve ending was on fire, not when his fingers found your clit again and—
“Come for me, mama.” he commanded, voice strained with his own need. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart for me.”
It only takes a few more thrusts, a few more circles of his fingers, and then you’re shattering, back arching off the couch as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You cry out his name, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, prolonging your orgasm until you’re shaking and oversensitive.
“Fuck yes, that’s it; fuck, you feel so good, so fucking good—” His rhythm falters, becoming erratic. “Gonna come, baby. Gonna…where?”
“Inside,” you managed, still riding the aftershocks. “Want to feel you. Want you to come inside me. Want all of you.”
That permission is all he needs. He buries himself deep with a groan that sounded like it was torn from his chest, and you feel him come, spilling hot inside you, face buried in your neck as his whole body shudders.
For a long moment, you both just stay like that, breathing hard, hearts racing, tangled together in the aftermath. His weight on top of you feels grounding, perfect, and you run your fingers through his sweaty hair, pressing kisses to his temple.
“Fuck,” he finally managed, voice hoarse. “Fuck, I love you.”
“Love you too,” you whispered, holding him close. “Missed you,” you whisper again because it’s all you can think to say, the truest thing you know.
“Missed you more,” he murmurs back, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.
You stay like that for a moment longer, neither of you quite ready to move, to break the connection. When he finally did pull out, you both wince at the sensitivity, and he collapses beside you on the couch, immediately pulling you into his arms.
That’s when you become aware of something odd. The angle of the room looks different somehow. The TV seems farther away than it should be. You both turned your heads at the same time, taking in the couch’s new position; a solid three feet across the floor from where it started, leaving visible drag marks on your area rug.
There’s a beat of stunned silence as you both process this.
Then you both burst into laughter, the kind that shakes your whole body and makes your stomach hurt, the kind that’s contagious and impossible to stop. You bury your face in his chest, shoulders shaking, while his own laughter wheezes out in that high-pitched way that always makes you laugh even harder. The shift from intense intimacy to this moment of absurdity is so jarring that it makes it even funnier.
“Oh my god, baby!” you gasped between giggles, smacking his chest weakly. “You literally moved my furniture! You fucked me so hard you rearranged my living room.”
He was laughing just as hard, that beautiful, uninhibited sound that you loved, his whole face scrunched up with it. “Hey, hey now,” he protested, though he could barely get the words out. “That’s not just on me! That’s a team effort right there. That’s what happens when we’re both…we’re both putting in the work. Y’know, teamwork makes the dream work, baby. We should get a medal or some shit.”
You dissolve into fresh giggles, smacking him again. “You’re the one who was going at it like you were trying to drill through my floor! Like you were on a mission.”
“And weren’t you pulling on my hair like you were trying to scalp me?” He catches your wrist, bringing your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles, eyes dancing with mirth. “Besides, I’d say the results speak for themselves. When’s the last time regular sex came with a free furniture rearrangement service? I’m basically doing you a favor. Helping you redecorate. Very boyfriend of me.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt and he’s looking at you with such open affection that it made your chest feel warm and full.The apartment doesn’t feel cold anymore, hasn’t felt cold since he walked through the door. Not with him here, not with this warmth between you that has nothing to do with the heating he’d turned on earlier.
“A little bit, but you love me anyway,” he says, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Even when I get too enthusiastic and redecorate your apartment mid-sex.”
“Especially then,” you admitted, snuggling into his chest. You trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow under your palm. “Though I’m not sure ‘sex so good it moves furniture’ was on my list of relationship goals.”
“Well, it should’ve been.” He grins.
“We should probably move it back,” you say eventually, though neither of you make any move to get up. “And move to the bedroom before you’re ready for another round.”
“In a minute,” Mingi mumbles, his arms tightening around you as he settles his weight more comfortably against you, pulling the forgotten blanket from the floor to drape over your cooling bodies. “Not done holding you yet. Three weeks of missed cuddles to make up for. That’s a serious deficit, and besides, I kind of like it here. New perspective on your living room. Very feng shui.”
“That’s not what feng shui means.”
“Sounds like something someone with bad feng shui would say,” he teases, and you could hear the grin in his voice.
You roll your eyes but you’re smiling, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Next time maybe we should just use the bed like normal people.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest and into yours where you’re pressed together. “Where’s the fun in that, mama? Where’s the adventure? Besides, I’m pretty sure your bed can’t slide across the floor.” He pauses, then adds with theatrical seriousness, “Though I guess we could test that theory. You know. For science. Just think of all the other furniture we haven’t christened yet. The possibilities are endless.”
“Oh my god, stop,” you groan, but you’re laughing again, and yeah, you definitely missed this. Missed him. Missed this exact feeling of being completely comfortable and completely happy and completely yourself with someone who loved every part of you. Missed the way he takes care of you even when you don’t ask, the way he makes you feel safe enough to let go.
“Never,” he promised, kissing the top of your head. “Never stopping. You’re stuck with me forever.”
And as you lay there in his arms, the couch askew, your body deliciously sore and your heart so full it might burst, you think that being stuck with Song Mingi forever sounds just about perfect.
