jade;

26 // rm, italy

[teaxtease]

₊˚.༄ friends with benefits ft. YUNHO

warnings: sex, cursing, jealousy, reader is called ‘mama’ sarcastically

note: requested by my lovely @s0ul1nyah

requests are slow but open! ask for tags below.

📲🏷️: @seodwae @teaxkaisen @ateezwink @xoxiaojun @aaa-sia @my1003soda @minkieater

[way2jellyous]

"lets not thimk too hard about thay" IM SVREAMING PISSING MY FUCKING LANTS BRO

[w00yngie]

i ride, you ride, bang!

pairing: song mingi x f!reader

genre: non idol!au, friends to lovers, lowkey fast n' furious if it was supah horny, mechanic!mingi x street racer!reader

word count: 31.3k

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

warnings: no use of y/n, plot with some eventual smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), car sex hallelujah, public sex if u squint, dry humping, p in v, multiple o's, cum play, slight edging, mingi is a fkn munch, felching, fingering, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation (kinda), breast play, nipple play, bratty!reader, dom!mingi hallelujah, mingi is a meanie >:c, spanking, praise kink, almost pronebone but not rlly, he calls the reader a slut once, manhandling, size difference, body worship, use of 'good girl', slight dacryphilia, he's big, weak ass pullout game, implied marathon, cute aftercare (mingi is a softie my baby) / lmk if i missed any!

author's note: i saw his part in the bad mv and this idea just came to me in a dream. his outfit just screamed mechanic to me but also i was horny as fuck sooo can you blame me :> i apologise in advanced to anyone who owns a car or drives i dont have a license (yet) so i was just writing sum bullllshiiit. my friends and i have been rewatching the entirety of the fast and furious franchise so it also continued to spark this idea in my silly little brain. who knew typing a story with one hand could be so hard... i jest! i hope you guys enjoy my extremely self-indulgent fic of mingi. stream ghpt5!

ps. heres some songs i listened to while writing this fic: one, two, three, four, five

permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @puoeri @mingvxs @no1likepepix8 + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))

The asphalt screamed under your tires like it was begging for mercy, and you gave it none. You’d taken the second turn tight. The one with the loose manhole cover that sent most racers wide. You heard the car behind you overcorrect, its bumper grazing the guardrail in a shriek of metal that meant you’d already won. The night air whipped through your cracked window, carrying burnt rubber and cheap cologne up from the crowd lining the overpass.

Your hands were steady on the wheel. The engine hummed the way it always hummed when it was happy—deep and throaty and just the right side of angry. You’d built this car from the ground up, and the only people who’d ever touched it besides you were the crew at ATZ Auto, and that was a trust you didn’t hand out lightly. Three weeks since the last race. Three weeks of late nights in the garage with nothing but a socket wrench and a headlamp for company. Three weeks of waiting for this exact stretch of empty industrial road.

The finish line was maybe forty seconds out. You could see the flare of the orange cones in your rear view, the silhouette of the flagger already lifting his arm. Another racer had fallen back to a full car length. This was yours. This was already—

Clunk.

You felt it before you heard it. A vibration through the pedal, through the floorboard, through the bones of your right foot. Not the good kind.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Your stomach dropped.

There was a rattling now, coming from somewhere beneath the driver’s side—under the dash, maybe, or lower, somewhere in the guts of the transmission tunnel. It was rhythmic, metallic, and getting louder with every press of the accelerator. 

You glanced at the dash. No lights. No temperature spike. Nothing on the gauges to tell you what was dying under the hood.

“Come on,” you muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. “Come on, baby, just thirty more seconds. Give me thirty.”

You eased off the throttle. Just barely, just enough to keep the rattle from becoming something you couldn’t drive home from. The headlights behind you swelled in your mirrors like something hungry. Whoever it was had sensed the hesitation. Their engine climbed in pitch, closing fast.

Not tonight.

You dropped back into gear and put your foot down, and the rattle became a groan that you felt in your back teeth, in the base of your skull, but the car gave you what you asked for. It always did. You crossed the line with that sound still filling the cabin like a bad omen, and you had no idea by how much, and you didn’t care.

The crowd was already moving toward you. A flare went up somewhere near the overpass, throwing red light across the ground. They were chanting something—your car’s name, probably, or the name they’d given it, which had stopped feeling separate from your own a long time ago.

You cut the engine at the turnout and sat in the silence that followed, listening to the metal tick and settle around you. The rattle was gone. Clean as if it had never happened. You’d learned not to trust that. The car only ever confessed when it had no choice.

A window rolled down somewhere behind you. “No way your shitty car beat mine”

“Well...” you said, and forced a laugh you didn’t feel. “It is what it is. Get good next time, yeah?”

They laughed and drove off to collect their losses from the betters, and you were left alone with the hood of your car and the creeping dread that something expensive had just given up on you.

You popped the hood. The engine bay looked normal, from a racers eye anyway. The wires ran they should be, belts tight, no obvious leaks. You ran your hand along the underside of the frame near the transmission mount and came away with nothing but grease and road grit. Whatever was wrong was hiding from you, somewhere you couldn’t reach without a lift and a full set of tools.

You pulled out your phone. Scrolled past three missed calls from your roommate and a text from your mother asking if you’d eaten dinner. Found the number you needed—the one you’d saved three months ago after your last catastrophic breakdown, the one with the shop logo as the contact photo. You dialed. It rang twice.

“ATZ’s Auto, this is Mingi speaking.”

You exhaled, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened just hearing his voice. That low, unhurried drawl that always made it sound like he’d been expecting your call. A part of you hoped so, anyways.

“Hey—”

“Hi, sweetheart.” There was a smile in it already. You could hear it, the way his voice went soft at the edges. “What did you do to her this time?”

You leaned your hip against the fender, phone pressed between your ear and your shoulder, and let your free hand rest on the warm hood. The metal was still ticking, still settling, and somewhere deep in the chassis, you were pretty sure something was still dying.

“I didn’t do anything,” you sighed, hearing your own defensiveness. “She just—I don’t know. She started making this sound on the last stretch. Like a clunk sound? Like something’s swinging loose under the driver’s side.”

“Clunking?” He repeated, and you could hear the scratch of a pen on paper. Mingi always wrote things down, even the small stuff, even the things you thought were nothing. It was one of the reasons you kept coming back. “If it's under the driver’s side... Maybe it's the transmission tunnel area?”

“Maybe? I couldn’t tell. It was rhythmic, though. Tied to the rotation. Got worse when I gave it gas, went away when I let off.”

“Mmm.” The sound was thoughtful. You heard the creak of his chair, the muffled thump of what might have been his boots coming off the desk. “No dash lights?”

“Nothing. Gauges looked fine. The temperature was steady. I popped the hood and poked around but I couldn't see anything obvious from the top.”

“Of course you can’t,” he teased, “Because the car knows better than to show you what’s wrong. It’s saving it for me.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not being smug. I’m being right. There’s a difference.” You could hear him moving through the shop—the familiar background percussion of a metal door swinging open, the overhead lights buzzing to life. He was already walking toward the bay. “Where are you? Still on the industrial stretch?”

“Yeah, just by the turnout by the overpass."

“I know the one.” There was a pause, and you heard the jingle of keys. “Stay put. I’ll come get you. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Mingi, you don’t have to—”

“See you soon,” the line went dead before you could argue.

You stared at your phone for a second, then slipped it into your back pocket. The crowd had thinned out now. Most of them following the money to the next unofficial bet, a few stragglers lingering near the guardrail with their phones still recording the aftermath. Someone had brought a speaker. The bass was thumping low and lazy, and someone else was laughing too loud about something that probably wasn’t funny.

You slid down onto the curb and pulled your knees up to your chest. The asphalt was still warm from the day’s heat, and the night air smelled like diesel and the distant, greasy promise of the all-night diner three blocks over. You let your head fall back and stared at the underside of the overpass, at the graffiti someone had painted in fluorescent pink that you’d never been able to fully read.

Twenty minutes.

You closed your eyes and listened to your car breathe. The ticking had slowed to something almost peaceful, the way a person’s pulse slows after a scare—still elevated, still wary, but pretending to be fine. You knew that rhythm intimately. You’d felt it in your own chest more times than you wanted to count.

The tow truck arrived in eighteen. You’d know the sound of it anywhere—that particular diesel grumble, the squeak of the suspension that Mingi kept meaning to fix and never did because, in his words, it gives her character. The headlights swept across you in a wide arc before settling, and then there he was, climbing down from the cab in that oversized mechanic’s jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, grease already smudged along the inside of one forearm like he’d been working on something else before you called.

He was tall enough that he had to duck under the tow rig’s boom, and the motion made his dark hair fall across his forehead in a way that was, frankly, unfair. His eyes found you on the curb before they found the car—which, coming from Mingi, was basically a love confession.

“There she is,” he announced as he walked over to where you where seated.

You couldn’t tell if he meant you or the car. Maybe both. He was looking at you like you were the one making the concerning noise. “You in one piece?”

“I’m fine. The car’s the one—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just messing with ya,” he was already crouching beside your driver’s side door, one hand flat against the frame, the other reaching underneath. You watched his fingers move with the kind of practiced confidence that made your stomach do something complicated. He’d barely touched the car, and already he looked like he understood it better than you did. “Can you pop the hood for me?”

You reached through the window and pulled the release. He stood, and the hood swung up between you like a shield, and for a moment you could only see his hands—long fingers, silver rings decorating them, a thin white scar across the knuckle of his right index finger that you’d asked about once and he’d shrugged off with "kitchen accident, don’t worry about it." You worried about it.

He leaned into the engine bay, and you heard him hum. A low, considering the sound he made when he was cataloguing damage. You’d heard it enough times to know the variations.

“Transmission mount,” he noted, pulling back. A streak of fresh grease ran from his wrist to his elbow now, and he didn’t seem to notice. “Or something connected to it. The bolt’s either sheared or backed out entirely. I can hear the play from here.”

“Well... Can you fix it?”

He looked at you over the hood, and his mouth did that thing—the half-smile, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to be charmed by the question and failing. “Can I fix it?” He repeated, like you’d asked him if water was wet. “Sweetheart. I could fix this car with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.”

“Then why do you charge me so much?”

“That's because you keep breaking it in increasingly creative ways, and my emotional labour isn’t free.” He closed the hood with a soft thunk and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. “C'mon. Help me get her on the flatbed and I’ll take you to the shop. I can pull it apart tonight if you want to watch.”

You stood, brushing the grit off your jeans. “You’re not going to lecture me about racing, are you?”

“I’ve given up on that.” He was already walking toward the tow controls, but he glanced back over his shoulder, and the streetlight caught the line of his jaw and the curve of his smile in a way that made your breath catch. “Besides. You won anyway, didn’t you?”

“Huh? How'd you know?”

“You called me from the turnout instead of a ditch.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “Winner stays. Loser limps home. That’s how it works.”

You helped him hook the chains—your hands under his direction, his voice low and patient beside your ear, his fingers guiding yours when you fumbled with the latch. The car went up onto the flatbed with a groan that sounded almost relieved. You stood there in the red glow of the tow lights with grease on your palms and Mingi’s jacket brushing your shoulder, and something in your chest that had been rattling all night finally went quiet.

He gave the last strap a snap to check the tension, then straightened up and wiped his hands on the rag. You walked together back to the truck and the gravel shifted under your boots and his footsteps were easy and unhurried beside yours, like he had nowhere else to be. He opened the passenger door before you reached for it. An old habit, one he never skipped, even though the hinges groaned like they were protesting the gentleness—and you climbed up into the seat, settling into the seat that still smelled like him. Coffee, motor oil and that cedar-sandalwood cologne he wore ever since the day you mentioned that combination smelled good.

The engine turned over with a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and up through the soles of your boots. Mingi pulled out onto the industrial road with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from knowing every pothole and crack by heart, his left arm resting on the door frame, his right hand loose on the wheel at the bottom. You watched his profile in the dashboard light—the sharp line of his nose, the way his jaw worked when he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying.

“You’re staring,” he said, without looking over.

“You have grease on your face.”

He touched his cheek, found nothing. “Where?”

“Nah, it's on the other side.”

He touched the other cheek. “What a little liar.”

“You’ll never know.”

The smile he gave you was small and private, just for the dark of the truck, and you turned to look out the window at the streetlights blurring past. The tow rig swayed gently with each turn, and your car rocked on the flatbed behind you with a soft metallic creak that sounded almost like a lullaby. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until the adrenaline drained out of you all at once, leaving you hollow and heavy-limbed.

You pressed your forehead against the cool glass and let your eyes drift half-shut. The engine hummed quietly. Mingi’s thumb tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel tapping along to a beat of a song you couldn’t quite recognise. The streetlights strobed across your closed eyelids in warm amber pulses.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment you were watching the city slide past in streaks of neon and shadow, and the next there was nothing—just the deep, dark quiet of a body that had decided it was done.

You came back to consciousness in pieces.

First: the smell. Motor oil and metal and something warm—cotton, maybe, or the inside of a jacket? You couldn't tell. Second: The feeling of being carried. Strong arms under your knees and across your back, the steady rise and fall of someone’s breathing close to your ear, the careful way they shifted their weight to keep from jostling you through a doorway that was too narrow.

Then: a voice, very low, and very very close. “—she’s fine, she’s just—no, I’ve got her.”

You forced your eyes open. The ceiling was familiar, you think. Not to mention the acoustic tile and water stain in the shape of something that might have been a rabbit if you squinted. A fluorescent light buzzed somewhere out of sight, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional pale yellow.

You were in Mingi’s office.

You came to that conclusion after you recognized the framed poster on the wall. It was some vintage Porsche ad he’d found at a flea market and hung crooked because he thought straight lines were boring. The desk was covered in invoices and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate.

You were on the couch. Or—not a couch, not exactly. Mingi had pushed the two waiting-room chairs together and draped them with what looked like every clean shop towel he owned, layered thick enough that the metal armrests had disappeared entirely. A folded hoodie served as a pillow. He had tucked your boots off to the side, lined up neatly against the baseboard like they were standing at attention.

You tried to sit up but unfortunately your body said no.

“Hey.” His voice came from the doorway, and you turned your head to find him leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and something softer. “You’ve been out for twenty minutes. I was starting to think I’d have to check your pulse.”

“How did I—”

“You fell asleep in the truck. Like, fully. Head against the window, mouth open, the whole thing.” The amusement won out. His smile was wide and unguarded, the kind he only wore when he thought no one was looking. “It was very dignified. Very graceful and adorable”

You groaned and pressed the heel of your hand against your eye. “You carried me in here.”

“Yes, I did.”

You pouted, a flush of pink creeping up your cheeks. The thought of Mingi carrying you alone sent shivers down your spine. "You didn't have to, could've just woken me up too."

“And be a dickhead for waking up sleeping beauty? Absolutely not.” He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three long strides, and before you could protest, something heavy and warm settled over you—his jacket, the oversized mechanic’s one, still carrying the heat of his body and the smell of him up close. He tugged it up to your chin with the same careful precision he used on engine bolts, making sure it covered your shoulders. “Go back to sleep. I promise the car isn’t going anywhere.”

“But… I wanted to watch you work on it," you yawned, clearly your body betrayed what your heart wanted.

“You can watch me work on it tomorrow, when your eyes are open and you are fully conscious.” His hand lingered on the collar of the jacket, adjusting it, and his knuckles brushed your jaw. You held very still. “I’m just going to get her up on the lift and take a look. No heavy lifting tonight. Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a scout.”

“How do you know? Maybe I had a very brief and disappointing scouting career.” His thumb traced a line along the edge of the jacket—once, twice—and then he pulled his hand back like he’d remembered himself. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right outside if you need me, okay?”

He left the door open a crack—enough that the sounds of the shop filtered through: the hydraulic hiss of the lift engaging, the clank of a toolbox being rolled across concrete, the low murmur of whatever he was saying to your car under his breath. You’d heard him do that before. Talk to engines like they were old friends. Tell them it was going to be okay. You’d always found it endearing in a way that made your chest ache.

You pulled his jacket tighter around you and buried your face in the collar. It smelled like him—the coffee and the oil and the cedar and something underneath that was just warmth. The makeshift bed was more comfortable than it had any right to be. The shop towels were soft from a hundred washes, and the hoodie-pillow held the shape of his head like a confession.

Outside, the lift groaned as it took the weight of your car. You heard Mingi’s boots on the concrete, the metallic click of a drop light being positioned, the soft whistle he made when he was concentrating—the same three-note tune every time, becoming your lullaby for the night.

You closed your eyes and listened to him work, and the sound was steadier than any lullaby, and you were asleep again before the first bolt came loose.

══════════════════

Light came through the half-closed blinds in thin, dusty stripes, and you woke to the sound of water hitting glass. Not rain. Something more deliberate. The measured pour of a coffee machine doing its one job in the world with quiet, mechanical devotion. You blinked against the soft morning light and found the ceiling tile rabbit still there, still watching over you with its water-stain eyes. You were on the couch. Or—the chair-couch. The shop towels had shifted in the night, bunched up under your left hip, and Mingi’s jacket was still draped over you like a promise he’d made and kept. Your neck had a crick in it that felt like it had been personally installed by someone with a grudge.

You turned your head.

Mingi was standing at the small counter he’d wedged into the corner of his office. The one that held the coffee maker, a stack of paper cups, and a jar of sugar packets that had been there so long the paper had gone soft at the edges.

He had his back to you. White tank top, the ribbed kind, worn soft from too many washes, and dark denim that sat low on his hips—not a mechanic’s uniform, not a work shirt. Something he’d changed into. His hair was damp at the temples, like he’d splashed water on his face recently, and you could see the shift of muscle in his bare arms as he measured something into the machine with the kind of focus most people reserved for open-heart surgery. He’d either gone home and come back or kept a change of clothes in the shop. Knowing Mingi, you weren’t sure which answer was more like him.

The machine gurgled and hissed. He reached for two mugs from the shelf above, the ceramic kind with the shop logo chipped along the rim from years of being knocked against the sink. One was blue the other green. He set them side by side with the care of someone arranging chess pieces.

He pulled the carafe and poured it into the blue mug first. Two sugars. A splash of the creamer from the mini-fridge under the counter—the oat milk kind, the specific brand you’d mentioned exactly once, six months ago, when he’d handed you a black coffee and you’d said "oh, I usually take it with—" and he’d cut you off with "oat milk, two sugars, I know, I was testing you."

He didn’t look over. Didn’t ask. Just poured the oat milk in with the same steady hand he used on transmission fluid, stirred it twice with a spoon that had the ATZ logo printed on the handle, and set it on the edge of the desk closest to where you were lying.

The green mug got black. Nothing in it. He took a sip straight from the carafe before setting it back on the warmer, and you watched the line of his throat move when he swallowed, and you thought about how unfair it was that a person could look like that at—you squinted at the clock on the wall—seven-forty in the morning.

“Morning,” he greeted, his back was still facing you. “You snore, by the way. Just so you know. It’s not loud. It’s more of a—” He made a small, rhythmic puffing sound with his lips. “Like a cute little engine trying to start on a cold morning.”

You scoffed. “I do not snore.”

“You absolutely snore.” He turned finally, leaning his hip against the counter with his mug cradled in both hands. “It’s cute, though. Don’t worry about it.”

The morning light caught his eyes and made them warmer than they had any right to be. The cut on his left thumb was wrapped in electrical tape because of course it was. His hair had dried crooked from wherever he’d splashed water on his face, pushed back and slightly flattened on one side, and there was a shadow of his stubble catching the light—along the line of his jaw. You looked at all of it and felt a low, private irritation settle in your chest. Just how could someone look so beautiful?

You sat up slowly, wincing as the kink in your neck announced itself with a crack that echoed off the acoustic tile. His jacket slid down to your lap, and you caught it before it hit the floor and pulled it back over your shoulders. The coffee was right there, steam curling up in lazy spirals, and you reached for it and wrapped both hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your palms.

“How long have you been up?” you asked, taking the first sip. The coffee hit your bloodstream like a jumpstart cable.

“Since about four.” He took a drink from his own mug, watching you over the rim. “Got as far as I could on the car, then hit a wall—parts house doesn’t open until eight. So.” He lifted a shoulder. “I reorganized the tool wall.” You raised an eyebrow, “At four in the morning? Really?” “The socket wrench set was out of order,” he insisted, like that explained everything, and in the context of Mingi’s brain, maybe it did. “It was bothering me.”

You held the mug against your chest and studied him—the way he stood in the morning light like he’d been built for it, all long lines and easy posture, the white shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he spent most of his waking hours lifting things heavier than himself.

“How’s my car?”

Something shifted in his expression. He set his mug down on the counter and crossed his arms, and you watched the fabric pull across his chest and tried very hard to focus on his words and not the way the morning light was doing something illegal to the line of his shoulders.

“Transmission mount bolt sheared clean through,” he explains, “Right at the base. The threads are still in the block, which is the good news—I didn’t have to drill and tap new ones. The bad news is that the mount itself took some damage when it came loose. There’s a crack along the bracket on the driver’s side. Not catastrophic, but it needs replacing.”

You closed your eyes. “Thank God it wasn't that bad. How much do I owe you?”

“Taking into everything into account,” He paused, and you could hear him doing the math in his head, always honest, never padding. “Three-fifty, maybe four hundred. I’ll have to call the parts house when they open to confirm the bracket price.”

You opened your eyes. He was watching you with that careful, measured look—the one that meant he was already running through the options, the payment plans, the ways he could make it hurt less.

Mingi had never once pressed you for money. He’d let you pay in installments more times than either of you could count, and there was a running tab on a sticky note on his monitor that had your name at the top and a number that would have made a bank manager faint.

“I can pay up front,” you weren’t entirely sure that was true, but you said it anyway because pride was a thing you’d never fully excised from your system. “I’ve got some cash from—from last night.”

“From the race.” He replied it flatly, without judgment, but you heard the the underlying concern he always had for you. “How much did you take?”

“More than enough, thankfully.” You took another sip of coffee. “The other racer had a big ego and a bigger wallet. It worked out.”

“Mmm.” The sound was noncommittal, which from Mingi meant he had opinions he was choosing not to share. He picked up his mug again and tilted his head toward the door. “You want to see her?”

You were already standing. The shop towels rustled to the floor as you swung your legs off the makeshift bed, and you pulled Mingi’s jacket over your shoulders because the morning air coming through the cracked window was sharper than you expected. Your boots were still lined up by the baseboard, and you stepped into them and laced them quickly, fingers still clumsy with sleep. He held the door open for you as you walked past him into the shop proper.

The overhead fluorescents were already on, buzzing their familiar yellow-white hymn, and the air smelled the way it always smelled in here—metal and solvent and the particular sweetness of fresh rubber. The shop was organized chaos: tool chests along the far wall, each drawer labeled in Mingi’s careful handwriting; a rolling cart stacked with parts bins; the hydraulic lift in the center bay, and on it—

Your car.

She was up on the lift, raised to chest height, and the undercarriage was exposed in a way that felt almost intimate—the transmission tunnel open, the exhaust piping curled along the frame like veins, the differential housing gleaming with fresh grease where Mingi had been working. You could see the damage from here: the empty bolt hole where the mount should have been secured, the cracked bracket hanging at an angle that made your stomach clench. There was a new bolt already threaded partway in, shiny and clean against the old, oil-darkened metal around it.

Mingi came to stand beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he pointed. “See there? The crack runs along the weld line. It’s been stressed out for a while—this didn’t happen last night. This has been a gradual build up”

You crouched down to get a better look, and Mingi crouched with you, his knees popping softly. His shoulder pressed against yours, warm and solid, and you could feel the heat of him through the jacket, through your shirt, through the thin barrier of everything you both weren’t saying.

“How long has it been building?” you asked.

“Hard to say. A few weeks, maybe. You said you tuned it yourself—when was the last time you had the transmission out?”

“Three months ago. When you replaced the clutch.”

“Right.” He reached past you—his arm extending over your shoulder, his chest nearly against your back—and tapped the bracket with one finger. The metal gave a dull, hollow sound that confirmed everything he’d already told you. “The mount was probably already compromised then. The new clutch put more torque through it, and the racing just—” He made a sound with his tongue, a soft tch, like he was scolding the car. “She held on as long as she could. She’s a good girl.”

The last two words landed somewhere low in your stomach and stayed there. You’d heard him say it before—to engines that turned over after a hard rebuild, to cars that limped in and left running clean—but with his jaw close enough to your temple that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the phrase did something it had no business doing. You wondered how much better it would be if those words were directed at you.

You looked up at him. He was close—closer than he needed to be, his face inches from yours. You tear your gaze away to reassess your car.

“You fixed the bolt already?” you gasp, pressing your lips together to fight a smile.

“Started to. I couldn't sleep, remember?” His voice had dropped to something quieter, something that belonged to the space between the two of you and nowhere else. “The bracket’s the holdup. I’ve got to call the parts house soon. If they have it in stock, I can have her back on the road by this afternoon.”

“That quick? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I‘m sure.” He held your gaze, and his eyes did that thing—that slow, warm thing that made your chest feel like it was full of something too big for your ribs. “Unless you had somewhere else to be?”

You didn’t. You looked back at the car—at the cracked bracket, the new bolt, the careful way Mingi had already cleaned the mating surfaces and applied thread locker to the fresh threads. He’d been working on your car in the dark hours of the morning while you slept on his makeshift bed in his office, wearing his jacket, drinking coffee he’d made exactly the way you liked without being asked.

He’d cut himself on your transmission and wrapped it in electrical tape and kept going. He’d reorganized the socket wrench set at four in the morning because the disorder bothered him, and he’d remembered your oat milk, and you realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t just about the car and it wasn’t just about the coffee and it wasn’t just about the sharp sting of a cut wrapped in cheap tape. It was the sum of it, the way it all stacked up into a scaffolding of care, a habit of showing up for you that had never announced itself as anything special but now, under the ugly shop fluorescents and the pale creep of morning, felt like the kind of thing people wrote songs about. It hit you with a force that absolved every sleepless night you’d ever spent wondering if you meant anything to anyone outside of a set of hands on a steering wheel, or the numbers on a finish line clock.

You remembered the first time you’d stumbled into his shop: rain in your hair, a half-dead alternator in your trunk, and a chip on your shoulder big enough to wedge open the front door. Mingi had looked at you over the top of his glasses, rainwater pooling under your boots, and said, “No offense, but you look like you lost a fight to a lawnmower.” He’d fixed your alternator for half what the dealer quoted, showed you the basics so you could DIY next time, and called you “boss” with a straight face even as you stripped a bolt and almost started a small electrical fire.

You remembered the way he never commented on your hands, even when they shook after a race, even when you cut them on cold steel and stained the shop rags dark. He’d hand you a fresh towel, or a bottle of water, or a protein bar from his desk drawer, and just say, “You good?” Like he already knew you weren’t, but he’d be there when you started to be.

You remembered that night you lost by a nose and blew out the input shaft. You’d expected nothing—maybe a lecture, a bill, perhaps even silence. Instead, you’d found a note under your windshield wiper: “Nice launch. Shift faster next time. Come by tomorrow, I’ll fix her up. - M :)"

You remembered a lot of small things. The way he’d always find the one good song on the radio and turn it up just before the solo. The way he’d set his jaw when he was about to say something he thought might piss you off. How he’d talk to your car when he worked on them, in the low, careful voice some people reserved for frightened animals or babies. How he’d stand close, when you both leaned under the hood—shoulders bumping, elbows knocking—and none of it ever felt accidental.

You looked at him now, this tall, loose-limbed mechanic with his wild hair, goofy smile and hands that looked like they’d been built to break and repair the same things over and over. The cut on his thumb was leaking through the electrical tape, and his shirt was streaked with something dark.

You thought about every time you’d tried to pay him back, every time you’d tried to balance the emotional ledger, and how he always found a way to tip the scales in your favour. You thought about all the ways you’d failed to say thank you, or I owe you, or just—anything that would make it clear that you noticed. That you noticed everything.

The weight of it all landed on your chest with the slow, terrifying certainty of falling in love with the exact person you’d told yourself that would never fall in love with you. It didn’t hurt—it just rearranged some things inside you, made space for something that might not have a name but absolutely had a pulse.

You reached for the coffee again, just for something to do with your hands, and took a sip that was mostly oat milk and sugar from the lack of stirring. Mingi watched you, waiting, like he knew you were on the verge of some personal catastrophe and was already prepping the metaphorical fire extinguisher.

You finished the coffee in two long swallows and set the mug down on the edge of the lift, where it wobbled once before settling. Mingi caught it with the edge of his hand—a reflex, the same one he used to catch falling tools before they hit concrete—and set it somewhere safer without comment.

“I should go,” you cleared your throat, your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Don't want to bother you more while you're working on my baby."

He straightened up from his crouch, and you both rose together, and the distance between you was exactly the same as it had been a moment ago—close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to pretend it was nothing. He nodded once, that slow, easy nod that meant he understood and wasn’t going to make it difficult.

“Like I said, I'll phone the parts house and if, hopefully, they have the shit I need I can have her buttoned up by—” He tilted his head, calculating. “Three, maybe four this afternoon. I'll call you as soon as I'm finished”

You nodded, finding a sense of calm with his reassurance. “Sounds good! Also, don’t bother calling 'cause I might not answer. Text me instead.”

“Of course.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket and held it up like proof. “Go home. Sleep in a real bed, please.”

You pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders and walked toward the office to collect your things. Your phone was on the desk where you’d left it, the screen lit with three new notifications—your best friend asking if you were alive, a group chat you’d muted, and a weather alert you didn’t read. You shoved it into your pocket and hesitated at the door, one hand on the frame.

“Mingi?”

He was already turning back toward the lift, a socket wrench in his hand, but he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For—” You gestured vaguely at the car, the shop, the jacket, the coffee, the entire architecture of care he’d built around you without ever asking for permission. “All of it.”

His mouth did the half-smile thing—the one that meant he was trying not to be charmed and failing. “Don’t mention it, it’s my job after all.”

You left before he could see whatever was happening on your face.

══════════════════

You showered in water hot enough to turn your skin pink, scrubbing road grit and engine grease from under your nails until your fingertips went raw. You changed into clean clothes—jeans, a t-shirt that had seen better days, a hoodie that smelled like your own laundry detergent and not someone else’s cologne. You ate a bowl of cereal standing at the kitchen counter and stared at your phone, waiting.

The text came at 8:47.

Parts house has the bracket.

Pulling it now.

She’ll be ready by 3.

Don’t come early, I mean it.

You sent back a thumbs-up and nothing else, because if you started typing you’d say something stupid, and Mingi would read it in the middle of a transmission job and drop something heavy on his foot.

You spent the morning doing nothing useful. You organized the junk drawer. You called your mother and listened to her talk about the neighbour’s cat for eleven minutes. You scrolled through your phone and found a video someone had posted from last night’s race—the angle was bad, the audio even worse. You could hear the clunking in the last stretch, that rhythmic metallic death rattle that had sent your stomach through the floorboards. The comments were already filling up. She’s cooked. That’s a rod. Nah that’s transmission. RIP to another one. You closed the app and put the phone face-down on the couch.

At two, you couldn’t sit still anymore. You grabbed your keys and your wallet and this jacket, still draped over the back of the kitchen chair where you’d left it that morning, because you’d forgotten to give it back, or maybe because you hadn’t wanted to—and headed out the door.

You stopped at the place on the corner. The one with the yellow awning and the handwritten menu taped to the window and the cook who knew your order by heart because you’d been coming here since before you had a car to break. You got two orders of the spicy pork bulgogi bowls—extra kimchi on the side, extra rice, the way Mingi liked it, because you’d watched him eat it enough times to memorize the ratio.

You added a container of japchae because he’d mentioned once, offhand, that his mother used to make it on Sundays, and the way he’d said it had made you want to put the entire city between you and the feeling it produced. You got two coffees—black for him, oat milk and two sugars for you—and a slice of the honey butter cake that the owner’s wife made fresh every afternoon, because Mingi had a sweet tooth he pretended he didn’t have and you’d watched him eat three pieces at a shop potluck without breathing between bites.

The bag was heavy and warm against your hip as you walked the six blocks to the shop. The afternoon sun was high and bright, and the city smelled like exhaust and fried food and the particular greenness of the potted trees someone had placed along the sidewalk in a doomed attempt at beautification. You passed the auto parts store where Mingi had sourced your bracket, the hardware store where he bought his electrical tape in bulk, the laundromat where he washed his shop rags because the machines at his apartment complex ate quarters. You knew this stretch of road the way you knew the inside of your own engine bay—every crack, every stain, every story it told about the people who walked it.

The shop’s roll-up door was half-open when you arrived, and you could hear the radio before you could see inside—some old rock station Mingi kept tuned to because the signal was clear and the DJs never talked during the guitar solos. You ducked under the door and stepped into the fluorescent hum.

Your car was on the ground. The hood was closed. The driver’s side door was open, and the interior light was on, and you could see the fresh gleam of something newly installed through the gap in the door frame.

Mingi was sitting on an overturned bucket near the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since given up any pretense of cleanliness. He had the radio turned up just loud enough that he didn’t hear you come in, and for a moment you just stood there and watched him. The way his shoulders moved when he reached for the solvent bottle, the way his jaw worked around whatever he was chewing (gum, probably, or the inside of his cheek), the fresh bandage on his left hand where he’d clearly cut himself again and upgraded from electrical tape to something that actually qualified as medical supplies.

You cleared your throat.

He turned. His face went through three expressions in rapid succession—surprise, recognition, and then something warm and slow that started at the corners of his mouth and spread upward until his whole face was doing the thing, the thing you’d been cataloguing for months without admitting what it was.

“What did I tell you about coming early, hm?” He deadpanned.

“Don't be dramatic, Min.” You held up the bag. “I got your favourites.”

His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face, and the warmth deepened into something that looked almost endearing, which was not a look you’d ever seen on Mingi and did not know what to do with.

“All of this for me?” He set the rag down and stood, and he was taller than you remembered, or maybe you’d just forgotten in the hours since morning how he filled a room without trying. “You shouldn’t have, baby.”

The word landed somewhere between your ribs and stayed there. He said it casually, the way he said everything—like it cost him nothing, like it was just a sound the air made when it passed through him on its way to you.

You crossed the shop and set the bag on the workbench, pulling out the containers one by one. The bulgogi bowls steamed when you opened the lids, and the smell of garlic and gochujang filled the space between the tool chests and the lift. You handed him the black coffee without asking and kept the other one for yourself, and you set the japchae and the honey butter cake on the bench beside the bowls like you were setting a table.

“It’s for my favourite mechanic, after all,” you smirked, keeping your voice light and easy.

Kept it from doing the thing it wanted to do—which was crack open and spill everything you’d been carrying since four that morning when you’d woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room. Maybe even beyond that.

Mingi’s smile went wide and bright, showing the dimples that only appeared when he was genuinely, stupidly happy. “So, you finally admit I’m your favourite, huh?”

You handed him a pair of chopsticks and fixed him with a look that you hoped conveyed the appropriate ratio of affection and threat. “Don’t push it, pretty boy.”

He laughed—full and loud, the kind of laugh that echoed off the concrete walls and made the overhead lights buzz in sympathy. He pulled the bucket closer to the bench and sat, and you pulled up a stool from the corner, and you ate lunch together.

He told you about the bracket—how the parts house had exactly one left in stock, how he’d had to sweet-talk the guy behind the counter into holding it, how the installation had gone smooth except for the bolt that fought him for twenty minutes before finally surrendering. You told him about the cereal, and the cat, and the video someone had posted, and he made a face and said, “Send me the link, I want to see these idiots diagnosing your car from a thirty-second clip.”

You ate the japchae first, and he didn’t comment on it, but you watched his face when he took the first bite and saw something shift behind his eyes—something old and fond and a little bit melancholic—and he looked at you across the workbench with an expression that said he knew exactly why you’d ordered it and exactly what it meant that you’d remembered, and he didn’t say thank you because he didn’t need to.

The honey butter cake disappeared in four minutes flat, and he licked the glaze off his thumb with the shamelessness of a man who had given up pretending he didn’t have a sweet tooth approximately three bites ago.

When the food was gone and the coffees were empty and the radio had cycled through two more songs, Mingi stood and stretched—arms overhead, back arching, the white tank pulling tight across his chest in a way that you absolutely did not stare at—and walked to your car. He patted the roof twice, the way you’d seen him do a hundred times, and looked at you over the hood.

“She’s ready when you are.”

You walked to the driver’s side and ran your hand along the door frame, tracing the line where the paint chipped and the clearcoat had started to surrender to time and sun and too many city winters. It was cool and solid under your palm, and for the first time in days you didn’t imagine hearing the sickly metallic tick that had haunted every drive since the first warning sign. No rattle. No vibration. No secret countdown to catastrophic failure shivering through the welds. Just a door, a car, a moment of stillness as you drew in a breath and let your shoulders drop.

You slid into the seat, and the interior smelled like Mingi—solvent, engine oil, the sharpness of fresh brake cleaner and something sweeter underneath, a cedar note that clung to the cloth. You could see where he’d wiped down the steering wheel, the faintest imprint of a towel snagged on the horn pad, and the new bracket gleaming through the gap below the dash. The seat was exactly the way you left it, except you could tell he’d sat here, adjusted the mirrors, checked the fit of the pedals. It was like stepping into a space that had been quietly, lovingly proofed against disaster.

The key was already in the ignition. You turned it.

The engine caught on the first try—clean, steady, the deep throaty hum you’d tuned into existence with your own hands, but different now. Quieter. Settled. Like something that had been suffering in silence had finally been allowed to breathe again. You pressed the throttle lightly and listened, heart in your mouth, waiting for the telltale clunk or metallic swing-and-bang. Instead, there was only the smooth, even purr, the delicate click of injectors priming, the systems waking up like a body stretching after a long sleep.

You pressed a little harder, feathering the pedal. The tach jumped, held, dropped. No hesitations. No overcompensation. No subtle warning in the feedback through the wheel. If you closed your eyes, you could almost believe this was someone else’s car—someone who’d never driven it to the edge, never asked it to survive three consecutive summers of midnight street circuits, never let it run a degree hotter than it was supposed to just to beat a kid with something newer and flashier. But it was yours, and you’d earned every scar on the center console, every burn mark on the carpet. And now, for the first time in years, it didn’t sound like a ticking time bomb. It sounded like something that was meant to last.

You sat with that for a minute, hands resting on the wheel, the engine’s steady rhythm echoing in your bones. You shifted into neutral and let the engine idle. Mingi’s handwriting was on a sticky note taped to the dash: “Check oil before running. -M.” You popped the hood just to be sure, and the dipstick came up clean and full, the oil exactly where it should be, the new gasket already sealing like it was part of the block from the beginning. He’d even topped off your washer fluid, the little things he always did, the ones he never mentioned but that you always noticed.

When you came back around, Mingi was standing by the shop door. He’d wiped his hands again, but there was a new smudge of something across his cheekbone, and he was watching you with an expression so open it made it impossible to look away. There was pride there, and relief, and a weird kind of gentleness that didn’t fit with the way he usually moved through the world. You realized, suddenly and with embarrassing clarity, that he was waiting for you to say something. To react, to light up, to show him that this mattered.

So you revved the engine, just a little, and gave him a thumbs-up through the windshield.

He grinned, and the whole shop seemed to brighten. You cut the engine and stepped out, and for a second the world held its breath.

He nodded, then pointed at the car. “How does she feel?”

You tried to come up with something technical. Something that would do justice to the hours he’d put in, the parts you knew he’d paid for himself, the sweat and blood literally on the line. But all that came out was, “She’s perfect.”

Mingi’s face went soft around the eyes, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment. “You did most of the work, I just did some touch ups,” he smiled.

You barked a laugh. “All I did was fall asleep in your office and bring you lunch. You fixed my car.”

He shrugged, but you could tell he was pleased. “Yeah? What’s next, then? An oil change? New tires? You know, just for fun.”

You grinned. “I was thinking about a test drive. Want to come with?”

He hesitated, then held up his hands. “I’ll sit in the passenger seat, but only because I don’t want to get kimchi juice on your nice upholstery.”

You tossed him the keys. “No Min, You’re driving.”

He caught them one-handed, easy, and you felt something loosen in your chest. You hopped into the passenger seat, let the window down again, and watched as he adjusted the mirrors just so, checked the angle of the seat, and all the little rituals he did before a test drive.

He started the engine, and this time you noticed the way the sound made him smile. He rolled slowly out of the shop and down the street, careful at first, but then letting the car stretch out as the road opened up. You watched the city go by in a blur—corner store, laundromat, the park with the busted swing set—and realized you were seeing all of it through the windshield of a car that was finally, blissfully, whole.

Mingi drove with one hand on the wheel and one on the shifter, and he kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize your reaction. You leaned back in the seat, let the sun warm your face, let the feeling of the world working as it should sink in.

Halfway to the river, he turned to you and said, “So what do we do now? Victory lap? Or do we just keep driving until something else breaks?”

You considered it. “Can we...” You stopped, not sure how to put it into words, and settled for, “Let’s just keep going for a while.”

And so you did. You let the city recede, let the noise fade into the background, and just existed, two people in a car that was finally running right, the road unspooling ahead of you like there was nowhere else you needed to be.

The road curved along the riverbank, and the water caught the late afternoon light in long, lazy ribbons of gold. Mingi drove with the windows down, one elbow resting on the door frame, and the wind pushed his hair back from his forehead in a way that made him look younger, looser, like someone who’d set down a weight he’d been carrying for years and forgotten what it felt like to stand up straight.

You watched the trees slide past and let the silence hold for another mile before you spoke.

“Hey,” you began, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “I have another race on Friday. The industrial stretch again—the same one as last night, but bigger. More cars. Some guys from out of town are coming up.”

Mingi’s thumb tapped the steering wheel once. Twice. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You turned in the seat to face him, pulling one knee up under you. The leather creaked. “I’m in, obviously. Jihoon, the guy that had that fat stack of cash, wants a rematch, and there’s this new kid from Busan who’s been talking shit online all week.”

Mingi nodded slowly, eyes still on the road. “You can beat him for sure.”

“I don’t even know what he drives.”

“Nah, it doesn't matter.” He glanced over, a warm smile spread across his face. “It’s not about the car, it’s about who’s behind the wheel. That cocky piece of shit will not win, trust me.”

The warmth that spread through your chest was embarrassing in its intensity. You looked down at your hands, at the grease still lingering in the creases of your knuckles, and you said the thing you’d been turning over in your head since you woke up on his shop-towel bed with his jacket over your shoulders and his coffee in your hands.

“You should come watch me. In the race— I mean.”

The words hung in the air between you, carried on the wind rushing through the open windows. You kept your eyes on your hands, on the grease, on anything that wasn’t his face, because you’d said it casually—or tried to—and you needed a second to make sure the casual had landed.

Mingi was quiet for too long. Unusually long, you think. His jaw had set. Not in a hard way—in the way it did when he was about to deliver news he didn’t want to deliver.

“Friday,” he repeated, and the word came out carefully, measured, like he was testing its weight. “This Friday?”

“Mhm. Starts around ten. Should be over by midnight, hopefully by one.”

He exhaled through his nose—a slow, controlled breath that told you everything before the words did.

“Oh I'm sorry, sweetheart.” His voice had gone soft in that particular way, the way that meant he was about to disappoint you and he already hated himself for it. “I can’t. I’m booked solid. Like—completely. I’ve got three clients coming in after hours, and one of them’s a timing chain replacement on a V6 that’s going to take me till two in the morning if everything goes right, which it won’t, because timing chains never go right.”

“Oh,” you mumbled. And then, because you were a person who’d spent your entire adult life pretending you didn’t need anything from anyone: “That’s fine. No big deal. It’s just a race.”

You turned back to the windshield. The river was on your left now, wide and flat and silver, and a heron stood motionless in the shallows, and you focused on the heron because the heron didn’t care about Friday nights or timing chains or the particular ache that had settled behind your sternum like a stone dropped into still water.

The car slowed. Mingi pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching softly, and cut the engine. The sudden silence was enormous—just the tick of cooling metal and the distant hum of the highway and the sound of your own breathing, which you were trying very hard to keep even.

He turned in his seat.

You didn’t look at him. You kept your eyes on the heron, which had taken a step forward into the water with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had never once needed to explain itself to anyone.

“You’re doing the thing,” he frowned as he scanned your facial expression.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you say it’s fine and it’s not fine.” His voice was close. Closer than the passenger seat should have allowed. “Look at me, please.”

You looked at him.

His face was right there—inches away, the afternoon light catching the gold in his eyes. He was looking at you with an expression that made your chest do something complicated and painful, like a valve opening somewhere you hadn’t known was closed.

“I want to be there,” he mumbled. The words were simple and direct, the way Mingi’s words always were when he meant them. “You know I want to be there. I’d rather be watching you race than doing a timing chain on a V6 that some idiot ran dry for six months. But I told these people I’d do it, and they’re counting on me, and—”

“I know.” You did know. That was the worst part. You knew exactly the kind of person Mingi was—the kind who showed up, who kept his word, who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning because someone had asked him to and he’d said yes. You’d fallen for that person. You didn’t get to resent him for being exactly who he was. “It’s okay, Mingi. I understand.”

He studied your face for a long moment—the way your mouth was doing something you hoped passed for a smile, the way your eyes kept flicking to the heron because holding his gaze for too long felt like standing too close to a fire. He saw it. Of course he saw it. Mingi saw everything.

His hand came up.

Slow. Deliberate. Giving you every chance to pull away, to deflect, to make a joke, to do any of the things you usually did when someone tried to touch you with intention. You didn’t move.

His palm settled against your cheek. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone—once, twice—and his skin was warm and rough and smelled like solvent and the honey butter cake from lunch, and the touch was so gentle it made your eyes sting.

“Hey,” he whispered. Soft. So soft. “I’ll make it up to you. You name it, and I’m there. I promise.”

You leaned into his hand before you could stop yourself. Just a fraction—just enough to feel the pressure of his palm, the steady warmth of it, the way his thumb stilled against your skin like he was holding his breath.

“You promise?” you mumbled against his hand, your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.

“Promise.” His thumb moved again—a slow sweep along your cheekbone that sent something warm and liquid through your bloodstream. “I’ll clear a night. I’ll put it on the calendar in permanent marker. I’ll tell every client in the city that Song Mingi is unavailable that evening because he has a prior engagement that is non-negotiable.”

A laugh escaped you, a little broken, but real. “Non-negotiable?”

“Completely non-negotiable.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and the dimple appeared, and the cut on his lip stretched when he smiled, and you thought—with the kind of clarity that only comes in the quiet moments between one heartbeat and the next—that you would remember this exact image for the rest of your life. Mingi in the driver’s seat of your car, his hand on your face, the river silver behind him, promising you something he meant with every molecule of his being.

“Okay,” you exhaled. “Another night.”

“Another night, I promise.” He held your gaze for one more beat—long enough that the air between you changed, thickened, became something you could almost taste—and then his hand dropped from your cheek and returned to the wheel, and the moment collapsed back into the ordinary like it had never happened.

He started the engine. The car came alive around you, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He pulled back onto the road, and the heron lifted from the shallows and beat its slow, heavy wings into the sky, and you watched it go until it was a speck against the pale blue, and then you watched the road unfold ahead of you, and you didn’t say anything else because you didn’t need to.

The silence held. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that felt like a promise.

══════════════════

Friday arrived like a held breath finally released.

The industrial stretch was different tonight—larger, louder, the energy cranked up to something that buzzed against your skin like a live wire. More cars lined the turnout than you’d seen in months, their engines idling in a low, impatient chorus that vibrated through the soles of your boots. The crowd had spilled past the guardrail and onto the shoulder, phones out, speakers blasting three different songs at once, the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer and someone’s body spray mixing with the burnt-rubber perfume of the asphalt. Someone had strung LED lights along the overpass supports, casting everything in a pulsing, carnival-bright wash that made the night feel like something staged, something that knew it was being watched.

You stood at the open driver’s side door with your hands on the roof and your head bowed, running through the checklist.

Tire pressure: thirty-two all around, checked four times.

Oil: full, clean, Mingi’s handwriting still on the dipstick tube where he’d marked the fill line with a pencil.

Coolant: topped off. Brake fluid: clear and full. Belts: tight, no cracks, no fraying.

You’d gone over every inch of the engine bay yourself that afternoon, twice, with a headlamp and a torque wrench and the kind of obsessive attention to detail that bordered on compulsion. The new bracket gleamed under the hood like a promise kept, and the transmission mount bolt sat snug and true, and you’d driven the car here tonight without a single sound that didn’t belong.

Still. You checked again. You always checked again.

Behind you, the pre-race circus was in full swing. You could hear your best friend, Yuna, before you could even see her. A voice that could cut glass and a laugh that could shatter it—was arguing with someone about the bet spread, her hands moving in sharp, emphatic arcs while three guys in matching jackets nodded along like they understood a word she was saying. Your friend, Soobin, was crouched beside your rear tire with a flashlight, double-checking the tread depth because he’d lost fifty bucks once on a blowout and had never fully recovered emotionally.

And there, leaning against the hood of a black sedan that had no business being at a street race, were three figures you’d recognize anywhere.

Hongjoong saw you first. He was the shortest of the three but carried himself like he’d been genetically engineered for maximum authority—black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a leather jacket that cost more than most of the cars on the stretch, arms crossed, jaw set in that permanent expression of mild, world-weary amusement that he wore like a second skin. He raised his chin in greeting, and you raised yours back, and that was the entirety of the conversation Hongjoong ever needed to have with anyone.

Beside him, Seonghwa stood with the kind of posture that suggested he’d been born in a finishing school and escaped at the first opportunity. Tall, lean, dressed in all black like he was attending a funeral for someone he didn’t like, his dark hair swept back from his face in a way that looked effortless and absolutely was not. He was the manager at ATZ—the one who kept the books, handled the clients, and maintained the delicate fiction that the shop operated within the bounds of something resembling a schedule. He was also, you’d learned over the months, the only person on earth who could make Mingi do paperwork without a fight, which meant he was either a wizard or had blackmail material of catastrophic proportions. You suspected both.

Jongho was on Seonghwa’s other side, arms folded, watching the crowd with the alert, slightly wary expression of someone who’d seen enough to know that crowds were where trouble went to multiply. He was the youngest at the shop but moved through it like he’d been born under a lift—quiet, capable, the kind of mechanic who could diagnose an engine from the sound of the starter alone. He’d helped Mingi with your transmission mount the morning after the repair, you’d learned later, holding the bracket in place while Mingi threaded the new bolt. He gave you a small nod when you caught his eye, and you nodded back, and the exchange contained approximately as much warmth as two people who respected each other’s competence could manage in a single gesture.

You straightened up from the door and walked over to them, wiping your palms on your jeans.

“I can’t believe you guys made it,” you beamed, because it was the polite thing to say, even though the sight of them—of anyone from ATZ, anyone who knew the shape of your engine bay the way you did—had loosened something tight behind your ribs.

“Hongjoong lost a bet,” Seonghwa said, without looking at Hongjoong.

“I did not lose a bet.” Hongjoong’s voice was flat. “I made a strategic decision to attend a cultural event.”

“Uh-huh, cultural event… right, right.” you nodded your head slowly, heavy with suspicion.

“Street racing is a cultural institution with deep roots in—”

“He lost twenty dollars to Jongho about whether you’d check your tire pressure two times or four,” Seonghwa said, and Jongho’s mouth twitched in something that was almost a smile. “It was three, by the way.”

“Four, actually.” you corrected, and Hongjoong pointed at Jongho with the satisfied air of a man who’d just been vindicated.

“See? She checked it four times and I said four. You said three. Pay up, kid.”

Jongho reached into his back pocket without argument and handed over a crumpled twenty. Hongjoong took it with the gravity of someone accepting a Nobel Prize.

You laughed, the sound felt good in the night air, loosening something that had been wound tight since you’d pulled into the turnout and cut the engine. The three of them were here. They’d come. Mingi’s people had come, which meant maybe he was also there too. 

“How’s the car?” Seonghwa asked, and his tone was professional—the manager’s tone, the one that meant he was genuinely interested in the answer and not just making conversation.

“She’s solid,” you answered back confidently. “Mingi did the bracket last week. She’s running cleaner than she has in months.”

“Mm. Good.” Seonghwa’s eyes moved past you to the car, assessing it with the same quiet attention he gave everything—invoices, clients, the state of the break room microwave. “He spent three hours on that mount. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”

Something warm bloomed behind your sternum. You didn’t let it show on your face.

“Control freak,” you joked lightly.

“The worst,” Seonghwa agreed, and there was something in his voice—something knowing, something that suggested he’d been paying attention to more than just the state of the break room microwave—but before you could parse it, Hongjoong was speaking again.

“Who are you running against tonight? The Busan kid?”

“Jihoon and the Busan kid, yeah. And a few others—some guy in a WRX who’s been talking a big game on the forums, and a girl in a Civic that’s been modded within an inch of its life. It should be interesting.”

Jongho made a sound—a low, considering hum that was eerily similar to the one Mingi made when he was cataloguing damage. “The Civic’s got a K-swap. I saw it at the meet last weekend. She’s running a bigger turbo than she should be. She’ll pull hard off the line but fade by the second turn if the cooling can’t keep up.”

You looked at him. “You went to the meet?”

“I go to all of them.” He said it like it was nothing. Like attending every unofficial car gathering within a thirty-mile radius was a perfectly normal hobby for a twenty-five-year-old mechanic who otherwise gave the impression of being allergic to social interaction. “Research.”

“Research,” Hongjoong repeated, deadpan.

“Market analysis,” Jongho smirked, and didn’t elaborate.

You grinned and turned back to the car. The ritual wasn’t finished. You still had to walk the length of the stretch—check the surface for debris, note the manhole cover on the second turn, feel the asphalt under your boots and commit its texture to memory. You still had to sit in the driver’s seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, running the course in your head—every shift point, every braking marker, every place where the road cambered in a way that could send an unwary car wide.

Your eyes moved past the crowd. Past Yuna and her betting spreadsheet, past Soobin and his flashlight, past the three ATZ mechanics standing in their cluster of black leather and quiet competence. Past the LED lights and the speaker stacks and the groups of strangers with their phones raised like offerings to some digital god. You scanned the turnout. The guardrail. The overpass. The shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.

You looked for him.

You looked for the tall frame, the dark hair, the oversized jacket with the sleeves pushed up. You looked for the way he stood—loose and easy, one hip cocked, like gravity was a suggestion he’d chosen to follow. You looked for the familiar smile. You looked for the one person in the crowd who would be watching you the way he watched engines—with total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

The turnout was full of people. None of them were Mingi.

You let your gaze sweep one more time—slower now, deliberate, giving him every chance to materialize from behind a car or step out of the shadows or call your name from somewhere you hadn’t checked. The crowd shifted and pulsed, and a flare went up near the starting line, throwing red light across a hundred faces, and none of them were his.

He wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t here. He’d told you, and you’d said it was fine, and it was fine. It was completely, totally, one-hundred-percent fine.

You turned back to the car and placed both hands on the roof again, fingers spread wide, and you took a breath that went all the way to the bottom of your lungs and held it there for a count of four.

“You okay?” Seonghwa asked from behind you. His voice was careful. Observant. He’d seen you looking.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” you replied, and you meant it about the car, and you meant it about the race, and the part that wasn’t about the car or the race—the part that was about a mechanic who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning and remembered your oat milk and carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders—you set that part aside. You set it in the same place you kept all the other things you weren’t ready to examine, and you closed the door on it, and you turned the lock.

You had a race to win.

You walked the stretch. You checked the surface—clean, dry, the manhole cover still loose on the second turn, the same one that had sent Jihoon wide last time. You committed the texture to memory—smooth here, slightly rough there, the seam where the old pavement met the new running like a scar down the centerline. You sat in the driver’s seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, and you ran the course in your head.

You opened your eyes. The dashboard glowed its familiar amber, and the key was in your hand, and the crowd outside had gone quiet in that particular way that meant the flagger was taking position.

You turned the key.

The engine caught—clean , steady, that deep throaty hum that meant every bolt was where it belonged and every belt was singing the same song. You let the RPMs settle, then blipped the throttle twice—once for luck, once because the car asked for it—and pulled forward to the starting line.

Jihoon was already there. His silver coupe idled beside you, its aftermarket exhaust popping and crackling with the aggressive, attention-seeking rhythm of someone who’d spent more on sound than substance. He revved at you—three quick stabs, the automotive equivalent of a middle finger—and you didn’t respond. You kept your eyes on the flagger, on the strip of white cloth hanging limp in the still night air, on the exact point where it would snap upward and the world would narrow to nothing but asphalt and instinct.

The Busan kid was two cars back in his modified Civic, the intercooler gleaming under the LED lights like a promise of trouble. The WRX was on your other side, its driver—a guy you didn’t recognize, late twenties, a baseball cap pulled low—cracking his neck side to side with the theatrical tension of someone who’d watched too many movies. The girl in the K-swapped Civic was behind you, engine ticking over with the tight, impatient rhythm of a turbo spooling against its wastegate.

The flagger raised his arm.

Your hand found the shifter. First gear. Clutch in. Throttle to the sweet spot—three thousand, hold it, feel the car strain against the brakes like a dog pulling at its leash. Your heartbeat was steady. Your breathing was even. Everything outside the windshield had gone soft and distant, the way it always did in the seconds before the green—the crowd noise flattening to a dull roar, the LED lights blurring into streaks of color, the smell of burnt rubber and beer and body spray condensing into a single, meaningless note.

The flag dropped.

You released the clutch and the brakes simultaneously, the way you’d practiced ten thousand times in empty parking lots and deserted stretches of road, and the car launched forward with a violence that pressed you into the seat. The tires bit—clean, no spin, no wasted energy—and you were through first gear before the WRX had found its footing, the tach needle swinging past redline and your hand already moving to second, third, the engine screaming its approval as you fed it everything it asked for.

The first turn came fast. You took it tight—tighter than the line you’d rehearsed, cutting inside the apex marker by a close margin because Jihoon was already trying to crowd you wide, his front bumper edging into your peripheral vision like something predatory. You held the line. Your right rear tire kissed the inside curb and the car shuddered once—a brief, violent protest—and then settled, and you were through, accelerating hard into the short straight before the second turn.

The manhole cover. You could see it ahead—a dark circle in the asphalt, slightly raised, slightly loose, the same one that had cost Jihoon a bumper last time. He’d remember it. He’d be cautious. You wouldn’t.

Your foot came off the pedal at the last possible moment, and the car rotated into the turn with the kind of precision that only comes from knowing exactly how much grip you had left and being willing to use all of it. The manhole passed under your left tires with a dull, metallic thunk that you felt through the steering column, and you were already unwinding the wheel, already feeding power back in, already watching Jihoon in your rearview as he lifted—just barely, just enough—to avoid the cover, and the gap between you opened by half a car length.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

The third turn was sweeping and fast, the camber pulling you toward the outside guardrail, and you fought it with micro-adjustments of the wheel—tiny, instinctive corrections that kept the car on the line you’d drawn in your head three minutes ago. The tach sat at six thousand in fourth gear, the engine pulling hard and clean, no hesitation, no vibration, no sound that didn’t belong. Mingi’s bracket held. Mingi’s bolt held. The transmission mount sat silent and true beneath you, and you pushed harder because it let you.

The Busan kid was gaining. You could hear him—the high, tight whine of his turbo spooling, the sharp crack of his exhaust on overrun—and in your mirrors you could see the Civic’s headlights swelling, closing, eating the gap you’d built on the first two turns. He was fast. Jongho had been right about the cooling—you could see heat shimmer rising from his hood in the LED light—but he was fast enough that the fade wouldn’t matter if he caught you before the straight.

The fourth turn. The one that looked easy and wasn’t.

Jihoon had recovered from the manhole. He was on your right now, his front bumper level with your door, his engine screaming as he pushed for the inside line. You could see his face through his window—jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead with the desperate intensity of someone who’d bet more than he could afford to lose. His car was faster in a straight line. You both knew it. If he got past you before the fifth turn, the straight would belong to him, and you’d never close the gap.

You braked early.

You let the car slow a fraction of a second before the braking marker, and Jihoon took the bait. He shot past your bumper, diving for the inside, certain he’d found the opening, and you let him have it. You let him have the inside line on a turn that tightened at the exit, on a road that cambered outward, on an asphalt surface that was slightly rougher on the inside than the outside.

He realized his mistake a half-second too late. You saw it happen—the moment his wheels lost their grip, the moment the camber pulled him wide, the moment his rear end stepped out and he had to catch it with a correction that cost him speed, momentum, everything. You cut to the outside, carried your speed through the exit, and when you looked in your mirror, Jihoon was a full car length behind and fighting to stay on the road.

The straight opened ahead of you—flat, dark, the orange cones of the finish line glowing like distant candles. Fifth gear. Foot to the floor. Don’t lift. Don’t think. Just go.

The Civic was still there. The Busan kid had found something on the fourth turn—some line you hadn’t anticipated, some technique that kept his turbo spooled and his tires planted—and he was alongside you now, his front bumper creeping past yours inch by inch, his engine howling with the particular fury of a K-swap pushed past its comfort zone. Heat poured from his hood in visible waves. The cooling was failing. You could see it in the way his tach was fluctuating—dropping a hundred RPM, climbing back, dropping again—the engine fighting for air it couldn’t get.

But he was still moving. Still gaining. His front bumper was at your door. Then at your front wheel. Then past it.

The finish line was thirty seconds away. Maybe less. The cones were getting bigger, the crowd noise swelling from a dull roar to something sharp and specific—you could hear individual voices now, individual shouts, someone screaming your name.

You dropped to fourth. The engine screamed—past the redline, into territory you’d never asked it to visit, the tach needle buried in the red and the valves singing a song that was equal parts defiance and desperation. The car responded. It always responded. The RPMs climbed past anything the factory had ever intended, and the power came back—not smoothly, not cleanly, but enough. Enough to close the gap. Enough to pull even with the Civic’s rear bumper, then its door, then its front wheel.

The Busan kid looked over. You saw his face through his window—young, flushed, eyes wide with the particular shock of someone who’d been certain they’d won and was watching the certainty evaporate. He pushed the throttle harder. You heard his engine stutter—a single, violent misfire that cost him everything—and in that fraction of a second, you were past him.

The finish line. The cones. The flagger’s arm dropping.

You crossed first.

You knew it before the crowd told you. You knew it in the way the Civic’s headlights fell behind you, in the way the straight opened up empty ahead of your bumper, in the way the engine’s scream shifted from desperate to triumphant as you lifted off the throttle and let the car coast, the adrenaline still singing through your veins like electricity through a live wire.

The crowd erupted.

You could hear it even through the closed windows—a wall of sound that hit the car like a physical force, hundreds of voices merging into a single, incoherent roar of celebration. Phones were raised, flashlights swinging, the LED lights along the overpass pulsing in time with the bass from the speakers someone had turned up to maximum. You pulled into the turnout and cut the engine, and the sudden silence was immediately filled by the sound of people running toward your car, their boots pounding on the asphalt, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of congratulations and disbelief.

You sat there for a moment. Hands on the wheel. Breathing hard. The dashboard lights faded slowly, and the engine ticked its cooling song, and something behind your chest—something that had been wound tight since the starting line, since the moment you’d scanned the crowd and found him missing—unspooled all at once, leaving you lightheaded and grinning like an idiot.

The door opened from the outside.

Yuna was there, her face split in a grin so wide it looked like it hurt, both hands gripping the door frame like she was afraid the car might try to escape. “You absolute madwoman! You insane, beautiful, completely unhinged—” She was pulling you out of the seat before you could unbuckle, her arms around your neck, her voice shouting directly into your ear at a volume that should have required a permit. “You killed it, babe! You beat them all! The Busan kid looked like he was going to cry!”

Soobin was right behind her, his flashlight still in his hand, his face flushed with the particular joy of someone who’d just won back the fifty dollars he’d lost on the blowout plus interest. “Dude, that fourth turn was insane! That was literally criminal, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal but who gives a fuck.”

You were laughing—you couldn’t stop, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and raw and entirely involuntary—and people were pressing in from all sides, hands clapping your shoulders, voices shouting your car’s name, your name, variations of your name that you’d never heard before. Someone had a bottle of champagne—the cheap kind, the kind that came in a green bottle with a foil label—and the cork popped with a sound like a gunshot, and foam sprayed across your hood in a wide, arcing fan that caught the LED light and turned to gold.

“Careful on my paint man!” you shouted, but you were laughing, and someone else had a second bottle, and then a third, and within seconds your car was glistening with cheap champagne, the hood dripping, the windshield streaked, the headlights wearing crowns of foam that slid slowly down the lenses. The crowd was chanting—your name, your car’s name, something rhythmic and obscene that Yuna had probably started—and you stood in the center of it with champagne in your hair and the particular, dizzying high of having done the thing you’d set out to do and done it perfectly.

Hongjoong materialized at your left shoulder, his twenty-dollar bill now folded neatly in his breast pocket, his expression one of grudging respect. “Not bad, kid.” He nudged your shoulder, which from Hongjoong was roughly equivalent to a standing ovation.

Seonghwa was beside him, arms crossed, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The bracket held,” he observed, like he’d been watching for exactly that and nothing else.

“Thank god for that, huh,” you confirmed, and the words came out slightly breathless, slightly giddy, and you wiped champagne from your eyebrow with the back of your hand and grinned at both of them like you’d just won the lottery.

And then you saw him. He was at the edge of the crowd—tall, unmistakable, the white of his tank top bright against his leather jacket, dark jeans that had no right to fit the way they did. Hair pushed back. Rings shining brightly on his fingers and silver chains by his throat catching the light they always did. Both hands clean, the left one uninjured and wrapped around the stems of a bouquet he was holding down at his side with the careful, slightly uncertain grip of someone who had never bought flowers before and was now standing in a crowd of street racers holding flowers. Proudly wearing that stupid smile of his.

Mingi.

Your brain short-circuited. You blinked. You blinked again. The champagne was still dripping from your hair, and the crowd was still roaring, and Yuna was still screaming something in your ear that you couldn’t hear, and Mingi was there, standing at the edge of the turnout like he’d materialized from the very specific fantasy you’d been refusing to acknowledge for the past couple of weeks.

You pushed through the crowd. People moved aside—or you moved through them, you weren’t sure. The crowd parted like water, and you were running. Boots slapping against the champagne-wet asphalt, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Mingi lifted the bouquet from his side and held it out to you like an offering, like a confession, like the only thing he could think to bring to the most important moment of his week.

You took the flowers without breaking stride. Wildflowers, not the kind from a shop, the kind that grew along the riverbank where you’d pulled over that afternoon, blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in what looked like shop towel because Mingi didn’t own ribbon. Then you were launching yourself at him, both arms around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist because the momentum demanded it, because physics demanded it, because every molecule in your body demanded it.

He caught you. Of course he caught you—his free arm hooking under your thighs, the other still clutching the bouquet, his body absorbing the impact with the same easy, practiced confidence he brought to everything that mattered. You buried your face in his neck, and he smelled like something warm and new—aftershave, maybe?

The crowd erupted.

Not the race-winning eruption—something different, something bright, the particular sound of hundreds people collectively losing their minds over something they hadn’t known they were watching for. A chorus of whoops and whistles and someone—Yuna, definitely Yuna—screaming “OH MY GOD” at a frequency that could transcend both space and time. Phones were up, cameras flashing, and you could hear the cooing, the affectionate, slightly drunk awwww that rolled through the turnout like a wave, and someone shouted “KISS HER, BRO!” and someone else shouted “AW MAN I THOUGHT I HAD A CHANCE.” and the whole thing collapsed into laughter and applause that vibrated through the asphalt and up through Mingi’s chest and into yours.

His mouth was at your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, and his voice was low—so low that only you could hear it, the words meant for you and you alone, tucked into the space between his jaw and your hair.

“Congratulations, my little racer,” he whispered. “You were incredible. I watched the whole thing from the overpass. You kicked their asses.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his face inches from yours, the gold in his eyes catching the LED light, the cut on his lip healed to a thin white line, the flowers crushed between your chest and his, releasing their faint, sweet smell into the narrow gap between your bodies.

“You came,” you beamed up at him, your voice came out breathless and disbelieving, like you were still waiting for the punchline. “I thought you said you couldn’t—the timing chain, the V6—”

“I pulled some strings.” His dimple appeared. “I finished the timing chain at nine. Drove straight here. Parked on the overpass and watched you absolutely murder that Civic.”

“You finished a timing chain in—”

“Did you forget that I’m very good at my job?” The smile was wide now, unashamed, the kind of smile that belonged in a movie montage, and you were laughing—both of you were laughing, your foreheads pressed together, the crowd still cheering around you like you’d invented something new.

He shifted his grip on you—adjusting, settling, his arm tightening under your thighs—and then he was walking. Carrying you. Back through the crowd, past Yuna who was filming with both hands and sobbing dramatically, past Soobin who gave you a thumbs-up that was mostly champagne foam, past Hongjoong who looked like he was trying very hard to maintain his world-weary composure and failing, past Seonghwa who was watching with the quiet, knowing satisfaction of someone who’d seen this coming from three months away.

Mingi’s mouth found your ear again. His lips brushed the shell of it—barely, accidentally, not-accidentally—and his voice dropped to that register that lived in the space between a whisper and a thought.

“Did you want to give them a show, hm?” The words were warm and teasing, his breath ghosting across your skin. “Because we could. We could stand right here and let them film every second. I’m sure everyone would appreciate the content.”

You shook your head against his shoulder—a quick, emphatic no—and felt him smile against your temple.

“Smart girl, aren’t you.” His arm tightened around you, possessive and gentle in equal measure. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

You reached into your back pocket without looking, your fingers finding the key fob by touch alone, and you pressed it into his free hand—the one not holding the bouquet, the one not holding you. He caught it without looking, the way he caught everything—tools, keys, the particular weight of your trust—and his fingers closed around it like it belonged there.

He carried you to the car. The crowd was still cheering, still filming, still living in the moment you’d already left behind, and Mingi set you down gently at the passenger door—your feet finding the ground, his hand lingering at the small of your back—and opened it for you with the same old habit, the one he never skipped. You slid into the seat, the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, and Mingi closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click.

He walked around the hood—you watched him through the windshield, the way he moved through the champagne-streaked light with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going—and dropped into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over on the first try, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be, and Mingi pulled out of the turnout with the kind of smooth, controlled precision that made your stomach flip.

The crowd fell away behind you. The LED lights shrank to pinpoints in the rearview. The champagne and the shouting and the bass-heavy music dissolved into the night, replaced by the sound of the engine and the wind through the open windows and the faint rustle of wildflowers in your lap.

══════════════════

The road unwound beneath you, and the city thinned to scattered streetlights and the occasional glow of a late-night convenience store. You held the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, their scent—something green and wild and faintly sweet—mixing with the smell of Mingi’s cologne that still clung to the upholstery. The radio was off. The engine hummed its steady, contented song. The wind through the open windows pushed your hair across your face, and you didn’t bother pushing it back.

Mingi’s hand left the wheel. You felt it before you saw it. The shift in the air, the subtle change in the weight distribution of the car as he turned his body slightly toward you. His fingers found yours on the center console, warm and rough and sure, and they laced through yours with the easy, unhurried confidence of someone who’d been waiting to do exactly this and had decided that the waiting was over.

You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb traced a slow circle over your knuckle—once, twice—and then his grip tightened, just barely, and he lifted your hand from the console and brought it to his mouth.

His lips pressed against the back of your hand. Soft, deliberate, lingering. The kiss was warm and dry and over almost before it began, but it sent something electric cascading through your bloodstream, a current that started at the point of contact and raced up your arm and settled somewhere behind your ribs like a spark catching dry tinder.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t speak. You just watched him—the sharp line of his profile in the dashboard light, the way his jaw worked as he lowered your hand but didn’t let go, his thumb resuming its slow, circling pattern on your skin.

The car turned left. You recognised the road—the one that curved along the riverbank, the one you’d driven that afternoon with the windows down and the silence between you feeling like a promise. The water was dark now, reflecting the moon in long, broken ribbons of silver, and the trees along the bank stood in silhouette against the pale sky. The road narrowed to a single lane, then to gravel, and Mingi pulled into the empty parking lot.

He cut the engine.

The silence was immediate and total—just the tick of cooling metal and the distant murmur of the river and the sound of your own breathing, which had gone slightly uneven without your permission. Mingi’s hand was still in yours. The flowers were still in your lap. The moonlight came through the windshield and painted everything in shades of blue and silver, and for a long moment neither of you moved.

Then Mingi turned in his seat.

He looked at you the way he looked at engines—with total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. His eyes moved from your face to the flowers in your lap and back, and something shifted in his expression—something vulnerable and warm and slightly terrified, the look of a man who’d decided to say something he’d been carrying for a long time and was now realizing there was no taking it back.

“I picked those,” he said, nodding at the bouquet. “From the riverbank. This morning, before the shop opened. I drove out here at five-thirty and walked along the water and picked the ones that looked the prettiest, reminded me of you.”

You looked down at the flowers. Blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in shop towel, slightly crushed from being held between your bodies during the champagne-soaked celebration. They were imperfect—wild, uneven, some of them already starting to droop—and they were the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given you.

“You drove out here at the ass crack of dawn” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. “To get me flowers?”

“Mm.” His thumb was still moving on your hand—slow circles, steady and grounding. “I was going to give them to you at the race. Had this whole plan—I’d wait until you won, and then I’d walk up like it was nothing, suuuuper nonchalant. Like hey, congratulations, here are some flowers I found, no big deal.” He huffed a laugh, soft and self-deprecating. “But then you came up and ambushed my whole plan.”

“You remembered the flowers.”

He turned to look at you—really look at you—with an expression you’d never seen on him before. Not the easy grin, not the teasing half-smile. Something quieter. Something that made your breath catch.

“You’re surprised?” he said. It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“Sweetheart.” His voice was low, almost careful, like he was choosing each word by hand. “I remember your fancy oat milk creamer. I remember that you check your tire pressure four times before a race. I remember the little sound you make right before you shift, and the way your hands shake after, and you shove them in your pockets, so nobody sees.” His thumb stilled on your knuckles. “It’s you. How could I forget all the things that make you, you?”

The words landed in the space between you like stones dropped into still water. You could feel the ripples spreading—through your chest, through your stomach, through the places you’d been keeping locked and quiet for months.

“Mingi—”

“I know,” there was a thread of nervousness in his voice that you’d never heard before—not from him, not from the man who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning with one hand tied behind his back. “I know it’s a lot. And I know the timing is—I showed up at your race with riverbank flowers wrapped in shop towel, that’s not exactly—”

“No, It’s perfect,” you breathed.

He stopped. Blinked. “What?”

“It’s perfect.” You squeezed his hand, and your voice was steadier now, steadier than it had any right to be given the way your heart was trying to escape through your sternum. “The flowers are perfect. Showing up when you said you couldn’t is perfect. Finishing a timing chain in four hours to watch me race is—” You laughed, a little broken, a little giddy. “That’s the most ridiculous, over-the-top, completely unnecessary thing anyone has ever done for me, and it’s absolutely perfect.”

His eyes went bright—not with tears, but with something close, something that made the gold in them catch the moonlight and hold it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You held his gaze, and the air between you had gone thick and warm and charged with something that had been building since the first time he’d called you sweetheart over the phone, since the first time he’d carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders, since the first time you’d woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room.

“I’ve been remembering things too, you know. The way you talk to engines. The way you wrap cuts in electrical tape. The way you always open the door even though the hinges complain. The way you—” Your voice cracked, just barely, and you pushed through it. “The way you make me feel like I’m worth showing up for. Like I’m worth the overtime and the missed sleep and the riverbank flowers at five-thirty in the morning.”

Mingi’s hand tightened around yours. His jaw worked—once, twice—and when he spoke, his voice was rough at the edges, like something had been sanded down to its most honest layer.

“You are,” he said. “You’ve always been. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding—”

“Like a lovesick mechanic?”

The laugh that escaped him was startled and genuine, and it broke the tension like a window shattering—not violently, but completely, the barriers between you dissolving all at once. “Yeah,” he admitted, still laughing. “Like a lovesick mechanic who picks wildflowers at dawn and drives across the city to watch his girl race because he can’t stand the idea of her crossing the finish line without him there.”

His girl.

Your chest was so full it hurt. You looked at him, at the way his eyes were shining in the moonlight with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like love—and you made a decision.

You swung your leg over the centre console, bracing one hand on the dashboard and the other on the back of Mingi’s seat, and the flowers tumbled from your lap into the footwell—you’d apologise to them later—and you were halfway across when your back connected with the steering wheel.

BEEEEP!

The horn blared. One long, deafening, comically loud sound that shattered the romantic tension like a brick through a greenhouse window.

The sound bounced off the river and came back at you from three directions, and a flock of something erupted from the trees along the bank in a flurry of wings and indignant squawking.

You froze. Mingi froze. The horn kept blaring—your weight still pressing against the wheel—and for one horrible, eternal second the only sound in the universe was the aggressive, unwavering beep of your car announcing to every living creature within a half-kilometre radius that two people were having a moment.

Then Mingi laughed.

It started low—a rumble in his chest that you felt through the hand still pressed against his seat—and then it broke open, wide and bright and completely unrestrained, his head falling back against the headrest, his whole body shaking with it. You were laughing too. you couldn’t help it, the absurdity of it crashing over you like a wave. You shifted your weight off the horn, and the silence that followed was somehow even funnier than the noise had been.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “I just—I can’t believe I did that.”

“So smooth,” Mingi confirmed, his voice cracking with laughter. “That’s going in the wedding vows. I’m putting it in our wedding vows one day.”

“Stop—” You were laughing too hard to finish the sentence. “This is so embarrassing.”

“To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, and that one time you honked the horn with your back—”

You swatted his shoulder, and he caught your wrist—easy, instinctive, the way he caught everything—and the laughter died between you like a candle guttering in a draft, and the silence that replaced it was different from the one before. Charged. Intentional. The kind of silence that had a destination.

You were in his lap.

You hadn’t fully registered it until this moment. The solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the way your knees bracketed his hips, the way his free hand had found your waist and settled there with the kind of certainty that suggested it had been planning this landing for months. His face was inches from yours. You could see every detail—the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lower lip caught the moonlight and held it.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he murmured.

“Hi, pretty boy,” you whispered back.

His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back and pulled you in with the quiet confidence of someone who had already decided. Your chest met his, and through the thin cotton of his tank top you felt it: the hard press of a chain against your chest, cold metal warming fast between your bodies, and beneath it the steady knock of his heartbeat going just a little faster than it should have been. His other hand still had your wrist, his thumb resting over your pulse, and you had the dizzy, helpless thought that he could feel exactly what he was doing to you—every traitorous beat of it.

“Mingi,” you whispered.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice was low and rough, the words coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “If you want me to stop, tell me now, because—”

You kissed him.

You didn’t hesitate. The need in your chest had built past the point of thinking, past the point of planning, leaving you with nothing but the gravitational certainty of wanting him so badly it hurt. You leaned in and claimed his mouth with both hands—one threading into his hair, the other cupping the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb grazing the stubble as you tilted his face toward yours. Your lips crashed together, all the trembling restraint of the last few months shattering between your teeth, and you kissed him with none of the gentleness you’d always thought a first kiss was supposed to have. It was hungry, greedy, almost angry—a collision of lips and breath and hands, your pent-up longing poured into the space of a single, shuddering breath.

Mingi met you with an equal, ferocious urgency. His hands found your hips and pulled you even closer, and the heat between your bodies was immediate, as if the months of flirting and 'what ifs' had been gasoline and someone finally struck the match. His mouth tasted like cool mint and something darker, sweeter, and you licked into him without thinking, chasing the sound he made when your tongue brushed his. He groaned, low in his throat, and the vibration went straight through your bones, finding all the places in you that had been waiting for this and lighting them up at once.

The kiss turned reckless almost instantly. Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch and his lips part for you. His hands slid up your back, bunching the fabric of your shirt at your waist, exposing a strip of skin that tingled in the cool air and then burned under the heat of his palms. He kissed you like he was trying to learn you—memorise you. Take as much as you would give and then ask for more, and you gave it to him gladly, shamelessly, your body moving in the small, instinctive ways that said yes, now, please.

He tasted you, mapped you, his breath coming faster as the kiss deepened, and when you broke away to gasp for air, his mouth didn’t leave your skin—it travelled along your jaw, down to your neck, finding the spot just beneath your ear that made your eyes flutter shut, and your nails dig into his shoulders. You heard yourself make a noise, helpless and wrecked, and felt him grin against your neck, triumphant.

You chased his mouth back to yours, biting his lower lip, and he let you, let you take and take until you were dizzy with it, until nothing else existed except the press of his lips, the slide of his hands, and the wild, intoxicating rush of wanting him and being wanted back just as fiercely.

You barely heard yourself whisper his name as you pressed your forehead to his, breathing the same air, letting his hands anchor you while the rest of the world spun out beneath you.

He kissed you like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else, and you let him. You kissed him back like you wanted to ruin him too. You lost track of time. Of the river outside, of the moon overhead, of anything that wasn’t the taste of him and the weight of his hands on your body.

When you finally separated, both of you breathing hard, his hands were still at your waist and your fingers were still in his hair. He was looking at you like a starved man, a little wrecked and utterly, unironically smitten.

“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” you heard yourself say, voice shaky but certain.

He grinned, slow and devastating, and pulled you in for another, softer kiss, barely a brush of lips but somehow more intimate than everything before. “You know damn well that I would’ve let you,” he breathed, and you felt the words all the way down your spine.

You kissed him again.

This time it was deeper, hungrier, his hands sliding up your sides with a deliberateness that made your skin prickle. His thumbs hooked under the hem of your shirt, and he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips.

“Lift your arms for me, baby.”

You did, arms lifting without hesitation, and he peeled the fabric up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind the driver’s seat without looking. The cool night air hit your bare skin, and you shivered— but not from the cold. His gaze darkened as it dropped to your chest, and his fingers went to the clasp of your bra with the same practiced ease he used on engine bolts. One flick, and the band loosened. He didn’t pull it away yet, just let the straps slide down your shoulders an inch at a time, his knuckles grazing your skin like a promise.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice rough. “Look at you.” His thumb traced the edge of the lace, teasing the swell of your breast before finally dragging the fabric away.

The air hit your nipples first, tightening them instantly, but then his hands were there—warm, calloused, cupping you with a reverence that made your breath catch. He rolled one peak between his fingers, watching your face contort with pleasure as you gasped, then leaned in to take the other into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he teased you, alternating between gentle suction and sharp little nips that sent sparks straight to your core.

“S’not fair I’m half naked, and you’re still fully dressed,” you whined, tugging at his own shirt. He smirked and let you pull it over his head, revealing the lean muscle you’d been thinking about all evening—all week, if you were being honest. His chains pooled against his collarbones, still warm from his skin. Your fingers went to them before you’d made any conscious decision to, looping them gently, feeling the small links drag across your knuckles as you gave a slow, idle tug. “Fuck… Damn,” you breathed, because apparently your vocabulary had abandoned you.

Mingi’s laugh was low and pleased. “Yeah? That’s all you’ve got for me?”. His hands were already on your hips, guiding you down onto his lap, and the words dissolved into something more primal when you settled against him.

You rolled your hips experimentally, and the sound he made—half groan, half growl—went straight to the blooming heat of your pussy. His fingers dug into your waist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to steer, and you found a rhythm that had both of you panting against each other’s mouths. “That’s it,” he drawled, his voice dropping into that register that made your stomach flip. “Always so pretty f'me.”

You ground down harder, chasing the friction, and his head fell back against the headrest. His throat was right there, and you kissed it, nipped at it.

“Backseat,” the command in his tone sent a thrill down your spine. “Now.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

“Go to the backseat. I’m not doing this half-assed in the front of your car.” His hands were already pushing you off his lap, and you stumbled out of the driver’s side, your legs unsteady. He followed, unfolding his long frame from the passenger seat with considerably less grace.

You both climbed into the back—you first, sliding across the leather—and then Mingi ducked in after you. Or tried to. His head connected with the roof with a solid thunk, and he winced, rubbing the spot with a rueful grin.

“Jesus—Forgot this car is so tiny. Might need to buy you a bigger car if we're going to do this again.”

You burst out laughing, the tension breaking into something bright and giddy. “It’s a perfectly normal-sized car! You’re just—” You gestured vaguely at all six feet of him.

“I’m just what?” He was grinning now too, that lopsided smile that crinkled his eyes. He settled beside you, the space suddenly very, very small. “Don't get shy on me now.”

“Massive,” you smirked, and the word came out breathier than you intended.

His eyes darkened. “Is that so? You know…My height isn’t the only thing that’s massive.” Instead of answering, you pulled him into another kiss, and he let you for a moment before pulling back, his hand on your jaw “Lie back for me, baby.” He nodded toward the door behind you. “Right there.” You shifted, letting your back find the door, the handle pressing briefly into your shoulder blade before you angled away from it. Your upper body sank against the cool window, your legs stretching across the seat toward him. The leather was cold against the backs of your thighs. Mingi settled in the footwell—knees at his chest, impossibly folded—and reached for the button of your jeans. “Lift your hips.” You did. He worked your jeans down your legs, his hands trailing fire along your skin, then dealt with your boots—one lace, then the other—and you kicked them off into the darkness somewhere near the front seats.

Then it was just you, stretched across the backseat in your panties, propped against the door with Mingi crouched between your knees, looking up at you like you were something worth taking his time with.

“Spread your legs wider,” he drawled.

Your breath caught. “Mingi—”

“Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart.” His voice was velvet over steel, and your thighs fell open almost involuntarily. “Good girl.”

His hands settled on your knees, and he just looked at you—all of you, laid out for him. The parking lot light filtered amber through the windows. You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat. “You’re so beautiful,” he coos, his thumb grazing the inside of your thigh and stopping long before you needed him.

“Please,” you managed, voice trembling.

He flashed that infuriating smile and inched his thumb higher, then paused. “Please what? You’re my smart girl—you can use your words.”

“You know what I want,” you whispered, voice cracking.

He reached up, cupping your face and tilting your chin until you met his gaze. “If you want something, you have to use your words.”

You wanted to kill him—or kiss him. Maybe both. “Touch me properly. Please, Mingi, I need—”

“Shh.” At last his thumb brushed the edge of your underwear and you whined. “Good job, baby. That’s all you had to say.”

He shifted forward, knees braced against your thighs, steam and intent filling the small space between you. His eyes were dark, fixed on the bare skin just above his reach. When you looked down, your heart stuttered—he was entirely present, and you trembled before his touch even arrived.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, voice absolute. You obeyed, so helplessly drawn in that you’d have done anything he asked.

His touch feathered across your knee crease, drifting upward along the line where your skin warmed with anticipation. He watched every shiver, every hitch of your breath, lingering on the inner curve of your thigh. You squirmed; his hands held you steady, grounding you with effortless strength.

When your lids fluttered closed, he cleared his throat, and you snapped them open, mortified by how much it turned you on. He extended each second, building tension until you felt you might scream.

Finally, his thumb caught the elastic of your underwear, teasing the fabric. He leaned in close enough for each breath to scorch your skin. “Want it right here don’t you, baby?”

You nodded, barely able to whisper, “I do, Please Mingi...”

He rewarded you with a devastating smile and hooked both thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, dragging it down your legs in one slow, deliberate pull. He held your gaze as he folded the fabric and tucked it into his back pocket, casual as anything, like he was keeping it. Then his hand found you, fingers gathering your slickness, mapping every gasp and twitch as he traced your clit in gentle, maddening circles.

Your hips bucked, and he murmured, “Easy, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” But instead of rushing, he slowed, keeping you perched at the edge. Your knees knocked against his shoulders as he leaned back to admire his work.

“You look so perfect like this,” he breathed, voice low and ragged, “alll of this just for me.” He paused, satisfaction in every curve of his smile, as though he’d painted a masterpiece with his own two hands.

“Please, Mingi, p-please,” you heard yourself beg, the words rolling out of you shameless and raw.

He gave in, at last, sliding one long finger inside you, the sensation so intense you almost blacked out. The stretch and the heat and the pressure, all of it hit you at once, and your hands flew to his shoulders, digging in.

He curled that finger, just so perfectly, and when you arched off the car door, he kept pace, never breaking that perfect eye contact, never letting you drift even a second away from his attention.

He pumped his finger with a slow, luxurious rhythm, letting you ride the wave until you could hardly breathe. “So fucking tight, need to get you all ready for me,” he whispered, the pride in his voice made you even wetter. His thumb came up to circle your clit again, this time with purpose, dialling your body up to eleven in the space of a heartbeat.

He added a second finger, stretching you wider, and that was it—you were gone, hips rolling, head tossed back, mouth open in a silent scream. He pressed his face against your thigh, biting softly, and the feeling of his teeth and tongue sent shivers through your whole body.

But even when you tried to hide your face behind your hands, to ride the sensation out in the darkness of your palms, he stopped, pulling his hand away just long enough to force your gaze back to his.

“Don't you hide that cute face from me. I wanna see all of you.”

"Ah! M-mingi, fuck!" You cried out, unconsciously pulling away from him when his fingertips were already hitting so sinfully against your g-spot. You gripped onto his forearms for purchase, steadying yourself against his promiscuous rythmn.

He kept his fingers moving through it—curling, stroking, finding that sweet spot again and again with devastating precision, the filthy wet sounds of your cunt filling the silence of the car each time he drove his fingers deeper.

"You're taking my fingers so well," Mingi cooed, picking up the pace even faster.

Broken moans left your lips as he fucked you with his fingers. Your thighs clamped around his wrist and he pulled them apart with his free hand, firm and unhurried, spreading you back open without ever breaking his rhythm.

“You’re close, aren't you?” He murmured, not as a question rather as a statement. His voice was low and honeyed, that lazy confidence threading through every word like he’d mapped out every single one of your reactions before you’d even felt them. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so pretty around my fingers, baby.”

You whined, high and desperate, because he was right and he knew he was right and the worst part was that he sounded so goddamn pleased about it.

“That’s it. Don’t fight it.” His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers splayed wide against your skin, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee like it was something sacred. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

The coil in your belly pulled tighter, tighter, and your hands fisted in the leather seat because there was nothing else to hold onto, nothing solid in a world that had narrowed down to the curl of his fingers inside you and the rough velvet of his voice.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Right on my hand. Show me how good I made you feel.”

You shattered.

It hit you like a wall of white noise, blinding and electric, and your back arched clean off the backseat as you came apart around him. His fingers didn’t stop for a second. If anything they slowed, drawing it out, wringing every last shudder and pulse from your body until you were trembling and gasping and completely, utterly ruined.

He watched you the entire time. You cracked your eyes open at some point and found him staring down at you with that crooked half-smile, the one that always made your stomach flip even when you were too wrung out to do anything about it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and there was something almost reverent in it. “Look at you.”

He pulled his fingers free slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, but then he was bringing his hand up between your puffy folds gathering the remains of your pleasure on his digits.

You watched, still trembling, your chest heaving, as he slipped those slick fingers them between his lips and sucked them clean with the kind of deliberate, unhurried pleasure that made your thighs clench all over again. His eyes never left yours, dark and heavy-lidded, and the sound he made—a low, appreciative hum—vibrated through the small space between you.

“So sweet,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free with a soft pop. He licked the pad of his thumb, slow and thorough, like he was tasting something worth savouring. “So fucking perfect. You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused, searching for the word, and the half-smile that curved his mouth was devastating. “And I've imagined it a lot.”

Your face burned. Your entire body burned. You couldn’t look away from his mouth, from the way his tongue traced the line of his knuckles, from the way his eyes went half-lidded and dark with satisfaction.

You made a noise that was supposed to be indignation but came out embarrassingly close to a moan. “Such a fucking perv.”

“Mm.” He lowered himself over you, bracing his weight on one forearm against the back of the seat, and pressed his lips to the corner of your jaw. Still wet. Still tasting like you. “You love it though.”

You did. God help you, you really did.

He lowered his hand and reached for you, his palm warm against your hip, guiding you with that easy, unhurried confidence that made your knees weak even when you were already lying down. “Come lie down properly, you know I don’t bite,” he purred, and you obeyed—sliding backward onto the leather seat, letting him guide you. His hands traced your spine like he was tuning something precious. He shifted, smoothing your body until you lay flat, legs splayed, arms above your head, torso exposed beneath the cool leather.

He hovered over you, one hand on your hip to anchor you, the other brushing your inner thigh. The door handle pressed into your shoulders, the stickiness of the leather biting into your ribs, but none of it mattered. Only Mingi’s heat and the slow, hungry gleam in his eyes.

“How flexible are you?” he asked, as casually as if checking the time.

Your mind still foggy, you blinked. “I’d say I’m pretty flexible. Why?”

He hummed, hands sliding beneath your hips with mechanical precision, and lifted. Your lower body left the seat entirely, suspended in the air, nothing beneath your but his grip. You grabbed for something to hold and found his thighs—thick and solid under your palms, the denim warm.

“Is this okay?” he murmured. You nodded as you dug your fingers in his thighs.

Then his mouth was on you.

His tongue was a live wire, tracing a slow, molten path from where you ached to where you burned. The first drag of it—flat, deliberate, searing—sent a jolt through you like a spark plug firing. Your hips jerked upwards in his grasp, a broken sound clawing its way out of your throat. Mingi hummed against you, the vibration a deep, resonant purr that thrummed through your bones, your nerves, your very core. He explored you like he was memorizing a blueprint—each ridge, each sensitive fold, each flutter of muscle beneath his lips. His tongue lingered where your breath hitched, swirled where your thighs trembled, pressed where your pulse hammered like a piston in overdrive.

“M-Mingi—fuck, feels so good!” Your voice was raw, shredded by the pleasure coiling tighter inside you.

His grip on your hip intensified, fingertips biting into your flesh with an urgency that made your spine arch. You could feel the imprint he was leaving on your skin—five points of possession, claiming you as his even as you squirmed helplessly in his hold. The other hand slid up, tracing the natural curve of your back with almost reverent care before splaying wide and holding you there, helplessly suspended, a perfect angle for his tongue to do its damage. The cold air inside the car prickled against the sweat beading along your skin, but the contrast only sharpened the focus of every hot, wet, maddeningly precise thing Mingi was doing between your thighs.

He worked you with a methodical, almost mechanical intensity, the kind you’d seen him use on the shop floor with a stubborn bolt or a seized part—determined, relentless, and utterly sure of himself. His mouth didn’t just tease; it engineered your pleasure, tracing out every sensitive ridge and dip, every stuttering gasp and involuntary twitch. He learned you so quickly it was terrifying—every time you tried to twist away or clamp your knees shut, he countered, easily, like a wrench snapping onto a stripped nut. You had no leverage. No hope. Just the inevitability of what he was building in you.

He alternated, sometimes flattening his tongue and dragging it up your puffy pussylips in one long, slow burn, sometimes isolating the spot that made your vision strobe, focusing the pressure until you were clawing at his jeans and choking on your own moans. There was no rhythm to fall into, no lull; just spikes of pleasure, sharp and unpredictable, wracking through you until your thighs shook uncontrollably. He hummed again, the sound low and smug, vibrating straight into your core like a tuning fork.

Somewhere in the haze, you realized you’d started to beg. Not with words, not at first—just hoarse little whimpers, your ragged breathing an open admission of defeat. But then the words tumbled out, torn from you by the merciless grind of his tongue. “Please, Mingi, please, please, I can’t—” You weren’t sure what you were asking for. Mercy, maybe. Or more, always more.

He paused only long enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark with heat and satisfaction. “I thought you could handle more, baby?” he rasped, breath fanning over your swollen flesh.

“I can-fuck, I can handle it.” you snarl back, your words having no real bite behind them. Mingi knows that, hell, even you know that.

He bent to his work with renewed vengeance—faster now, chasing your pleasure like it was something he could catch and pin down. The car’s interior filled with the obscene wet sounds of his mouth and your body betraying you, slick and desperate under his assault. The seat vibrated under your head as you started to thrash, your legs locked tight around his shoulders, your fingers digging deeper and deeper into the meat of his thighs.

Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off, a shrill warble that barely penetrated the cocoon of sensation. The world could have ended around you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Not when he was doing this, not when he was making you feel like your whole body had been rewired for his touch alone.

He played you up and down the scale, sometimes gentle, sometimes ruthless, reading every clench and flutter with greedy satisfaction. When he sensed you hovering on the knife’s edge, he eased off, letting you breathe for exactly two seconds before diving back in, measuring out your pleasure in cruel increments. He wanted you to break. He wanted to see it.

And you did.

Then he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, hard. The sensation detonated through you, a backfire of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You came apart with a cry, your voice fracturing on his name, the seat shuddering beneath your frantic grip. The orgasm wasn’t just a release—it was a full-system failure, white-hot and all-consuming, waves of sensation crashing over you like a blown gasket. Your vision whited out, your body convulsing in his grasp as he drew it out, his tongue still working, still demanding, still taking until you were nothing but a trembling, sobbing mess of sweat and tears.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slick with small strings of your arousal hung between his lips and your dripping cunt. You collapsed against the seat, your chest heaving like you’d just run a 10km marathon, your arms limp, your legs still trembling in the cradle of his hands.

He blew warm breath against your thigh and groaned, part laugh, part moan. “Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re incredible. So good for me, my sweet girl.”

Then he rose, slow and deliberate, his body unfolding from between your legs with the easy grace of someone who knew exactly how much power he held. Your breath still came in short, hitching gasps as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the headrest beside your temple, the other still tangled with your fingers.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said enough—hungry, satisfied in a way that was only temporary, the kind of satisfaction that fueled something deeper. He tilted your chin up with his free hand, thumb tracing your lower lip, and then he was kissing you.

His mouth was hot and wet and you—the unmistakable taste of your own release still clinging to his tongue as it swept past your lips. The flavor was sharp, musky, intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn even hotter. You moaned into the kiss, the sound muffled against his mouth, your body still trembling with the aftershocks that his taste seemed to reignite. He swallowed the sound like it was something precious, his hand sliding from your chin to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the angle.

You could feel the rough texture of his calloused fingers against your jaw, the faint scent of cologne and sweat and him filling your lungs with every ragged breath you shared. His tongue moved against yours with the same deliberate precision he’d used between your thighs—methodical, thorough, tasting every corner of your mouth like he was cataloging you. The kiss was filthy and tender all at once, possessive in a way

You couldn’t speak. Still pulsing with aftershocks, you looked and saw him—flushed, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger sharpened, not sated. His hand found yours on the seat, fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently.

“Still with me?” he whispered, genuine concern in his voice, as careful as checking an engine after a hard run. You nodded, something warm and new cracking open behind your sternum. You squeezed his hand back. “Still here,” you managed, and your voice was hoarse, barely recognisable. “Want… more.”

His eyes went dark—deeper, hungrier, the look of a man who’d been holding himself back by a thread and just heard the thread snap. “More,” he repeated, and the word came out low and rough, like gravel dragged across silk. “Does my baby want more?”

You nodded. “Please. I need—I need to feel you inside me, Mingi.”

The sound he made was barely human—a low, guttural growl that started in his chest and vibrated through the console into your bones. Then his hands were on you, sure and unhurried, guiding you forward until your stomach met the centre console, the leather cool against your bare skin. He arranged you with careful, deliberate hands—chest down, hips tilted back toward him, your ass and cunt angled up and open, completely exposed to whatever he wanted to do next.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. “Don’t move. Keep your hips up, just like that—perfect, sweetheart, perfect.”

You stayed. The hard edge of the gear shift dug into your body and none of it mattered because Mingi’s hands were on you, warm and sure.

His hand left your hip. You heard the rustle of denim, the soft clink of a belt buckle, and then the sound of fabric being pushed down—and your heart hammered so hard you were certain he could hear it, certain it was echoing off the windows and the river and the moon. You glanced over your shoulder to watch him, he smirked when he realised you were watching him, then pulled down his boxers.

Precum was already oozing from his pinkish mushroom tip. Mingi wasn’t kidding, he was fucking massive. A good 7 to 8 inches you thought to yourself. You reached behind you and pumped the base of his cock, earning a low groan from him as you traced your thumb across the head. Mingi twitched in your palm and gently bucked his hips into your hand.

Mingi’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek as you squeezed him again, your thumb swirling another lazy circle around his tip just to watch his nostrils flare. His hand closed over yours—large, warm, calloused—and stilled your movements.

“Careful,” he moaned, his voice had dropped into that dangerous register, the one that sounded like a warning label on something flammable. “You keep teasing me like that and you’re gonna regret it, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, a grin spreading despite yourself. “Regret what, exactly?”

His eyes narrowed. “You know exactly what.”

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t help it. The power of making him twitch, of watching his composure crack, was intoxicating. You gave him one more deliberate pump, slow and tight, your fingers curling just the way you knew would make his hips buck.

“Mingi, I don’t think you’d actually be so big—”

The words died in your throat because he was moving, shifting behind you with that fluid, predatory grace that made your stomach drop. His hand left yours and found the small of your back, pressing you flat against the console. You felt the blunt, hot head of him drag through your slick—not pushing, not entering, just smearing—trailing a path of your own arousal along your swollen, desperate entrance with agonizing precision.

You clenched. Your body tried to pull him in, hips tilting back, chasing the pressure that wasn’t there. Your cunt pulsed around nothing, fluttering, aching, empty.

“Mingi—please—”

“Uh-uh.” His voice was velvet over steel, warm and utterly merciless. “You had your chance to behave. You didn’t take it.”

Then his hand was on your ass. Not gently or tentatively. His palm settled against the curve of your right cheek with a weight that made your breath catch, his fingers spreading wide, and for one suspended moment he just held you there like he was claiming his territory.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, almost to himself, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the crease where your thigh met your ass. “Such a shame, you just had to be a brat, didn’t you?”

The first spank landed without warning.

His palm connected with your right cheek with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the car’s interior like a gunshot. The sound was obscene—wet, resonant, the kind of sound that made your face burn and your cunt clench simultaneously. The pain bloomed hot and bright, spreading across your skin in a wave that crested and broke into something that wasn’t pain at all—something electric, something that lit up every nerve ending it touched and sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

You gasped. Your fingers scrabbled against the dashboard, and Mingi made a sound—low, satisfied, the sound of a man who’d just confirmed a hypothesis and found the results exceeded every expectation.

“Again,” you whimpered at the impact. “Harder, Mingi.”

“Tsk, Greedy girl,” he murmured, but there was no admonishment in it. Only warmth, only approval, only the particular pleasure of being asked for exactly what he wanted to give. His hand came down again—left cheek this time, harder, the impact ringing through your bones—and you cried out, your hips jerking forward, your body chasing the sting like it was oxygen.

He spanked you three more times—alternating sides, each one landing with a precision that spoke to practice, or instinct, or both. The pain built in layers, each impact compounding the last, until your entire ass was burning and your cunt was so wet you could feel it dripping down your inner thighs. You were moaning openly now, embarrassing, desperate sounds that you’d never made in your life, sounds you’d have been mortified by if anyone but Mingi could hear them.

And still—still—he didn’t push inside you. His cockhead just rested there, right at your entrance, hot and heavy and right there, and every time your hips shifted back to try and take him, he pulled away just enough to deny you.

“Min—baby please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

“You’ll be good?” he repeated, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without turning around. “I asked you to stop teasin' me but you didn't listen, baby. Look where that got you.”

His hand smoothed over the burning skin of your ass, palm flat and warm, soothing the sting even as he stoked it. The gentleness was almost worse than the spanking. The tenderness in contrast to the punishment making your eyes sting.

He leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You’ll get what I give you, when I decide to give it,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “And right now, I think you need to learn some patience.”

His hand returned between your thighs, fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering your arousal before circling your entrance again still refusing to push inside. You whined, your hips bucking desperately against his teasing touch.

“Aww you poor thing,” he chuckled, his voice thick with satisfaction. “So wet. So desperate. All because you couldn’t resist being a brat.”

You were beyond words now, reduced to incoherent sounds of need as he continued his torment. The spanks had left your skin hypersensitive, every nerve ending alight, amplifying the sensation of his fingers as they traced patterns around your entrance without ever granting you the penetration you craved.

When he finally, mercifully, pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, you nearly sobbed with relief. But he didn’t push in—he just held it there, letting you feel the heat and weight of him without giving you what you needed.

“Still want to tease me?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

“No,” you gasped, shaking your head frantically. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll be good I-I promise…”

He rewarded your submission with a slow, deliberate push—just the head of his cock entering you, stretching you just enough to make your breath catch. Then he stopped again, pulling back slightly.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough with restraint.

“You,” you panted, your fingers gripping the dashboard so hard your knuckles turned white. “All of you. Please, just fuck me, Mingi.”

The sound he made sent shivers down your spine. “That's my girl. Look how easy that was when you just ask nicely.” he murmured, and then he was pushing forward. His fingers were spreading you open, and you felt his cock—hot, heavy, already slick—pressing against your entrance with a pressure that made your whole body clench in anticipation.

“Hands,” he said, the command was quiet but absolute, leaving no room for interpretation.

You reached back automatically, and his hand caught both of your wrists in one grip and pulled them behind your back. His fingers laced through yours, locking your hands together, and the position pushed your chest forward, your breasts pressing into the console, your back arching in a curve that left you completely exposed, completely vulnerable, completely his.

“Now, be a good girl and stay still for me, okay?” He instructed, and you gripped your own hands, your fingers interlaced behind your back, held in place by the warm cage of his palm. The restraint was gentle but unyielding, and the vulnerability of it—the inability to move, to brace, to control anything about what was happening to you—sent a wave of heat through your body so intense it bordered on vertigo.

Then he was pushing inside you.

Slow. So slow. Inch by agonising inch, his cock stretching you open with a fullness that made your breath stutter and your vision white-out at the edges. You were still sensitive from before, still trembling with aftershocks, and the sensation of him filling you—thick, relentless, every ridge and vein pressing against walls that were already singing—was almost too much. You whimpered against the console, your fingers tightening behind your back, and Mingi groaned above you—low, broken, the sound of a man who was fighting for control and losing.

“Fuck—fuuuck, you’re so tight, sweetheart—” His voice cracked on the last word, and his free hand found your hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. “So perfect. So goddamn perfect for me.”

He bottomed out, and the feeling of him—fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt inside you—drove the air from your lungs. You could feel his heartbeat through the point of connection, fast and strong and slightly out of rhythm, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just existed in the same impossible, electric space.

Then he pulled back and thrust forward, and the world narrowed to nothing.

The angle was devastating with the console holding your hips at exactly the right height, the position forcing him deep, deeper than you’d thought possible, every stroke hitting something inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You couldn’t move. Your hands were locked behind your back, his grip unrelenting. The helplessness of it, the complete surrender of control, turned every nerve in your body into a live wire.

“Mingi—oh my god, oh fuck—” The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your voice cracking on every syllable, and you felt him shift behind you—adjusting, finding the angle, his hips snapping forward with a precision that told you he was paying attention to every sound you made, every hitch in your breathing, every involuntary clench of your body around him.

“I want to hear you,” he growled, and his voice was rough, wrecked, barely holding together. “Every sound. Every moan. Every time I make you feel good, I want to hear it. Don’t hold back. Don’t be quiet. I’ve been thinking about the sounds you make—” His hips pressed forward, just an inch, just enough to make you gasp. “—for months. So be loud for me, baby.”

He punctuated the words with a thrust that drove the air from your lungs, and the sound you made was loud—embarrassingly loud, the kind of sound that would have carried across the parking lot if anyone had been there to hear it—and Mingi groaned like you’d punched him.

“Louder,” he demanded, and his hand tightened on your wrists, pulling them higher up your back, the new angle arching your spine and pressing your chest harder against the console. “You think I pulled up to this abandoned car park to hear you be quiet?”

You laughed—or tried to, the sound dissolving into a moan as he hit that spot again, that devastating, mind-melting spot that turned your bones to liquid. “You—you’re such an asshole—mmf!”

“Mm-hm.” His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and the console creaked beneath you. “And you love it. Now be loud for me, baby. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He set a devastating rhythm—deep, relentless, each thrust measured and deliberate. His cock dragging against every sensitive point inside you with a precision that bordered on cruel. You couldn’t hold back. You didn’t try. The sounds poured out of you. Moans and whimpers and half-formed pleas, his name repeated like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain could still form.

Each thrust pulled another sound from your throat, each one louder than the last, and Mingi fed on them. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his breathing went ragged, in the way his hips moved faster, harder, chasing the particular pitch of your voice that told him he was doing something right.

“So—fuck, so fucking tight,” he panted, and his forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, his breath hot against your spine. “My pretty little slut to ruin.”

His free hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pressing flat against your abdomen, and you could feel him through the thin wall of muscle—the thick, heavy shape of his cock moving inside you, stretching you open with every thrust—and the obscenity of it, the visceral, undeniable reality of being filled so completely, made you sob.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, and the words sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. “You were made to take this cock.”

He established a rhythm—steady, unhurried, each thrust deep enough to hit the spot that made your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open. The console creaked beneath you with every movement, the gearshift vibrating against your hip, the leather squeaking where your skin met it. The sounds were so pornographic. Wet, rhythmic, the slap 'plap, plap, plap' of skin against skin punctuated by your increasingly desperate moans and Mingi’s low, ragged breathing.

You kept your promise. You were loud. Every thrust pulled a gasps, moans, whimpers and broken versions of his name that dissolved into nothing before they finished. When he angled his hips and found the spot that made you see stars. The pleasure was so euphoric you felt fat wads of tears trailing down your face.

“Right there, baby?” he grunted, barely controlled. “That feel good?”

“Yes—fuck, yes, right there, d-don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop. He shifted his angle, changed the depth, found the exact position that had your entire body lighting up like a switchboard and he stayed there, driving into you with a precision that was almost mechanical in its consistency. Each thrust hit the same spot, built the same pressure, sent the same cascade of pleasure rolling through you in waves that grew taller and closer together with every repetition.

His free hand left your hip and found your hair, fisting in it, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat. His mouth found the pulse point beneath your jaw. Sucking, biting, leaving marks you’d find tomorrow. The overwhelming combination of sensations—his cock inside you, his hand in your hair, his teeth on your neck—pushed you toward the edge with a speed that was almost frightening.

“Min—Mingi, I’m close, I’m so close—”

“I know, baby.” His voice was strained, the words coming in sharp bursts between thrusts. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so hard—fuck, sweetheart.”

His hand left your hair and slid down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The first touch was electric. A direct connection to the live wire of your pleasure and you completely fell apart.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, no warning, no build up, just a sudden detonation that ripped through your body and turned every muscle to liquid fire. Your walls clamped down around his dick, pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves, and Mingi’s breath hitched—a sharp, broken sound that told you he was right there with you. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables, and his thrusts grew slower, sloppier, the precise mechanical rhythm dissolving into something raw and desperate.

His fingers kept working your clit through your high, drawing out every last tremor, and you could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead and chest onto your back. The ministrations he had on your clit wasn’t his normal teasing ones. It felt like he was spelling something out—S-O-N-G M-I-N-G-I. You gasp at the realisation. The bastard wrote his name on your clit. He didn’t pause, didn’t pull away, just kept moving inside you through the wreckage of your own orgasm.

“Gonna cum, baby,” he rasped, and his voice was wrecked—scraped raw, barely recognizable, the voice of a man hanging by a thread. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you whimper, the word torn from you as another wave crested and broke. You were still coming, still trembling, still clenching around him in pulses that you couldn’t control, and you were pretty sure if he kept going like this, kept hitting your sweet spot, kept his fingers on your clit—he’d pull another orgasm from you before you’d even finished the first. “Want it inside, need it inside. Need you s’bad ohmygod.”

He groaned as his hips snapped forward three more times, deep and deliberate, each one driving the air from your lungs. Then his entire body locked, every muscle going rigid, and you felt him spill inside you—hot, thick, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of his heart.

“Wait, baby—don’t do that,” he choked out weakly when your cunt fluttered around him, trying to milk every last drop.

His cock twitched inside you, still sensitive, still spilling, and you hummed—content, satisfied, smug—at the feeling of him filling you up exactly the way you’d asked. He laughed, the sound hoarse and breathless, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

“You’re greedy,” he murmured, carefully lowering himself until his chest pressed flush against your back. His body was warm despite the sweat, solid and heavy and grounding, and you felt him press a kiss to the nape of your neck—soft, almost tender, completely at odds with the animal intensity of the last twenty minutes.

“Mm,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper. Your hands were still locked behind your back, still held in his grip, and you made no move to free them. You didn’t want to. You wanted to stay exactly like this—trapped between the console and his body, filled and claimed and utterly, completely his.

Mingi’s grip loosened on your wrists. His fingers uncurled from yours, and your hands fell to your sides, tingling with returning blood flow. His forehead was still pressed between your shoulder blades, and you could feel the rapid hammer of his heartbeat against your back, slowly, slowly beginning to steady.

“Are you okay?” he murmured against your skin, and his voice was wrecked—hoarse and tender and slightly dazed, like he’d just woken from a dream he wasn’t sure was real.

You turned your head on the console, your cheek pressed against the leather, and managed a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Barely.”

He laughed—a warm, rumbling sound that vibrated through your back and into your chest—and his arms came around you, gathering you against him with a gentleness that made your chest swell with love. He pulled you upright, carefully, mindful of the cramped space and the awkward angle, and you collapsed back against his chest, your body boneless and trembling, your head falling against his shoulder.

His arms were warm around you, his heartbeat steadying beneath your ear, and the world was slowly reassembling itself from the scattered pieces the orgasm had left behind. His hand was tracing lazy patterns on your lower back, his fingers drawing circles that made your skin prickle with renewed sensitivity.

His face was right there—inches away, his eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen and slightly parted, a thin sheen of sweat catching the moonlight that filtered through the windows. You looked at the way his hair stuck to his forehead, and at the flush still high on his cheekbones, shifted in your chest. You turned your head and found his mouth with yours.

The kiss was different this time. Slower. Softer. The desperate, hungry collision of before had given way to something deeper, something that tasted like relief and wonder and the particular sweetness of a thing you’d been waiting for without admitting you were waiting. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, and you felt him smile into the kiss.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and soft and slightly unfocused, the way they got when he was looking at something he couldn’t believe was real, and you pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

Then you moved.

You shifted in his lap, turning your body, swinging one leg over his hips until you were straddling him—facing him, your knees pressed into the leather on either side of his thighs, your hands braced on his shoulders. The position was awkward in the cramped backseat—your head nearly brushing the roof, your knees at angles that would make a chiropractor weep—but you didn’t care. You looked down at him, at the way his eyes went wide and dark and hungry all at once, and something hot and liquid pooled low in your belly.

His hands found your waist immediately. Both of them, warm and rough, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your hipbones through the thin barrier of your skin. His gaze dropped from your face to your chest, and the sound he made—low, appreciative—sent a shiver cascading down your spine.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed, and his hands slid upward, tracing the line of your ribs with a touch so light it barely qualified as contact. “Now this is a view I could get used to.”

You rolled your hips. The movement was deliberate. Slow, grinding, your cunt dragging along the length of his cock where it lay heavy and spent against his stomach. You felt him twitch, felt the soft sound he made vibrate through his chest, and you did it again—slower this time, more pressure, watching his face the whole time.

His hands tightened on your waist. His jaw clenched. His eyes went dark—not the playful dark, not the teasing dark, but the deep, consuming dark of a man who was being given something he hadn’t known to ask for.

“Again,” he groaned, his voice was rough, wrecked, the words barely holding together. “Do that again.”

You did. You rolled your hips in a slow, circular motion that pressed your clit against the base of his cock, and the friction—combined with the oversensitivity still singing through your nerves—made your breath catch. You braced your hands on his shoulders and lifted your hips, just enough to shift the angle, and when you sank back down. Taking him inside you in one smooth, devastating stroke.

His head fell back against the seat, his throat exposed, the tendons standing out in sharp relief. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard, and you felt his cock twitch inside you—still soft, still recovering, but the sensation of being filled, of being stretched around him even in this state, sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through your core.

“Holy shit…” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re gonna kill me. You know that, right?”

You smiled slow and deliberate. “Good.” Then, you started to move.

Not fast. Not yet. You set a torturous rhythm. Slow, grinding, your hips rolling in tight circles that dragged his cock against every sensitive wall inside you. You kept your eyes on his face, cataloguing every reaction—the way his breath hitched when you clenched around him, the way his fingers dug into your hips when you changed the angle, the way his eyes went half-lidded and glassy when you found the spot that made his whole body tense.

His hands never stopped moving.

They traced your waist, your ribs, and the curve of your lower back. Like he was trying to touch every inch of you at once and couldn’t decide where to start. His hands were everywhere, and each point of contact sent sparks cascading through your nervous system, building on the pleasure already coiling tight in your belly.

Then his hands found your breasts.

You felt the shift in his attention before you saw it. His gaze dropping, his breath catching, his hands moving with a new kind of intention. His palms cupped you from below, lifting, weighing, his thumbs tracing the undersides with a touch so light it made your skin prickle. He squeezed gently—once, twice—and the sound you made was involuntary, a soft, broken moan that escaped before you could catch it.

“These,” he murmured, and his voice was thick, reverent, his eyes fixed on your chest with the same focused attention he gave to engine bays. “I’ve been thinking about these. Every time you leaned over the hood, every time you stretched. I tried to be a gentleman but fuck, baby, you made it so hard.”

His thumbs found your nipples—hard, sensitive, still aching from before—and rolled them between his fingers with a precision that made your vision blur. The sensation was sharp and electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core, and you arched into his touch, your hips stuttering in their rhythm.

“Oh god, that feels s-so good!”

“I know, sweetheart,” he breathed, and his mouth was already moving, leaning forward, closing the distance, his tongue finding your left nipple with a flat, wet stroke that made you cry out. He circled it, his tongue painting tight spirals around the peak and then he sucked, and the sound you made was loud enough to echo.

His hand kept working the other breast. Rolling, squeezing, his fingers finding the perfect pressure while his mouth lavished attention on the first. He alternated between gentle suction and sharp, teasing bites that made your whole body jerk, and every time you moved, every time your hips rolled or your back arched, he groaned against your skin like you were doing something specifically designed to destroy him.

You were. You knew you were. The way you moved, the way you clenched around him on every upstroke, the way your hands found his hair and pulled just hard enough to make his breath catch—you were giving him exactly what he’d given you, and then some.

His cock was hardening inside you. You could feel it. You could feel him. The gradual thickening, the way he filled you more completely with every passing second, the way his breathing went ragged and his grip on your hips turned desperate. You rolled your hips harder, faster, chasing the friction, chasing the building pressure, and Mingi broke away from your breast with a gasp that was almost a sob.

“You feel so fucking good.” His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your tits, your thighs—touching, squeezing, mapping your body with the frantic energy of someone who was trying to memorise every detail before the moment ended.

You leaned down and kissed him. Deep, hungry, your tongue sliding against his, your hips never stopping their rhythm. He kissed you back with equal fervour, his hands sliding up your back and pressing you closer, your chest flush against his, your nipples dragging against the hard planes of his pecs with every movement.

When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, your noses brushing. Mingi’s eyes were dark and dazed and full of something that looked terrifyingly like love.

“Ride me like you mean it, baby. Show me what you’ve got.” he whispered, and the words were a plea and a command in equal measure.

You sat up straight, your hands braced on his shoulders, and you moved.

Your thighs flexing as you lifted yourself up and dropped back down, setting a pace that was fast and deep and absolutely devastating. The angle was different from before. You were facing him, your weight driving you down onto his cock with a force that made the leather squeak and the seat frame creak and Mingi’s hands fly to your hips like he was trying to hold on to something solid in a world that had gone liquid.

“Atta girl, that’s it baby jus’ like that” The words tumbled out of him in a broken stream, his head falling back, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping.

His cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy inside you, stretching you open with every downstroke, and the sensation combined with the friction of your clit against his pelvis was building something enormous and inevitable at the base of your spine. You were bouncing now, your body moving with a fluid, athletic grace that surprised even you—and every time you dropped down, Mingi’s cock hit that spot, that devastating, mind-melting spot, and the sounds you made were obscene.

“Harder,” he growled, and his hands tightened on your breasts, squeezing, rolling, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you see stars. “Ride me harder, baby. I want you to feel me until tomorrow.”

You obliged. You drove yourself down onto him with everything you had. Every ounce of strength in your thighs, every shred of control in your core. The impact was sharp and bright and perfect. The car rocked beneath you, the suspension groaning, and Mingi’s grip on your breasts turned bruising, his mouth finding your collarbone and biting down hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’re—fuck, you’re so good at this,” he panted against your skin, his voice cracking.

“Shut up,” you gasped, and you meant it fondly, your hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest, your nails dragging down the hard planes of muscle. “Stop talking and touch me.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

His hands moved. They slid up your sides—slow, reverent, his palms mapping the terrain of your body with the same careful attention he gave to engine components. His hands cupped you—both of them, warm and sure, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles that made your breath hitch and your hips falter. You were still riding him, still moving in that steady, controlled rhythm, but his touch was pulling your focus, scattering your concentration, turning the deliberate pace into something more desperate, more urgent.

You couldn’t stop. You were moaning—loud, unrestrained sounds that filled the car’s interior—and every sound you made seemed to spur him on, his mouth working harder, his tongue more insistent, his hands gripping tighter.

“Fuck—Mingi, I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can.” His voice was muffled against your breast, his tongue still working, his hand still moving. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me. Oh fuck— This pussy was made for me.”

You found the rhythm again—or something close to it. Your body moving on its own, chasing the pleasure that his mouth and his hands and his cock were building inside you in overlapping waves. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping hard, your nails digging into the muscle, and you rode him with everything you had—every ounce of strength, every shred of desire, every month of pent-up longing poured into the movement of your hips.

Mingi’s mouth left your breast. His lips traced a burning path up your sternum, along your collarbone, to the pulse point in your throat, where he sucked hard enough to leave a mark you’d wear like a trophy. His hands were on your back now, his palms sliding from your shoulder blades to the base of your spine, pressing you closer, holding you flush against his chest as you moved.

“My pretty girl giving me the best ride of my life,” he breathed against your throat, and his voice was shattered, barely holding together.

You rolled your hips harder, faster, your body tightening around him with every downward thrust, and you could feel him swelling inside you, thicker, harder, his control fraying at the edges. His hands dropped to your ass, gripping both cheeks, spreading you open, and the obscenity of it—the way he was holding you, positioning you, watching you take him apart—sent you spiralling toward the edge.

“Mingi, I’m so close again—I’m gonna cum again!”

“Me too, baby.” His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. “Together. Cum with me... I want to feel you cum all over me.”

You kissed him. Messy, desperate, your teeth catching his lower lip, your tongue pushing past his, and your hips didn’t stop. They couldn’t stop. The rhythm had taken on a life of its own, your body moving with a primal, instinctive urgency that left no room for thought. Mingi kissed you back with equal desperation, his hands gripping your ass, his hips thrusting upward to meet your downward movements, and the collision of forces—you riding him, him driving into you—created a friction that was devastating.

The orgasm built from the base of your spine—a slow, tight coil of pressure that wound tighter with every thrust. You could feel it approaching like a wave, could feel the moment the water started to pull back from the shore, and you held Mingi’s gaze through it all—his eyes dark, desperate, fixed on yours with an intensity that told you he was right there with you, hanging by the same thread.

It broke.

The orgasm hit you with a sensation so immense it threatened to strip away your consciousness, leaving you suspended in a single, blinding instant of pleasure that fused every muscle, every nerve, every trembling synapse into a singular electric current. You screamed, a sound that started low and guttural and built into a thin, ragged shriek, the kind you’d never made before, the kind that left your throat raw and echoing in the thick, humid air of the car.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way your body seized around Mingi’s cock, the way you milked him, the way every wave of release hit harder than the last, scattering your thoughts to the corners of your skull and leaving you utterly, beautifully ruined.

You felt him come apart under you. Felt the way he jerked inside you, the way his breath stuttered, the way his hands flew up to lock around your waist like he could anchor himself in your wreckage. He was gasping your name, voice wrecked and desperate, his hips slamming up to meet you with a force that jolted your spine, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself inside you with a velocity that bordered on violence. The aftershocks were nearly as intense as the orgasm itself; your body took his, drank him down, and doubled the force of his own release, the sensation so raw and so real it went straight to your soul.

Your legs shook. Your vision went white at the edges. You collapsed forward, your hands flattening against the sweat-slicked muscle of his chest, your hair falling in a tangled curtain around your face as you panted, desperate for air, for sanity, for a return to the world that didn’t seem to want you anymore. Mingi’s hands were still on your waist, trembling slightly, his chest heaving beneath your palms. You could feel his heartbeat—fast, erratic, slowly steadying—and the wet heat of him still inside you, still filling you, still marking you as his in the most primal way possible.

You shifted. Slowly, carefully, your body protesting every movement, and reached between your bodies. Your fingers found the mess between your thighs. Warm, slick, the mingled evidence of both of you leaking from where you were still joined and you gathered it. Your fingers came away glistening, and you brought them to your mouth without thinking, without planning, without anything but the raw, animal instinct to taste what you’d made together.

You closed your lips around your fingers. Sucked. The taste hit you. Salt and musk and something uniquely, unmistakably both of you. You moaned around your own knuckles, your eyes fluttering shut, your hips clenching involuntarily around his softening cock.

Mingi went absolutely still beneath you. The way his breath stopped, the way his hands tightened on your waist, the way every muscle in his body locked into sudden, rigid attention. You opened your eyes and found him staring at you with an expression you’d never seen before—not hunger, not satisfaction, not even the dark, possessive gleam from before. Something rawer. Something that looked like he’d just been hit by a car he hadn’t seen coming.

“Oh my god.” His voice came out wrecked—not the sexy, post-orgasm wrecked, but genuinely, fundamentally destroyed. “Oh my fucking god.”

You pulled your fingers from your mouth slowly, your tongue dragging across your knuckles one last time, and you watched his eyes track the movement with the intensity of a man watching his life flash before him.

“That,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word, “might be the hottest thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life.”

You smiled and as you were about to say something clever when his hands flew to your face and he was kissing you. Hard. Desperate. His mouth crashed into yours with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting the remnants of what you’d just licked from your fingers, and the sound he made—a low, broken groan that vibrated through your chest and into your bones—made your entire body clench around him again.

His hands were in your hair, cradling your skull, angling your head to deepen the kiss even further, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. Which wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to make his hips shift beneath you, enough to make him gasp against your mouth, enough to make the world narrow to nothing but the heat of his lips and the taste of you both on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing like you’d just run a sprint. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted, and you could feel the smile forming on his mouth before you even looked at him.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured, and his voice was warm and dazed and full of something that made your chest ache. “You know that, right? I haven't even taken you out to a proper date yet and I'm already dead.”

You laughed—soft, breathless, your hands still flat against his chest. “Would you have it any other way?”

His eyes opened. Soft, shining with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like devotion. “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.” Mingi shifted beneath you once more, his arms loosening just enough to let you breathe, and you felt his lips press against your temple.

“We should go and get out of here,” he murmured against your skin, and his voice was low, rough, still carrying the gravel of everything you’d just done to each other. “Do you wanna come back to mine?”

You lifted your head to look at him, and the expression on his face made your stomach flip. Hungry. Determined. The look of a man who’d tasted something and was addicted.

“Your place?” you repeated, your voice still wrecked, still barely functional.

“Yeah.” His hand slid down your spine, settling at the small of your back with a possessiveness that made your toes curl. “Because this car is about three seconds away from being declared a biohazard, and I have a bed that’s significantly bigger and more comfortable than this console.” His thumb traced a slow circle on your skin. “And I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”

The words hit you like a spark jumping a gap—sudden, electric, lighting up every nerve ending you had left. You felt your body respond before your brain caught up, a fresh pulse of heat rolling through your core despite the fact that you were still trembling, still oversensitive, still leaking him onto the leather beneath you.

“Not done?” you managed, and your voice came out breathier than you intended.

Mingi’s grin was slow and devastating, the kind that started at the corners of his mouth and spread until it reached his eyes, turning them dark and dangerous and full of promise. His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing gently, and you felt him shift beneath you—felt the unmistakable, traitorous twitch of his cock, still buried inside you, already stirring back to life.

“Sweetheart,” he said, and the word came out like a caress, like a threat, like both at once, “we’ve been in this car for what—an hour? Maybe two?” His hips rolled upward, deliberate, and the friction made you gasp. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. You think I’m gonna call it quits because your backseat’s uncomfortable?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, and he was smiling, and then he was easing you off of him—slow, careful—and you both made a sound at the same time, a soft, involuntary whimper at the sudden cold where there had been warmth, the absence where there had been fullness. He pressed his lips to your temple like an apology.

He helped you dress.

Not in a hurry because nothing about Mingi was ever in a hurry, but with the same methodical care he brought to everything. His hands found your bra first, hooking it closed with fingers that trembled just slightly, his knuckles brushing your spine in a way that made you shiver. He smoothed the straps up your arms, adjusting them with a precision that suggested he’d been paying attention to how they sat before, and when his thumbs traced the line where the fabric met your skin, you caught his wrist.

“Mingi.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded pleased. “Can’t help it. You’re right here.”

You pulled your shirt over your head, and his hands were there immediately—tugging the hem down, smoothing the wrinkles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gesture so domestic it made your chest ache. He found your jeans in the footwell, shook them out with a quiet efficiency that made you think of him folding shop towels, and held them open for you like a gentleman helping you into a coat.

Before reaching for your jeans, he paused and reached behind him, two fingers hooking your underwear out of his back pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been carrying them there all evening on purpose.

He crouched down and held them open at your feet without a word, and something about the quiet patience of the gesture made your throat tighten. You stepped in. He took his time drawing them up, his thumbs pressing slow, warm circles into the outside of your hips as he settled the waistband into place.

Then he shook out your jeans and held them open the same way—“ Step in,” he said— and you did, balancing on one foot, your hand on his shoulder. He pulled the denim up after, his palms warm against your calves, your thighs, the curve of your hips, and when he fastened the button, his fingers lingered at your waistband, pressing a kiss to your stomach through the fabric.

“There,” he murmured against your skin. “All dressed.”

“Not all of us are dressed.” You gestured at his bare chest, the leather jacket still draped over the front passenger seat, his own shirt nowhere to be found. “You’re half naked.”

“Am I?” He looked down at himself with mock surprise. “So I am! The absolute horror.”

You found his shirt balled behind the driver’s seat and tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed and pulled it over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that made your mouth go dry all over again. His jeans were already on. You had no memory of when he’d managed that. He reached past you for his jacket, shaking it out with a practiced flick of his wrists.

Then he held it open for you.

The gesture was so simple—so stupidly, achingly simple. You turned, and he draped the jacket over your shoulders, his hands settling on your arms for a moment, pulling you back against his chest. The leather was warm from the car’s interior, and it smelled like him—cedar and engine oil and the faint sweetness of whatever he’d put on after his shower—and it was so big on you that the sleeves swallowed your hands entirely.

“You look good in my jacket,” he said, his chin resting on your crown.

“It looks like I'm being swallowed by your jacket.”

“You look perfect.” His arms tightened around you, and you let yourself lean into him, let the weight of his body hold you upright when your legs were still shaky and your brain was still soft around the edges. “Absolutely perfect.”

You stayed like that for a moment—wrapped in his jacket, wrapped in his arms, the car ticking quietly around you, the river murmuring its endless, indifferent song beyond the steamed-up windows. Then Mingi pressed one more kiss to the top of your head—soft, lingering, the kind that felt like a period at the end of a sentence—and pulled back.

“Alright, let's go home.” he exhales.

“Okay.” You tugged the jacket tighter around yourself, the leather creaking softly. “But you’re driving. I can barely feel my legs.”

“Of course.” He kissed you once more—quick, chaste, the kind of kiss that was more punctuation than prose.

Unfolding his long frame from the backseat with considerably more grace than he’d managed on the way in. You heard the soft thud of his boots hitting the gravel, and then his hand appeared through the open door, palm up, waiting. You took it. 

He helped you out of the backseat. Steadying you when your knees buckled, his arm around your waist, his body a warm wall of support, and you stood in the moonlight together, the river silver behind you, the city a distant constellation of light beyond the trees. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you pulled his jacket tighter, breathing in the smell of him like it was oxygen.

Mingi opened the passenger door for you and you slid into the seat, the leather warm beneath you, the dashboard glowing its familiar amber. He closed the door with that soft, deliberate click, and you watched him walk around the hood—tall and sure and slightly dishevelled, his hair a mess, his shirt still untucked, the moonlight catching the line of his jaw and the satisfied curve of his mouth.

He dropped into the driver’s seat, and the car came alive around you. That clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He adjusted the mirrors, checked the seat position, and turned to you with an expression so open and warm it made your breath catch.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded your head. He pulled onto the road, and the river fell away behind you, and the city lights grew closer, and you sat in the passenger seat of your own car—wearing his jacket, smelling like his skin, your body still singing with the echo of his touch—and you watched the road unfold ahead of you.

His hand found yours on the console. Not tentative—not the careful, testing reach of someone still figuring out the impossible. This was different. This was his palm sliding across the leather, his fingers lacing through yours. His thumb settled into the groove between your knuckles, and the warmth of his skin against yours was so familiar it made your chest ache.

You looked down at your joined hands. At the way his thumb traced a slow, absent circle on your skin, the same pattern he’d used that afternoon on the river road, the same pattern he’d use a thousand more times if you let him.

You lifted his hand from the console.

He glanced over—just briefly, just long enough to register the movement—and you brought his knuckles to your mouth. You pressed your lips to the back of his hand and felt the slight roughness of his skin, the faint chemical smell of solvent that lived in the creases of his fingers, the steady pulse of blood beneath the surface. You held the kiss there for a count of three, maybe four, and then you lowered your joined hands into your lap, tucking them between your thighs, his palm warm against your denim-clad leg.

Mingi laughed.

Not the startled, horn-induced laugh from before. Something quieter. Something that started in his chest and came out through his nose, a soft, incredulous huff of sound that carried more tenderness than any word could have. His thumb resumed its circling on your knuckle, and he kept his eyes on the road, but the smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and pulled at the cut on his lip, was doing something devastatingly beautiful to his face.

“You’re so cute, baby,” he coos. The words were simple, almost offhand, delivered with the same casual confidence he used when he told you your oil level was fine. But you heard the weight behind them. The particular, careful weight of a man who meant what he said and was still learning how to say it without sounding like he was about to combust.

“Only for you,” you replied, because you couldn’t think of anything else, because your chest was so full it was pressing against your ribs, because his hand was in your lap and his jacket was on your shoulders and his smell was in your lungs, and you were fairly certain you’d never been this happy in your entire life.

He kept driving. One hand on the wheel, one hand in yours, the road unspooling ahead of you like a ribbon of dark silk under the pale wash of the streetlights. The city rose around you in increments—first the scattered houses, then the convenience stores with their neon signs still burning, then the apartment blocks and the late-night buses and the occasional taxi drifting through the empty streets like a fish through deep water.

The city had a way of falling in love with the people who moved through it at night—the ones who knew its empty streets and its quiet corners, the ones who understood that the best parts were the ones nobody else was awake to see. The racer and the mechanic drove through those streets now, their hands locked together over the center console, the engine humming its steady, contented song beneath them, and neither of them said a word about timing belts or transmission mounts or the particular, terrifying thrill of falling in love with someone who could take you apart and put you back together better than you’d been before.

But the car knew. The car had always known. It had carried you to him and it had carried you home, and somewhere between the starting line and the finish, between the riverbank and the backseat, between the first time he called you sweetheart and the last time you screamed his name, the engine had learned a new song—one about two people who’d been running on parallel tracks for so long they’d forgotten what it felt like to collide, and who were now, finally, beautifully, irreversibly headed in the same direction.

The mechanic’s hands knew every bolt and belt and bearing in the city, but they’d never held anything as perfectly as they held yours. And the racer’s heart, which had spent its whole life chasing finish lines, had finally found the one that mattered—the one that didn’t end with a checkered flag, but with a man in a leather jacket who picked wildflowers at dawn and rebuilt transmissions at midnight and promised you another night in a voice that meant forever.

You squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

The city lights blurred past the windows, and the engine hummed, and the road stretched ahead, endless and open and full of possibility, and you didn’t need to say a word, because the car was already saying it for you. In every clean shift, every steady rev, every mile that carried you closer to the place where the racer and the mechanic had stopped being two separate things and become something neither of them had the words for yet.

But they’d find them. They had all the time in the world, and an engine that would never let them down, and a road that went on forever, and each other.

And really—when it came down to it—what else did anyone need?

© w00yngie 2026 | do not steal, plagiarise, translate or feed my work to ai.

[dulceazucarmorena97]

🤫BEST-TEEZ👀 (Becoming FWB’s w/ ATEEZ) Pt.6/8

Seonghwa | Hongjoong | Yunho | Yeosang | San

Prompt: You’re best friends with (ATEEZ member) and are in need of a little no-strings loving; could he be the one to help with that?

Warning: Smut (obviously, hello)

A/n: This is gonna be a bunch of parts (one for each member) and I will be uploading in installments. Okay bye <3.

6.) Mingi

“Quit fuckin’ pestering me,” You struggle to say, as you’re holding Bobby pins between your teeth, trying to rush to finish doing your hair. “I’m serious, if you’re late, I’m disowning you,” Mingi scolds you preemptively. “What are you, my dad? I heard you the first fifty times!” You yell into your phone before hanging up. He's so annoying, you think, rolling your eyes as you pin the last of your hair up. You make sure to set Mingi's gift down on your bed so you don't forget it, an then grab your purse; shoving shit in it that you think you might need. You hop in your car, letting it stall a bit while you pull up your GPS.

Mingi washes his hands nervously, staring into the bathroom mirror. "They'll come, they'll come, they'll come..." He repeats to himself, like a desperate mantra. He checks his phone, making sure no one's sent any cancellations. When he comes back out of the restroom, he puts on his cap and gown, which were hanging neatly on the back of a chair in the green room of the auditorium. Behind him, two girls are deep in conversation, "Yeah, my mom flew out to be here." "My parents drove in; it was a four hour drive but they couldn't fly because they had my grandma." Mingi doesn't mean to, but he can't help but eavesdrop; he imagines what their families look like, all sitting together, smiling, excitedly cheering for them as their names are called. He checks his phone again; still nothing. He shoves his phone back into his pocket, pursing his lips as he tries to remain calm and optimistic. They'll come. They'll come. They'll come.

You pull up to the crowded parking lot, following the long line of cars. "Shit, he's gonna kill me," You mutter as you very slowly move up. You glance at your phone, checking the time. You have about 10 minutes to park your car and make it to your seat. "Ugh, come on!" You yell, honking your horn. The line barely scoots up, and you realize you won't make it in time at this rate. In a panic, you look around to see if you find an exit; lo and behold, straight across from you, there's an emergency exit being guarded so as not to let anyone in. You manage to maneuver out of the line of cars and exit back onto the main road. "Five minutes?" You say, panicking more as you see the time flying by. You're driving for about a minute when you see, about four blocks down, a parking spot just big enough for your tiny car. "Yes!" You slam your hand on your hazards as you slow down to parallel park into it. You grab your heels and your bag, then slam the door behind yourself. You don't even bother putting your shoes on, as you know they'll just slow you down. With your purse slung over your shoulder and your heels clutched tightly in your hand, you begin booking it toward the auditorium, the pantyhose and soles of your feet be damned.

Mingi stands in the line of graduates as they all enter and walk to their seats. He glances around, looking for his family. His heart pounds as he scans the crowd, but can't find them. They're just running late. The ceremony begins, and with every passing second, he finds himself feeling more and more anxious. They wouldn't just not come, right? He can't help it, and decides to pull out his phone just one more time. He fights with the fabric of his gown a bit as he raises his phone up to check, and when he does, he sees a text from his mom. A knot forms instantly in his throat, and a sinking feeling weighs down his stomach. With a shaking thumbs, he swipes to open it.

𝗠𝗼𝗺:𝗜'𝗺 𝘀𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝘀𝗼𝗻, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁, 𝗮𝘀 𝘄𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝘁. 𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵. 𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲, 𝘄𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝗨𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻, 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘂𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗻.

His vision becomes blurry after the first sentence, and he can't focus on anything beyond it. Slowly, he slides his phone back into his pocket. This is what he gets for daring to get his hopes up. The entire ceremony, he keeps his head down. He can't hear anything anyway; his mind is too loud. From the moment he'd told them he was choosing to be a music major, they disapproved. They told him he'd just become some loser with a fake degree. He'd beg and beg for them to come to his gigs so he could just prove himself to them, but they never wanted to listen. When he visits home, it's like walking on eggshells; if he so much as mentions anything about music, they shut down the conversation or change the subject. Somehow, he got this ridiculous notion that, come graduation time, they'd at least come around enough to support him. He stupidly fantasized his name being called, and looking over to see them standing and cheering with everyone else-- with the mom who flew out to see her daughter or the family who had to drive four hours because grandma couldn't fly...

How naive of him.

"Pardon me, 'scuse me. Oop, sorry," You whisper as you shove yourself through the row to get to a singular open seat. The dean of the school is thankfully still talking, so you haven't missed anything too important, you assume. You settle in and then look around, trying to see if you see Mingi's family anywhere. After a few minutes, you give up searching for them, and decide to look for Mingi instead. You squint your eyes to sharpen your sight until finally, it lands on the back of a head that you'd recognize anywhere. "Mingi," You say to yourself with a smile-- but then you see his body language; his head hangs low, his shoulders are dropped, and his back is slouching slightly forward. "Oh, no..." You whisper, already knowing exactly what that means. God, if it wasn't because Mingi would be upset about it, you would call them up right now and cuss them the fuck out. How could they do this to him? On such an important day!

Various speakers come up, cracking their little family-friendly jokes and reminiscing on all the memories made on campus; it would've been a lovely ceremony, really, if it weren't for you obsessively glancing at Mingi, who only minimally moves to adjust his position. Finally, it's time for the graduates to be called up to the stage. One by one, they all walk across, bursts of cheers and whistling following them; friends, families, hell, one woman even snuck her dog in her purse. All the while, Mingi's eyes stayed to the ground. He's trying desperately not to cry, and so far, he's able to hold back. Just a little longer. It takes while to get to the S's, but finally, the Dean calls out, "Song, Mingi."

It's not like Mingi's isn't popular; he's quite a social butterfly, and is well-known in the rap scene-- there's a surge of applause as his name is called, but it all currently sounds like a muddle of noise. He takes his first step across, and suddenly, amidst all of it, what gets his attention is your voice above everyone else's; the same loud, obnoxious one he's heard a million times over the last fifteen years, that somehow, in this moment, is like music to his ears. "WOOOOOOOOOOOO! MINGI!!!!!!! THAT'S MY MOTHERFUCKING BEST FRIEND!" You scream. He turns to the crowd, and instantly spots you jumping up and down violently, with no regard to how the people around you are giving you dirty looks for being so wild. Within a second, he's breaking out into his very first smile of the day; thanks to you. He waves to you, continuing until he reaches the dean. He takes the certificate from him, smiles even wider for a picture, and then walks off, giving you one last look and a wave before heading back to his seat.

Even as he stares ahead, he can still picture you behind him, smiling brightly-- and the thought alone lets him hold his head high.

At the end of the ceremony, you fight your way through the crowds, trying to make your way to Mingi, but you can't find him. Seriously, what's the point of being abnormally tall if it doesn’t make it easier for you friends to find you in a crowd? You exhale, slightly frustrated, until you feel a hand clamp onto your shoulder and spin you around. "Oop!" You let out a surprised yelp as Mingi takes you into his arms, hugging you tightly. "You were late." You laugh into his chest, "Am I disowned?" "Expeditiously," he says into your hair. You hug him back with equal emotion, as though the tighter you hold on to him, the more it'll drive away the memory of his family not having come.

After a moment, you finally tap on his back, “Okay, okay— you’re crushing me.”

“I still cant believe you forgot my gift here,” Mingi says, rolling his eyes as he walks into your apartment behind you. “Oh, quiet. You’re lucky I even got you anything,” You tease. You kick off your heels and pick them up. He follows you into your room, as is pretty customary for him, and when he sees the gift box on your bed, his eyes light up, suddenly forgetting how he was complaining only moments ago. Without a moments hesitation, he lunges across your bed, scooping the box up excitedly.

“Careful, you dingus. It’s fragile!” You scold lightly, sitting down on the stool to your vanity. He ignores you and positions himself at the edge of the bed, setting the box on his lap. He puts his hands on the lid, his smile growing; it’s kinda cute how he looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Slowly, he lifts the lid and sets it aside. He’s met with grayish blue decorative tissue and lots of confetti— you’ve always been one for being extra. He snorts at the over the top decor, then carefully pushes it aside to reach in and grab the actual gift. When he picks it up, he sees it’s a glass frame with a picture of you both as kids; it’s a picture he hasn’t seen in years. “There’s more,” You say, your own smile widening as you motion for him to pass you the frame and look in the box again.

He passes it to you, and you begin to take the picture out of its frame. He goes back in and takes out a sharpie and a receipt. He looks up at you, confused. “Read the receipt, you nitwit,” You say with a playful eyeroll. He narrows his eyes and holds the receipt up close. It takes him a moment; his smile drops and he looks up at you, then at the receipt, then back up at you, “Are you serious?” “Very much so,” You smile softly. The receipt is for a $1,000 purchase of various music recording equipment; stuff he’s had on his wishlist for years and was saving up to buy, himself, little by little. He’s at a loss for words, and doesn’t quite know what to do. He’s then looks at the marker in his hand, “And…this?” Is all he can manage to say.

“This,” You gently take the marker out of his hand and uncap it, then place it back in his hand, “Is for your first autograph.” You give him the picture, sans frame, and urge for him to sign it, “When you get really famous and the whole world loves you,” You poke his shoulder, “I’ll tell everyone I was your first fan.”

There it is; that knot in his throat. The one he’d swallowed and swallowed throughout the ceremony, threatening to come up again— only this time, he doesn’t stop it. His eyes well up with tears, and it makes your heart ache for him. He holds the picture and the marker, and timidly signs it, right there in the corner of that picture

of you and him.

The tears flow slowly from his beautiful eyes, and his pink lips tremble softly. You take the picture and marker out of his hand and put them on your vanity, then you stand and take him into a hug. He lays his head in your chest and he just cries, and it’s so rare for him to do so…so you let him. You let him wrap his arms around your waist and just sob into you, soaking your dress with his tears. Stroking his hair, you quietly sway back and forth, soothing him like your mom used to soothe you as a kid. A little while passes, and he finally sits up, wiping his face.

“Sorry,” He says in a hoarse voice. “Nothing to be sorry for.” You say, wiping away some of the moisture with your thumb. He looks up at you, letting you take care of him, as you always had a habit of doing since you were little. You always had a way of easing his sadness, no matter the situation. Even when you’d get into petty arguments, he couldn’t bear to be mad at the source of his comfort. “Now stop being a baby,” You tease, trying to lighten the mood, “Or I’m taking my gift back.” “Alright, alright,” He finally laughs.

You turn around and carefully limp back to your stool. He notices instantly, and furrows his brows, “Why are you walking like that?” “Oh,” You snort, “Well, funny story,” You plop down in the seat again, “I had to run four blocks from my car to the auditorium so I kind of scraped the shit out of my feet.” You had had so much adrenaline getting there that you hadn’t initially felt the pain, but now that you’re relaxed and at home, the soles of your feet are definitely enflamed— not to mention, you’re pretty sure you have a cut somewhere. “Here, let me see,” He says. “I’m literally fine,” You snort, but he quickly reaches down and pulls your leg up by your ankle. You rush to adjust your dress, so as not to completely expose yourself.

He takes a look at the bottom of your foot and winces, “Y/n,” He immediately spots the cut— it’s not huge, but he can definitely see why you’re walking like that. Not to mention, your pantyhose are completely tattered. “What, is it bad?” You ask, leaning back against your vanity. He sighs, “Wait a second.” He sets your foot back down and gets up to go get the ointment from your medicine cabinet in the bathroom (thanks to your mother, who hounded you about keeping medicine for emergencies). He comes back with ointment, some wound care wipes, and a pack of bandaids, setting them on the bed and then picking your ankle up again.

As soon as you see the wipes, you try to yank your foot away, “No! Those hurt!” “Y/n,” He says again, looking up at you sternly, still holding your ankle, “You don’t want it to get infected.” “My infections are my business!” Again, you try to yank your ankle, but his grip doesn’t budge. Damn him and those large hands. “Hold. Still.” His tone is much firmer this time, and makes you instantly stop fighting it. You watch as he lifts your foot again, examining once more to judge the size of the band aid he’ll need. For some reason, this scene makes your stomach do flips. How strange. “You’ll need to take these off,” He says, gently pulling the fabric of your pantyhose and then letting it go to lightly snap against your skin again.

You swallow, nodding slowly as you tug on the waistband of the pantyhose, struggling a bit as you try to do it from the outside of your dress. You shift side to side, pulling down as you go. Along the way, however, you lose the waistband under all the fabric. He notices you fighting with the petty coat layer of your dress, “Here, I’ll help you.” Before you can say anything, he’s gently tugging the sheer fabric down your legs, little by little, exposing your smooth legs. His fingers graze your skin lightly, and it makes you shiver, despite his hands being so warm. You don’t even realize that, at some point, he stopped focusing on the task at hand, and has now focused all his attention on you. He notices how your lips part, and how your breathing picks up with every centimeter of exposed skin. The rapid rise and fall of your chest— it matches his own.

Your breath catches when he finally tugs away the last of the fabric, dropping it onto the floor, leaving your legs bare. He pretends to be unaffected, and turns his attention back to your foot. He grabs the wipe, and you immediately tense up again. He rests his hand on your calf, gently squeezing, “Relax…” His voice is low as he speaks, and it gives you butterflies. He grabs the wipe, ripping it open with his teeth. He then takes the wipe out, “Just keep still. I’ll be quick.” You shut your eyes, bracing yourself. He can’t help but chuckle lightly at the sight. He quickly dabs around the cut, trying not to linger too much in one spot. You wince, “Mm!” “Sh…” He hushes you, tossing the wile aside and unwrapping the bandaid. “There,” He says. You open your eyes, surprised at how quick he was. “Oh…I thought it’d be longer.” “See? I told you I’d be quick. You big baby.” “Shut up.”

“I swear, you look how you did when we were kids,” He snorts, absentmindedly caressing the top of your foot, which is still in his lap. “I- I do?” “Yeah…fluffy dress, sitting there pouting because you got hurt again…” He looks down at your foot, then notices your red toenails; something he remembers you begging your mom for all the time, but weren’t allowed to do until you were sixteen. His eyes follow the length of your leg, right up to your thighs, which is slightly exposed from your dress being hiked up. “And in some ways…you don’t,” He adds, finally meeting your eyes. “What do you mean…?” Your heart is stuttering in your chest, and your fingers grip the fabric of your dress.

You feel it; the shift in the atmosphere. Part of you wonders if you should change the subject or stand up and suggest you resume your dinner plans that had been momentarily derailed by you having forgotten his gift— but part of you is so curious to know what exactly he means by his comment…and why he’s looking at you the way he is.

His heart is about to pound out of his chest; he doesn’t show it. Instead, he moves his hand up to your shin, feeling the smoothness of it, “You’re definitely taller…” His thumb circles a bit, “Your legs are longer…” His long arm extends higher and higher, until his fingertips are grazing the the hem of your skirt. He’s now touching your upper thigh, glancing up at you to gage your reaction. He looks back down at where his hand is, but rather than move it further up, he suddenly scoots off of the bed and kneels to the floor, dropping in front of you. Your eyes widen, and for a second, you’re stuck there as your mind processes what it’s seeing.

He looks up at you; the same brown eyes you’ve looked at practically all your life, but never truly looked into…not until this moment. “Mingi…what are you doing…?” You ask, though your voice is only a whisper. “I don’t know…” He swallows, “Should I stop?” It’s a genuine question; should he stop? You shake your head slowly, “No…” He nods in understanding, then gets closer— so close, he can feel the heat radiating from between your legs.

He doesn’t overthink; his first instinct is to kiss your inner thigh, while his hand rests on the front of your legs. You can feel his fingers digging gently into your soft skin, holding you in place. Another kiss, this time, higher up. After a minute or so, his hands come up to scoot your dress up even higher, then his hands go to your upper thighs, slightly cupping the sides of your bottom. Once he’s kissed every square inch of your inner thighs, he pulls away, raising himself up so he’s eye-level with your clothed breasts. He kisses them through the fabric, and even if you can’t quite feel it, just knowing his lips are only a layer away, makes you wetter. He kisses your chest a few more times, then finds your collar bone, then your neck. The closer he gets to your lips, the more you gasp; it’s a beautiful sound—

almost as beautiful as hearing you cheer for him in those stands earlier.

Finally, his lips come up to your jaw, and then he pulls away once more. It’s not that he’s never realized how beautiful you are; but this is so much further than he’s ever even considered going with you. He looks at you with a certain warmth you’ve never seen in his eyes before, and it makes you melt. You’ve officially decided;

You won’t stop either.

You lean in and press your lips to his, instantly wrapping your arms around his neck. Your kiss is everything; soft, firm, too much, not enough. He feels like a shark, tasting a single drop of blood and then going into a frenzy. Just one drop of you, is making him insatiable. You continue kissing for a moment, his hands coming up to your back. “Unzip me,” You say between kisses. He blindly searches for the zipper, and once he gets it, he’s carefully pulling down; he wouldn’t want to ruin your pretty dress. Once it’s loosened, you begin to shrug it off. “Wait,” He stops you. You look at him, confused and trying to figure out why. “Stand up.”You slowly stand to your feet, feeling a bitter better now that the band-aid is providing some protection for your foot.

You’re not normally so shy to undress in intimate situations, but there’s something about it being Mingi that makes your skin burn at the thought of undressing in front of him; a delightful flame that runs through your entire body. “Don’t look.” “But if I don’t look then I can’t see,” He says, tilting his head. You can’t help but laugh, which makes him laugh too; he’s always had such a pretty smile. So much of your nervousness goes away with just that small, ridiculous exchange. Finally, you shrug off your dress and let it fall to the floor.

This time, it’s his turn to be stuck. Immediately, his eyes are drawn to your breasts, then the rest of you. You’re perfect. You stand there, hands behind your back as you fiddle with your fingers, “Don’t just stare…” You say with a sheepish laugh— but he doesn’t join in on the laugh this time. Instead, he plants his hands on your hips and leans in to kiss your stomach. You look down at him, sighing in delight. He wants nothing more than to devour you. You rest your hand in his hair, caressing him, and he feels his face tingle; a result of your gentle touch. “Mingi,” You whisper, your lashes fluttering as you feel his lips on your body.

This won’t do. It’s not enough. Not for him. He stands up, back to hovering over you, capturing your lips once more, while simultaneously unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it to the ground. Your hands travel to his arms; those enormous, muscular arms. Everything about Mingi is big and overwhelming. You pull away to look at his pecs; the way they protrude so deliciously— you can see why men are so obsessed with boobs. You’d scold him for not wearing a tank top under his button up, but you can’t bring yourself to care; not when his body looks this fucking good.

You reach behind yourself and unclasp your bra, and he wastes no time in pulling it off of you, revealing your naked breasts. He leans down and takes it into his mouth, sucking lightly on your nipple, making your eyes roll back. “Ah,” You sigh, pressing yourself into him, and he helps by wrapping an arm around your waist while the other holds your boob in place so it doesn’t slip out of his wanting lips. He finally lets go of your breast and then slide his hand down into the waistband of your panties.

Your pupils dilate at the sensation of his middle and index finger pressing on your clit. Your pelvis juts away from it instinctively, overwhelmed by the burst of pressure, but he doesn’t relent. He rubs in messy, yet precise circles. “Oh my God,” You moan. “You’re dripping already,” He growls, feeling your slick coat his fingers so easily. “It’s your fault,” You try to joke, but the way he’s rubbing you makes it come out breathy and broken. “It is my fault, isn’t it?” He says as he leans into your neck, “It’s all my fault…but this is your fault too,” He says, moving his free hand to grab yours and place it on his clothed crotch. You can feel his erection, even through the thick material of his jeans. “H-how is it my fault?” You ask, trying to keep it together.

He puts his head up again and locks eyes with you, “Because even when everyone else turned their backs on me, you were standing there, yelling my name out,” He says, his eyes suddenly watering again, “and that’s why it’s your fault.”

He suddenly takes his hand out of your panties picks you up, your legs draping over his arm momentarily before he tosses you onto your bed. He climbs on soon after. Covering your body in kisses. As he does so, he loops his fingers around the waistband of your panties and yanks them downward until they’re completely off. Your heart is pounding in excitement as you watch him trail up your body, and then he spreads your legs. You feel his eyes all over your heat, and he unconsciously licks his lips. “God, you have such a pretty pussy,” he says, making you blush. “I want to see you too,” You say, propping yourself up by your elbows.

He gives the inside of your thigh a kiss before standing up again and undoing the button of his jeans. He’s a very confident man; always has been. Sure, he had his phase as a teenager when he felt a little insecure, but once he realized how many girls he had chasing after him, he understood that he had it made. Tall, fit, and as a grown man, he now has the added bulk from weightlifting. Not to mention— “Fuck, you’re huge,” You say, eyes wide as he takes out his hard cock. He can’t help but laugh at the expression on your face. “Is that a bad thing?” He asks teasingly. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it,” You say, only half-joking. “Mm…something tells me you will be,” He says, his bright smile turning into something more coy as he crawls back on top of you, “Should we test it?” He asks, kissing you again. “Maybe we should,” You respond, eyes closed as you feel him push your legs apart with his knee.

His hand, originally resting on your hip, moved to your left wrist, bring it up to pin it over your head, firmly against the pillow. Your stomach does flips, liking decisive he’s being; like he knows just what he wants to do with you. Next it’s the other arm, which ends up crossing over your other wrist, and with one massive hand, he holds them together, “You ready for me?” He asks. You crane your head up a bit to bite his bottom lip, “Are you ready for me?” “I’ve been ready since I walked across that stage,” He says against the hot skin of your chest. Everything about you is so fucking enticing, he can hardly wait any longer.

He grabs his cock by the base, tapping it against your clit, moving it forward and backward to lubricate it a bit before finally inserting the tip. You brace yourself, biting your lip as you feel yourself expanding to his size, little by little. Slowly, your mouth hands open as he bottoms out in you. Your pussy is squeezing the life out of him, and if it wasn’t for the mass amount of concentration, he would’ve busted in you already. His breathing is heavy, and he grips your wrists tightly. “Fuck, don’t tell me you’ve always felt this good and I’m only discovering it now,” He says through his teeth. You gasp as he begins thrusting agonizingly slowly.

He looks down at you, watching how your eyes flutter for him with every sharp thrust, and how your boobs bounce upward lightly. Fuck every single man that got this view before he did. He keeps going, though every now and then, he takes your nipple into his mouth and sucks; the combination of his tongue on your breast and his cock in your tight cunt makes everything so much more magnified. Without even trying, he’s figured out just how you like it. His pelvis slaps against your clit, making you squeal. “Right there, Mingi. Right there,” You coach him, though you feel yourself caught between talking and moaning. You’re completely at his mercy right now, wrists bound and one of your legs being held up by his other hand. His limbs are so fucking long, this position is the easiest in the world.

After a moment, he begins grunting louder, “Shit, this feels so fucking good— please let me fuck you like this again. Don’t let this be the last time,” He begs. His ragged voice makes your heart flutter desperately, and you can hardly keep yourself from fighting to break free from his grasp so you can hold him closer. “Let me hold you,” You say. He doesn’t want to let go, but the idea of being held by you is much too enticing not to give in to. He lets go of you, and you immediately throw your arms around his neck again. He, too, pulls you into his embrace, sliding his arms under your back as he lays flush on top of you, thrusting with desperation. Your moans get louder, right in his ear. He kissed your lips as he pounds harder. “Yes, yes, yes— fuck, Mingi, I’m gonna cum soon.” “Fuck, I am too. Oh fuck,” He thrusts quickly into you, until he’s groaning into your neck, “FUCK!” He doesn’t stop, still riding out his climax, and yours isn’t far behind. Your hips writhe against him, your eyes rolling back as you lift off the mattress involuntarily, “MINGI!” You scream for him.

He kissed your bare torso as you come down from your high, praising you with his lips for what you’ve done for him; not just for the sex— but for everything. Every time you were there for him when things got hard. Every check-in, every encouragement, every single time you stayed by his side as he went for the dream that made everyone else abandon him.

You deserve this and so much more,

and he’ll make sure to give it all to you.

A/n: Ughhhhhhh…….i think this one may be my actual favorite. Ugh, between this one, Yeosang, and San— I can’t decide.

[ateezlibrary]

make up (m) • smg

part of the hockey!teez series — ateez masterlist

pairing: ice hockey player!mingi x reader

tags/genre: college au, ice hockey au, smut with plot, friends to lovers, forced proximity/forbidden love to some extent, dom!mingi

word count: 7.4k words

synopsis: on the ice, everyone loves mingi. the way he plays, even the way he fights. off the ice, his grades are slipping and he's at risk of getting benched if he doesn't get his act together. if only there were a highly qualified calculus tutor that could help him out, and if only there were a way he could return the favor ...

notes: 18+ content (mdni!), ok sorry i'm a lying liar who lies and work got busy BUT HERE SHE IS I HOPE U ENJOY IT

“let’s fucking go!”

the sound of fists on metal lockers echoes through the inner halls of the stadium, followed by the cheers of the winning voyagers as they barrel through. mingi grins as wide as possible as yunho throws his arm over his shoulders, squeezing him in praise of his performance on the ice tonight.

“bro, that last assist went crazy,” san calls out as he begins to tear off his pads. the others mutter in agreement between conversations of plans for their celebration back at the apartment and who was responsible for picking up the extra bottles of liquor.

“dude, their right defense was insane.” mingi shakes his head as he recounts the last few moments of the game when he was able to shuffle the puck back to seonghwa with seconds left on the clock.

“and you still fucking crushed it,” yunho hollers, earning a resounding cheer from the other boys as the coach saunters in. his own smile matches that of the boys, his knuckles tapping rhythmically against the screen of his tablet as they welcome him in a round of sweaty embraces.

“that’s what i like to see out there.” the eldest man beams at them, nodding approvingly as the team settles onto the benches that curve through the locker room and look up at him expectantly. “you keep playing like that, we’re a shoo-in for frozen four.”

“keep up those last minute clinches,” he commends as he turns his attention to mingi, “well-deserved mvp tonight.”

“that’s fucking right,” wooyoung shouts, the boys laughing through their cheers as mingi shrugs in a feeble attempt to appear humble.

“now, you want to tell me why your calc professor is emailing me?”

the energy in the room shifts instantly, the boys falling silent as they begin to mumble amongst themselves awkwardly. each of them becomes incredibly focused on removing their equipment and hitting the showers, leaving mingi slumped on the bench under the now-stern gaze of the coach as he crosses his arms expectantly.

“what do you mean?” mingi asks, although he’s fully aware of what the elder man is referring to.

“oh, you don’t know?” a dry laugh escapes the coach’s lips as he unlocks his tablet to display a flurry of angry emails on the screen, each of them more exasperated than the last. mingi swallows, running a hand through his cropped black hair with his lips pressed in a thin line.

with the uptick in ice hockey season, mingi hadn’t been the most … exceptional student. it wasn’t exactly because he’d been engrossed in late-night practices or running drills when he should be in class. he was naturally an incredible player as right defense. the issue was more of … late nights celebrating wins in scrimmages and waking up next to girls whose names he wasn’t quite able to remember when the alcohol wore off.

“it’s not my fault calc is at eight in the morning,” mingi grumbles, rubbing at his eyes for emphasis.

“it is when i know the reason you’re missing class is being blamed on ice hockey,” coach scoffs, “and i don’t see you on the ice at six am after being out until god-knows-when. and it is when you can’t maintain a passing grade.”

“okay, okay.” mingi stands, his tall stature matching the coach’s as he begins to fiddle with the straps on his gear. anything to avert the coach’s gaze. “i’ll start showing up more.”

“no, you’re getting your shit together.” the coach sets aside his tablet and stares at mingi pointedly. “you fail your midterm, you’re getting benched.”

“i’m what?” mingi’s jaw drops at the threat, ready to protest before the coach presses a finger to his torso to quell him. “we’re literally about to qualify.”

“i’m well aware of the risk of benching you. but if i keep you on the ice while your grades are slipping, i’m gonna have a lot of people to answer to. and it’s not fair for me to let you get away with it while the other guys are busting ass to maintain their grades.”

“fuck,” mingi groans, burying his face in his hands to stifle the sound.

“you got, what, two weeks until midterms?” the coach grins at mingi, patting his shoulder as he  moves to leave the locker room and head back to his office down the halls. “better start studying.” mingi watches as his figure disappears, another string of expletives leaving his lips as he slams a fist into his locker.

you’re sitting in the tutoring center the next day, your phone perched between your fingers as you absentmindedly scroll through social media. the university accounts are littered with posts commemorating the ice hockey team’s recent win, the boys captured with mouths wide as they shout their cheers. you can’t help but laugh through your nose at the sight. you weren’t much of one to follow the campus athletes, but you knew enough from word-of-mouth that they were a rowdy bunch.

“why are you still here?” the senior supervisor for the tutoring center calls out to you from the doorframe, already on her way out as she narrows her eyes at you. with a groan, you set aside your phone and gesture to the clipboard in front of you with the day’s schedule.

“i’m waiting for my last person before i can clock out,” you reply. “he’s pushed back our session today like, four times.”

“girl, he should have just cancelled or rescheduled at this point,” she mutters, returning to you to glance at the name of your last student. her eyes widen as yours narrow in confusion at her surprise before a dry laugh escapes her. “oh, that’s your student? good luck.”

“what do you—”

“text me if you need anything,” she calls out, a smile lingering on her face as she waves goodbye and heads out.

“what the hell,” you mutter, shaking your head at her theatrics as you heave a sigh. maybe she was right; maybe you should just text your last student and tell him you were tired of waiting and that he needed to—

just then, a tall figure emerges from the doorframe. he stares at you blankly, emotionless as he approaches the counter. you rise from your armchair, staring back at him as you watch his hands fidget while he searches for the words. 

“hey, uh—” he glances around, as if the answer was lingering on the walls. “i’m here for tutoring.”

“well, this is the tutoring center,” you tease lightly, crossing your arms. “name?”

“song mingi.” he blinks at you, almost surprised by the fact that you even bothered asking. “do you not know who i am?”

“should i?” you arch a brow at him. you recognize him faintly from the ice hockey team, but you could imagine the kind of reputation he carried that you couldn’t be bothered to dive into.

“uh—i guess not.” he buries his hands in his pockets, pursing his lips at your apparent lack of awe at the fact that you were tutoring the song mingi.

“okay.” you ignore the fact that he seems offended by you not fawning over him and direct him into one of the rooms at the end of the hall. you flip through his application briefly, your eyes scanning over his current grades and what he needed from you for calculus. he follows you wordlessly before settling into the chair across the table from you. the overhead fluorescents keep you awake with the clock quickly approaching a much-too-late hour.

you settle into the chair across from him, brushing your hair from your eyes as you watch him nudge the wire frame of his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “so, just to confirm. you’re looking for calc tutoring and you’re specifically trying to improve your performance on midterms?” he nods and you inhale sharply, glancing back down at your notes on his file. “you know, going to class is usually a good start.”

“spare me the lecture,” he huffs, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop as he narrows his eyes at you. “i’m here, aren’t i?”

“yeah, after telling me you’ll be late four times in a row in one day.” you match his gaze, watching as his expression shifts at the fact that you were willing to challenge him. he clearly seemed like someone that regularly got what he wanted and you were already dreading the coming weeks.

“alright, alright.” mingi throws up his hands in surrender. “i get it. this is the one class i’m fucking up in, i just need to make it through this class or i’m getting benched.”

“… then we better get to it.”

tutoring mingi is like pulling teeth.

his phone vibrates incessantly, he becomes mindlessly consumed by doodling in the margin of his notebooks. you genuinely believe you need to strap him to the chair in order to keep his attention. he struggles to grasp basic concepts—concepts that would have been a no-brainer if he’d just go to fucking class.

even worse, he schedules your sessions at the most ridiculous times. the ass-crack of dawn before his hockey practice, the middle of the night after hockey practice but before he’s able to go out for the night and everything he retains goes out the window. he was even so bold as to suggesting you come to his practice and tutor him there, in the bleachers. at this point, you wondered if it was worth the measly hourly rate that you were getting paid to keep this up.

it’s on a random thursday night when you’re in the middle of trying to explain derivatives to mingi that you’re just about ready to call it quits. he nods along until a call he “has to take” turns into a back-and-forth between him and a girl that seemingly was expecting his company for the night.

“baby, i promise—no, i’m gonna—c’mon—”

with an exasperated, guttural groan, you snatch his phone from his hand and press your thumb against the end call button. mingi gawks at you in disbelief, an expression you meet with pure rage as you slam your pen down and shove his notes back in his direction.

“dude, this is so not worth it,” you huff, shaking your head as you prepare to collect your things. “find another tutor, fail, get benched. i don’t give a fuck. this is way more hassle than it’s worth.”

“whoa, whoa, whoa,” mingi stutters, reaching for your wrist and holding onto it to prevent you from making any other attempts to leave. “i’m sorry.”

“are you?”

mingi looks at you, really looks at you for the first time since you’d become his tutor. for once, he doesn’t look like the cocky, overly adored star athlete that everyone fawns over. he looks nervous, biting down on his bottom lip as his eyes dart between yours. for the first time, you’re willing to believe him for whatever reason and set your bag down onto the nearby chair with a sigh.

“seriously, mingi,” you scold, rubbing a hand over your face before you glare at him. “i have a life outside of tutoring you. would be nice to get back to that.”

“a life, huh?” mingi chuckles under his breath and you roll your eyes at what you already know are his assumptions of you. a clean-cut, well-put-together bookworm that spends her free time holed away either in the library or at her job in the tutoring center. you shove him gently and he raises his hands in surrender, a sheepish expression washing over his face as he does. “i mean it, though. i don’t want to be a dick. i really just feel like a little bit of a lost cause when it comes to this.”

“well, if you focus—” you emphasize the last word, pressing a finger against the open textbook incessantly. “it wouldn’t be so bad. you’re not stupid. you just don’t give a fuck, but you should if you’re trying to stay off the bench.”

“… okay.”

the next several sessions are leagues better than before. as much as mingi struggles, you can tell that he’s trying. the phone stays in his bag, the doodles slow to a stop. on one occasion, he so much as shows up to your session before you do and you’re thoroughly convinced he was switched with a body double.

the morning of his exam, you make a mental note and shoot him a text for good luck.

you: you’re gonna kill it!! good luck

mingi: i don’t need luck

you: oh brother

you: so you’re not nervous at all?

mingi: ofc not

mingi: i had the world’s best calc tutor

you ignore the way your heart flutters, even just a little, at the response you receive and shove your phone back into your pocket with flushed cheeks before heading to your own exam.

midterms week crawls along, everyone exhausted and mentally spent by the end of it. you volunteer to pick up extra hours at the tutoring center, enough to cover the rest of your spring break expenses even though visitors slow down. a handful of folks preparing for make-up exams keep you busy to pass the time when you hear someone barreling into the center.

“one second,” you say to the freshman across from you with an apologetic smile in her direction before you hurry out to the lobby where mingi was waiting. he stood before you, hunched over as he swallowed down air to steady his breath. “what is happening?”

he doesn’t answer, still breathless as he fishes for his phone and displays his class portal to you. confused, you squint at the screen to make sense of his sudden intrusion until you widen your eyes and your jaw falls slack. 78/100 is at the center in full display, well above what you’d projected for how mingi was doing from your tutoring.

“no fucking way!” you cry out, a broad smile etched across your features as mingi nods wildly. without thinking, he lifts you into his arms and you find yourself spun before he sets you down. even then, his hands linger on either side of your waist. you stare up at him for a second too long before clearing your throat and taking a step back. “that’s insane. super proud of you.”

“it’s thanks to you,” mingi concedes, his eyes disappearing with his own grin before a string of notifications captures his attention. you watch him silently, ready to bid him farewell and return to your other student when he grabs your wrist. “hey, the guys are having a thing tonight at the house since exams are over. come out with us.”

“oh—” you blink in surprise. you weren’t one to hang out much with the hockey boys and their puck bunnies in the past, but you weren’t entirely opposed. “i mean—”

“what, not your kind of vibe?” mingi teases, gesturing to the walls of the tutoring center around you. “you rather stay out here tonight?”

“y’know, i will come out, actually,” you reply, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you send him off to finish your final session and mentally begin to assemble an outfit in your mind. “just text me the address.”

“bro, i can’t believe you passed,” wooyoung slurs to mingi later that night. the two stand against the kitchen counter, the party in full swing around them as they pour another round of shots for the team. mingi shakes his head with a laugh under his breath, knocking back the rest of his drink before lowering his cup for a refill.

“i’m just glad my ass is not benched for the next game,” he mutters before he takes a sip of the mix wooyoung poured him.

“didn’t you say you invited your tutor tonight?” mingi nods. “is she hot?”

“she’s …” he trails off, thinking back to his sessions with you. the way you were so patient with him, the sound of your laugh when he’d try to make a hockey analogy to a calculus problem. truthfully, he hadn’t given it much thought aside from the fact that you were … well, nice. “i mean, she’s chill. not my type.”

“hm.” wooyoung shrugs just as a knock at the door captures his attention. mingi watches as he goes to answer, nearly dropping his drink when he returns with the newest guest.

“hey.” you beam up at mingi before glancing around the kitchen to fix yourself a drink.

“she’s not your type?” wooyoung mutters under his breath to mingi as they stand in the corner and observe your every move.

mingi is speechless, his eyes trailing over your frame as he tries to steady himself with another sip of his own drink. the way your skirt hugged your frame, the hem of your crop top exposing a dangerous sliver of skin. it was a massive difference from the sweats and oversized hoodies he’d grown used to seeing you in. you glance at him over your shoulder, your kohl-lined eyes sparkling more than usual.

“you need a refill?” you ask, gesturing to the half-empty vodka bottle. mingi swallows, shaking his head before he swats wooyoung and his wandering eyes away.

“to be honest, i didn’t think you’d swing by,” mingi jokes, nudging you gently as you lean against the counter beside him. the scent of your perfume engulfs him, clouding his senses as much as the intoxication.

“what, you thought it wasn’t my kind of vibe?” you roll your eyes playfully and glance around the living room to see if you recognize anyone. aside from mingi, you vaguely pinpoint other members of the ice hockey team and a handful of girls from classes you shared. mingi follows your gaze and scoffs.

“i don’t know, you seem a little nervous.”

you look up at him and fight to stifle your laugh as you pour an extra dose of vodka into your solo cup. “yeah, okay.”

mingi quickly loses you in the crowd when a group of girls call you over to join them against some of the hockey boys in a game of beer pong. you happily oblige, unaware of the fact that a certain someone was watching you from the corner of his eye all the while. you relax more quickly than you expected and drift across various conversations, finding yourself particularly enthralled with the hockey boys as they shout over one another on the apartment balcony.

“dude, she was not looking at you.”

“yes, she was!”

“no, she wasn’t,” you interject with a lilt in your voice before you chuckle into your cup and take another sip. the boys holler in agreement, wooyoung cowering against the railing with a groan. you don’t notice mingi continuing to stare at you from his own spot on the balcony beside yunho.

“bro, blink.” yunho scolds him with a half-grin hanging from his lips. mingi clears his throat awkwardly, struggling to play it off as he notices the way you shiver from a gust of cool night air. without thinking, he shrugs his oversized jacket off and extends it to you with a shake.

“oh, i’m fine—”

“don’t worry about it,” mingi says, something foreign mingling with the buzz from the liquor as he ignores the way yunho hums suggestively beside him.

“guys, we’re gonna play flip cup,” a girl calls out from the opening in the sliding glass door that leads back to the living room. mingi meets her gaze immediately, recognizing her faintly from one of his many late-night hookups. if only he could remember her name. “we need one more.”

“i’ll join,” mingi offers, shuffling in after her without realizing that you’ve been watching him as much as he has you. the star athlete persona is in full swing, welcoming the cheers of his arrival and tilting his head back as vodka is streamlined from the bottle into his throat.

as much as you were having a good time, it was a reminder that this was who mingi was at the end of the day. the center of attention, the life of the party. and that wasn’t a bad thing, but it wasn’t necessarily you. suddenly, it feels as though you overstayed your welcome the longer you stare at the way mingi wraps his arms around the waist of the girl that had called him over. he rests his chin on the top of her head, swaying gently as the cups are assembled for the next round of their game.

you clear your throat, downing the rest of your drink before you bid a hasty goodbye to the rest of the boys on the balcony. they urge you to stay in a slur of drunken pleas that you laugh off, promising to join them another time as you slip back into the kitchen to head out. mingi doesn’t look at you anymore, unbothered by the fact that you’re still wearing his jacket. with a sigh, you slip it off of your shoulders and drape it over the back of one of the dining chairs before heading out of the front door.

later that night, mingi releases a satisfied sigh as he surfaces from beneath the bedsheets with the very same girl whose name he couldn’t quite remember. her skin glides along his, their limbs tangled as she dissolves into a string of tipsy giggles.

“can i have water?” she asks, her lips swollen after they’d spent the last ten minutes around the length of mingi’s cock.

“sure thing.” mingi slips out of bed and into a pair of discarded sweats, his muscles flexing as he saunters back into the kitchen for a glass. only then does he notice his jacket dangling from the back of the dining chair and stills, his mind flooded with the memory of you. he hadn’t seen when you’d left, his first instinct to sift through his messages to text you.

mingi: when did you leave

mingi: sorry i missed you

you pause in your doomscrolling from your own bed, a poor attempt to return to sleep as your eyes widen at the sight of mingi’s notification. the party had ended hours ago. his messages left you confused on how exactly to feel. on one hand, it was surprising he’d even bothered to check in on you. on the other, it took him an eternity to notice that you’d left. your thumb hovers over the reply button, tempted to answer before the voice gnawing at you reminds you that you were just his tutor and you had shown up out of courtesy.

you need to go to bed.

“got an update on your midterm grades,” the coach says as he gestures for mingi to join him in his office as the semester resumes. the pair sit on either side of the wide oak desk at the center of the room, staring at the monitor that displays mingi’s most recent transcript. “keep it that way.”

“so does this mean …” mingi trails off hopefully.

“as long as you can maintain this passing grade, we’re in the clear. i don’t care what you have to do.” he glares at mingi in warning. “but, i’m not playing with you. i don’t want to see any more surprise emails from academia when we’re in crunch time.”

“you got it.” mingi nods, relief flooding his senses.

“now, get on the ice.”

mingi trudges back into the locker room after a grueling set of drills, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and his muscles trembling from overexertion. he can’t figure out why his mind wanders to you. he hadn’t heard from you since the party. while a part of him wanted to text you and tell you the good news, a larger part of him felt an overwhelming desire to see you.

biting down on his bottom lip, he opens up the scheduling portal for the tutoring center.

“what the fuck,” you mutter under your breath as you sift through your scheduled clients for the week. beyond the usual freshmen and your regular upperclassmen, mingi’s name appears at the very bottom of the night’s schedule. he chooses the absolute latest slot you’d kept available for emergency sessions when someone needed help outside of traditional work hours.

you hadn’t heard from him since the party. the fact that he was choosing to submit a formal tutoring request versus just texting you irked you, but you ignore it and accept the request begrudgingly. you swipe back to your last conversation with him, staring at the messages he’d sent nearly a week ago before spring break from when you’d slipped away undetected.

with a sigh, you accept the request and mentally ready yourself for another late night with mingi.

“fancy seeing you here,” mingi says as he saunters into the otherwise isolated study room. you scoff, taking a sip of the coffee you brewed in a desperate attempt to stay alert at the late hour.

“funny,” you huff, gesturing for him to take the chair next to you. “so, how’d your convo with your coach go?”

“i’m actually in the clear for the rest of the season,” mingi beams, leaning back into his chair with his hands propped up behind his head. “thanks to you.”

“that’s great news,” you reply earnestly. “was that all you needed today? you didn’t have to make an appointment to let me know.”

“i know,” mingi hums as his eyes trail over you. “i just figured i needed to find a way to return the favor.” your cheeks burn as you avert his gaze, tension suddenly hanging over the pair of you in the increasingly small study room. your lips part as you struggle to respond, irritated by the fact that mingi was clearly enjoying the way he was able to get under your skin.

“repay what favor?” you ask. “i’m your tutor. you don’t owe me anything.”

“what if i really want to show you how much i appreciate the help?”

“leave a good review for me, then.”

“you know that’s not what i mean.” mingi stares at you earnestly, his hands fidgeting in his lap before he inches closer. your breath hitches in your throat, a dry swallow following as you bite down on your bottom lip. “there’s no way you don’t want to.”

you know exactly what he’s talking about, but you hold firm.

“we’re not having that conversation while i’m your tutor.”

you both stare at one another silently, teetering along the edge of a dangerous line you didn’t even realize you were falling victim to. you’d surprisingly grown used to mingi’s company, to the point that you looked forward to seeing him when you had sessions scheduled. the night you saw him at the party, when the lines blurred between your tutoring arrangement and just … you, as people, you knew you were in trouble.

but you also knew that he was trouble.

mingi blinks at your rejection, his jaw tensing slightly as he arches a brow at your response. a smile suddenly spreads across his face as he nods, drumming his fingers against the table once. “okay.”

“okay?”

“yeah, okay.”

“huh.” you narrow your eyes at him, half-expecting him to continue trying to egg you on. when you realize he isn’t, you shake your head and struggle to conceal your own smile. “then we’re done here tonight.”

you lay in bed later that night, cursing yourself mentally as you scroll through the ice hockey team’s account. a stray comment from what you assume is mingi’s account catches your eye and you pause. pursing your lips, you allow yourself to look at his photos and grumble at the fact that you’re even entertaining the idea of mingi.

the next several weeks feel like your own personal hell.

all you can think about is mingi. the way he looked at you that night, the fact that he opened the door to a dangerous possibility that you hadn’t given a second thought before then. you struggle to stay focused during your tutoring sessions, something mingi picks up on as he smirks to himself. he invites you to hang out with the teammates at other parties and trips to the bars downtown and you reject him each and every time, as if it’d preserve your resolve.

“you going to the game tonight or something?” your supervisor asks you during one of your last shifts of the semester. she catches you over your shoulder, following your eyes to where the poster for the final matchup between the voyagers and their rival team is being advertised across socials. you clear your throat, awkwardly tossing aside your phone as you shake your head and she laughs at you in response. “hey, no judgment here.”

“just keeping tabs on my students,” you lie poorly, earning another chuckle.

that’s all you were doing—making sure that your student was meeting all of his obligations. after all, the goal of you tutoring him was to secure his place on the starting lineup for the critical games. there was no reason for you to overthink if you wanted to go to the game. sure, you’d never been to an ice hockey game before in your life, but it didn’t have to mean anything.

it didn’t mean anything.

the second you set foot into the arena later that night, the adrenaline overwhelms you. the bleachers are filled with voyagers fans, their jerseys in matching colors with the university’s emblem etched across the front. the scent of spilled beer and popcorn fills your nose as you shuffle down to your seat near the plexiglass. the game is already in full swing, the sound of metal skates cutting across the frozen surface of the rink coupled with men yelling plays to each other.

you narrow your eyes, a shiver running down your spine when you notice the 89 on the back of mingi’s towering frame. he circles the back half of the rink, his eyes locked on the incoming players as they barrel towards the home goal. you become engrossed in the game, understanding very little but following along enough to at least cheer at the right time.

sirens blare through the arena, the voyagers securing their spot in the final with a 3-2 win. mingi circles the ice, fists high in the air as the crowd cheers him on. he skates to a stop to celebrate with the other boys, hoisting hongjoong up into the air to praise their captain. you laugh at his antics, clapping along with the rest of the fans as the team strips off their helmets.

mingi’s gaze travels across the ice, your heart nearly stopping when his eyes lock on yours. the rest of the arena grows muffled, replaced by a faint ringing in your ears as every part of you screams to look away from him. running a gloved hand across his hair in his face, mingi feels a smirk creep onto his face as realization dawns on him.

you came to see him.

even with all of the guardrails, even with being firm about not even entertaining the idea of crossing a line with him while you were his tutor, you couldn’t fight the fact that you wanted to see him. something that mingi quickly picks up on as he nods once before returning his attention to the rest of his team.

it’s not more than an hour after the game when your phone vibrates on your bedside table.

mingi: i don’t want you to be my tutor anymore

your blood runs cold at the sudden rejection, your mind reeling as you try to understand what the problem could be. you literally saw him for a session the day before, with plans to finalize his sessions until the week before finals. he told you himself that he didn’t want to risk not being tutored before finals, especially with the chance of the voyagers making it to the finals. you wonder if you did something wrong as your thumbs move faster than your mind.

you: ???

you: is something wrong

mingi’s bubble appears and disappears for what feels like an eternity before his reply.

mingi: no, just might switch to someone else until finals tbh

after all this time?

you narrow your eyes as you reread mingi’s messages, confusion growing with every passing second. there was no reason for mingi to suddenly want to cut your tutoring short. that aside, the ice hockey team just made it to the finals. there was no way he wasn’t actively at a party, three shots in with a girl in his lap. the mental image makes you grimace before you find yourself ready to dial mingi without a second thought.

and so, you do.

his end of the line is quieter than you expected. you clear your throat, quickly realizing you hadn’t thought of what you were going to say.

“uh, hey,” you start, “what’s going on?” mingi remains silent for a long while, too long as you feel your heart hammer against your ribcage. desperate to fill the silence, you continue. “are you not going out with the guys to celebrate?”

“later,” he finally replies, his voice eerily steady. “kinda wanted to figure … this out first.”

“and what exactly is this?” you ask, confused as ever.

“you can’t be my tutor anymore.”

“but, what did i—”

“you said you’re not having this conversation as long as you’re my tutor,” mingi says, recounting your exact words from when he’d first offered to ‘return the favor’ of you helping him stay off of the bench. “so, stop tutoring me.”

“… meet me at the tutoring center,” you say firmly, ignoring every warning bell in your mind as you grab your keys before hanging up.

the study room is dark as you enter, shuffling through the termination paperwork you’d printed before mingi arrived shortly after you. mingi stares up at you in amusement as you scan the documents quickly and slide them across the tabletop to him.

“seriously?” he scoffs as he reviews the exit paperwork in the dim lighting. you watch while he signs each sheet carefully, parsing through the final review feedback before sliding it back to you. without a word, you shift the papers to the other end of the table.

neither of you say anything for a moment, your eyes locked on one another’s as the weight of unspoken tension grows heavier and heavier. your mind begins to blur the line between mingi as your student and mingi as the man that looked at you in a way you’d never been looked at before. desire creeps along your skin, desperate to be satiated.

you assume mingi has nothing more to say as you stand. you take so much as two steps towards the door when he grabs your wrist, pulling you into him before his lips crash against yours. a whimper escapes you as he guides you by the small of your back to straddle him, your legs on either side of his waist as his fingers dig into your hips to hold you steady.

your mind races, struggling to keep up with the way every nerve ending in your body is on fire when mingi shifts so that you could feel every inch of him pressed against your inner thigh through the fabric of your sweats. the friction coaxes a gasp from you, a sound that he swallows as he slips his tongue into your mouth to glide against yours.

“fuck,” he mutters against your lips as he resurfaces, his chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath before he pulls you into another string of messy, open-mouthed kisses. you finally succumb to the desperate need you’d been stifling ever since mingi had welcomed the possibility. you still knew exactly what kind of guy he could be. you still knew that you were mere seconds out of a strictly professional arrangement.

and right now, you could give no less of a fuck.

your hips buck against mingi’s, grinding into him as he tilts his head back with a blissful sigh. his hands never leave your sides, gripping your flesh as if it would tether him to the chair before you lower your mouth to the crook of his neck. a low groan rumbles in his throat as you trace the tip of your tongue along the sensitive skin just beneath his jaw.

he hums, sinking his fingers into your hips so that he could lift you onto the table. the wooden surface is cool beneath your skin as you lay back, the termination paperwork fluttering to the ground when mingi shoves it aside. his eyes trail over every inch of you, slow and predatory in a way that has you squeezing your thighs together for some kind of friction. his fingers curl around your throat with a grip that’s firm enough to have you gasping for air as his other hand lowers the hem of your sweats. the fleece fabric falls to the ground, exposing your already soaked panties.

“all that talk,” he chides, dragging one of his fingers along the fabric plastered to your throbbing clit. your head falls back, his fingers still latched onto your throat. “and you wanted me to fuck you, after all.” he hoists you up by the nape of your neck, his palm holding you steady as his free hand continues to stroke along the length of your folds.

“say the word and i’ll stop,” he continues, all while continuing to trace circles around your clit. “we can go back so you’re just my tutor.”

“a-ah,” you whimper, twitching against the tabletop as your toes curl from the pleasure. a half-smile lingers on mingi’s face as he hooks a finger on the hem of your panties to slide them down your legs before lowering himself onto his knees. you feel your chest tighten at the sight, anticipation stirring in your core as he peppers kisses along your inner thighs with his eyes locked on yours.

“no?” he asks, teasing evident in his voice as his breath grows closer and closer to your dripping entrance. “you don’t want me to stop?”

“no,” you breathe, the sound quickly replaced by a guttural moan when mingi’s tongue dips into your entrance and traces long, languid strokes. his hands settle on your knees, holding them apart until you’re able to push through his grip and nearly suffocate him between your thighs. he groans at the sudden pressure and flattens his tongue along your folds before he latches onto your clit. “oh, fuck, mingi—”

your hands thread through his cropped hair in a desperate attempt to ground yourself as you feel pleasure flooding through your torso. mingi eats you out like it’s his last meal on earth, his eyes never leaving yours as you whimper through a string of expletives at the way his tongue feels against your skin.

“i—fuck, i’m gonna—” before you’re able to get the words out, mingi stops abruptly and rises to his feet. you glower at him, ready to curse him out for the change of pace when he slips two fingers into you with ease. the sudden intrusion draws a cry from you as your back arches off of the table, enough so that mingi can slide an arm around your waist to hold you upright. his eyes scan your face for every sign of pleasure, from the way your eyes nearly roll back in your head to the way you bite down on your lip to quiet yourself.

“ride my fingers for me,” he commands gently, his lips swollen and glistening after going down on your. gripping onto his shoulders, you oblige and grind your hips down onto his hand before he curls his fingers deep inside of you. the familiar wave of pleasure threatens to spill over for the second time, something that mingi notices as he picks up the pace and thrusts his fingers in and out of you.

you don’t warn him this time, your clipped breaths and the sounds you make enough of an indicator that you were close. mingi reclaims your lips in a heated kiss, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as your fingernails sink between his shoulder blades. your orgasm ripples through you, so much so that you’re sure the room is spinning when you finally come to.

“good girl,” mingi praises lowly, bringing his fingers to his own lips to taste you. before you can steady your breath, the sound of him shoving his own sweats lowers so that he could free his cock from the restraints of his boxers has heat stirring within your core.

you glance down at him, your lips parted as you watch him stroke himself with what’s left of you on his fingers. mingi’s chest staggers with bated breaths of his own as his eyes meet yours, his pupils blown wide from the pleasure before he lifts your ankles onto either of his shoulders. your back hits the desk again and you swallow, mentally preparing yourself for how much you knew he was about to stretch you out.

mingi eases into you, a stifled groan rumbling in his throat as he bottoms out. you gasp, your nails clawing at the tabletop in an attempt to find anything you could grip onto before he begins to move. he falls into a slow, rhythmic pace, enough for you to adjust to his size before his hips begin to slam erratically into yours.

the force of his thrusts drag the table along the tiled floors, the sounds concealed by the way you were about to scream. mingi bites down on his lower lip hard enough he’s about to draw blood, outstretching a hand to cover your mouth. the taste of you lingers on his fingers, his palm firm against your lips as he picks up the pace so that he’s fully sliding in and out of you. if it hadn’t been for his hand, you were sure to have screamed bloody murder.

unexpectedly, mingi presses a kiss to your ankle before lowering it so that you could wrap your leg around his waist. you push your heel into the small of his back, urging him closer as he braces himself with his forearms on either side of you.

“fuck, you feel so good,” mingi growls against your ear, his voice lowered with every thrust. you moan in agreement, your walls clenching around him to draw him in deeper before he’s fully outside of you again. he backs away just enough to tower over you and nudges the side of your thigh. “flip over for me.”

like clockwork, you slide off of the tabletop and turn away from him on shaky legs. mingi nudges your thighs apart further with his knee, his broad palm pressing into your back to lower your torso back onto the table before shoving himself back into you. he fills you up even more from this angle and you grit your teeth when he lands a string of smacks against your ass.

“o-oh, fuck,” you groan, your knuckles white as you grip the edge of the table and arch your back into mingi. he fists a hand through your hair, already tousled from being fucked senseless before he lowers himself to the shell of your ear.

“you like that?” he asks, his thrusts beginning to grow erratic. “let me hear it.”

“yes,” you breathe, “fuck, yes—”

“you wanna cum all over my dick?” he huffs breathlessly as he pounds into you. “be a good girl for me?”

“oh, fuck,” you whine, your thighs trembling as you feel your second orgasm rack your body. the pleasure washes over you, another drawn-out cry escaping you before you fall limp onto the table. mingi follows soon after, filling you to the brim with hot streaks of cum that you feel trickling from your entrance as he pulls out of you.

the pair of you say nothing for a long while, focused on cleaning yourselves up and getting dressed. the room reeks of sex, the table askew and the windows fogged from the rising heat. your mind is flooded with voices reminding you that it was a terrible idea to have ever fucked mingi and that you needed to make it clear that it was a one-time thing.

you turn to him and before you could get another word out, mingi grins at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “so, same time tomorrow?”

[cigsaftersan]

is it casual now? [ song mingi ]

note: this isn't anything but random rambles and hurriedly scrawled words that jumbled up into this mess.

[ (ateez) song mingi x female reader ] smut, love bites, situationship, fwb, secret relationship, don’t ask what this is cause i have no fucking clue..

home | masterlist | wanna request?

there’s purple on your neck.

it’s not like you to be so absent-minded. it’s not like your roommate to notice, but she does. your roommate points to the collar of your shirt with an impish smile.

“those look recent.”

you lift a hand to your throat. you’d snuck in after midnight, barely got a few hours of sleep. you hadn’t really looked at yourself in the mirror after showering. when your fingers trail over the sensitive skin near the collar, you remembered the feel of mingi’s mouth on you, the way he’d sucked and licked the wounds he’d inflicted. love bites, they’re sometimes called. like a feeding. like a hunger for someone you already have but can’t get enough of. at least, that’s how mingi put it when you both were lying on his bed.

“can’t get enough of you”, he’d murmured, nose buried in your collarbone.

and you had thrilled at the confession, had bared your neck on purpose.

maybe you shouldn’t have done that. or maybe you can do that all the time, as long as you remembered to apply concealer.

your roommate doesn’t seem to mind. she beams with pride at you, “good for you, babe. you’re finally putting yourself out there.”

you school your features into playful ignorance. “oh, umm. it’s just some guy i’m kind of seeing. he just got a little too excited.”

and he was just some guy that you were kind of seeing. it’s fun. nothing too serious.

“is he cute? does he treat you right? tell me he’s nice,” your roommate says in quick succession, eyes wet and hopeful.

you smiled a small smile. “yeah, he’s nice. he treats me right.”

another image that's stuck in his brain: the shape of your mouth, sweet and sinful, as you tell him, sitting in his car a few weeks later, “tonight, i talk, you listen”, and uttered lewd things like a girlish confession you’d write in a diary. he traces your lower lip with his thumb. but he doesn't kiss your mouth. he wants you to keep talking. he won't interrupt, not even for that. with your voice in his ear, describing hypothetical scenarios, he worries the length of your throat.

love bites.

when you enumerate, a little breathless, the words that stimulates his brain the most, he groans deep into your skin. you can feel his hardness against your thigh.

“shit,” he mutters – curses, in fact – holding his hand to the back of your neck, as if to find the source of that sound, that pulse, your fucking voice. his fingers sink in your hair and tug.

you tip your head back. “sorry, was that too much?”

no, you’re just so fucking perfect, he thinks.

you managed a few words, through your ragged breathing.

“not my throat – people will see –”

mingi obliges. he moves lower. he lifts your shirt an inch and kisses your exposed belly. he kneels before you. his dark eyes look up at you as if you were the icon on the wall.

you suck in a breath.

“tell me to stop at any time,” he rasps.

you shake your head. you leaned back against the wall and closed your eyes. “keep going, please.”

when he lifts your thigh over his shoulder and pushes your underwear to the side, you grip the edge of the window sill. no one would be able to see the two of you from the outside. they’d have to get close to the window. what would they see?

you keen as his tongue lies flat and drags over your clit, slow and lazy, like his talk.

one afternoon, he’s got you between his knees, trying to return the favor. you always want to give it back.

mingi tries to tell you that you didn’t have to, he even tries to make it sound like he doesn't want it, because you’re so good and sweet and pure, but it's so transparent how much he wants your mouth; he wants it in his ear and on his cock, and that’s an ugly thing to think and say, it's not at all pretty, and yet you needed to hear him say it. for all your meekness, you must have your way.

“do you want me to taste it?” you asked in earnest, as if you weren't teasing. were you just blinking or are your eyelashes fluttering?

you’re asking for consent, but your hand is already on the tent of his boxer briefs.

“fuck, y/n…why you gotta be like that?”

it’s only when he hears seonghwa knocking beyond the locked door, looking for him, that he pulls you up quickly while also standing on his own feet.

you fell back on his bed with a huff.

you eye the visible erection he’s trying to shove in his jeans.

and you can’t help a small, guilty smile. you felt like what you were doing was wrong, like this was forbidden, like another personality entirely. it’s fucking addictive.

in the morning you watch mingi sleep. you trace your fingers over the apple of his cheek. sunlight filters through the window, turning his hair to flame.

your gaze is fond and loving, but still, if you had the capacity to be honest with yourself, you would let yourself admit that it had always been more than ‘just sex’.

he made you shiver, and you let yourself call it love.

[minkisdoll]

from the back mingi drabble

warnings: nsfw 18+, bf!mingi, f!reader, pwnp, backshots, dirty talk, nicknames (baby) size kink, tummy bulge, kinda mean dom!mg, filming, fingering, just dirty overall. wc. 1k an. this is just me being thirsty as fuck over this mingi video tbh.. hope you enjoy <3 not proofread! taglist: @yslj1n @joongnoodle @matznana @kisssan @fixonjade

something about having you like this was mingis favourite thing in the world.

your back facing him, knees and arms pressed deep into the mattress. his other heavy hand rested on the dip of your spine, bending your body to bend even more forward as his eyes tightened.

his other hand was dragging down the back of his neck, mouth slightly cracked as he watched your pussy twitch under his gaze. some of your juices were dripping down to the bed, the skin slick to the touch as his body inched closer.

his cock was tight in his grip now, leaning forward to trail down your slit, messing up his precum with yours, his lip now tightly between his pearly teeth.

”you need me don’t you? desperate girl”

his other palm made contact with your cheeks, slightly tearing them more open to get a better visual of your pussy sucking him in. he couldn’t get enough of it.

that slight stretch as he pushed in, the sound it made, the amount of liquids running down your thighs as his cockhead pushes its way inside properly.

mingi leaned forward a bit, trying to catch the best view of the situation. his gold chain swung on his neck as he pushed forward, making you squeal into the pillows.

he knew he was big, big enough to make you writhe yet beg for more. and he made sure you felt every inch, every vein, everything as he moved into you in a slow rhythm.

”you feel that? feel me tearing this pussy open, yeah? just the way you like it”

all you could do is mumble, the sensation overtaking you as mingis pelvis met your ass. he knew if he turned you around, he could see himself bulging out of your lower stomach, and it only made him more hungry.

snapping his hips back, the first thrust was enough to knock the bedframe harshly against the wall. he couldn’t hold back anymore, hands tight on your hips as he started to pick up his pace, making you an absolute mess.

his sounds were rough, sharp. groans and moan tore out his throat, his tongue hanging out his mouth as he watched the opening of your pussy taking him in just right.

your thighs were shaking as your hips made contact, your mouth spread wide open but unable to respond as you felt yourself drawing awfully close so quickly.

mingi knew he wouldn’t last long like this either, but he didn’t care. he would love this view even if it’s for two minutes, or two hours. still, worth every second.

some spit trickled down from his tongue to your ass, running down your inner thighs. the sensation made your pussy clench tight around his cock, making his breath hitch in his throat. his fingers digging into your flesh, he basically hissed:

”do that again.”

and so you did, clamping down against him as his tight and precise thrusts continued, and you knew it would end very soon. mingis entire body twitched, one slightly higher moan leaving his throat as he leaned forward towards you.

”min-” you tried to speak, your voice a faint whisper. his hand tucked around your chest, pulling you up to meet his thrusts, his face near yours now.

”yeah? what is it baby?” his voice was out of breath, yet still seeping that same need. you gulped between moans, trying again.

”d-don’t stop-please” your voice was tiny, barely leaving your mouth. mingis fingers tightened around your torso as his pace picked up again, his other hand trailing down to your pussy.

”oh trust me, i won’t.”

you were so out of it by now, maybe almost as much as mingi. his body was like moving on its own, his thrusts sloppy but rough, tongue running up the side of your neck, other hand twisting and turning around on your clit.

”wish you could see this, too fucking good. have to film you next time, let you see, fuck”

your nails dig into his arm around you, body shaking back and forth as he fucked you full. his fingers on his other hand were spinning consistent circles on your bud, making sparks run all over as you gripped him tighter.

”wanna cum on your ass, please baby” mingi growled into your ear, kissing into after like a soothing sensation. you nodded swiftly, feeling your body dropping back to the bed.

his hips thrusted forward a few more times before pulling back, and then you felt it. thick hot ropes of cum splashed onto the skin of your asscheeks, marking you like mingi intended. he was so loud, mouth hung wide open as he jerked himself through his orgasm, his tip occassionally touching your pussy as he leaned forward.

”shitttt baby.. you’re unbelievable.” his voice spoke breathless, his chest heaving as you looked back. you saw him lean over to his pants on the floor, digging for his camera.

”min- what-”

”told you i’ll show you, now, stay there just like that” he adviced you, and so you did. back arched, ass up in the air for him to capture onto his film camera.

the flash light shone over your body, and then you finally slumped down properly. you were worn out. mingi threw his camera back onto the floor before rolling next to you, pulling you up to meet his gaze. he had that special grin on his face, leaving a sloppy kiss on your cheek before pulling you back up to him.

”got more energy?” he asked simply, his hand snaking back down to your leaking pussy. you nodded, albeit not as energetic as you wanted to. he nodded, biting onto his plump lip.

”mhm, then let me clean up after myself, yeah?”

his fingers curled up into your pussy, making you shriek into his shoulder, only causing him to chuckle.

”relax baby, just cleaning you up, everywhere.”

his fingers fucked into your pussy, meeting that spongy spot inside you deep inside. you gripped tight into his bicep, holding on as you felt yourself falling apart so soon.

”there you go baby, let me have it, take it all out of you” his mouth eager against your neck, you let yourself fall apart on his lengthy, thick fingers.

you gushed everywhere, the squirt drenching both you and mingi, as well as the bedsheets, making him smirk agaisnt your skin.

”don’t worry, i’ll clean that too.”

[britishvamps]

Perv!Mingi and his not so subtle obsession with you

3,917 - perv! mingi, swearing, masturbation (m), fingering, oral (f! receiving), p in v, creaempie, hyperspermia. Based off of this post

Mingi was the kind of guy who made girls' heads turn at a distance — tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jaw and dark eyes that could cut glass.

Up close, though, the cracks showed. He showed up late to class, if he showed up at all. His assignments were a mess. He spent more time at the campus convenience store buying energy drinks and junk food than in the lecture hall. His friends Wooyoung, San, Yeosang, and Hongjoong called him a hot loser to his face, and he never argued. He knew it was true.

His field of study — biomedical engineering — was a joke at this point. He'd chosen it because it sounded impressive, because his parents expected something respectable, because Hongjoong had said the programme had good job prospects. But Mingi had spent most of the school term skipping lectures to smoke behind the music building with Wooyoung or play basketball with San. Truly, his grades were hovering somewhere between "academic probation" and "please just drop out."

Honestly, if he spent half as much time studying as he spent ogling the girls he encountered in passing, his grades could improve from their hellscape. But he was so easily distracted by fantasising about girls he'd never have the guts to talk to.

Especially you.

He first saw you in the library during midterm season while waiting for Hongjoong to "study". You were sitting at a corner table with Seonghwa, his friend from the music production club. Seonghwa was laughing at something on your laptop screen, his hand resting casually on your shoulder. Mingi's gut twisted. He'd never seen you before, but from that moment, he couldn't stop looking.

You were pretty in a quiet, focused way — hair pulled back, glasses perched on your nose, lips slightly parted as you explained something to Seonghwa. Your shirt was loose, but when you leaned forward to point at the screen, the neckline gaped, and Mingi caught a glimpse of the curve of your breast. His cock twitched in his jeans.

He sat down at a table across the room, pulled out a textbook he knew he wasn't going to read, and watched you for the next two hours.

When he got home, he rushed to his bedroom. He had spent the entire time at the library observing you; the image of you leaning over that library table, your shirt gaping, burned into his brain. The soft curve of your breast peeking through. He'd jerked off to that memory four times since midterms. Four times, each session longer than the last, his hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking until his balls tightened and he spilt rope after rope of cum into a wad of tissues.

That became his routine. Every day, he found an excuse to be in the library at the same time you were there.

He'd sit far enough not to be obvious but close enough to see everything. He memorised the way you bit your pen when you were thinking, the way you stretched your arms above your head when you'd been studying too long, the way your shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of stomach.

His friends noticed.

Wooyoung caught him staring one afternoon and elbowed San. "Holy shit, he's actually drooling," Wooyoung whispered, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

"Suck my dick," Mingi muttered, not taking his eyes off you.

"You wish." Wooyoung retorted, rolling his eyes at his friend's creepy staring.

"What would you even say to her?" San asked, leaning in. "'Hey, I know I've never spoken to you, but I've been fapping off to you for three weeks.' Want to study together?"

"Fuck off."

Hongjoong, ever the sensible one of the friend group, sighed. "If you're that obsessed, just talk to her. She's friends with Seonghwa. I can set something up."

Mingi's heart hammered; he looked like a kid in a confectionery store mixed with one caught with their fingers in the cookie jar as he stared at Hongjoong. "Set something up how?"

"I'll tell Seonghwa you need tutoring. He'll recommend her. She's like, top of the class. Then you get private sessions with her. Easy."

It really was easy. It was terrifyingly too simple.

A week later, Mingi sat in his dorm room, which smelled like stale energy drinks, his favourite Jo Malone cologne and regrets. He lay sprawled across his bed, phone clutched in his hand, when Seonghwa texted Mingi with a time and an address.

Hwa: 'She says she can help you with your assignment. Be on time, and don't fuck this up, asshole.'

He'd been half-hard since reading it, and now, two hours before he was supposed to meet you, Mingi lay in bed and let his mind wander. His hand drifted down to his sweatpants, palming his half-hard length.

He imagined what it would be like to have you beneath him. To feel your legs wrapped around his waist, your mouth open against his, your fingers digging into his back. He wondered what sounds you'd make — soft little gasps or needy moans?

Would you let him fuck you slowly, or would you want it rough?

Would you want his cum inside you?

The thought made his cock twitch, already hardening. He imagined gripping your hips, pumping into you, feeling his release build until he couldn't hold back anymore. Thick, hot ropes flooding your pussy, leaking down your thighs, marking you as his.

"Fuck," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

He was getting hard just thinking about it. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingers wrapping around his shaft. Already slick with precum, he started stroking — slow at first, then faster, his breathing ragged.

In his mind, it was your hand wrapped around him. Your palm sliding up and down his length, your thumb circling the tip, spreading the precum. His room filled with low groans and sharp gasps as he continued jerking off. He imagined you stroking him until he couldn't take it anymore, until he begged you to let him come, and when you finally whispered, "Go ahead. Show me how much you want it." His hips bucked into his fist. Precum dripped onto his stomach. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to unload.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck–"

He came hard, his back arching off the mattress. Cum pumped out of him in thick, white ropes, splattering across his stomach, his chest, pooling in his navel. He kept stroking through it, milking himself dry, until his arm was soaked and he was panting like he'd run a marathon.

When he finally opened his eyes, he stared at the mess he'd made.

Get it together, he told himself. You're about to see her. Don't fuck this up.

Mingi showed up at your flat thirty minutes early due to a mixture of nerves and lack of choice. Wooyoung had kicked him out of their shared dorm because he and San were "conducting important musical research" that apparently required privacy and a locked door.

"You're not staying here," Wooyoung had said flatly, blocking the doorway. "Go study or something."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"Literally anywhere else."

Hongjoong had passed by on his way out with a smirk and a stack of composition notebooks under his arm. "Heard you're getting tutored by Seonghwa's friend. The hot one from the library."

Mingi's face burned as he fidgeted with his clothes slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't," Hongjoong clapped him on the shoulder. "Try not to drool on the textbooks. They're expensive."

The rest of the walk to your flat, Mingi replayed their teasing in his head. He hated that they knew. Hated that they could see right through him. But more than that, he hated that he couldn't stop thinking about you long enough to form a coherent sentence.

When you answered the door, his brain short-circuited. You looked soft, comfortable, real, and his cock twitched in his jeans despite the fact that he'd just jerked off not even two hours ago.

You lived in a small studio near campus. "Hey," you said, stepping aside. "Come in."

As Mingi followed you further in, his eyes darted around the room, and he noted the walls were covered in posters of bands he didn't know. Polaroids of you and friends smiling, fairy lights draped over the window, and stacks of books on every surface.

It smelled of vanilla and laundry detergent. Mingi stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for the space, while you cleared a spot on your desk.

"Seonghwa says you're struggling with the experimental design section," you said, pulling out a chair.

"Yeah." He sat down, trying not to stare at the way your jeans hugged your thighs. "I just– it's hard to focus." With the intensity of his stare, he's shocked he hasn't burnt a hole in your pocket. His eyes snapped back up to your face as you spun around.

You smiled at him, and it made his chest tight. "That's what I'm here for."

The first hour was torture.

You sat across from him, leaning over the desk to point at diagrams and equations, and every time you moved, your shirt shifted. He caught himself looking at your chest more than the paper. You were wearing a simple cotton top, nothing special, but he could see the outline of your bra underneath. His palms started to sweat.

"Experimental design relies on proper variable isolation," you said, tapping the textbook. "If you don't control for confounding factors, your results are meaningless."

"Right," he said, not registering a single word.

He'd been answering questions mechanically, half his brain on the work, the other half imagining what your skin would feel like under his hands. You must have noticed because you paused mid-sentence, looked up at him, and raised an eyebrow.

"Mingi. You're not listening."

"I am," he lied.

"You're staring at my boobs."

The words hit him like a slap. His face flushed neon red. He opened his mouth to deny it, tried to form an apology, but nothing came out. You didn't look angry. You looked amused, lips curving into a slow, teasing smile.

"You know, you're not as subtle as you think." You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms under your chest, pushing your breasts up slightly. Mingi's mouth went dry. "I saw you in the library. You always sit at the same table, don't you? The one with the direct sightline to my spot."

"Fuck," he breathed.

"Yeah." You laughed, soft and mocking. "You're kind of a pervert, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry," he managed. "I didn't mean to– I just– you're really pretty, and I–"

You held up a hand, cutting off his stammering. "It's fine. I know how to fix this."

Your eyes sparkled with something that made his pulse race. "I have an idea. For every question you get right, you get a reward. A touch. Something simple. You tell me what you want, and I'll let you do it. Consider it motivation."

Mingi's brain short-circuited. "A touch?"

"On the honour system. You answer correctly, you get to cross one of your fantasies off the list. But you have to keep studying. And you can't cum. Not until the end. Deal?"

He nodded, barely able to speak. "Deal."

The first question was simple. You slid a worksheet toward him, and he scribbled the answer in seconds. When he looked up, you gestured at your hand resting on the table.

"Go ahead. Claim your reward."

He reached out slowly; his fingertips brushed your knuckles. The contact sent a jolt through him. He took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your palm. It was soft and warm.

"That," he said, voice low. "Wanted to know if you'd let me."

You let him hold it for a full minute before pulling away.

"Next question."

He answered it correctly again. This time, he got braver, his fingers sliding up to graze your neck before he leaned in slowly.

Mingi leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of your throat. He lingered, breathing in your scent — vanilla, coffee and a hint of something spicy — before pulling back. You shivered, and he felt a surge of pride.

By the third correct answer, he was bolder. "Can I touch your thigh?"

You spread your legs slightly in answer. He slid his hand onto your knee, then slowly upward, fingers grazing the denim of your jeans. Your breath hitched. He squeezed gently, feeling the muscle beneath.

The fourth question was harder. He had to think, to recall details from the textbook he'd barely read. Something about factorial designs that he should have known but had completely blanked on. You were watching him, waiting, and his mind went blank.

"Give me a second," he muttered.

"Take your time."

But he couldn't focus. Not with his hand still resting on your thigh, not with the memory of your neck against his lips, not with the way you were looking at him — patient, amused, knowing.

He guessed wrong.

You smiled softly and shifted back in your chair. His hand slipped off your thigh, landing on empty air. You stood up, stepping away from the desk entirely, folding your arms.

"Wrong answer. No reward." Your voice was teasing but firm. "Try the next one."

Mingi groaned, running a hand through his hair. "That's cruel."

"Study motivation, remember?" You sat back down, but this time you kept the chair a few inches farther from him. "You have to earn it."

He gritted his teeth and flipped to the next page.

I'm going to get every single question right, he swore to himself. And by the end of this, I'm going to have you underneath me.

Two hours later, Mingi had answered fifteen out of twenty questions correctly. His hand had mapped the curve of your calf, the dip of your waist, the soft skin behind your ear. He'd kissed your palm, your wrist, the hollow of your throat. Each touch left him harder, more desperate, his cock aching against the zipper of his jeans.

By the time he reached the last question, he was sweating, his breathing shallow. You closed the textbook and set it aside. "Last question."

He was barely listening. His eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. He wanted to taste you. Wanted to feel you writhe beneath him.

"If you get this right, you get your last reward. Anything you want."

Mingi's head snapped back up to your face. That definitely got his attention. "Anything?"

"Within reason." A small smile played at your lips as you tapped your pen on the cover of the textbook.

You asked the question — something about p-values and statistical significance — and this time, Mingi didn't hesitate. The answer came easily, pulled from a corner of his brain that had actually absorbed your teaching.

"Correct. Sixteen out of twenty, a passing score." You leaned back, crossing your arms. "So. What do you want?"

Mingi stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. He rounded the desk, grabbing your hips and pulling you to your feet. Your body pressed against his, your warmth seeping through his clothes. But his hands trembled slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He'd never done this before, never been this close to a woman's body like this, and the anticipation was almost unbearable.

"I want you to ride me."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away. "Here?"

"Here." He guided you toward the edge of your bed, sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. "Right now."

You straddled him, your thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of your cunt pressed against his clothed cock, and he groaned, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your tits through your top.

"You sure?" you whispered.

He answered by kissing you hard and desperately, his tongue sliding against yours. But his hands were shaking. His heart hammered so loud he thought you might hear it. He wanted this more than anything, but he didn't know what the hell he was doing. Every move felt like a gamble.

Instead of rushing, he pulled back, breath coming in short gasps. "Let me–" He swallowed. "Let me taste you first. Please."

He didn't wait for an answer. He slid off the bed, landing on his knees in front of you. His fingers found the button of your jeans, but they fumbled, clumsy with nerves. A frustrated laugh escaped him. "Sorry. I'm–" He didn't finish. He just focused, finally getting the button undone, pushing the denim down your thighs.

You shimmied out of your pants, and Mingi's mouth went dry. Your panties were dark at the centre, a damp patch glistening in the low light. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, slowly revealing your cunt inch by inch. The sight of you bare, slick, and waiting for him made his cock twitch painfully.

He leaned in, pressing a tentative kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher. His nose brushed your curls, and he inhaled your scent — musky, sweet, intoxicating. His tongue darted out, tracing a line up your slit.

You gasped, your hips shifting toward him. Encouraged, he parted your folds with his thumbs and pressed his mouth to your clit. He licked experimentally, then with more confidence as your moans grew louder. He circled the sensitive nub with his tongue, flicking and sucking, learning what made you squirm.

But he wanted more. He wanted to feel you clench around his fingers. He slid one hand up your thigh, fingers teasing your entrance. "Tell me if it's okay," he mumbled against your skin.

You nodded, breathless. "Just– go slow."

Mingi pushed one finger inside you; the heat and tightness made his head spin. He pumped it gently, then added a second, stretching you, curling them to find that spot that made your back arch. Mingi watched your face — eyes squeezed shut, lips parted — and felt a surge of power mixed with nervous wonder. He was doing this. He was making you feel good.

Your wetness coated his fingers, and he kept working you, alternating between licking your clit and tonguing your folds, until your thighs trembled and your moans turned into desperate whines. He pulled his fingers out slowly, wiping them on his own jeans before standing up.

"Okay," he said, voice rough. "Now, ride me."

He sat back on the edge of the bed, his cock straining against his jeans. He freed it with trembling hands, and a bead of precum oozed from the tip, thick and viscous, more than you'd expect. It dripped down the shaft, glistening. He pumped himself once, twice, spreading the slickness, then guided you forward.

You positioned yourself over him, the head of his cock nudging your soaked entrance. Mingi's breath hitched. He was so hard it almost hurt, the pressure building in his balls already. He gripped your hips, steadying you, trying not to thrust up.

"Slow," he repeated, more to himself than to you. "Go slow."

You sank down, inch by inch, and Mingi's eyes rolled back. The heat of your cunt, the silkiness of your walls — it was overwhelming. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting the urge to come right there. A groan tore from his throat as you took him fully, your hips flush against his.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you rocked forward, and he felt another wave of precum leak from his cock, mixing with your wetness. He shuddered, fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, Mingi. You fill me so good," you whispered.

He couldn't speak. He just nodded, his hands trembling as you began to move; a slow, rocking grind that stole every thought from his head. You rode him with a rhythm that started gentle, then built, your hips rolling in circles while he gripped the sheets and tried not to come immediately.

The pleasure was overwhelming. Every sensation — the clench of your cunt, the slap of your thighs against his, the sight of your tits bouncing in front of his face — pushed him closer to the edge. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to erupt.

"Fuck, I'm gonna–" He couldn't finish the sentence. His hips bucked upward, burying himself deeper as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick ropes of cum shot into you, pumping again and again, flooding your pussy with hot, white fluid. His body shuddered with the force of it, his hands digging into your hips so hard he'd probably leave bruises.

You gasped, your rhythm faltering as you felt the torrent of semen filling you. It leaked out around his cock, dripping onto the sheets, your thighs, his stomach.

But Mingi wasn't done. As the aftershocks faded, a new hunger flared in his chest. He needed more. Needed to feel you come on his cock while he controlled the pace.

He flipped you onto your back before you could react, your legs falling apart as he hovered over you. His cock was still hard, still slick with his cum and your wetness. He lined himself up and slammed back inside you, a guttural curse ripping from his throat.

"Oh God," you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Mingi–"

He didn't answer with words. He fucked you hard, deep, each stroke driving his cock into your sopping cunt. The bed creaked beneath you. Your moans filled the room. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing your sounds as he pounded into you. Your nails left lines of red down his back.

He could feel your walls clenching around him, hear your breath hitching. You were close, so close, and he wanted to see you fall apart.

"Come for me," he growled against your ear, his fingers trailing down to rub firm circles against your clit, causing your back to arch further into his chest. "Come on my cock."

That was all it took. Your body arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as your orgasm crashed over you. Your pussy milked him, squeezing and fluttering, and Mingi groaned, burying his face in your neck as he came again — a second, weaker orgasm that still spilt another hot pulse of cum into you.

When it was over, he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, sweaty, tangled in each other. The sheets were a mess, soaked with sweat and cum. He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering.

After a long silence, you spoke. "Mingi?"

"Yeah?"

"That was insane. Where the hell did you learn to fuck like that?"

He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking at you. A nervous laugh escaped him. "I, uh... didn't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that was my first time."

Your eyes went wide. "What? No way. That was your first time?"

He nodded, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "I'm a virgin. Or, I guess, was a virgin."

You stared at him, then burst out laughing — not mocking, but genuine, surprised laughter. "Holy shit. You're kidding me."

"I'm not."

"Mingi– You let me take your virginity for a study session, and you fuck like that?" You reached out, running a hand through his damp hair. "You're a natural, I guess."

Mingi grinned, pulling you closer. "Lucky guess.”

[minkisdoll]

Heatwave Mingi x f!reader

synopsis: mingi looks too fucking good, and not even the heatwave can stop you from getting a taste. warnings. nsfw 18+, pwnp, plot what plot, dom!mg, sub!reader, some humiliation, dryhumping, coming in your clothes, slight somno bc mingi is kinda asleep at a point?, dirty talk, nicknames (angel, baby, good girl etc.) daddy kink wc. 1.5k an. i am BACK and as horny as ever. heres smth based on a post by @809gf , tysm for the seedling. also thank you guys for being patient and waiting for me, it has paid off! enjoy :) not proofread! taglist: @yslj1n @joongnoodle @matznana @kisssan

It started innocently enough. sitting on the lounge chair of the hotel room balcony, feeling the heat trickle against your skin. the weight of your sunglasses pushed on your nose as sweat dripped down onto the pages of your book.

the midsummer heatwave was knocking the energy out of everyone, including your, typically energetic, boyfriend, mingi. fresh out the shower, his short black hair was messy, spiked over his head as he opened the balcony door. he had slipped on his matching set of a striped shirt and shorts, the buttons hanging dangerously open.

your eyes were begging to tear away from the words on the pages, catching glimpses of mingi sitting in the comfort of a plush chair opposite from you. you hadn't spoken a word, something unsaid lingered in the air.

as beads of sweat started to run down the side of your neck, you couldn't help but use your book as a makeshift fan. the view before you surely wasn't helping. mingis eyes had shifted closed, hands resting on his lap as his head was leaned back into the chair cushions.

maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the need.

but something in you snapped. nothing crazy, yet, just a floodgate of something seeping out of you. so, you pressed your book shut, and got on your feet.

mingis eyes didn't open just yet, he was basking in the sun, it hugging his features so beautifully in this warm morning. as you stood before him, you let your other hand grip the metal railing next to mingis chair, the other holding onto his shoulder blade. his lips twitched at the sudden touch, but melting into it as your familiar warmth neared him. speaking in a mumbled tone, he muttered:

"isn't it a bit too hot to cuddle hm?" you chuckled lightly, your hips now laid on top of his, chest pressed up on his.

to admit, it was definitely not making the heat go away, more so making it worse. but you couldn't possibly tear yourself off your delicious boyfriend now, his tan toned arm now tight around your waist. you just craved being close, just being here together like this.

the trip so far had been mostly you inside, alone, reading books, since mingi was on a business trip. having these little moments together was certainly more and more rare, so you had to take what there is to take.

"but it's so comfortable like this isn't it?" you asked, tracing shapes into the exposed skin of mingis collarbones. his low laugh rumbled in his chest as he nodded, eyes still hung close.

"mhm, you could say that"

you weren't sure how long you sat there, unmoved, before something started to change. maybe it was the subtle changes in your seating position, or the way your eyes were wandering, but you couldn't help but feel a new type of heat rise in your body.

your both hands laid against mingis sweat sticky chest, your thighs spread around to straddle his. looking up to see his eyes still closed, light breaths passing his lips, you let yourself experiment a bit.

your hand slid down his torso, hanging onto the buttons that remained closed a little longer then supposed, accidentally popping one open. the newly exposed skin glistened in the sunlight, making your cheeks burn red like you've never seen him like this before.

you could feel his breath catching a little, making you pause for a moment before resuming. your other hand traced down to meet the other, slowly opening the last two remaining buttons. with slow but sure movements, you moved aside the light fabric, flashing his toned chest to your vision.

you couldn’t help but feel your mouth salivating at the sight of his exposed chest, the ridges of his muscles, the light hairs below his bellybutton, all the way to to his perked brown nipples. it was all too much.

you didn’t even notice your hips moving at first, your body taking over into an animalistic state. the fabric of mingis shorts was riding up dangerously high, the skin of his toned thick thighs meeting yours as you humped down on him like a dog in heat.

you felt a grin tug on mingis plump lips, his lengthy tongue slipping past to wet the surface before he spoke in a low voice:

" tsk, now now, that's not cuddling now is it angel?"

your breath hitched, but you couldn't bring yourself to stop moving against him, hands now eagerly tugging on the remains of his shirt that hung on his chest. mingis grip on your waist adjusted a bit, both his large palms now resting against your hipbones, guiding your movements.

"couldn't help it" you mumbled, face merely inches away from his. a smirky grin appears on his lips, before he bites down into them, pulling you closer on his lap. you fall forward slightly, your hands now laid above his chest, fingers directly on his perky nipples.

"don't you dare stop now then, even if you're caught, you dirty girl"

even if you wanted to, you couldn't. the feeling of the heat radiating from mingis body, his scent, his presence. the way his eyes were slightly opened now, that dark gaze burning into your skull as you worked your hips against him. you felt your brain melt away as you eased more into it, upping the pressure as mingis hands guided you back and forth.

as you moved, you could feel tension rise below you, the hardness of mingis cock firm against your clothed pussy as you grinded with need. a twitch rippled through mingis body as your hips met up with the sensitive spot of his tip through his flimsy shorts, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“thats it baby, faster f’me, go on”

his hands are eager to pull and push you faster, the slickness of your pussy seeping through your clothes, leaving a wet patch on his shorts. moans tear past your lips as you lean forward to lay youe forehead on his shoulder, fingers digging into his chest muscles.

“min- so good.. fuck..”

raking your hands down his torso, your nails leaving behind a red trail as your chest heaves. you’re burning up, the heat of the summer air and the burning sensation of your body against mingis driving you near passing out, but it felt so worth it.

“yeah? gonna cum untouched like a fucking virgin are you baby?”

mingis words twist your gut, his pitying tone making a new wave of arousal slick down your thighs. he just smirks knowingly, beginning to thrust up into your grinds.

you shriek, digging your nails into his stomach as the new sensation takes over. you may as well be naked from how much you can feel the imprint of mingis cock in his pants. you can feel the thick shape of it, every ridge, every vein running down its sides. and its making you lose it faster then you want to.

“p..please.. d- da.. mghm min..” your words stutter as you hold onto him, teeth grazing his exposed shoulder blade.

“mmm what was that, say that again” his words sharp as his hips slow down a bit, waiting your answer.

your cheeks flare, gulping, you try again:

“please.. please daddy more!” you muster the courage, shaking as mingi chuckles against you, picking back up his page.

“that’s a good girl, always so obedient for me”

you feel the tightness in your abdomen come scarily close at his words, your body tingling with every grind, every thrust. raising your head from his shoulder, youre met with his gaze again, eyes clouded, lips parted in a smirk while low groans tear out repeatedly.

his palm smacks your right cheek before pulling on it again, spreading you open while grinding up into you, and you feel yourself lose it.

“need to.. need to cum now daddy mgmh! m coming”

mingis face dives forward, closing you into a kiss thats almost all tongue and teeth, sucking your sounds into his mouth. you pant, repeating his name like a mantra as his cockhead grinds against your clit with ease.

“thats it, cum on daddy just like this, attagirll baby” his voice mumbles against your lips, you feel him smile into it with that devious grin.

and it completely undoes you. you feel the band inside you snap, the overwhelming heat of your body peaking as you hold onto mingi for some stability, his hands on your hips grounding you.

the wet patch is even more imminent now on mingis shorts as you lean forward to his shoulder again, hanging on like a ragdoll. his hand caresses your back, soothing the burning skin as you come down from your high.

after a minute or two, you leaned up again, meeting his attentive gaze, and that never ending smirk. you raise a brow.

“now, why are you still grinning now, what’s so funny?” mingi chuckles, running his hand down your side, the other below your chin.

“oh nothing, just imagining how you’re gonna walk once we’re done on this balcony” you smack his shoulder, pretending to be hurt.

“oh? don’t think i’m not going to have you holding onto that bar for dear life while i stuff your pussy full, you know i’ll do it.”

and with that, you knew your knees would remain wobbly, and your body heated for the rest of this damned heatwave.

[tetsur0-1]

How i be reading smut wth a straight face in bed

[witchleo21]

Mi corazón es tuyo - My heart is yours

Summary: You’re famous, breathtakingly beautiful, and adored by everyone. At a party, Mingi approaches you. At first, you assume he’s just like every other guy who’s only interested in your looks and status. But his cocky yet effortlessly charming personality has you laughing far more often than you’d like to admit. Before you know it, you find yourself agreeing to go on a date with him…

a/n: Okay, everyone, here comes my second Mingi fanfic! 🥹 I spent a long time debating whether I should post this because it’s not particularly action-packed or dramatic—it’s really just a bunch of romantic fluff. 😭 But maybe some of you will enjoy it anyway! Thank you all so much for your likes, comments, and reblogs. Your support means the world to me!

1. chapter/ capítulo/ kapitel/ 제1장

The flashing cameras, shouted questions, and endless waves of people should feel overwhelming by now, but somehow they never do. Maybe because you have learned how to disappear while standing in the center of attention. Hollywood calls you an actress now — a very successful one at that. Magazine covers obsess over your striking face, your impossible figure, your elegance on red carpets. Directors praise your screen presence. Fans call you captivating. Everybody loves working with you. The irony is that you never even wanted this.You only wanted to be a stuntwoman. Because your dad wanted you to be one and now he‘s gone. But one opportunity led to another, and suddenly you are starring in blockbuster films instead of jumping off buildings for other actors. Privacy becomes the one thing you protect fiercely. Interviews stay vague, your private life nonexistent to the public. No scandals, no dating rumors, no late-night paparazzi photos Just work Which is exactly why being in Seoul feels strangely freeing. Your newest film — starring Ryan Evans and Korean actor Ahn Hyo-Seop — premieres tonight, and the city is electric because of it. After the official event, the cast attends an upscale afterparty overlooking the Han River, all dim lights, expensive champagne, and soft music humming beneath conversations in English and Korean You are halfway through your second drink when someone beside you says,

“So you’re the actress everyone’s losing their minds over.”

The voice is deep. Smooth. You turn your head slightly. Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp eyes that carry a dangerous amount of confidence. His dark hair falls messily over his forehead, and despite the designer suit, there is something effortlessly relaxed about him. You recognize him immediately. Song Mingi. Rapper from ATEEZ. The band who wrote the soundtrack for the movie. He leans casually against the bar, one hand in his pocket while the other holds a glass of whiskey.

“And you,” you reply calmly, “are staring a little too confidently for someone I just met.”

A slow grin spreads across his face.

“Ah, so you do bite back.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Only when necessary.”

“That’s even better.”

His eyes linger on you for half a second too long — not disrespectfully, not like the countless people who usually stare at you because they recognize you. It feels more intentional than that. Like he is trying to figure you out.

“You don’t seem like you enjoy this kind of thing,” he says after a moment.

“The party?”

“The attention.”

You let out a quiet laugh through your nose. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

There is no arrogance in the statement. Just certainty. He takes a sip of his drink, watching you carefully.

“Most celebrities here are trying very hard to be seen,” he continues. “You look like you’re trying to survive the night unnoticed.”

“Maybe I am.”

“And yet somehow everyone still looks at you anyway.”

The way he says it should sound cheesy. Instead, it lands somewhere warm beneath your ribs. You glance away for a second, hiding a smile behind your glass. “You flirt with strangers often?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

“That definitely means often.”

He laughs — low and genuine this time — and the sound surprises you. Cocky, yes. But not obnoxious. There is something oddly charming about how honest he is.

“And here I thought actresses liked confidence.”

“We do,” you say lightly. “In manageable amounts.”

“Good thing I’m very manageable.”

You look back at him then, fully this time, and unfortunately for your own peace of mind, he is unfairly attractive up close. Tall enough that you have to tilt your head slightly, even with heels on. Sharp jawline Soft eyes that completely contradict the confidence in his voice Dangerous combination Mingi notices your stare immediately, of course he does. A smug smile tugs at his mouth. “See something you like?”

“You’re very aware of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’m aware you’ve looked at me three times since we started talking.”

Your lips part in disbelief before a reluctant laugh escapes you.

“That’s embarrassing.”

“For you?” He steps a little closer, not enough to invade your space, just enough for the air between you to shift. “I think it’s encouraging.” The music changes somewhere in the background, softer now, slower. You should probably walk away. Instead, you stay exactly where you are Mingi studies you for another quiet second before speaking again, this time more direct.

“Go on a date with me.”

You blink once. “That’s your approach?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” His gaze flickers over your face briefly before returning to your eyes. “You’re smart, private, prettier than anyone in this room, and pretending you’re not interested in me.”

Your heart stumbles once at the bluntness of it.

“You’re confident.”

“I’m right.”

You shake your head softly, amused despite yourself.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll be respectful about it,” he says easily. “But I still think you’ll say yes.”

There is no pressure behind the words. No ego. Just confidence. Which somehow makes him even more dangerous. You glance down at your drink before meeting his eyes again.

“I’m in Seoul for two weeks.”

Mingi smiles slowly, victorious but gentlemanly enough not to rub it in.

“Sounds like enough time for at least one good date.”

“One?”

He tilts his head. “Let’s not limit ourselves too early.”

Mingi watches you over the rim of his glass, waiting patiently for your answer while the noise of the party fades into something distant and unimportant. You tap your finger once against your drink before speaking.

“I still have five days of work here first,” you tell him. “Interviews, photoshoots, press events. My schedule is awful until then.”

Instead of looking disappointed, Mingi smiles slowly, almost amused.

“So you are saying there is a date.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “You’re very good at hearing only the parts you like.”

“It’s a talent.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“But,” you continue, tilting your head, “I do have one condition.”

That catches his attention immediately. Mingi straightens a little. “Alright. Hit me.”

You study him for a second, thoughtful.

“I want you to show me Seoul.”

“That’s easy.”

“In one evening.”

His eyebrows lift.

“In one night,” you add calmly.

For a second he just stares at you — then he lets out a low laugh, genuinely entertained.

“You’re giving me a challenge?”

“I’m giving you very limited time to impress me.”

“Oh, I like this already.”

He shakes his head with a grin, tongue briefly pressing against the inside of his cheek while he thinks.

“One night,” he repeats slowly. “You want the full Seoul experience in one night.”

“You asked for the date.”

Mingi looks at you like he already enjoys the game between you.

Then he nods once.

“Deal.”

The confidence in his voice sends a warm flutter through your chest. You glance around before reaching toward the counter behind you, grabbing a pen abandoned near a stack of cocktail napkins.

“Give me your hand.”

His expression changes instantly — smug satisfaction mixed with curiosity — but he obeys without hesitation, holding his hand out toward you. His hands are large. Warm. Your fingers lightly wrap around his wrist as you write your number carefully across the back of his skin.For once, Song Mingi is completely quiet. Watching. When you finish, you place the pen back down. Mingi immediately looks at the number like it might disappear if he blinks too long. The corners of your lips lift softly.

“Okay, Song Mingi,” you murmur.

His eyes lift to yours instantly.

“I’m curious about our date.”

For the first time since meeting him, he almost looks caught off guard. Not speechless. Just… affected. You wink at him before stepping back.

“Goodnight.”

And then you leave.

Mingi barely lasts another twenty minutes at the party. By the time he climbs into the van with the rest of ATEEZ, his mind is nowhere near the conversation happening around him. The city lights blur past outside the windows while he sits sprawled in his seat, absently staring down at the number written across his hand for what is probably the fiftieth time. A slow grin keeps threatening to return to his face. Across from him, Yunho notices immediately.

“…Why do you look like that?”

Mingi doesn’t look up. “Like what?”

“Like you won the lottery.”

That gets Wooyoung’s attention instantly.

“Oh, he definitely did something.”

Mingi huffs a laugh under his breath, still staring at his hand. Yunho leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

“…Is that a phone number?”

At that, several heads turn. Mingi finally glances up, looking suspiciously unbothered.

“Maybe.”

“WHOSE?” Wooyoung blurts immediately.

San nearly climbs over the seat beside him. “No seriously, whose is it?”

Jongho looks up from his phone with sudden interest. Even Hongjoong pauses mid-conversation. Mingi tries — and fails — to hide the satisfied smile pulling at his mouth. Yunho points accusingly. “That smile is insane. Who gave you their number?”

Mingi hesitates for exactly two seconds before answering carefully.

“…Y/N.”

Silence. Then absolute chaos.

“WHAT?!” Wooyoung practically breaks his neck turning around. San slaps the seat so hard the driver glances nervously in the mirror. Jongho’s jaw drops. “THE actress?”

Seonghwa immediately leans over Yunho’s shoulder. “Let me see the number. Move.”

Yeosang nearly falls into the aisle trying to look. Hongjoong twists around in his seat so fast he almost loses his cap.

“She gave you her number?” Yunho asks, sounding deeply betrayed by reality itself.

Mingi leans back smugly, holding his hand protectively against his chest now.

“She did.”

“No way.”

“She did.”

“YOU asked her out?”

“Yeah.”

“And she said yes?”

Mingi’s grin widens slowly.

“…Yeah.”

The van erupts again. Wooyoung points dramatically. “This is the greatest achievement of your life.”

“Bigger than debut,” San agrees immediately.

“I love her,” Seonghwa says sincerely, still trying to peek at the number. “She was incredible in Shadow District.”

Hongjoong nods enthusiastically. “The prison fight scene? Crazy.”

“That was actually her doing the stunt too,” Jongho adds. Mingi glances at them, surprised. “You guys watch her stuff?”

All of them stare at him.

“Mingi,” Yeosang says flatly, “the entire planet watches her stuff.”

“That woman is unreal,” Wooyoung says. “And she gave you her number? Voluntarily?”

Mingi laughs quietly, rubbing his thumb across the ink on his hand.

He still cannot quite believe it himself.

“I asked her on a date,” he admits. “Honestly… I didn’t think she’d actually say yes.”

The others immediately begin yelling over one another again.

“YOU BETTER NOT FUMBLE THIS.”

“Be cool for once.”

“Take her somewhere expensive.”

“Brush your teeth twice.”

“And if you meet Ryan Evans,” Wooyoung adds seriously, “get me an autograph.”

“Get me one too,” Seonghwa says instantly.

Hongjoong points at Mingi. “Actually no, if this works out, you’re getting all of us autographs.”

Mingi shakes his head, laughing helplessly while the members continue losing their minds around him. But despite the noise, his gaze drops one more time to the number written across his skin. And without realizing it, he smiles again.

Five days pass faster than expected. Interviews. Photoshoots. Press conferences. Smile for the cameras. Answer the same questions. Pretend not to notice the exhaustion sitting behind your eyes. But through all of it, one thing keeps pulling at the corner of your thoughts.

Song Mingi.

The texts between you stay surprisingly simple. No excessive flirting. No games. Just enough to make you smile at your phone like an idiot whenever his name appears. And then suddenly, it is the night of your date Mingi sends you only an address and a time Nothing else. Which somehow makes you even more curious.Only one person knows where you are going — your bodyguard, Steve.You have trusted him for over ten years now, long before Hollywood knew your name. He has seen the ugly side of fame with you. The stalking incidents. The invasive tabloids. The nights where crowds became dangerous. If Steve approves of someone, it means something. Tonight, after checking the address twice, he glances at you through the rearview mirror.

“You nervous?”

You smooth your hands over your dress casually. “No.”

Stev snorts immediately.

“You’ve changed outfits four times.”

“That means nothing.”

“Mhm.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips anyway. The car eventually stops in front of one of the tallest luxury hotels in Seoul, its glass exterior glowing against the night sky. Steve gets out first, opening the door for you automatically.

“Text me if anything feels off,” he says quietly.

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

You pause for a second before smiling softly.

“Something tells me I’m safe with him.”

Steve studies you carefully.

Then nods once.

“Alright.”

You step out of the car, heels clicking softly against the pavement. Your dress is elegant, hugging your body perfectly without trying too hard. Your makeup stays natural, soft enough to look effortless despite the amount of work it actually took. And yes, you are absolutely wearing heels.

Because standing beside Mingi at your natural 5 ft.2 (1.58 meters) would otherwise make you look twelve years old. The elevator ride to the restaurant feels strangely intimate in the silence. Your pulse quickens slightly when the doors finally slide open. The restaurant is… empty?! No guests. No loud conversations. Just soft lighting, quiet music, and the distant glow of Seoul beyond massive glass windows. You hesitate for half a second, confused. Then you turn the corner. And see him. Mingi stands near the windows with one hand in his pocket, looking unfairly good beneath the dim golden lighting. Simple black shirt. Black tailored trousers. Minimalistic. Elegant. As if the universe decided attractive people should be humbled absolutely never. And somehow — impossibly — your outfits match perfectly. The moment he notices you, his entire expression softens. Your heels echo across the floor as you walk toward him, and Mingi watches you the entire time like he forgets how to breathe for a second.

“Well,” he murmurs when you finally stop in front of him. “You’re making this very difficult for me.”

You tilt your head slightly. “What exactly?”

“Acting normal.”

Heat rises faintly into your cheeks before you can stop it. Mingi smiles knowingly, then leans down slightly. The kiss he presses against your cheek is featherlight. Barely there. And still, a shiver immediately runs down your spine. God. That should not affect you that much.

“You look beautiful,” he says softly.

Not performative. Not exaggerated. Just honest. You glance around the restaurant again, trying to regain composure.

“…Did you seriously reserve the entire place?”

Mingi only smirks.

“It’s easier to eat when nobody’s secretly taking pictures of you.”

The answer catches you off guard for a second. Because he says it so casually. Like your comfort mattered automatically. Before you can respond, he gently places a hand near your lower back, guiding you toward the table by the enormous glass windows overlooking the city. Seoul glows beneath you. Millions of lights stretching endlessly into the night.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper shy.

Mingi pulls your chair out for you first before sitting across from you.

“Not as beautiful as my date,” he says immediately.

You stare at him.

“…Do lines like that usually work for you?”

“They don’t have to,” he replies smoothly. “I already got the girl.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head while a waiter arrives with wine. The conversation flows almost immediately after that. Easy. Natural. Dangerously easy. When Mingi asks what you want to eat, you glance down at the menu helplessly.

“I have absolutely no idea what any of this is.”

“That’s tragic.”

“I know nothing about Korean food.”

He gasps softly in mock offense. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Mingi leans back in his chair dramatically.

“Wow. So the responsibility of educating you falls entirely on me.”

“You say that like it’s a burden.”

“It’s an honor, actually.”

You smile into your wine glass.

“Then order for me.”

His eyebrow lifts slowly.

“That’s a lot of trust.”

“You reserved an entire restaurant for privacy,” you point out lightly. “You’ve earned a little.”

Something warm flashes across his expression at that. Then Mingi orders half the menu. And somehow every single dish is incredible. At one point, he watches with undisguised amusement while you stare suspiciously at something on your plate.

“What is this?”

“Chicken foot.”

You blink.

“…Excuse me?”

“Fried chicken foot,” he corrects helpfully.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“I’m expanding your horizons.”

“It has toes, Mingi.”

“You have toes too. Don’t be judgmental.”

You laugh so suddenly you almost choke on your drink. He grins triumphantly.

“Come on,” he says. “Be brave.”

“You first.”

“I eat these all the time.”

“That proves nothing.”

Mingi sighs dramatically before taking one from your plate and eating it directly in front of you.

“There. Your turn.”

You stare at him. Then at the chicken foot. Then back at him.

“…If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“You’d look cute as a ghost too.”

“Oh my god.”

Still laughing quietly, you finally take a bite. Mingi watches you carefully. Your eyebrows slowly lift.

“…Wait.”

His grin widens instantly.

“Mh?”

“That’s actually really good.”

“I know.”

You point at him accusingly. “You looked way too excited for that.”

“Because I just watched a Hollywood actress willingly eat fried chicken feet in a five-star restaurant.”

“And?”

“And I think I’m in love with you a little bit.”

The words are teasing. Mostly. But the way he looks at you afterward makes warmth spread through your chest anyway. Hours pass without either of you noticing. You talk about everything. The loneliness of fame. How exhausting it is when people think they know you because they know your public image. Friends. Career pressure. The things that scare you. The things that keep you going. And somehow, with him, none of it feels difficult to say.You have never spoken this openly with someone you just met. But Mingi listens carefully when you talk, never interrupting, never pretending to understand things he doesn’t. And when he speaks, he is honest too. Funny. Thoughtful. Far softer than people probably expect him to be. At one point you catch him staring at you again. Not subtly. Not even remotely. You set your glass down slowly. “You know, most people try not to stare so obviously.”

“I tried that earlier.”

“And?”

He rests his chin lightly against his hand, eyes fixed on you.

“Didn’t work.”

Your heartbeat stumbles embarrassingly hard.

“You always flirt this much?”

“Only when I mean it.”

And somehow that answer affects you far more than all the others. By the time dinner ends, you are completely full. Not just because of the food. Because of him. The entire evening feels dangerously easy, like slipping into something warm without realizing how cold you were before. You are still laughing softly about one of Wooyoung’s stories Mingi had told you when he suddenly stands from his chair. You blink up at him in surprise. Then he holds his hand out toward you. Your eyes drop to it first. Then slowly back to his face. Mingi only smiles.

“Come with me.”

There is something unfairly attractive about the confidence in his voice. Careful now, you place your much smaller hand into his. His fingers close warmly around yours immediately. Secure. Gentle. And for some reason, your heart reacts to that more than all the flirting tonight. Mingi leads you through the quiet restaurant toward another elevator, then up one final floor. The moment the doors open, cool night air brushes against your skin. Your breath catches slightly. The rooftop terrace is breathtaking. Small candles flicker everywhere in glass lanterns, casting soft golden light across dark stone pathways and elegant lounge seating. The city stretches endlessly around you, Seoul glowing beneath the night sky like it is alive. Mingi guides you all the way toward the railing at the very edge. For a moment, neither of you says anything. You simply stare. The sounds of the city drift upward faintly — distant traffic, music somewhere below, life happening in thousands of tiny pieces all at once.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper again.

Mingi leans his forearms lightly against the railing beside you. Then he lifts one hand, pointing toward the distance.

“Over there,” he says, “that’s Yeouido. Most of the finance buildings and government offices are there.”

You follow his finger carefully.

“The really tall building is the National Assembly. During election season the entire area becomes chaos.”

You smile softly at the fond annoyance in his voice. Then his hand moves farther across the skyline.

“That district over there is Mapo. I used to pass through there constantly as a trainee.”

“You were young when you started, right?”

“Too young,” he says with a quiet laugh. “I thought surviving on convenience store food and two hours of sleep was normal.”

“That explains a lot, actually.”

He scoffs dramatically beside you.

“You’re rude.”

“You like me anyway.”

Mingi glances sideways at you, grinning.

“…Yeah. Unfortunately.”

Warmth blooms immediately in your chest. Then his expression softens slightly as he points farther away.

“My school was over there.”

You look at him curiously. “Really?”

“Mhm.” He nods. “And a few blocks from there is where I grew up.”

Something about that settles quietly inside you. Because suddenly this doesn’t feel like a celebrity showing off a city. It feels personal. Like he is carefully handing you pieces of himself one by one. You listen while he tells you stories — getting caught skipping class with friends, taking the wrong bus home as a trainee because he was too exhausted to think straight, sneaking out late at night for food after practice. And then suddenly it hits you. Your eyes widen slightly. He notices immediately.

“What?”

A slow smile spreads across your lips.

“You did it.”

“Hm?”

“You showed me Seoul in one night.”

For once, Mingi actually looks pleased with himself.

“I told you I would.”

You bite lightly against your lower lip, looking back out at the city for another second before turning toward him. And immediately realize how close he is standing. Even in heels, you still have to tilt your head up to look at him properly. Your eyes slowly travel across his face. The sharp jawline. The dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. The smug little smile that appears the second he notices you staring. You click your tongue softly and nod in approval.

“I have to admit,” you murmur, “you keep surprising me, Song Mingi.“

“Oh?”

“Seoul in one night?” You shake your head with a quiet laugh. “Wow.”

Mingi’s smile turns softer somehow. Then he winks at you. And somehow — impossibly — even that feels charming coming from him instead of embarrassing. God, this man is dangerous. His hand slides carefully to the small of your back. Warm. Large. He gently pulls you a little closer toward him. The movement catches you slightly off guard in your heels, and you stumble lightly against his chest. Mingi immediately steadies you with both hands.

“Careful, Y/N,” he murmurs teasingly. “Don’t be so clumsy.”

You stare up at him in fake offense.

“Excuse me?”

A laugh escapes you anyway because he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“There she is,” he says softly. “I was waiting for that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re deciding whether to kiss me or kill me.” You gasp dramatically.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you’re still standing very close to me.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes again. Because unfortunately… he is right. At some point, without even realizing it, you lean lightly against him while the two of you continue watching the city below. Normally this would make you uncomfortable. Too close. Too intimate. Especially on a first date. But with Mingi, it feels strangely natural. Like your body decided to trust him long before your mind caught up. Time blurs around the two of you. Eventually you glance up at him quietly.

“So,” you ask softly, “did you like our first date?” Mingi hums thoughtfully beside you like he genuinely has to consider it. You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

“That pause was rude.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Really?“.

He laughs under his breath. Then his gaze settles on you again, warm and steady.

“It was almost perfect.”

Almost? Your eyebrow lifts immediately.

“Oh no,” you say carefully. “Please don’t ruin this.” His grin appears instantly.

“You think that little of me?”

“I’m preparing for disappointment.”

“Relax.” His voice lowers slightly. “There’s just one thing missing.”

Your heart suddenly beats a little faster.

“Mingi—”

But before you can finish, his hand slides gently along your waist as he pulls you closer. And then he kisses you. Softly. Carefully. Like he is giving you every chance to pull away. His lips are warm against yours, impossibly gentle for someone who usually carries himself with so much confidence. And because he is annoyingly tall, you have to lift yourself slightly higher just to kiss him properly. Mingi smiles faintly against your lips.

“…How tiny are you actually?”

You immediately place a hand against his chest.

“Shut up.“

He laughs quietly. But you kiss him again before he can tease you further. And this time the kiss lingers. Slower. Warmer. The world around you fades little by little until Seoul itself becomes background noise — the glowing skyline, the candles, the distant sounds of the city disappearing beneath the way his hand rests securely against your waist. Like somehow, impossibly, the two of you have slipped into your own little world above the city. The kiss lingers in your mind long after it ends. Warm lips. Soft laughter. His hand steady against your waist like he belongs there. By the time the two of you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling slightly, and neither of you seems entirely ready for the night to end. But eventually, reality catches up. Mingi walks you back toward the elevator slowly, your fingers brushing together every few seconds like neither of you wants to fully let go yet. The rooftop behind you glows softly with candlelight while Seoul sparkles endlessly below. At the elevator doors, you finally turn toward him again. For a moment, neither of you speaks. And somehow the silence feels just as intimate as the conversation from earlier. Mingi looks at you carefully, eyes softer now than they were at the beginning of the night.

“You know,” he says quietly, “you’re a lot easier to talk to than I expected.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “That sounds mildly offensive.”

He grins immediately.

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“Sure.”

The elevator dings softly behind you. Neither of you moves immediately. Then Mingi steps just a little closer. His hand briefly brushes against your arm before he leans down and presses another fleeting kiss against your cheek — soft enough to send warmth rushing through you all over again.

“Text me when you get back safely,” he murmurs. You nod once, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.

“I will.”

The elevator doors begin sliding shut. Mingi steps back at the last second, one hand in his pocket again, looking unfairly attractive beneath the warm lighting. And right before the doors close completely, he flashes you one last small smile.

God. The second the elevator doors fully shut— You break. A tiny, silent gasp leaves you before you immediately clap both hands over your mouth, your eyes going wide.

“Oh my god—”

You spin once in place in your heels, practically vibrating with excitement. Then comes the tiny victory dance. Completely ungraceful. Completely genuine. A little jump. A fist pump. Another spin. You drag both hands down your face afterward, trying and failing to contain the ridiculous smile stretching across it.

“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself breathlessly. You inhale deeply once. Twice. Then slowly regain your usual composed expression just before the elevator reaches the lobby. By the time you step back outside, you look calm again. Mostly. Steve is already waiting in the car. The moment you slide into the backseat, he glances at you through the mirror. One look at your face and he immediately smiles knowingly. You try to maintain dignity for approximately two seconds. Then you grin helplessly.

Stev chuckles quietly. “That good, huh?”

You lean back against the seat, still warm from the night, from Mingi, from all of it. And for the first time in a very long time, you sound genuinely light when you answer.

“…We like him.”

Steve nods once like that confirms everything.

“Good.”

Meanwhile, upstairs, Mingi somehow manages to function like a normal human being long enough to pay for dinner. Barely. The owner of the restaurant thanks him politely while staff begin quietly cleaning up around them. “You planned this well,” the older man says with an amused smile. Mingi smirks lightly. “I try.” The owner studies him for a second. Then suddenly gestures toward the back hallway.

“Come with me for a moment.”

Mingi blinks in confusion but follows him anyway. They stop inside a small office where several security monitors display footage from different areas of the restaurant and hotel. The owner points toward one particular screen.

“You should see this.”

Mingi looks over casually at first. Then immediately freezes. On the monitor, the elevator doors are closed. And there you are. Standing perfectly still for exactly one second before completely losing your mind. Tiny celebration dance included. Mingi stares. The owner bursts into laughter beside him. Meanwhile, Mingi physically has to press his lips together to stop himself from laughing too loudly. Because you look adorable. So adorable, actually, that it almost kills him instantly. On screen, you spin once before aggressively fixing your expression again like nothing happened. Mingi lowers his head briefly, laughing under his breath now.

“She liked you very much,” the owner says smugly. Mingi watches the screen for another second, something dangerously fond settling into his expression. Then he shakes his head softly.

“…I’m going to marry her.”

The owner immediately laughs louder.

“That serious already?”

Mingi’s eyes stay on the screen where you’re fixing your hair and trying to regain composure. Still smiling helplessly, he answers without hesitation.

“Yeah.”

[yslj1n]

—ྀི𝙄𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚‘

Giseok (Yunho) x fem!reader

You hated him, he was disgusted by you. One thing you took benefit out of? Sex.

Cw: Porn with tiny plot, nsfw content, not proofread!, biting, marking, pain kink (not really) kind of tame icl, p in v, fingering, oral

A/n: All of this is a work of fiction and not meant to represent Ateez or Yunho in any way. Guys I‘ve awoken from the dead. Also if anyone doesn‘t know who Giseok is. It‘s this rockstar (?) role Yunho played in this short movie called Backstage make sure to watch it <3

📼‘ Chris Travis - Gotta Get It

Twenty missed calls, the room smelling like cigarettes and a cologne hauntingly familiar. Giseok was broken, possessive, mad even and you promised everyone that those countless nights would be the last one. Never too sure with yourself. Uncertainty lingering after every wrecked message that kept you both crazy enough.

But when he pulled the strings of his guitar so tightly, the instrument whining cries of plea and when the loneliness as well as the guilt for his solitude hit you just right

Then he was everything that you wanted and you were all that he needed. Broke, isolated, yearning for each other.

Back at his apartment that brought back heavy memories, all those times you went mad. He was insane, but the sex was good.

Smoke curled in the dim lights, the smell of nicotine and the powdery woody hint of his fragrance tickled your nose. You wore a mixture of disgust yet slight indulgence stern on your face as Giseok took another deep drag of his cigarette. He stayed seated on the washed out carpet floor while his fingertips brushed nonsense on your thighs. His intention was clear, deliberate touches to provoke a fire beneath the mask you held onto.

He trapped the unfinished Marlboro between his lips, with a squeeze of your thighs he tore the fabric of your tights open. The sound almost violent, final, as if they had personally offended him.

The silence stretched. You didn‘t speak, neither of you ever did. To feel and never say too much. Another sharp inhale, the nicotine clouding your vision, the smell of something you would never mourn.

„Put it out,“ you whispered, the frown on your face mirroring the irritation you felt while you fanned your hand through the blurry smoke. Almost provoking. Giseok kissed his teeth in annoyance but his gaze stayed sharp on yours. He took another drag, his pissed off expression piercing through you when he blew the smoke straight into your direction. You shut your eyes when it hit your face. Another reason why you hated his attitude. He knew how to get under your skin just right.

Slowly, challenging, he pressed the glowing amber out on the flush of your thighs.You took a sharp breath. The sensation burning, your head falling back at the sting. It was painful. Yet exciting.

„Are you crazy?“ you complained, a teethy grin forming on your lips, your eyebrows arching. Deep within, it felt good.

„Maybe“ he spat back, bored and unbothered. His voice was rough and keeping it low. Giseok wrapped his mouth around your peeking through skin, giving you a look that spoke none from below. There was need beneath his pissed off demeanor.

He kissed every inch up your thighs, mapping out every part of it and he would've taken his time, but Giseok‘s patience was running low.

He didn’t say much as his fingers traced over your legs. You gave him a dazed look and lazily leaned back on the edge of the bed. You nudged your foot against his chest while annoyance was fitting perfectly into your tracks. Giseok stopped, unfazed. When your eyes met again, he didn‘t search for answers he already knew.

With gentle force he wrapped his fingers around your ankle and shoved it aside.

„Don‘t be like that“

He got back up and pulled you into a heated kiss, his mouth chasing yours, groaning as desire and the longing for you had fully reached his system. He bit your lower lip in the haste, making you whine when his tongue found yours, the cold metal of his tongue ring heating up with your heavy breaths.

„You deserve less than that“ You whimpered and dug your nails into his hair, pulling him down with you and shoving his lips further onto yours.

Between your steamy kisses he began feeling up your shirt, his veiny hands rising up the fabric and revealing your stomach. The ghostly, but demanding making out stirred more heat in your body. While his palm cooled it back down, the perfect balance that he knew you needed and he could provide.

He let go and observed your pretty silhouette below him fiercely.

Lips swollen, lipstick smudged. It made him crazy.

„Giseok…“ your empty demand came in a silent breath. You needed him, you needed this, it's been too long and you would lie if you said you didn‘t miss him or that he wasn't constantly crossing your mind. Deep into nights when loneliness and your fingers wouldn‘t do the job. When your attention was supposed to be on another one of those boring tinder dates you barely agreed on.

He knew what you needed. He knew that a shameless slut like you wasn‘t for romance and innocent touches. You needed something raw. Something that had you both running in circles, crying on the phone and swallowing your sorrow over a bottle of cheap wine. Something where he felt just mad enough, but not like he was losing control.

With unsteady breaths he traced his hand down the curve of your waist, the other one steadying himself while his knee put pressure between your legs. The sudden move made you whimper quietly. Already aching from everything you felt and missed. Restless, he dragged your top off, throwing it into any corner. You´d worry about it later.

He kissed down your ribcage, before locking eyes with you. His sharp eyes mixed with the dark circles that felt almost helpless, you couldn‘t get them out of your head. Ever.

He licked a straight line down your body, goosebumps following his trail like a shadow while he never broke eyecontact. Giseok looked almost devilish. Intense. He applied more pressure with his tongue ring on your belly, kitten licks that switched to sloppy kisses until he reached your hips and sunk his teeth into them. You whined airy. The light tingle of pain: addicting. The way his teeth tugged your skin, a sharp sting that rushed through you.

„Keep making noises“ he whispered against your skin, facing your lower abdomen and sucking a purple spot right below your belly button, another tight moan escaped your tongue when he bit it once more as if to seal it.

„God, you disgust me so much,“ he protested quietly, before finding his balance upwards again. He fiddled with the buttons of your shorts, before almost tearing them off. His nails clutched around the remaining bits of your tights as he ripped them, violent and impatient, leaving you in your underwear. Half bare, but fully exposed to him.

You tilted your body forward, your hands playing around with the collar of his shirt, his silver chains dangling around. Giseok was quick to strip his hoodie off, throwing it anywhere. Forgotten. You traced your nails over his skin, down his defined chest, back up to his shoulders.

He took that opportunity to pull you into another kiss, your lips moving out of sync, just trying to satisfy your needs while his hand groped your waist. The harsh making out going straight to his dick and pressing even harder against his pants.

Your desperation mirrored in touches and heated kissing echoed through his bedroom. Giseok curled his fingers around the fabric of your lacy underwear.

He teased you through your panties, a shiver ran all your body. He grinned against your lips, swallowing up every sharp breath that escaped you when he kept circling his fingertips against the thin fabric.

Giseok paused his tracks to smear his fingers over his tongue, rolling his tongue ring in between until they were coated in filthy saliva, disgustingly and dirty. His eyes met yours, hot, needy the tension in between you increasing. Every bone felt just weak under his spell and the temptation to just flip him over and ride his dick till you'd break was messing with any pure thought you ever had.

Within more wet and messy kisses he drew his drenched fingers over your legs until he put pressure right against your cunt again. The sensation made your legs twitch, like an electric touch that you had hated when it was there but missed once it was gone, an indecisive feeling you both shared.

Giseok shoved the fabric to the side, his middle finger entering your folds.

You suppressed a moan into his mouth and he deepened the kiss as if to eat your pretty sounds as his own whilst he was knuckles deep inside of you, his thumb rubbing patterns on your clit. A light moan left you.

You bit your lip, your head hitting the covers behind you from the immense stimulation and pleasure that you had yearned. The way he pinched your nerves perfectly.

Giseok leaned down to your level, he showered your jaw and neck in more pecks, flinching a little every time he placed another while he added a second finger. He watched your every reaction.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your hands trying to find any sort of stability, to keep yourself from fully giving in yet. In truth this normally wouldn't drive you over the edge just yet, but his fingers mixed with months of isolation and every feeling you locked shut.

The sound of your soaked pussy and his wet fingers pushing in and out of you in a deep motion filled the room, little cries and tiny moans following. A tight heat was twisting in your stomach, your folds clenching around his fingers. A rise of warmth on your skin, almost closing your legs shut before he pushed them back open.

„dont“ he warned.

He spread your thighs a little further apart. Giseok lowered himself to his knees right between your parted legs. Grounding himself. The sight of his long and slender fingers thrusting so deep into your folds, exposed and so vulnerable in front of him almost made him smile cruelly. He´d push your buttons just right.

„Just keep going you-!“ A whimper cut right through the insult when Giseok dove his tongue deep between your folds. He hooked your thighs over his broad shoulders, his large hand never leaving your hips, while he sunk further into the heat of your legs.

His tongue lapping up your cunt, messy, wet. The sweetest sounds drained out of you as you tangled your nails in his soft locks, whilst he sucked and kissed your core with desperation but control, your juices drenching his mouth.

Your heaving filled the room, lips parting before closing again and the messy flicks of his tongue working on you. Both of your breaths increasingly sped up.

His tongue swirled. Each sudden change, your focus twisted between his fingers, mouth and tongue. Airy moans escaped you.

He slurred nonsense. Just couldn't get enough. His dick pressed against his pants, with any sweet noise that escaped you just throbbing, begging for release. Whilst your thighs were warming his ears and your fingers pulling his dark locks. Your thoughts unclear. Nothing felt right nor wrong. Not hate. Not your spite. But the way he was eating you out like a starved man. Your legs were twitching in response to every motion he made with his mouth and your body slightly arching off his mattress with your head tilted back, nothing but whines coming out of you.

„Oh...Giseok“

It created this intense high, the feeling of this bastard continuously fucking you with his tongue and his nose repeatedly rubbing back and forth against your clit, pushing your buttons just right. Almost intoxicating Your pleasure increased with his long finger moving in and out of you at a swift but a deep and passionate pace.

Giseok curled his fingers upwards deeper into your drenched hole. Your slick juices coated his lips and running down his chin. A slippery sound echoing through the room. Your thighs shook, a tremble alerting his senses. Ecstasy increased throughout your entire body like it belonged there and the formed knot in your abdomen was tensing. Excitement was stretching.

„..mhm..!“ you cried, dazed. Being closer than ever

When, suddenly, he stopped. You whimpered needily at the loss of touch, irritation knitting your eyebrows. Your jaw tensed while Giseok just stared at you with an unreadable expression. The lower half of his face was drenched and glistening with your wetness.

Weakly. You slowly sat up, anger flaring, tugging hard on his silver chain. But Giseok rose too, his tall silhouette hovering over you, more intimidating than your own, his bored gaze immovable.

„Wanna be inside when you cum“

„Fuck you“ you hissed, squinting your eyes.The pit in your stomach twisting into something tense and unfinished. Frustration getting to your head.

„Was gonna“ he replied simply, giving your irritation no mind but undoing his belt, casual but he needed this just as much as you.His jeans fell to his ankles, boxers following as he stepped out of them.

No matter how many times you have done this before, his size had never failed to knock the air out of you. You pressed your tongue against your cheek while he gave himself a couple of pumps.

Giseok steadied himself above you, his other hand moving to your thigh again, wrapping it around his hip. His fingers traced over your soaked panties before shoving the fabric to the side again and thrusting his dick into your drenched cunt. A loud moan escaped you at the sudden force, your leg shock and the earlier dissatisfaction was replaced by this need. This undeniable need that you knew was gonna drive you crazy if you didn‘t act out on it.

Giseok grunted, kissing his teeth again when he felt your warm walls wrap tightly around his cock.

„Just fuck me already“ you whined, impatient you scratched your nails into his arm. Just like the impatient little brat that you were. Giseok laughed through his nose, but didn‘t waste any time either. All that pent up frustration mirrored in heavy thrusts, the sound squelching and disgusting as his dick kept pounding into you. Not only for your satisfaction but also his own. You moaned, clung onto anything that would give you a idea of control when you dug your nails into his shoulders, down his back to pull him even closer. Your sweet noises were like music to his ears when he felt the cold heels of your feet pressure against his lower back. The wet fabric of your panties kept rubbing along the skin of his shaft making him bite his cheek to suppress giving into the pleasure.

Each time his dick hit deep, the sound of skin clapping filled the room, your moans ringing through the air.

„Fuck...missed this so much“ Giseok groaned before leaning towards your neck. His thrust grew rougher, deeper as he dug his teeth into your neck again, making you squeal and bore your nails into his biceps. Giseok grunted when he felt you clench around his length, the simple feeling of you wrapped around him this tight, the taste of your skin, the scent of you perfume. It could´ve made him cum right then and there. His pace grew frantic with everything he felt, pounding into you and stretching you just right . You cried out hard, the tight coil in your stomach snapping. Giseok buried himself deeper into the crock of your neck when he felt your cum gush around him. Warm and wet.

He took ahold of your leg, sinking further into you as his orgasm ripped through him. A final and loud groan coming out of him

„Mine…Mine…Mine´“ he whispered, while pulling out. The rest of his cum dripping out of you, below him: legs trembling and slowly relaxing against the mattress.

Giseok exhaled in relief and dropped down next to you, as you both recovered from your shared orgasm. Breaths heaving, trying to catch it. It´s been too long.

„Yours?“ , you raised a brow and smacked your palm against his shoulder. No reaction from him.Nothing but a wrecked face that couldn´t care less.

„Hello? Im talking to you´“ you sat up lazily and nudged his side to which Giseok simply sighed in annoyance.

Question unanswered, you let yourself fall back into his bed. Too tired and fucked out to argue any more, you tangled yourself in his covers and turned your back to him.

„You´re one of the most annoying girls Ive fucked“ you heard him mumble behind you around probably another cigarette. The quick snap of a lighter and the smell of nicotine filling the room and poking your senses. Bothered. You flip around.

´´You had sex with other girls?´´ you snapped. He gripped your hand tight when you tried to pinch him. More importantly

„You say stuff like that to them too?“

„Do they know of me?“ trying to free your hand, to no avail, you kept pestering. Bombarding him pracitcally Giseok was seemingly collected, blowing the smoke into the dim lit room and letting the scent wrap around you.

„They usually don't ask this many questions“ His response made you clutch his hand tighter. He never let go even when tapping it repeatedly against the ashtray.

„Then why don´t you ever say something?“

„Why would I-“

Your petty squabble was quick to be interrupted when Giseok´s phone suddenly began ringing. He loosened his clutch to grab his phone, slowly and hesitantly sitting up. You saw the confusion in his face when he stared at his phone screen. His brows knitted into a frown when he picked it up. You didn´t follow the whole conversation, didn´t care as much.

„A show? seriously?“

Giseok spared you a quick glance. Whatever was said on the other line, you could´nt quite make it out.

„No I´m not busy“

That got him a kick of you below the covers. The rest of the conversation blurring into your drowsiness, the noise of clothes ruffling too. Slowly you fell asleep. In his bed. Again. After you told yourself several times not to.

„Be there in 20 mins“

taglist: @minkisdoll @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @kiii2hearts127 (lmk if u wanna be added + reqs open <3)

[soft4changbin]

Shy Smiles

ATEEZ Mingi x reader

700 Follower Event request (🦁 + 💗 + 🌸 Headcannon)

Word count: 468

———————————————

• Everyone notices before either of you do.

• The members are constantly exchanging looks whenever the two of you are in the same room because the tension is painfully obvious.

• Mingi is usually confident and playful, but around you he suddenly forgets how to act normal.

• He’ll walk into a room completely relaxed, spot you sitting there, and immediately become awkward.

• The two of you make eye contact a lot.

• Like a lot.

• You’ll glance across the room and catch him already looking at you.

• Then both of you immediately look away and pretend nothing happened.

• Mingi gets ridiculously happy whenever you laugh at one of his jokes.

• It doesn’t matter if the joke wasn’t funny.

• If you’re laughing, he’s smiling for the next twenty minutes.

• He remembers every tiny detail you tell him. Your favourite drink, the snacks you like, your favourite colour, that random story you mentioned three months ago.

• Meanwhile, you’re exactly the same.

• The two of you basically collect information about each other without realising it.

• Whenever you’re hanging out in a group, Mingi somehow always ends up sitting beside you.

• Not intentionally.

• At least that’s what he tells himself.

• The members absolutely do not believe him.

• San once points it out and Mingi nearly chokes on his drink.

• Physical touch is accidental at first.

• Your hands brushing when reaching for something.

• Your shoulders bumping together.

• Both of you immediately freezing afterwards.

• Mingi apologises every single time even when there’s nothing to apologise for.

• “Sorry.”

• “Mingi, you literally just touched my sleeve.”

• “Right. Sorry.”

• Neither of you are very good at flirting.

• Most of your conversations end with one of you getting flustered and changing the subject.

• The members are suffering.

• Especially Wooyoung.

• He’s tired of watching two people who obviously like each other dance around it.

• Whenever you compliment Mingi, he’s done for.

• Completely done for.

• He’ll stare at the floor, smile to himself, and replay your words for the rest of the week.

• “You look nice today.”

• Congratulations.

• He’ll be thinking about that until next month.

• You both secretly look for each other in every room.

• It’s become a habit.

• A comforting one.

• And even though neither of you have confessed yet, everyone can see where it’s heading.

• Because every time your eyes meet, both of you smile automatically.

• Soft smiles.

• Shy smiles.

• The kind that make it impossible for anyone around you to miss what’s really going on.

• The only people who haven’t figured it out yet are you and Mingi.

[h0efor2ho]

Thinking about the way Mingi would eat you out..

He'd start slow, warm breath ghosting over your inner thighs first, dragging his tongue in lazy patterns up towards your center. When he finally gets there, he'd flatten his tongue in one broad, wet stroke from bottom to top, gathering your taste, groaning low in his chest like he's starving for it.

He'd figure out your clit fast, circcling it with the tip of his tongue, testing pressure, watching your hips buck when he hits the right spot. Then he'd settle into a rhythm. Firm and consistent strokes not too fast, building you steady. His hands would grip your thighs, holding you open and exposed while he works.

He seems like the type to be vocal about it too. Humming against you, groaning when you react, making it clear he's enjoying himself as much as you are. Keeps his eyes open, watching your face while his mouth works you over.

When you're wet enough, he'd slide two fingers in. Curling them upward, hitting that spot with precision while his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking, flicking his tongue against you. You'd feel the vibration of his moans, the way he loses himself in it, grinding his own hips against the mattress because he needs it too.

He'd read your body perfectly. Speeding up when your breath hitches, slowing down when you get too close too fast, edging you until you're gripping his hair, thighs shaking around his head as you grind against his mouth. When he finally lets you cum, he'd keep his mouth pressed to you tight, lapping up your release. Tongue fluttering rapid and relentless, fingers pumping deep, riding out every spasm until you're boneless and twitching beneath him. You'll have to push him away.

Then he'd crawl up, lips swollen and shining, and make you taste yourself on his tongue.

[mgverse]

Taxi Driver | S.MG

In your defense, you were drunk and both cars were identical. You even briefly considered that your taxi driver being ridiculously hot was just part of the service. Mingi however, having never been a taxi driver in his life, wondered why his passenger wasn’t Yunho.

Warnings: afab reader, Mingi x reader, Yunho mentioned, Wooyoung mentioned, meet cute, Reader is drunk, Mingi is sober, Mingi is really kind, Mingi is also really awkward, reader is a bit argumentative

note: okay sorry guys i had a mini writers block so my super long writing streak of 3 days was officially broken. BUT im back, i see my fics have been doing weirdly well guys im so flattered and i am so grateful that you guys appreciate my work!! lots of love from me, and as always, not proofread but i hope you guys enjoy!

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ _________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ _________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

Your eyes blurred as you clicked the ‘Complete Booking’ button that blared brightly on your screen, you scoffed.

“Why do developers make their apps look like gambling software,” You mumble to Wooyoung who was stood next to you, rolling his eyes playfully “So many buttons jumping out at you! like im betting on whether i make it home or not,” You giggle, amused at your own joke.

Wooyoung nudges you.

“Y/n, don’t be so morbid.” Wooyoung looked at you, sighing into the cold night air. His breath creating a visible cloud of steam. You gasped.

“Oh Wooyo its so cold!” You slurred, leaning into him “Maybe I’ll make soup, or ramen, or-“

“You will go to bed, like you promised,” Wooyoung pretends to glare at you but he can’t hide the small smile that creeps onto his lips at your intoxicated form.

You huffed “Party pooper,” You mumbled under your breath.

Wooyoung gasps “What was that?” He says, playfully offended.

You shake your head as if to say nothing, but you couldn’t help the very telling laugh that left you. The moment was quickly stolen by the noise of an engine ripping through the street.

“I hate when people do that with their cars,” You tut “Such show offs,”

Wooyoung only laughs as he watches the car come down the road “Looks like your taxi doesn’t it? Same number plate?” He squints.

You don’t bother checking, just nodding as you stumble over your own feet. You wriggle out Wooyoung’s grip towards the taxi. He attempts to chase after you but your drunken self had already made a run for it, yelling a quick ‘Bye see you soon!’ as you beelined for the taxi.

You giggled to yourself, thinking about getting into bed. You throw the door to the taxi open without caution, barreling into the backseat. You throw your bag down and groan as your heel gets caught in the door momentarily. After a few seconds you managed to free yourself, finally making yourself comfortable in the seat.

In the drivers seat, he watched.

You swing the door open and he winced, the thought of needing to get his car serviced again flashing before his eyes.

“Yunho man what have i told y-“ He stopped himself.

That…that wasn’t Yunho.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled to himself “H- Hello?” he said, trying to get your attention, but you were too busy trying to clamber into the backseat of his car to even notice he said anything.

He didn’t even dare to turn around, god knows what people are like these days, he couldn’t risk losing his precious life, and worse, his even more precious car.

“Ma’am?” He says again, a little louder.

No response.

He watched you tug and tug at your foot to get in, probably the slowest struggle he has ever witnessed, he stifled a laugh, because how can he laugh at someone so vulnerable? Very unlike him. He managed to connect the dots, realising you were very very drunk and no amount of calling out to you was going to get your attention.

He held his breath as you got in, the smell of alcohol taking over his vehicle, beneath that he caught a whiff of perfume, a sweet, sultry vanilla scent, that otherwise would have probably had him drooling.

“Okay I’m ready,” You slurred loudly “Off we go!”

For the first time Mingi looked behind him, he opened his mouth to say something but closed it immediately, realising he couldn’t find the words.

You were beautiful, definitely one of if not the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Your skin glowed under the dim light of the car, your lipgloss slightly smeared, probably from the struggle he had to witness as you were fighting your way into his car. Your hair rested on your shoulders, it was messy, but in his opinion it made you all the more charming. He was in awe to say the least.

His gawking was quickly cut short by a hand waving across his face.

“Hello?!?” You exclaimed “I asked you a question,”

He snapped back into reality as he locked eyes with you. “I..uh..yeah?” He managed to choke out.

“My address,” You turned your phone to him, tapping the screen furiously on the same spot to show him where your house was, only thing was, your phone had died quite a while ago and you were yet to realise you were showing him a blank screen.

Mingi furrowed his brows, but he didn’t question you, he was a little intimidated, some would say scared, but Mingi would say nothing ever scares him.

Maybe just you, or drunk you.

“Sorry what’s your name?” He blurts out. Honestly, he was asking for both practical purposes and his own personal curiosity. He couldn’t just let you leave without figuring out the identity of the woman who had just crash landed into the back of his car.

“Oh Y/n, should be…on the app,” You squint at him “Though, you don’t look like a taxi driver,”

Mingi’s eyes widened slightly, he needed to find a way to respond without entering creep territory.

He only shook his head. “Listen, you cli-“

You gasped loudly “Fucking creep!” You cried out

Mingi panicked, putting his hands up defensively “No! No! i promise I’m not! I am here for my friend!” He defends himself.

You point an accusatory finger at him “How dare you..” You slur drunkenly at him “How dare you lie to me, you don’t have friends..”

Mingi cocks his head in confusion, and slight offence. “I have many friends thank you.”

You shake your head disappointed “Do they know you come out at night to take women?” You scoff at him.

Mingi’s mouth opens in surprise, stuttering out a response “No! Because i don’t do that!” He explains “You practically threw yourself into the back of my car! I am not a taxi, i tried to tell you!”

You crossed your arms as you leaned back into his seat “Thats a terrible cover up story,” You tut “You just saw me, all beautiful and all me..” You nod to yourself “And you were like ‘target aquired’” You say, imitating a man to the best of your drunken abilities.

Mingi gasps “Oh no i did not!” He argues “I drove down here because i am a good friend, and my best friend is somewhere drunk out of his mind around here! and i need to pick him up!”

You roll your eyes “So where is my taxi?”

Mingi throws his hands up in exasperation “Why would i know?! I didn’t book it!” He sighs “You got into the wrong car and now you are arguing with me! This is my car!”

You take a minute to let the situation sink in, which obviously, takes a little longer than a minute in your state.

Your ego didn’t let up though “Okay, okay i got into the wrong car, don’t get angsty with me,”

Mingi raises a brow “Oh so I’m the angsty one,” He grumbles “I will literally pay for you to get a taxi, and make sure you actually get into it, not some strangers car,”

“Because you know loads about stranger danger don’t you,” You glare at him “You are the stranger danger, i don’t even know your name.”

Mingi rolls his eyes “Mingi,” He looks at you “My name is Mingi. Now will you let me book you a taxi so you can yell at the actual taxi driver instead?”

Your shrug “Least you can do, you know, to make up for the attempted kidnapping.”

Mingi goes to retaliate but he stops himself, deciding to concede in this little argument. He pulls out his phone to book you your own taxi, he would offer to drive you home, but he didn’t want to come off poorly, and figured you may be more comfortable in an actual taxi.

“Okay so you live…where?” He looks at you, you begin to raise your finger to start up another argument about his intentions but he is quick to cut you off “Don’t even start,” He glares at you playfully, stifling a laugh “I need your address for the booking,”

You grab his phone, putting in your address as best you can, he chuckles as he watches you before taking his phone back.

“Don’t follow me to my house,” You mumble.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” He sighs as he finishes the booking “Done, should be here in a few minutes.” He looks at you “You can wait in here until it comes,” He pauses.

You look at him, really look at him this time. You were sobering up by the minute, albeit, still very drunk, but definitely in better condition than before. You can’t help but stare at his features, the way he smiles, the way his eyes sparkle as they catch the night light, the way his hands gently grip the back of the passenger seat as he swivels his body round to speak to you. And his lips…gosh.

“Don’t drool,” He breaks the silence

You scoff “Over you? get over yourself.” You adjust yourself in your seat awkwardly,huffing and puffing dramatically.

He laughs, turning back to face the wheel, the two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you wait.

Well comfortable for you.

Mingi, on the other hand, was going through 101 ways to ask for your number without furthering the creep persona you had built for him in your head. He needed to know if you got home safe…and if you potentially wanted to let him take you to dinner.

You wouldn’t need to get a taxi if he picked you up, saves you from getting into the wrong one too. At least thats the reasoning he used in his head.

“The taxi.” He broke the silence. He mentally face palmed at his lack of ability to form a full sentence “I mean the taxi is like 30 seconds away,” He glances back to you.

You nod, gathering your things “Uh..Thank you,” You say quietly “I..i erm,” You fumble your words, trying to figure out a way to apologise for your behaviour, assure him that thats not who you are, usually anyway.

“It’s okay,” He hums softly “You made my night more interesting,” He chuckles, seemingly reading your mind. You sigh in relief.

Then a pause.

“Woulditbeweirdifiaskedforyournumber?” He spits out, faster than you can process.

You furrow your brows, your disoriented form barely catching a word he said “Huh?”

“Can i have your number?” He says loudly, far louder than he wanted to, “T- To make sure you get home safe…and all that,”

Your eyes widen in surprise, as if you hadn’t spent the last half hour bickering with this man in an egregious, drunken attempt to flirt with him “Yeah, yeah of course,” You fumble around, reaching your hand out so he can hand you his phone, which he does immediately as you punch in what you pray is your phone number.

He smiles softly “Thanks.” He mutters as he takes his phone back “I think the taxi is outside, please get home safe, and please get into the right car,” He laughs.

You laugh with him as you open the door to step out. “Can’t make any promises Mingi,” You smile as you shut the door.

Mingi sits for a second before rushing out the car, he at least had to witness you get into the right vehicle, otherwise he wouldn’t forgive himself. He jogs after you, which only took a few steps for his large figure to catch up to you.

You yelp when you see him behind you “Mingi?”

“Shit sorry, i didn’t mean to scare you” He breathes “Just thought i should probably walk you to the taxi, make sure its the right one,”

You nod, struggling to hide the smile that played on your lips. “Very gentlemanly of you, a little less kindnapper-y of you,” You joke. He feigns offence as the two of you walk.

You both locate the taxi, Mingi opens the door for you, confirming the booking with the driver as you climb in, successfully this time.

“Take care Y/n,” He smiles “I’ll send you a message,”

You nod. “Thats if i didn’t give you the wrong number too,”

He laughs “I reckon we will find each other again,” He shuts the door to the car. You wave as he waves back, the car driving off into the distance.

He walks back to his own car, a stupid smile plastered across his face. However, the joy is short lived before he hears his name yelled across the street.

“Mingiii!” A voice exclaims.

He looks up to see two bodyguards dragging a familiar figure out the club. Mingi rolls his eyes.

“Oh my fucking god Yunho.” He mumbles to himself, as he takes the other male from the bodyguards, apologising profusely.

“Okay so whatever anyone says Min, it wasn’t my fault,” Yunho slurs, feet dragging across the pavement as Mingi pulls him towards his car.

“I know buddy,” Mingi pats his back “I know.”

[way2jellyous]

one eight zero zero - smau series masterlist

ᯓ I'm the only one, you could never touch

pairing: Song Mingi x fem!reader

synopsis: Everyone needs their own way of rebelling; even chaebols who have everything find their escape in parties, forbidden social media accounts, fake names, and often their rivals' mouths. content: chaebol au, smau, cussing, suggestive, grammar mistakes // typos, enemies to lovers, friends with benefits, rivals (?), more to be added... featuring: atz: Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Yunho, San, Wooyoung, aespa: Ning Ning, Giselle, txt: Yeonjun, skz: Hyunjin, illit: Yunah, ive: Wonyoung playlist

⭑루안: consider me half settled in at work. very tiring but so much fun. SO WE HAVE A NEW SERIES COMING UP. I HOPE I CAN STAY ON TRACK WITH IT. this one is going to be a fun ride pls be intrigued. also what is up with me and calling all the avengers for my fics, bro why am i including half of the industry

teaser next->

MASTERLIST

who the heck's saki?

000. protect them dolls

000. the standard

000. family matters

—

001. 1-800 you fucking wish

002. [redacted]

003. [redacted]

more to be announced...

taglist (open): @belongjoong @kisssan @strhwa @thatateezgirl @karlee10261990 @stxrrywoo @minkieater @moooonandroses @redemptions @seeyouinheaveen @frayaatiny @yuyyunx @rhea-sylvea @danielle143 @vernorica123

© 2026 way2jellyous

[mulloey]

can’t stop thinking about your latest fic. i really love this concept. will you be making more parts? if so can you delve more into their sexual relationship? I think it’d be so hot.

in my head they definitely have a dom sub dynamic, maybe a service top, bratty bottom. I can see yunho have to resort to a lot of restrictive positions like collapsed doggy or headlocks so she doesn’t bite him in the heat of it. he probably uses gags for the same reason which she probably hates.

i imagine she either has to keep her hands visible at all times or has to have her nails trimmed before so she’s not scratching chunks out of him for a little snack later.

i imagine yunho used things like a shock collars and belts for training purposes. like he’ll put his fingers in her mouth and go a little harder to see if she’ll lose her composure and bite, then ZAP!

he probably also has an extensive dental care routine that she hates as much as baths for if he’s feeling more emotional and wants to kiss during. I bet tongue kissing required its own kind of training, and just as much belts.

you and i are truly on the same wavelength wow yes

dom/sub being an actual type of play/dynamic likely wouldn’t be the right word here because it is (or should be) so rooted in consent, but in terms of them being dominant and submissive that’s definitely true. hes in charge and she isn’t. there’s a power differential there, except she hasn’t asked for or consented to it, and given her mental capacity she couldn’t if she wanted to bc she doesn’t have the understanding. like she didn’t even know what a woman was until yunho told her. but youre so right that the power differential they have and this dynamic of him controlling and dominating her absolutely would extend to bedroom stuff, whatever it is they may do.

and the biting… yeah he’s definitely taking some measures to restrict that bc hes seen how and what you eat. he must have a huge amount of trust, either in you or (probably more likely) the effectiveness of the deterrents hes implemented, to let your mouth near him, especially his dick. or maybe he just didn’t have the restraint to keep a pretty girl in his house and not fuck her

i can see him gagging you; it would have to be a pretty thick leather one though or you’d bite through it. rubber i suppose would work, but you’d chomp straight through a ball gag or anything plastic/too flimsy. i think whatever one he has for you probably looks quite medieval lol, but yeah you’d definitely hate it. he avoids it when he can because he doesn’t actually like having to do things to you that you don’t want, he just sometimes has to. collapsed doggy would be a good way of avoiding it, he can just press his weight on you to keep you restrained, but for headlocks, which i definitely think happen sometimes, that’s when he’d probably be using a gag because you’ve been known to chew on his arm when hes in there deep and he doesn’t trust you not to take a proper bite out of him

and the hand/nails thing? ur so right. he’s definitely trimming your nails regularly. hands restrained or held where he can see them while he’s touching you. he’s very strict about that. he’s definitely threatened to shave down/pull out your teeth before though of course he wouldn’t, you’d die of starvation, but the threat of keeping you gagged except when you’re eating would be just as effective and much more realistic so he’d probably played that card a bit more. maybe he’s had to actually follow through once and the experience was unpleasant enough that you seem to have learned. especially if you were getting other punishments too. imagine being belted and you can’t even scream properly? goodness me

shock collars would be a yes. or at least something he’s thought about. but he’s confident in his ability to keep you contained without them and bc he’s not entirely sure you’re human he wants to avoid doing things that are overly risky to you bc he doesn’t know what would and wouldn’t cause real harm to you. so again, perhaps shock collars would exist more as a threat than an actual possibility, but you never know. maybe one day you start to deteriorate. maybe you start going feral again, maybe you get fed up of being here and start getting angry at him or even trying to leave. at that point he’d have no choice, would he? he has to keep you safe. it’s not even that hard of a shock, don’t be dramatic about it. it’s for your own good

training, yeah, you’ve been trained. maybe that’s part of why you view sucking his dick as a reward, because you were only allowed to do it after a lot of hard painful training. though i can also see you viewing it as a reward simply because he told you it was. the only things you yourself detest are cold baths and beltings, both of which hurt, but if he’s always presented them as a negative consequence then maybe it’s more because of that that you hate them? are you capable of hating things fully independently? it’s hard to say. you don’t like baths at all, but perhaps it’s the connection you draw with cold baths. but who knows. you wouldn’t be able to articulate it either way

the dental routine, yeah. he has a nice non toxic soap that he uses to wash your mouth before it goes near him, and i’d imagine he brushes your teeth for you as well. he’d get the whole inside of your mouth, teeth tongue gums, the roof of it too. sometimes your gums end up bleeding but it’s not the first time he’s seen you with a mouth full of blood. definitely anything mouth related had belts involved. it took you a good few beatings to be able to kiss him without trying to chew on his lips or tongue. maybe he had a routine to teach you; kiss him how he tells you to, and if he feels your teeth on his tongue of lips, he pulls away turns you around and lands, let’s say 5-10 lashes on your ass and thighs. pulls down your panties for it or maybe pulls them up with his hand so they’re bunched between your cheeks to make sure you feel it properly. it’s for your own good though. you need to learn how to make him happy

yeah i definitely want to write more about this couple for sure. thank you for sending me this you’ve absolutely just planted a seed

i just realised i switched pov after the first paragraph LMFAO my bad yall know what i mean

[lizalic1ous]

Concept Photos - Ateez Maknae Line

Ateez Hyung Line x Reader (separate).

When the new comeback photos come out you make sure your boyfriend sees your reaction even if he isn't with you.

Warnings: MNDI! This is suggestive content so consume at your own risk.

18 screenshots.

Hyung Line Maknae Line

Anyone else see Hongjoong in a biker helmet... Yeah me too. I will be temporarily in psychosis if you need me.

Taglist: @pineapple-burgah @hanscheesecakeuh @stvrlight0801 @astrayapple @mrsx-alberich