彡.。.:* aki ・☆彡

turn around and around and come find me again

[shuastar]

wrong thing, classic (kmg; pt 1)

pairing: college au (sigma tau president/student council president!mingyu x kappa alpha theta president/dean's advising board president!reader) wc: 23.3k warnings: p in v; protected sex!!!! (do not tap if not wrapped); some heavy makeout seshes (seshs?); some fingering, oral (m & f receiving), orgasm control if u squint; nipple play if u squint; multiple orgasms; mingyu pretending hes in control; mingyu being pussydrunk; big dick!mingyu (hes mean w it); that should be it but tbh u know me i probs forgot smth a/n: ik this is really long first part but trust me when i say its worth it. also this fic is just long in general so...

part 1

You already know what this is before you even open the email. 

Urgent: Gala Collaboration Meeting

It has one red exclamation point that flashes like a little disco ball in the order of the subject and Dean Whitaker’s specialty all-caps and bolded title looks especially menacing this Thursday afternoon.

You really should be used to it by now: the steady expectation that you’ll fix things, polish the mess, make it all appear effortless. But the irritation still blooms, dull and familiar, beneath your ribs. And it’s fine. Really, it is. Even if you’re 89% convinced that your partner for this “collaboration project” is going to be the fucking hunk of an idiot you’re usually paired with. 

The dean’s office smells faintly of carpet cleaner and too much coffee. The overhead lights are sharp enough to make everything look sterile, and the door is cracked open already, and you can hear the muffled conversation between the devil’s incarnate and Dean Whitaker. 

You push open the door. 

Mingyu sits in the chair opposite the dean’s desk, one ankle balanced over his knee, posture a lazy sprawl that somehow still looks deliberate. The first thing you notice, despite yourself, is the way light hits his forearm when he moves. He looks tanner than three periods ago, which you chalk up to him either hitting his frat’s secret tanning salon or something. Either that or he went tanning at the beach, which is only slightly more believable than the secret tanning salon. His sleeves are rolled, his shirt half-open, some type of weird oil thing somehow glistening on his neck. Tanning oil?

Whatever. 

He glances up, eyes flicking to you before the smile follows – slow, practiced, familiar. The kind that should bounce off your irritation but it really doesn’t. It actually digs in a little more. 

“Ah, Y/n,” the dean hums, tone too cheerful. “Right on time. Sit, please.” 

You clear your throat, pulling out the other sofa with a pointed look towards Mingyu when he grins at you. 

You lower yourself into the chair beside him. The air feels crowded when you sit, your presence brushing up against his without ever really touching. He smells warm and woody, something cedar and musk (and a hint of some type of secondhand Axe bodyspray), and the faint sound of scraping of his watch against the armrest is louder than it should be. 

The dean speak, words blurring into a rhythm you already know by heart: event, collaboration, chaos, deadline. 

“The Spring Gala,” she says, with a pointed look between the two of you. “In three weeks. We’d like your organizations to co-host.” 

You blink and try to shove the high-pitched and questionable sound back into the depths of your throat. “Co-host,” you repeat, flat. 

The Spring Gala was never co-host. It was either you or him. Never both. 

Beside you, Mingyu’s grin curves up as she leans forward. “Sounds like a party, Dean W.” 

You glance at him, grimacing. “Or a logistical nightmare,” you mutter. 

“Sorry what? Thought you said nightmare,” Mingyu shoots back. 

You scoff, arms folding. “Yeah, I said you’re a fu- nightmare.” 

He laughs softly, the kind that means he’s not really taking you seriously. It prickles at the edge of your composure. 

Dean Whitaker clears her throat, looking pointedly between the two of you. “Clearly you two have just demonstrated why we need two organizers for this year’s Spring Gala.” She folds her hands together. “Y/n, your sorority’s track record with events is stellar. Mingyu, it’s safe to say your fraternity’s network is unmatched on this campus, though the deans would really prefer if you would use it to host more underage friendly functions and not just supply booze for all fraternity socials.” 

You take small joy in seeing Mingyu sheepishly laugh. 

Dean Whitaker suppresses a smile. “I expect a good Spring Gala from the two of you. Yes?” 

Mingyu leans forward, elbows on his knees with the stupidest smile on his face. “We’ll make it happen, Dean,” he says easily, voice a shade too confident and airy. He turns to you, cheek against his palm. “Right, Y/n?” 

You turn to him, legs crossing. Your brows narrow. “We’ll get it done,” you reply, clipped. 

“Same thing,” he shrugs. Infuriating, really. 

Dean Whitaker doesn’t seem to notice the strain in your silence of thinly pursed lips. “Good,” she hums, reaching for something inside of her desk drawer. “Then I’ll expect a draft of your proposal by Friday.” She slides a blue folder across the desk. 

Almost immediately, you both reach for it.

His fingertips brush yours. 

It’s a second too long before either of you move. His fingers are warm, calloused, and when he finally lets go, you’re overcome with some strange urge to go and wash your hand. 

“I can take that,” he mumbles.

You click your tongue, laughing. “No, I’ve got it.” You pull the folder to your side.

“No, really, I can take it,” Mingyu rebuts, dragging the folder across the table to his side.

You glare at him. “No, really, Min-”

“-Finish this outside, would you?” You selectively ignore the Dean’s tone of amusement. 

Mingyu’s brows furrow. “Dean Whit–”

Before he can finish his sentence, you jerk the folder towards you and wrench it out from under his hand, tucking it close against your chest like a shield. You scramble to your feet, chair thick against the carpeted floor. Your chin tilts up just the slightest. You’re not too proud of how Dean Whitaker shakes her head at the two of you (mostly you, but you digress). 

“I’ll send you the meeting schedule,” you say, words clipped and final. 

Mingyu huffs, hand brushing through his hair as he rises as well, rolling his eyes. “Looking forward to it,” he replies, and when you turn towards the door, you swear you hear him mumble a quiet “your majesty” and Dean Whitaker’s soft snort of laughter, but you chalk it up to sleep deprivation from studying through two nights in a row. 

You didn’t have enough caffeine in your system for a full fight anyways. 

And then, just as you reach the threshold, his voice follows close behind like some unstable, annoying ghost: “They’re cleaning the left side.” 

You pause. “Of what?” 

“The hallway,” Mingyu says easily, arms crossed, looking down at you now. “Thought you’d like to know, considering you always take the left side.” 

You squint up at him, before scoffing. 

“Text me the meeting times?” His stupid voice. 

You don’t look back. 

“Can’t fucking wait,” you grumble.

You walk on the right. 

Just to prove him wrong. 

The folder digs into your ribs, an edge of cardboard pressed hard against the spot between your third and fourth rib bone. It serves as a small, physical reminder of the mistake (and future pain) of what you’ve just agreed to live through. 

The hallway right outside of the Office of the Deans is too bright and the sound of sudden chatter echoes down the hall. Laughter spills from somewhere down the corridor. It’s an effortless and careless sound that makes your skin crawl. You can still feel the weight of Mingyu’s stare clinging to your shoulder blades and hear his shoes against the marble of the hallway. 

Three weeks. 

Three weeks of meetings, of negotiations, of pretending not to notice the way his entire frat starts to whisper when you walk into your Econ class. 

You can hear the lingering echo of your final exchange. And the memory drags like sandpaper across your nerves. The smug warmth of it. The easy confidence, as if he already knows you’ll play along with whatever he has in store for you. 

When you get to the next turn of the hallway, you stifle a groan. One of the reasons you never take the left side is because the right side is longer, looping around the east wing before cutting back towards the student lounge. But whatever. It’s a small rebellion – stupid and invisible to his eyes. You imagine him noticing anyway, that slow grin tugging at his mouth and the way his eyebrows scrunch when he thinks that something you’re doing is useless. It makes you walk faster. 

When you jerk open the doors to the student lounge, it’s blessedly empty. One low lamp hums in the corner, and the fluorescent ceiling lights flicker faintly like a warning. 

God, you told Amiyah to change those lights weeks ago. 

You stare up at one flickering light, standing in the middle of the entrance carpet for a good minute before you click your tongue and move away, shaking your head. 

Clearly you’re already losing it. 

You trudge over to the nearest table, dropping your bag down. The sound is too loud in the quiet. Then the folder – the fucking folder – lands beside your crumpled bag, papers shifting like they’re mocking you for having to work on this instead of studying for your Urban Planning 401 class. 

You exhale, sharp and uneven. The irritation tastes metallic in your mouth. Three weeks. Three weeks of Mingyu’s charm masquerading as competence. Three weeks of that half-laugh, that tilt of his head when he’s pretending to listen as he plays Clash Royale under the table. Three weeks of forcing your eyes off of his eyes when he runs into the group study room, fifteen minutes late with the excuse that he was helping someone benchpress four plates, whatever that means. Three weeks of trying to ignore how good he smells when he brushes past you in the cafe pick-up line, only to look back and give you the goofiest grin and wave you hello. Three weeks of stifling sighs because you’ve learned over the years that the more you sigh, the more eager he gets to overcompensate. 

You pull out your phone from your pocket. Your reflection glints in the black screen – eyes sharp, mouth set. You fix a lash cluster with your nail. You unlock your phone to a new message. 

Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau): it’s mingyu just in case u deleted my number

He’s so fucking annoying. Every time you do a group thing he does this: retexts his name to you, as if you’d delete his number after every single group project. He’s been in at least three of your classes each year, and that’s minus all the other socials and functions you have to plan and throw together. It’s be a terrible waste of time if you deleted his number after every single time. 

You roll your eyes as you type out your text. 

You: library 7pm. don’t be late

The reply comes so fast like he’d been waiting for your text. 

Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau): need to set up for a party at 7 babe how about 8

Your thumb stills over the keyboard and you push down the urge to throw your phone across the room. 

Babe? Babe? The word is too casual. Too warm. It’s one thing hearing it be yelled across campus and another thing reading it on your phone in the quiet of the student lounge. Like he has the right to shape it around your name. Like you’re dating or something. 

You type slowly, each word a pin pushed through your irritation. 

You: 7 or dont bother

When you hit send, you take small pride in how the three dots appear immediately, pulsing like a heartbeat. 

Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau): damn ur wound up 😂

You can almost see it – him leaning back in his stupid gaming chair, tapping that message out one-handed, that lazy smirk tugging at his lips. He probably thinks this is funny. You, the overachiever. Him, the fun one. 

Your jaw tightens. 

How the fuck were you going to get through these three weeks. 

You:  im not wound up im efficient

idiot frat boy: sure u probably even alphabetize ur sock drawer

Your scoff, pulling out your chair, one leg pulled up to your chest. 

You can picture the way he’d say it – voice low and teasing, his stupid cute dimples showing on his cheeks. And you hate that your stomach feels a little twisty at the thought of him smiling. 

You:  at least i HAVE a sock drawer

You send it before you can fully think about what your retort even means. After two times of quick re-scanning, you conclude that Mingyu will have no idea what you’re saying because you have no idea what you meant by that. It’s just childish and petty. 

idiot frat boy: and here i thought u were above frat boy joke

You snort, the sound breaking through the silence. 

You: i am ironic considering deanwhit paired me w one

This time, the pause before the three dots is longer. Long enough for your thumb to press long on the text you just sent, wishing you could just delete it or just have never sent it. Long enough to make your pulse jump. There was no way you had actually hurt–

idiot frat boy: yeah sure whatever youd miss me if i wasnt there

The words sit there, bright against your screen. You read them once, twice. You shouldn’t react – not really. But something uncoils anyway. It’s not really irritation but rather some sort of strange heat of being seen too clearly. Even if you didn’t say anything. 

Because he’s not really wrong. 

Because even though he’s a stupid idiot, he notices. 

He notices everything. From the way you color code your notes to the way your take your coffee (no coffee, either tea or matcha with oat milk), to the fucking side of the hallway you walk on. And the way you always arrive early because “I can choose my seat” when the real reason is because it gives you a false sense of control. 

So you don’t reply. 

You shove your phone as low as it’ll go in your bag and tell yourself that you have better things to do – that you’re busy. 

7:07 PM

The library hums with that hollow kind of silence that makes every sound too loud. Even the clock on the wall in the study room you booked in the afternoon sounds impatient – tick, tick, tick, tick – carving the air into uneven slices of time. 

You’ve been here since 6:30. 18:30. Not because you needed to be, but you were worried that the study room wouldn’t be cleaned up before your time and you also needed to finish your paper for your Architecture in the Urban Spheres class. 

Your notes are spread across the table. Printouts are stacked by priority and the clear folders stacked on one side are for your newest spring Rush girls, which you need to go back and package into the envelopes June hopefully actually bought. Your laptop glows in soft color, opened to an excel sheet that you shared with Mingyu last night (which he responded with a literal thumbs up across the student computer section of Welles Library. 

Blue sections out venues, green for caterers, yellow for budget lines (which you’ve triple-checked), and you’ve even added in a backup vendor tab, just in case Mingyu’s “connections” inevitably flakes. The excel sheet soothes you. Order. Predictability. Control. 

Yet the one thing you somehow cannot control stays in the circumference of your peripheral. 

The chair across from you stays terribly empty and the longer it does, the tighter your chest feels with either anger, frustration, exasperation, or all three, nevermind that they’re all synonyms. 

He’s late. Of course he’s late. 

Your fingers drum against the wood. You try to focus on the spreadsheet, which has only been edited by you. You focus on the tidy little numbers that don’t talk back or flirt or show up with those stupid acid-wash jeans or those stupid muscled arms in that stupid tight, white tank. Like he’s some model rolling out of a GQ photoshoot. But the thought of him, in all of his golden, unbothered somehow puppy-like thing keeps interrupting your focus. 

The image of him as he was in class that morning (your last class with him, which would be your Architecture in Urban Spheres class), burns through your mind as you stare blankly at your screen. Black sweatpants that you swear Lyon was complaining about having to wait three hours for just to get a glimpse of in the Tokyo Chrome Hearts store, paired with a cream quarter zip and Nikes. He had on his black cap that he wears when he’s hungover from the night before and those black frame glasses that sometimes just really made his eyes–

No. What the hell? 

You should not be thinking about–

The door creaks open. A burst of cooler air slips in before the sound of sneakers on polished tile. 

You look up. 

He’s in the same black sweatpants and a dark navy blue Ralph Lauren sweater. 

You have the exact same one. 

It’s really unfair how he looks better in it than you. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice smooth and easy. “Traffic.” 

You glance at the clock behind you and then back at him with a raised eyebrow. “You walked here.” 

The chair scrapes against the floor as he pulls it out, loud enough to echo through the entire study floor. He drops into it like it’s his living room couch, bag thunking against the table. 

He gives you a silly little smile as he sits, pushing up his glasses. “M not late,” he says, canines showing. “You’re early.” 

He sets something in front of you – a coffee up. When you raise your brows, he rolls his eyes, sighing, and opens the cap. A hot matcha greets you, a little foamy at the edges. It’s sprinkled with cinnamon. 

You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it. 

“Oat milk, Nakamura Tokichi on medium. Right?” He phrases it as a question but the way his eyes sparkle with knowing makes you just a teensy bit annoyed (after you’re just the slightest bit impressed). He turns the cup around so you can see the Sharpie-d in order on the side of the cup. “Am I the best partner or what?” he laughs, pushing the cup to you, bringing out his own. His is some kind of iced coffee. 

You blink at your cup, then at him. 

His hair is damp, dark strands curling just enough to look accidental. The scent coming off of him is clean, sharp – something sea-side misty with a hint of some type of Creed cologne. You can only stare as he pulls off his sweater, mumbling about the room being hotter than outside, and straightens his shirt underneath. It’s unbuttoned until three buttons from the throat, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and there’s a thin silver chain glinting at the base of his neck that you swear you’ve seen before, but you’re not too sure where. He throws the sweater onto the back of another chair, grinning at you as he pulls out his computer. 

“So?” 

You squint. “Seven means seven.” 

He shrugs. “And yet,” he gestures at the table, “here we both are. Right on schedule.” 

You ignore the steaming opened matcha. You ignore him. You point to thes spreadsheet as you turn your computer around, trying also to ignore how he blinks at the lack of table space to place his computer on. You try to not snap when he just starts stacking stuff to the side. 

“Mingyu,” you sigh. 

“Hm?” 

“We have three weeks.” 

He hums, leaning back in his chair. “Plenty of time, I know.” 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying to not let out yet another sigh. “The venue,” you say, “needs to be booked by Monday.” You point to another tab. “The caterer finalized by Wednesday.” Another tab. “The invitations by–”

“-Y/n,” he interrupts, voice lower now, softer. He sips his coffee. “Breathe.” 

You blink, reeling back like he just slapped you. “Excuse me?” 

“We’re not curing cancer,” he says, lips tugging upwards. “We’re planning a party. You know, like the ones you hold after Rush?” 

You bristle. “It’s not a party. It’s a gala. With donors and alumni and faculty and the deans.” You choose to ignore the statement about the thing about Rush. 

“So?” His tone is light, teasing, but he doesn’t look away from you. “It’ll be fine. Trust.” 

“It’ll be fine if we do it right.” 

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment like he’s memorizing something you didn’t mean to show him. Then he says, soft but deliberate, “It’ll be fine because we’re doing it.” 

You exhale sharply, trying to not dwell on the way he accents “we’re.” 

“You’re insufferable,” you grumble. 

He laughs. Quiet and low in his throat – the kind that rolls through your body starting from your chest. “I’ve been called worse.” 

You grab your pen, maybe a little too tightly, the cheap plastic cracking under your grip. 

His eyes flick down. “You just–”

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Can you please just–”

“-Focus?” he finishes for you, leaning forward now, elbows braced on the table. The movement brings him close. Close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw and the flecks of honey in his eyes and the way his golden skin shines under the library’s study room lights. 

“I am focusing,” he says. 

His eyes are really pretty. 

“On the spreadsheet,” you hiss. 

He hums, his voice dipping lower. “I dunno. I’m good at multitasking.” He gives you a sly grin, poking your hand. 

You feel the heat crawl up your neck before you can stop it. You don’t even know what to do with your hands after you slap his fingers off your skin. 

Quietly, to yourself, you mutter, “I am not worked up.” 

His grin widens, slow and dangerous, and you know he’s heard what you said. “Never said you were.” His knee bumps yours under the table, lingering. “But if you were, I’d take it as a compliment.” 

You should pull away. You should. But your body refuses to obey. You grab the matcha instead, the heat searing your tongue, and swallow. 

“I hate you,” you mumble, glaring at him. 

Mingyu laughs again, soft this time, like he can’t help it. He grabs the pen from your fingers, twirling it around in his hand. “And yet,” he murmurs, “here you are. Still sitting across from me.” 

You don’t have a comeback. 

You hate that you don’t. 

It’s quiet between you for a heavy beat. You can feel his leg brush up against yours under the table, hesitate, and then pull away almost sheepishly. You watch him pull your laptop towards him, scrolling through the spreadsheet as if he’s yielded to you. You try to not flinch when he nods, flipping the computer back, reaching across the table for the list in front of you, warm fingers brushing yours. And that stupid smile making his stupid handsome face light up. 

“Alright,” he sighs, mock surrender, “We’ll do this your way.” 

The words linger between you, thick with something neither of you will admit to. With something neither of you have admitted to. Your pulse beats against your throat, and you’re half-sure that Mingyu can hear it in the thick silence of the room. 

And the worst part is that you like it. 

You like it so much that you wordlessly let him mess with your colored tabs. 

You hate that you like it. 

You hate it so much that you can’t pull away. 

monday; 9:26 AM

You’re late. 

Not by much – 25 minutes, maybe – but it digs into you. You’ve never been late to class. 

You really don’t care, it’s just one class. But the universe has a sick sense of humor and today it decided to test how much you could take in the morning. 

Your alarm didn’t go off, first of all, and then your foamer broke mid-whir and your matcha splattered all across your white sweater. And somewhere between the crosswalk and the architecture building, you dropped your favorite (and only) pen and a scooter ran over it and you watched as it snapped clean in two. And when you bent down to grab and throw it away, someone stepped on the hem of your skirt and left dirt marks on the back hem of it. 

The skirt was like 70 dollars. 

So by the time you reach the doors to the lecture hall, you’ve given up on trying to dust the dirt off of the pale blue, and you can hear the hum of the room on the other side, the professor already mid-lecture. 

You inhale once, twice, trying to smooth out the angry thump of your pulse. Then, you push open the door just wide enough to slip through. 

The hinges creak so loud that at least the entire back half of the room turns in their seat to look up at you. 

Your cheeks burn. 

When you slip in, the room is much brighter than the hallway and every seat is filled. The air smells faintly of cold coffee and printer ink and the faint musk of too many people in close quarters. You scan the rows from the back once, twice, three times. 

You can almost scream when you finally see it. 

And then see the person sitting right beside the only open chair in the entire 150-person lecture hall. 

Mingyu, leaning back in his chair like he’d rather be anywhere else, one long arm draped along the backrest, a pen spinning and spinning between his fingers. It’s really just carelessness. His hair falls over his forehead in small waves, a stark contrast to the Brutalist architecture on the projector screen. He’s wearing a soft gray sweatshirt with the university logo, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, the fabric stretching across the width of his god-given shoulders like it’s trying to keep up with his every movement. 

He lifts his head. 

And then he’s looking right at you. 

The moment your eyes meet, his mouth curves. It’s not a full smile, but it’s that almost-smile. The one he uses when he gloats on you or wants to say I knew this would happen! with that stupid little lilt and lisp of his words.

Your bottled-up sigh whines to be let free from your lungs and you seem to be stuck in your place at the back of the room. 

There are other options. Technically. 

You could stand. 

You could drop out. 

You could fake an asthma attack and run. 

You could leave and move those fucking creaking hinges again. 

But then the professor glances up, the briefest flicker of irritation in her eyes, and you know the only thing worse than sitting next to Mingyu would be sitting next to Mingyu after you’ve drawn more attention to yourself. 

So, you walk down the aisle stairs, chin up, bag strap digging into your shoulder, eyes tracking you, steps too loud, and watching as Mingyu’s grin widens with each footfall. 

You stop in his row, mumbling apologies as you squeeze past the legs of at least 5 other people to reach the one empty seat. 

You don’t look directly at him, but you can feel the teasing gaze. 

You slide into your seat with as much dignity as you can manage.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Wonwoo – normally Mingyu’s seatmate – now half-turned in the chair right next to yours, squeezed uncomfortably close to another student. He gives you a little nod. 

You pull your laptop from your bag. The screen flares bright white before it flashes to a picture of you and your double figure skating partner on the ice. It’s a flimsy barrier between you and the six feet of smugness to your left. 

Mingyu doesn’t say a word at first. You can feel his amusement radiating off of him and hear the subtle scrape of his chair as he shifts just enough to angle himself towards you. 

When he finally speaks, it’s low. 

“Didn’t think I’d live to see the day,” he murmurs, voice warm, a smile curling beneath it. 

You stare straight ahead, fingers tight on your keyboard. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” 

“Start.” 

He leans in slightly, just enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours. His cologne is faint, the same light, ocean breeze mixed with his Creed perfume. It catches in your throat in the best way. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he hums, though his grin tells a different story. “I’m just proud of you. Growth, you know?” his grin widens. “Being fashionably late looks good on you. You even had enough time to get dirt on the back of your skirt.” 

You type harder than necessary, the clack of keys cutting through his laughter. 

Wonwoo glances over when you hit the backspace key with too much force, brows raised. 

The professor says something about taking out your worksheets, which you do, after rummaging in your overflowing folders for it. 

The professor keeps talking about Brutalist architecture in Russia, but you can’t hear a word. The only thing you can focus on is the warmth beside you, the occasional creak of Mingyu’s chair as he shifts, the way your heartbeat syncs annoyingly with the rhythm of his pen tapping. 

You stare at the worksheet and pretend you don’t notice the way his arm brushes the edge of your desk. Pretend you don’t notice him glancing at you from the corner of his eye. Pretend that sitting next to him doesn’t feel like standing too close to an open flame and that this proves absolutely nothing about you. Well, actually no. This is why you’ve gone out of your way to sit away from him through every single class you’ve had together. 

When you finally come-to (after the Professor accidentally drops her textbook), you glance down again. 

Right. No pen.

You reach into your bag automatically, going through loose papers and dried-out ink cartridges and the small box of architecture models. No backup. You close your eyes briefly, the exhale slipping out high-pitched between your teeth. 

You turn Wonwoo, poking his bicep. 

“Wonwoo,” you whisper, “Can I borrow a pen?” 

He looks up, startled, glasses falling down his nose, like you’ve just asked for the answer to life itself. “Uh… I don’t have–" His eyes dart to something behind you. "Yeah, I don’t have another pen, sorry.” He gives you a sheepish grin. 

You breathe out through your nose, fighting the urge to groan. 

When you look up again, Mingyu’s already holding one out like he’d been waiting for the moment you’d need it. The pen glides faintly in the overhead light, his fingers steady. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just tilts it towards you with a little flick of his wrist, brows raised. Ironically, it’s the same pen as you have – or had, since it broke. 

You stare at it like it's a trap. 

Then, inevitably, he grins. “Take it. Or are you gonna use your own blood for the notes instead?” 

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. You snatch it from his fingers. 

“Thanks,” you mutter. 

“Anytime,” he murmurs, voice warm and soft in a way that sneaks under your guard. The words should sound cocky but they don’t. They sound genuine, like he actually means it. 

You force your attention forward, gripping the pen too tightly. It writes smoothly, annoyingly so. You can feel him next to you, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the cologne drifting from his sweatshirt. It’s maddening. 

He’s focused, though. More than you expect, at least. His handwriting sprawls across the page in sharp, uneven angles, letters looping around in his cursive. He underlines, stars, annotates. You catch glimpses of small doodles in the margins—a sketch of a coffee cup, a tiny basketball hoop, a half-drawn cat. It’s ridiculous, and weirdly endearing.

You hate that it’s endearing.

You hate that he’s endearing.

He shifts slightly, elbow brushing yours. The smallest touch, but your pulse stumbles.

“You good?” he murmurs without looking up, pen still gliding. 

“Fine,” you say too quickly. 

“You sure?” His voice dips lower, smooth as velvet, teasing. “You’re staring.” 

Your breath catches, head whipping towards him. “I am not–”

“-You are.” He turns his head just enough for you to catch the curve of his mouth, the faintest dimple in his cheek. “Don’t worry. It’s…” he trails off, “cute.” 

You glare at the whiteboard like you can burn through it and hope and pray that he can’t see your cheeks heat up. 

He chuckles, quiet, under his breath. 

You try to ignore him. You really do (not). 

Your gaze drifts again, unbidden, to his notebook. He’s scribbling something between his neat bullet points, the handwriting a little slanted. 

Ask me for my notes later :)

You blink. Then, despite everything you have in yourself, your lips twitch. You bite the inside of your cheek to hide it, but it’s too late. 

He sees. 

His shoulder bumps yours, gentle. 

“See?” he murmurs, not looking at you. His next words are so casual that it doesn’t register until five seconds later. “I was right. You look good when you smile.” 

You don’t reply. It’s too late anyways. That and you don’t trust your voice to work. So, you just keep writing, heart pounding too loud, pretending the warmth in your chest is irritation. 

Pretending that you don’t notice the way Mingyu’s still watching you, out of the corner of his eye. 

He’s weird today. 

Yes, let’s chalk it up to that. 

He’s in a weirdly good mood or maybe he won beer pong last night, you’re not sure. But it’s confusing. 

You’ve never had this problem before. 

God, what is wrong with you? 

10:17 PM

Your phone buzzes against your desk, cutting through the low hum of music drifting from your speaker. You don’t think much of it until you see the name lighting up your screen. 

idiot frat boy:  notes?  my place?

You blink once. Then twice. 

you:  the library.

You stare at the text like it’ll make his response come in faster. 

idiot frat boy:  the librarys closed

you: then the 24 hr study lounge

idiot frat boy:  have u ever seen anyone talk for more than 1 sec in that place???

you: we're not gonna talk

idiot frat boy: we're not? then how r u gonna get my notes

you: shut up ur frat house is NOT an option

idiot frat boy:  my office is! and its clean scouts honor

you: u were never a scout

idiot frat boy:  details how would u know that so?

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You should say no. You know you should say no. Every rational cell in your body is telling you that this is a bad idea. That being alone with Mingyu, especially after 10 PM, is exactly the kind of decision people in cautionary tales make right before things go batshit crazy. 

But you do need his notes. And it’s not like you’re scared of him. 

Well, not him, per say. 

You type out your answer before you can overthink. 

you: fine. but if its not clean im leaving

idiot frat boy:  its clean mostly 

you:  …

idiot frat boy:  i hid the beer cans happy?

You don’t bother replying. 

Instead, you’re slipping into the nearest pair of ugg tazmans, pulling a clean uni sweater over your head, and spritzing perfume all over you. No shame, really, until you’re halfway out of your sorority house door with a tote over your shoulder with your computer and folders and you swear to God, you hear someone say asking who’s leaving and another person saying that they’re probably going out to fuck. 

You are not fucking. 

The frat office is quieter than you expected. Well, you’ve never really been in the frat house when it’s not in party use, so you guess you wouldn’t really know every-day frat lifestyle anyways. It’s cleaner than you imagined, too. It’s not spotless, but not a disaster: the desk is cleared off exxcept for a half-opened laptop and a stack of flyers for some charity mixer. The couch in the corner looks freshly de-linted, even if a sweatshirt is slung across one arm. The TV is on an episode of Modern Family, volume low and unheard over the music. 

Mingyu’s sprawled in the desk chair, clad in a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up like it usually is, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he scrolls through his phone. There’s a half-empty cup of what looks like a highball sweating beside his laptop, ringed by condensation circles. 

He looks up when you step in, and that smile slides into place effortlessly as he stands. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, like you’re late to something. 

“I had to walk across campus,” you reply, deadpan, dropping your bag onto the desk with a dull thud. 

He rounds the corner of the desk, walking towards you. You hate that when he stretches up, you can see the shadows of his abs. 

“Hey, you chose to walk across campus. I offered to pick you up.” 

“I don’t need a ride.” 

“Was just an offer.” He turns to you, leaning against the desk, close enough to make you aware of how close he actually is. “But you’re here now. Notes?” 

You open your laptop and set it between you like a barrier. “Yeah. Notes.” 

He slides a chair close, knees bumping yours under the desk. His stupid cologne still wafts in the air. He watches as you finalize something on your computer. 

“You always look so serious when you’re working,” he says, after a moment. 

“That’s because I’m working,” you mutter, fingers tapping the trackpad. 

He hums, a soft sound of amusement. “Do you ever do anything halfway?” 

You glance up at him, ready with a tired retort, but the words stick. He’s watching you – not in that lazy, teasing way you’ve come to expect but quieter. His eyes are lingering. 

It’s honestly disarming. You don’t like it. 

“What?” you say sharply. 

He blinks. “Nothing. Just–” he clears his throat, leaning back in his chair, “it’s kinda nice seeing you out of the council office. Or just any academic setting, really. You don’t glare as much in this lighting.” 

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you haven’t said anything too stupid yet.” 

He laughs. “I doubt it.”

You look away. 

He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring at you. “Relax, Hong. It’s just planning and notes.”

He says that, yet it really doesn’t just feel like “just notes.” Actually, scratch that. You know it’s not just notes. You know he knows that too. The air between you hums with the weight of everything unspoken, and it’s way too late for you to be pretending not to see the way he stares at you when he thinks you’re not looking. 

“Here.” He reaches over the desk to grab his computer, typing in the password. When he turns it to you, it’s opened to a Google Doc, class notes typed up neatly. “Copy up. I’m gonna go down and get us beers.” 

You roll your eyes, tugging his computer towards you, scrolling through. “I don’t want beer.” 

Mingyu shrugs. “Well, then I’m gonna get a beer for myself and I’ll bring up more because you’re probably gonna want some.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” you mutter under your breath. 

Mingyu leaves the room with a small click of the door. 

His notes are really good, you realize when you actually start copying them down. And you’re maybe half way through speed-typing it into your computer when his computer dings quietly with a notification. 

An i-message bubble pops up in the corner of his screen. 

won-won:  bro no way u have y/n hong in the FRAT OFFICE

You blink. 

What the hell?

And then, another one. 

wonwon: this is legendary

Your fingers pause. 

cheol hyung: no way y/ns here its like 11  r u guys gonna hook up????

Some weird noise pops out from your throat. 

Literally what the hell were you reading? 

You feel a little violated but at the same time, like you’re violating Mingyu’s privacy. 

kim mingyu's iphone: shut up lol

won-won: u fucking shut up  ur fucking glowing

kim mingyu's iphone: fuck OFF

You keep clicking the ‘x’ button until all the notifications disappear. You don’t react. You’re not sure how to react. 

And then, like the devil himself, the door creaks open and Mingyu strolls in (and you thank God that you don’t flinch), four beer bottles clinking between his fingers. 

“Peace offering,” he says, sliding one towards you. “You look like you’re two seconds away from setting my laptop on fire.” 

You don’t look up. “I am.” 

He laughs, which doesn’t help because it’s infuriatingly charming. He cracks open his beer. “Drink. It’ll help.” 

You should refuse. 

But you don’t. 

Which seems to be the pattern tonight. 

Your fingers over the keyboard for a beat before you snatch the beer, slam the cap on the edge of the desk, and take a long swig. It’s bitter but it’s good. Cold. Foamy. 

When Mingyu gives you a pointed look, you roll your eyes. “This doesn’t mean I like you,” you mutter, setting the bottle down with a clink. 

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, grinning as he drops into the chair beside you. 

You scoff, keys clacking, The Weeknd smoothing over from the speakers. 

By 11:03 PM, you’ve drunk more than a half of your first beer, warmth spreading through your chest as you finish typing up the last of the notes. Mingyu looks up from scrolling through endless TikToks on his phone, amused, as you take another sip and push his laptop toward him. 

“Done,” you state. “Now let’s actually talk about the gala.” 

“It’s pretty late. Thought your bedtime was at eleven,” he teases, taking another sip of beer. 

You roll your eyes. “I’m already here. We might as well make the most of my time.” 

“Your time?”

“Yeah,” you huff, the corners of your lips twitching upwards. “I’m not free, you know.” 

Mingyu lets out a laugh, saluting with his beer before setting it down, grabbing a whiteboard marker. “Yes, ma’am.” He stands. “Themes. Go.” 

You follow him to the whiteboard, grabbing a marker of your own. “I was thinking,” you start, uncapping it and starting to write, “Midnight in Paris.” You circle it. “Classy, timeless, but still fun.” 

Mingyu hums, underlining it. He turns to you with eyebrows raised. “So… lots of black and gold? Chandeliers? French music?” 

“Kind of?” you say, pointing the marker at him. “Maybe not French music.” 

“You’re snobbing out French music now?” he teases, but he’s already scribbling down what you said underneath the theme. “I’m thinking twinkly lights, centerpieces, champagne–”

“-Real champagne,” you correct, taking the last swig of your beer. “None of that cheap frat swill.” 

“Ouch,” he mock-gasps, clutching his chest. “That hurt. We spend fortunes on that ‘cheap frat swill.’”

You roll your eyes but you smile. “Deal with it, frat brat.” 

His grins widens, like you smiling makes him happy or something. Then, he reaches for the other two beer bottles on the desk. “Round two?” 

You should say no. 

But, like clock work, you don’t. 

And by 11:47 PM, the second bottle is almost finished, and the whiteboard is a mess of scribbled ideas: midnight in pairs, great gatsby, enchanted forest, Hollywood glam, masquerade. Mingyu’s gone to doodle stars and other characters in the black white spaces. 

“Okay,” he says, tapping the board, “wait, hear me out. What if we did like a Decades theme? Like, each room is a different era. Like 20’s, 30’s, 80’s–”

“-That’s like ten different themes, Mingyu,” you point out, but you find yourself laughing. 

What the hell is wrong with you?

“It’s versatile,” he counters, stepping closer to you, bicep brushing your shoulder. “And fun.” 

“It’s gonna be chaotic,” you say, but you don’t move away. 

He scoffs. “You love chaos,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to something lower and warmer. 

You should argue. 

But you don’t

Because then he’s right there and his free hand suddenly finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer to him. “Admit it,” he says, breath warm against your ear. “You’re having fun.” 

Honestly?

You are. 

And that seems to be the problem. 

Especially when the analog clock on the desk reads 12:01 AM and both of your beer bottles are empty and the whiteboard holds no more white space and your brain is just about done pretending that whatever is going on is just about the gala. 

The air in the frat office is thick with tension that makes your skin hum. The caps of the whiteboard markers are scattered across the table like abandoned soldiers. Your beer sits empty beside Mingyu’s condensation pooling on the wood, the faint bitter aftertaste still lingering on your tongue. You should’ve stopped at one. You knew better. But you couldn’t turn down a challenge, especially when Mingyu looked at you like he knew you would take it. 

Now, his hand is on your waist, thumb tracing slow and maddening circles over your sweater. Your legs swing from your seat on top of the desk. You should push him away, put some space between you, remind yourself that this is Mingyu – the boy who drives you insane, who teases you relentlessly, who you’ve spent most of your years pretending isn’t hot. 

But the beer has melted the ice around your resolve, and the way his fingers press into your skin, the warmth of his boy so close to yours,  makes your breath catch. 

“So,” he starts, voice quiet from in front of you. He looks down at you but you can’t bring yourself to look up.

“Are we done here, then?” you ask, fiddling with your sweater sleeve. How do you tell someone you don’t want to go without actually saying those words?

“I mean, we can always work on more,” Mingyu replies. You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand is warm. 

You look up, just slightly. Just to brush hair out of your eyes. 

But then, his face is inches from yours and his lips are crashing down. 

It’s not gentle or slow. It’s desperate. Like he’s been waiting to kiss you for months. Like something just snapped in him. 

You really don’t have time to react because his hands tangle in your hair, his fingers curling against your scalp, and you gasp into his mouth as he pulls you closer. Your hands find the front of his hoodie, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. The gala, the notes, the whole world fades into the background. The only thing that matters is the way he kisses you—like he’s starving, like he’s finally getting something he’s wanted for too long.

The whiteboard marker clatters to the floor, rolling away unnoticed.

Mingyu’s chest presses against yours, his heart pounding so hard you can feel it through his hoodie—or maybe that’s yours. His glasses fog up between you, and he pulls back just long enough to yank them off and toss them onto the desk behind him. They clatter against the wood, but neither of you cares.

Then he’s back, his mouth on yours, harder this time, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. You moan, the sound swallowed by his kiss, your fingers tightening in his hair. He groans in response, the vibration humming against your lips, and his hands slide down to your waist, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath your shirt.

You arch into him, your body acting on instinct, chasing the heat, the pressure, the way he makes you feel like you’re burning.

His grip on you is bruising, possessive. He steps between your legs, his thighs pressing against yours, and the table creaks under your weight. You don’t care. His hands slide up your thighs, his thumbs brushing the hem of your sweats, and you shiver, your breath hitching. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours, demanding, taking. It’s embarrassing how you whimper, fingers clawing at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, like you can’t get enough.

The room spins, the air thick with the sound of your ragged breaths, the creak of the table beneath you, the rustle of papers scattering to the floor. His hands roam over your back, his touch searing through the fabric of your shirt, and you melt into him, your body aching for more.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, his voice raw, unsteady. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

You should stop him. You should push him away, tell him this is a bad idea, that you’re supposed to be working, that this changes everything. But then his mouth trails down your jaw, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, and your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.

“Mingyu—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he smirks against your skin, his breath hot, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

It’s ridiculous, how instead of breaking away, you grip his hair and yank him down – his lips back on yours, kissing him harder now. 

His hands slide up your back, under your shirt, his touch searing against your skin. You gasp as his fingers trace the line of your spine, his other hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head just right so he can kiss you deeper.

The table shudders as he steps closer, his thighs pressing against yours, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him flush against you. His hips roll once, and you break—a sound tearing from your throat that’s half moan, half his name.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, his lips swollen, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile.

“This was a mistake,” you breathe, your voice unsteady, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

His grin is wicked, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, his touch light but possessive. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his gaze locked on yours. “Let’s do it again.”

And then his mouth is on yours once more, and this time, there’s no holding back.

His hands are everywhere—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arch into him, a whimper spilling from your lips, and he swallows it, kissing you like he’s starving, like he’ll die if he stops. His hips roll against yours, and you moan, your nails scraping down his back, gripping the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

The room spins, the world narrowing to just this—the heat of his body, the taste of him, the way his hands claim you like he’s been waiting for this forever.

And when his hand slides up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, you melt into him, kissing him back with everything you’ve got—because god, you’ve wanted this, too.

You’ve just been too stubborn to admit it.

His mouth is everywhere—on yours, along your jaw, down the column of your throat—and you melt into him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs parted around him as he steps closer, his hips flush against yours. The table creaks under your weight, but you don’t care. The only thing that matters is the way his touch burns through you, the way his breath hitches when you arch into him, the way his name spills from your lips like a prayer.

One of his hands slides behind you, bracing against the table, his fingers splayed wide as he leans into you, his chest pressing against yours. The other hand—slow, deliberate—traces up your side, his thumb brushing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. Your skin tingles under his touch, your breath catching as his fingers trail higher, higher.

You should stop him.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry, desperate, and you kiss him back with everything you’ve got—because god, you’ve wanted this, too. You’ve just been too stubborn to admit it.

His hand glides up your ribcage, his thumb skimming the underside of your breast, and you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. He groans against your lips, his kiss turning deeper, hotter, as his fingers tease the curve of your breast, his thumb brushing just beneath the swell.

“Y/n—” His voice is rough, a plea, as his hand finally cups you, his thumb grazing over the peak through the thin fabric of your bra.

A sound tears from your throat—half moan, half his name—and his lips crash back onto yours, swallowing it. His touch is firm, possessive, and you shudder, your back arching off the table, your body aching for more.

But then his fingers shift, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and reality hits like a bucket of ice water.

You shove him away.

It’s not hard but Mingyu stumbles back, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run across campus. His lips are swollen from your kiss, hair a mess from your fingers, and his eyes are opened wide – raw like you’ve torn away something delicate from his insides. 

What the hell are you thinking?

“Ohmygod,” you gasp, voice cracking. You press your palms to your cheeks as if you can erase the heat lingering there and the feel of his lips on your jaw. “What am I– what the hell–”

Mingyu doesn’t move. His hands hover in the air between you like he’s not sure if he’s afraid to touch you or afraid to not touch you. His usual light-hearted grin is gone, replaced by a wide-eyed look of shock, mouth parted slightly. Words start tumbling out. 

“Shit. Shit. Shit, Y/n– Y/n I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

“-You did mean to!” Your voice is too loud and too sharp but you can’t stop it. “You always do this! Push and push and push until everything I’ve–” 

You only half-register how unfair this is to him. 

“--No.” He cuts you off, dragging a hand through his hair. His glasses still lay abandoned behind you. “I mean– No, I mean, I wanted to. But not like– like this. Not if you–” he swallows hard, his throat working. “Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have–” 

You can only stare at him, catching your breath. 

You’re being unfair, really, you know. You kissed him back as hard, if not harder, than he kissed you. And he sounds genuine and he looks so wrecked, fingers pulling at his hair, and he looks so sorry. He’s just standing there like you’ve gutted him or something. But your brain is fuzzy and you can’t focus on more than one thing and you can’t bring yourself to care about what’s fair and what’s not. 

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin as you pull your bra back into place and your sweater back down. You can still taste him on your lips when your tongue darts out. It makes your stomach twist. 

Mingyu looks down at his feet, almost shamefully. 

Some part of you twinges with guilt. 

It’s not really his fault (even though he did kiss you first and he didn’t even get consent like you learned during your freshmen year sex-ed orientation). Although, you guess moaning his fucking name like some prostitute was consent enough. 

“I’m leaving,” you mutter out, words leaving your lips strangled. You slide off the table, legs feeling unsteady. You shove your laptop and folders into your bag before sliding it over your shoulder. 

Mingyu doesn’t stop you. He kind of just moves to the side. 

He just stands there as you brush out your hair with shaking hands. “Y/n…” 

“Don’t,” you snap, not looking at him. “Just, don’t.” 

You storm to the door, shaking still as you reach for the knob. You can’t believe you let him kiss you. You’re halfway out the door when he speaks again, so softly that you almost miss it:

“Fucking idiot, Mingyu.” 

You freeze. 

Just for a second. 

His back it to you. 

And his words are directed at himself. 

And the way he says it, like he’s disgusted with himself, like he’s kicking himself for ruining whatever that was, makes something in your chest ache. 

But you yank the door open completely and slip out into the quiet hallway, your mind racing. The walk back down to the front door of the frat house feels like the walk of shame. Or well, what could have been an actual walk of shame, had you not come to your senses. Seriously, something was genuinely wrong with you. 

When the front door closes behind you, your heated face meeting the cool night air, your phone clock reads 12:34 AM. 

Clearly way past your bedtime. 

---

mingyu; 8:49 PM

The frat house kitchen is a disaster: half-unpacked cases of beer, a countertop littered with red Solo cups, and the faint but unmistakable scent of spilled vodka mixing with the lemon cleaner someone sprayed earlier in a futile attempt to disguise the stench of last weekend’s debauchery. Mingyu leans against the chipped laminate counter, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the edge. His mind is still stuck on you. Even after spending three hours in the gym and running the circumference of campus at least twice. 

“Yo, earth to Mingyu.” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through his thoughts, accompanied by the thud of another case of beer hitting the counter. “You’ve been staring at the wall for like ten minutes. What’s up?” 

Mingyu blinks, forcing himself back to the present. “Nothing.” 

Wonwoo snorts, appearing from down the hall. He reaches for a beer can, popping the tab off and sliding it towards Mingyu. “I call bullshit,” he hums, pushing his glasses up. “You’ve been like this since Friday, man. Did Y/n Hong finally like snap and break up your weird ass enemies to lovers shit? Is that why you’re all mopey?” 

Mingyu snatches the can, his fingers tightening around it. “We’re not a fucking K-Drama. And no,” he says pointedly, “she didn’t ‘break up.’”

“But I bet she wanted to,” Seungcheol says, grinning as he leans against the counter beside Mingyu. “What’d you do? Tell her you think her folders are stupid or something?” 

“Yeah, right,” Mingyu huffs, taking a long sip. The beer does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. 

Wonwoo’s brows raise. “So?” 

“Worse,” Mingyu groans. 

“Oh. So that’s why she stormed out of here like you set her hair on fire. You–” 

Seungcheol interrupts with wide eyes. “-You finally made a move?” 

Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the can in his hands, the condensation running down his palm. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Seungcheol whistles, low and impressed. “Damn. And? How was it? What’d she say?” 

Mingyu’s throat tightens. “Uh, there wasn’t that much talking involved.” 

Wonwoo blinks. “Huh? Whaddaya mean? Thought you confessed.” 

Mingyu exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It means I fucked up. I kissed her. She was drunk. I should’ve stopped. I didn’t.” 

Seungcheol waves a hand. “Come on, man. It’s not like you forced yourself on her. Y/n’s not exactly the type to let someone push her into something she doesn’t really want.” 

“That’s not the point,” Mingyu snaps, voice sharper than he intends. He takes another swig. “She trusted me. I was finally getting her to open up to me as a friend. And I–” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I fucking ruined it.” 

Wonwoo studies him for a long moment, then sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. Y/n’s tough. She can handle herself.” 

“That’s not the issue,” Mingyu groans, frustration bubbling up. “The issue is I know her. She’s been avoiding any personal interaction with me since sophomore year because she probably thinks I’m some frat boy who doesn’t take anything seriously and fucks around. And then I have to go and prove her right by basically assaulting her in the office like some horny freshman.” 

Seungcheol barks out a laugh. “Dude, you’re way too hard on yourself. Y/n’s hot. Any guy would’ve lost his mind a little.” 

Mingyu glares at him. “Not the point.” 

“I know, I know,” Seungcheol says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But come on. You’ve been pining after her for like three years now. You finally get a shot and you’re beating yourself up ‘cause it didn’t go perfectly? Life’s not a rom-com, man.” 

Mingyu rubs the back of his neck, the weight of his own stupidity pressing down on him. “I just… I like her, okay? Like, really like her. And I know she thinks I’m some joke–”

“-She doesn’t think that,” Wonwoo interrupts, voice surprisingly confident. “She knows you, Mingyu, unfortunately. That’s why she lets you get under her skin.” 

Mingyu stares at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” 

Wonwoo shrugs. “That she cares. Even if she won’t admit it.” 

Mingyu exhales, his friends’ words settling over him. He wants to believe them. I mean, you kissed him back, for fuck’s sake. But the memory of your face, horrified as you pushed him away, still stings. 

Seungcheol nudges him with his elbow. “Look, man, just talk to her. Apologize. Just fess up. Tell her you like her. Girls love that shit.” 

“Or,” Mingyu mutters, “she’ll punch me.” 

Seungcheol shrugs, grinning. “Eh. Sounds worth it to me.” 

Mingyu shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. “You’re useless.” 

“But right,” Seungcheol counters, clinking his beer can against Mingyu’s. “Now drink and stop moping before the party starts. You’re really killing the vibe.” 

Mingyu just laughs, letting Wonwoo and Seungcheol walk him out of the kitchen. 

Yeah, maybe it wasn’t so bad. 

The beer pong table is sticky under Mingyu’s palms, the music too loud, and the air thick with the scent of beer and sweat. He’s pretty sure his team is up by four points. Maybe six? He stopped paying attention five minutes ago. 

“Mingyu!” Seungcheol barks, beer in hand. “It’s your turn, man.” His voice cuts through the haze and Mingyu blinks, realizing that he’d been staring at the same damn cup for who knows how long. 

He grabs the ball, the plastic slick against his fingers, and misses the shot. Again. The Sigma Chi guys across the table whoop in triumph (apparently that was the winning stroke) and Wonwoo groans, shoving Mingyu’s shoulder. 

“Dude, you’re trash tonight. Thought we fixed your girl problems.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer. His chest is tight and his skin is itchy. To be honest, ever since Wonwoo and Seungcheol told him to confront you, he’s been jittery like he’s been wired all wrong. Nerves, maybe? But you’re not even here. You never come to his frat parties, especially during the spring term. 

“Holy fuck.” Seungcheol’s voice is suddenly different, sharper, his eyes locked on the swinging door. “Isn’t that KAT?” 

“Huh?” 

“Bro, that’s the Kappa Alpha Theta girls.” 

Mingyu’s head snaps up. 

And there you are. 

Walking through the door of his house, laughing at someone one of your friends said, your hair loose down your shoulders, lips curved in a grin that he’s spent years trying to coax out of you. You’re wearing a dress – dark red, tight. The fabric clings like second skin and he can see how the fabric of the neckline flounces with every step you take. The hem ride high on your thighs. His throat goes dry as he watches you move, the way the dress hugs your hips, the way he can see the sweel of your tits bounce slightly with every step. Fuck, he’s downed too many beers for this. 

He forces himself to look away and take a deep breath, but its useless. It’s like his body remembers you – the way you’d felt under his hands, the way, for a second, you arched into him, melting under his palms. The way you had also wanted him, even if just for a passing minute. 

“Mingyu!” Wonwoo’s voice is impatient, but he doesn’t really care. He throws the ball, doesn’t even watch where it lands. The floor, probably. 

And then Mingyu sees him. 

Some guy. Tall, smug, swearing Sigma Chi’s letters proudly across his chest, stepping into your space. He’s leaning in. Talking. Talking to you. To you. His hand brushes your arm. Who the fuck does he think he is?

Mingyu’s fingers clench around the edge of the table. 

The guy laughs at something you say, his hand lingering on your arms. And in that moment, something primitive and ugly rears up in Mingyu’s chest. His stomach twists, his jaw locking, the aluminum of the beer can denting under his fingers. 

Some weird, possessive part of him wants to rip the loser’s hands off. 

The guy steps closer, his fingers trailing down your arm, and Mingyu’s vision goes red. 

He drops the ball. 

“I’m out,” he mutters, already pushing away from the table, his pulse roaring in his ears. 

“Yo, where the hell are you going?” Seungcheol calls after him, but Mingyu doesn’t stop. 

Because you’re laughing again, tilting your head back, and the guy steps even closer, as if your laughter is an invitation for his tongue down your throat. He’s smirking too, like he’s won something, like he has any fucking idea of what you’re really like. 

And Mingyu can’t take it. 

He can’t.

So when the Sigma Chi guy’s hand slides lower, his fingers lingering on the small of your back, something inside Mingyu snaps. He’s across the room in seconds, hand slamming onto your waist before the guy can even react. 

“She’s with me,” Mingyu says, a thin smile stretching on his lips. His smile contradicts his low voice. 

The guy blinks.

What was his name again? Jason? Joshua? 

His smirk falters as he takes in Mingyu’s expression. “Didn’t know she was taken,” he mutters, backing off with his hands up. 

Mingyu really doesn’t care. He’s distracted because of you – because you tense under his hand, breath hitches when he pulls you closer. Weirdly, you don’t really protest or push him away. 

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “You came here to piss me off?” he murmurs, grip on your waist tightening. 

You swallow, your pulse fluttering under his fingers. “I came here to drink,” you say, but he knows it's a half-lie. He can hear how unsteady your voice is, your eyes dark when you finally look at him. 

Mingyu’s hand tightens around your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric of your dress, the heat of your skin burning through the material. He should let go. He really should let go and step back, give you space, ask what the hell you’re doing here. But fuck, the way you melt into him, the way your breath hitches when he pulls you closer, it shatters whatever self-control he had left. 

“Liar,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice rough with need. You shiver under his touch, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his fingers, and something primitive uncoils in his chest. Something raw and possessive in his chest tightens. 

You swallow as you lie again. “I came here to drink.” 

Mingyu smirks against your skin, thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. “Then why are you looking at me like that?” 

You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers clench around your cup, your knuckles white, dark eyes flashing with something he recognizes. For the first time, he sees something other than annoyance in your eyes: need. It drives him crazy. It’s everything he’s been craving since the last time he touched you, since the last time he tasted you. 

He can’t resist. 

His mouth crashes onto yours, hard and demanding, and the second your lips part under his, he’s lost. You taste like beer and something sweet, something uniquely you, and it drowns him. He can smell the faint scent of peaches in your perfume and he can taste beer and something else – strawberries? Did he set out strawberries for this party? His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, the other gripping your hip, pulling you flush against him. The way you whimper into the kiss, the way your fingers fist in his shirt – fuck, it’s everything. 

“Mingyu–” His name on your lips. Like a plea, a warning. 

“Tell me to stop,” he gasps against your mouth, his body pressing you against the wall, his thigh sliding between your legs. He presses a little– 

You moan, your body arching into his, and Mingyu needs to stifle his groan, his control snapping. His hands roam over your waist, up your ribs, his thumbs brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs parting just enough to let him press closer, harder. The friction is maddening, his cock throbbing painfully in his jeans, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is you—the way you respond to him, the way your body moves against his, chasing the same release he’s aching for.

"Your room," you gasp, your voice breathless, desperate.

Fuck yes.

Mingyu doesn’t waste a second. He grabs your hand, pulling her through the crowd, his grip tight, possessive. Bodies are all around you as he pulls the two of you through the throng of people. The stairs blur beneath his feet, the music fading into the background as he kicks his door shut behind them, the lock clicking into place with a finality that sends a jolt through him. 

The second the door closes, you’re suddenly on him, your lips crashing onto his, your hands fumbling with his waistband, your body pressing against his like you’re trying to crawl inside of him. Drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk. His brain is on overdrive. Bad choice, bad choice, bad idea, what the hell. His brain is overheated. It’s hot. What room is this? Mingyu groans, his hands tangling in your hair, tilting your head back as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours. 

His mind is a whirlwind – drunk on you, on the taste of you, on the way your body molds against his. The scent of peaches and vanilla wraps around him, intoxicating, maddening. His hands grip your waist, lifting effortlessly, voice rough against your lips: “Jump.”

You jump without hesitation, your legs wrapping around his waist, your dress riding up as you lock your ankles behind his back. Mingyu groans, the heat of you pressing against him, even through the fabric of his sweatpants. Fuck. He stumbles backward, his knees hitting the edge of his – or wait no, someone else’s maybe – bed. He can’t stop kissing you, touching you, breathing you in. 

“You’re such a tease,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. You shiver under his touch, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails scraping against his skin as you pull his shirt up, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head. 

He watches as you grin, hair mussed, lipstick smeared. 

“You love it,” you breathe, hands roaming over his chest, palms flat against his skin, fingers tracing every ridge of muscle, every inch of him. Mingyu groans, his head falling back as your hands go down his abs. 

“Y/n–” His voice is tight with warning. 

Your hands slide up, over his shoulders, like you’re somehow mapping and calming him, before dragging down his back, and he just knows he’ll wake up to those faint red marks from your nails. Mingyu shudders, his control fraying as you arch into him, your lips find his again, kiss hot and messy. 

“Touch me,” you whisper, arms winding around his neck. Your voice is low, body rolling against his. 

And really, he doesn’t need to be told twice. 

His hands physically shake as they slide under your dress, his fingers digging into the bare skin of your thighs, firm and possessive. You gasp into his mouth, your legs tightening around him. 

“Mingyu, please–”

“-I’ve got you,” he mumbles against your lips. And suddenly, he takes one more step back to– nothing. He’s falling, gravity forcing him away from you, your wide eyes above his as he lands backwards on the bed, the blanket puffing up around him. You follow quickly, hands on either side of his head, legs straddling his waist. Both of you are panting, chests heaving, especially as you loom over him, hair spilling around your shoulder, breasts threatening to spill out of the lace dress, lips swollen from his kisses. 

You’re grinning.

And he’s never seen something prettier. 

“You talk too much,” you say, fingers trailing down his chest, hovering over the waist band of his sweatpants. 

Mingyu grins, cheeks hot, one hand gripping your waist, the other your thigh, up so high that his thumb brushes the delicate lace of your panties. He could die. 

“Thought you liked that about me,” he counters, voice rough, and he reaches up to pull you down again, lips crashing together. 

Mingyu’s fingers find the zipper of your dress, his touch shaky with need as he slowly drags it down. The fabric parts, you gasp, breaking away from the kiss. He pulls the dress ove ryour head in one fluid motion, and fuck – your tits bounce free, full and god your nipples are alreay hard from the cool air, from his touch (at least he hopes). His breath catches and his cock throbs painfully against the fabric of his sweatpants. 

“Fuck, Y/n–” his voice is rouh as you rub the corner of your lips, one of your hands reaching for his. Your hand leads his to your tits, forcing him to cup them, his thumb brushing over your nipples. You arch into his touch, whimpering, hips rolling against his like you’re chasing the friction. 

And then it’s a blur. 

You’re kissing again, hips grinding together, desperate, needy, and Mingyu feels like a teenager from how close he is just from dry humping you. He swears he almost bust when he glanced down for a split second, only to see the darker wet patch you left on his sweatpants, arousal leaking through your panties.

The bed creaks beneath you, the sheets tangling around your legs, but neither of you can slow down. 

“Mingyu, please,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. Your chest heaves in front of his face, thighs trembling, face red with exertion. “My fucking thighs…” you mutter. 

Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. Whatever you need, really. 

Mingyu’s hands tighten on your waist, his thumbs brushing over your nipples again, teasing them into harder peaks. The way you whimper, the way your body rolls against his – fuck, he’s done for. His cock aches, throbbing against the wet spot on his sweatpants, proof of how badly you want him driving him wild.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, his voice rough as he flips you onto your back, his body covering yours. His lips crash onto yours, hot and messy, his tongue sweeping against yours as his hands slide down, hooking his fingers into the lace of your panties. Your skin is so soft. 

“Mingyu–” Your voice is desperate, pleading, your hips lifting off the bed as he drags the fabric down your legs, tossing it somewhere in the room.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your lips, his fingers trailing up your inner thighs, teasing, taunting. You shudder, your legs falling open for him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. It’s music to his ears, thundering in his brain.

His mouth trails down your body, slow and deliberate: over your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach. He kisses the dip of your hipbone, his tongue tracing the line of your pelvis, his breath hot against your skin.

“Mingyu, please–” You whine, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer

New discovery: he hates making you wait. 

His lips press against your thigh, his teeth grazing the soft skin, his fingers spreading you open. “Fuck,” he groans, his breath ghosting over you, “you’re so wet for me, baby.”

And then his mouth is on you.

His tongue flattens against your clit, long and slow, and you jolt, a broken cry spilling from your lips. Mingyu groans against you, the taste of you sweet and intoxicating, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still as he devours you.

“Oh my god–” Your back arches, your hips lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth. Mingyu doesn’t let up, his tongue flicking over your clit, circling, teasing, before sucking it between his lips. Your moans fill the room, desperate and uncontrolled, your fingers clawing at the sheets. 

Like some pervert, he wants more. More, more, more, more, more, more.

“That’s it,” Mingyu murmurs, his voice muffled against you, “let me hear you.”

Your breath hitches as his fingers slide inside you, quite easily, actually, curling just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “Min– fuck– Mingyu!"

“Come for me,” he orders, his tongue moving faster, harder, his fingers working you in perfect rhythm. “C’mon, baby, come for me.”

He can pinpoint the exact moment you shatter, your body tensing, your orgasm crashing over you, wave after wave of pleasure wracking your body. Mingyu doesn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing out every last shudder, every last whimper.

When you finally collapse back onto the bed, boneless and breathless, Mingyu crawls up your body, his lips finding yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your body trembling beneath him, your chest heaving.

Mingyu hovers over you, his body humming with need, his cock so painfully hard, tucked in the waistband of his sweatpants. The sight of you, flushed, trembling, your pupils blown and dark, your lips parted and swollen from his kisses, drowns him. Your chest heaves, the rise and fall of your breasts hypnotic, the sheen of sweat on your skin glowing in the dim light of his room. 

Fuck, you’re perfect.

You’re everything he’s dreamed you to be. And more. So, so, so much more. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, your body still trembling beneath him, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. 

He dips down, capturing your mouth in another kiss, slow and deep, his tongue sweeping against yours. You moan into it, your body arching up to meet his, your nails digging into his skin. Mingyu groans, his hips rolling against yours, the friction maddening.

“This wasn’t the plan,” you breathe against his lips, your voice shaky, unsteady as you ramble on your excuse. “I should leave–”

“-No,” Mingyu huffs, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth sinking into the soft skin just below your ear. He sucks, hard, marking you, claiming you. “Don’t fucking care if this wasn’t your plan,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “You want this as much as I do.”

You whimper, your head falling back as he kisses down your throat, his hands gripping your waist, holding you tight. Your hands roam the crevices of his deltoids and he deludes himself to think that the way you bite your bottom lip is because of him. Him, him, him, him.

“Mingyu—” Your voice is weak, breathy, your body betraying you as you roll your hips against his.

“Stay,” he pleads, his voice rough, desperate, thumb pulling your lip free from the bite of your teeth. He runs the pad of his thumb over the plump skin, kissing the corner of it. “I’ll do whatever you want, y/n. Anything.” His lips find yours again, his kiss hot and messy, his control snapping as you whimper into his mouth.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, your cheeks flushed, your lips parted, your eyes dark with lust, blinking up at him. This is dangerous. You are dangerous. You’re some type of poison to him. He can’t control the words that flow out of his mouth. Not with you so close to him. No space for him to breathe, think, speak properly. “But don’t tell me you don’t want this,” he breathes, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Not when you look at me like that.”

Your breath hitches, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “I hate you,” you whisper, but your body arches into his, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Mingyu grins, feral, triumphant. “Liar,” he murmurs, before his mouth crashes onto yours again.

His cock throbs and the pressure from his waistband isn’t quite enough. He aches for release, but he ignores it. Right now, this (you) is everything. The way you respond to him, the way your body moves against his, the way you whimper his name like a prayer. It’s intoxicating. Like some kind of drug induced halo effect. He could drown in you. You’re burning him up like some flimsy little incense stick. He’s burning for you. So, so happily. 

Lips moving in tandem, your hands roam across the expanse of his rippling shoulders, back, and he shudders when your nails rake through his hair. 

“Mingyu,” you whisper, breaking away for a second.

He hums in response, kissing down your neck, one arm above your head, supporting his weight, as the other hand massages your boob. His mouth goes lower. 

“Mingyu,” you say, more incessant now, pulling him up to your face. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, panting, hair falling in front of his eyes, arm shaking. He doesn’t know where to look – your eyes? Lips? Boobs? No, not boobs, you’ll have his head. He barely registers that you’re saying something until you stare up at him expectantly. Fuck, what did you say?

“Huh?” he says, stupid from the way your nails were scratching the nape of his neck. “Wha’cha say?” 

He ignores the way you roll your eyes at him, licking the shell of your ear, biting the skin. 

“I said, take your shirt off,” you repeat. Your fingers suddenly tighten around the back of his neck and you force him to look up at you.

Fuck, you’re so hot. 

Mingyu swallows, trying to blink away the haze in his brain. 

“Mingyu, did you hear me?” You ask, brows raised. 

He licks his lips, nodding furiosly. “Uh huh, uh huh,” he responds. 

“So? Take it off.” 

He nods, sitting back on his heels, reaching for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. The cool air hits his skin, but all he feels is the heat of your gaze raking over him. Over his shoulders, his pecs, the ridges of his abs, the dips of his hips. He preens under your attention, his chest puffing just a little as your breath catches, your lips parting further, your eyes darkening with hunger.

"Like what you see?" he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing, as your hands reach for him.

“Should’ve taken this shit off sooner,” you mumble, and he blushes at your words. 

Your fingers trace the curves of his muscles, light at first, then firm, exploring every inch of him. Mingyu shudders, his abs clenching under your touch, his skin burning where you trail your palms. “Fuck, y/n.” His voice is a groan, his control fraying as your nails scrape down his chest, over his hips, hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you breathe, your voice husky, your thumbs brushing the dips of his hip bones.

Mingyu grins, feral, triumphant, like he won the lottery, as he leans down, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of your bare skin against his almost unbearable. “You drive me crazy,” he hums, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone.

Your fingers tighten on his waistband, tugging him closer, and Mingyu groans, his hips rolling against yours, the friction maddening. “You want this,” he murmurs, his voice rough against your skin. “Say it.” 

He can physically see the way your brain tries to come up with something to say to him. And then how it gives up. 

“C’mon,” he whispers into your ear, kissing your cheek, “say it, baby.” 

You whimper, your nails digging into his hips, your body arching into his, and he knows he’s won. “I want you,” you gasp, your voice broken, desperate. You arch into him. “Mingyu, god, please.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to hear it twice.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, hot and demanding, as his hands slide under your ass, lifting you, grinding you against him. The moan that spills from your lips vibrates through him, sending a jolt straight to his cock. "You’re mine," he growls, his voice raw, possessive, and fuck, the way you whimper in response, the way your body moves against his, chasing more, chasing him, it’s everything. Forget the fact that he doesn’t know where those almost territorial words popped out of. Forget the fact that he’s so hard that he’s almost 99% sure he’s gonna burst a load the moment your bare pussy even grazes his dick. Forget the fact that he wants to kiss you again and again and again.

The air between you is electric, charged with need and want. Mingyu’s hands tangle in your hair as he kisses you deeply, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and deliberate. Your fingers explore the hard planes of his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin burning beneath your touch. He whimpers into your mouth, his body arching into yours, and he’d be embarassed if his cock didn’t fuckin’ hurt. 

“Mingyu–” you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe, your chest heaving. You press your palms against his shoulders, pushing him away lightly, just enough to put some space between you.

And it’s like he’s been snapped out of whatever was controlling him. Mingyu freezes, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with concern. “W-wh- Are you okay?” His voice is rough, husky, his hands still hovering over your waist, ready to pull you back if you want him to. His eyes roam your face, trying to discern what’s wrong.

You swallow, your fingers brushing over his bottom lip, swollen from your kisses. You have the same look in your eyes like from when he said something really productive in class. “Lie down,” you murmur, your voice low, commanding.

“Huh?” Mingyu raises an eyebrow but obeys, shifting back until he’s lying on the bed, his body spread out before you. His chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, his abs clenching as he watches you. “What’re you—?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you slide your heels off, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. Mingyu’s gaze tracks every movement, his cock twitching as he takes you in: your lipstick smudged, the purple blooming at your neck from his hickies, the way your hair spills over your shoulders, messy and wild.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice thick with lust. “You should see yourself. You look so hot like this.”

You crawl up the bed, settling between his spread legs, your fingers trailing down his chest, over his pecs, his stomach, following the dips and curves of his body. “You promise?” you tease, your palm pressing against the bulge in his sweatpants.

“Fuck, yeah, I promi–” Mingyu hisses, his hips jerking up into your touch, head falling back. “Y/n–” His voice is a warning, a plea, his hands fisting in the sheets.

You lean down, pressing a kiss to his pecs, then lower, over his abs, your lips trailing down the V-line that disappears beneath his waistband. “You talk too much,” you murmur, your breath hot against his skin.

“Y-you’ve said,” he retorts, but his voice is strained, his body tensing beneath you as your fingers trace the waistband of his sweatpants, your thumb brushing over the head of his cock through the fabric. 

Fuck, you know what you’re doing. 

“Because you do,” you respond, slowly rubbing up and down through the fabric. You press a kiss at his pulse point on his neck. 

“I th-thought you said, fuck, you l-liked it,” his words end as a moan, hips jerking up into your touch when you bite down lightly. He can feel your lips stretch into a grin against his skin.

“Maybe I do,” you whisper, your lips pressing against the skin just above his waistband. “But right now…” You glance up at him, your eyes dark with promise, “I want you to shut up.”

Mingyu groans, his head falling back against the pillow, his chest heaving. “Fuck, Y/n–” His voice is broken, desperate, as your hand slides beneath the fabric, nails scratching his happy trail, fingers delicately wrapping around his cock. Did your fingers even wrap around the entire thing? Fuck, this is like the peak of all of his wet dreams. His Adams apple bobs. 

“Good boy,” you mumble, your lips curving into a dangerous grin when you see his eyes roll back at your words. He wills himself to not cum as you begin to stroke him, slow and torturous. His body shudders, his hips lifting off the bed, chasing your touch. 

Another discovery: he likes when you praise him. 

He should’ve figured. 

You press another kiss to his stomach, then lower, your tongue darting out to trace the line of his hip bone. Mingyu’s fingers tangle in your hair, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “Y-you’re gonna kill me," he groans, but he doesn’t stop you.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, slowly dragging them down his hips. Mingyu lifts his ass off the bed just enough to let you pull them free, his cock springing up, hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening with pre as it hits his stomach. He swallows hard, his hands hovering in the air, unsure—should he touch you? Should he grip the sheets? Hold the headboard? What was the right thing to do when someone was going to suck him off? Fuck, should he—?

You glance up at him, your lips curved in a sweet smile, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. He twitches. 

“Here,” you murmur, grabbing his hand and guiding it down until his fingers tangle in your hair. “You can touch.”

Mingyu exhales shakily, his blush deepening as his fingers curl into your soft strands, his grip tightening just enough to feel you. “Y/n–” His voice is rough, thick with need. He wants to say you don’t need to. That you can stop, that you shouldn’t feel obligated to suck him off just because he fingered you, that you don’t need to reciprocate. But then you squeeze and then jerk him off twice, breath fanning over his tip, and then everything he should say leaves his stupid, stupid brain. 

You lick your lips, your eyes dark as you take him in. “Fuck, Gyu,” you breathe, your thumb brushing over the head of his cock, spreading the pre that beads there. He tries his best not to cum from the nickname alone. “You’re so big.”

Mingyu’s cock twitches at your words, his blush rising higher on his cheeks, his chest tight. “Y/n, don’t–” He groans, his hips jerking as you wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly.

“Don’t what?” you tease, your tongue darting out to kitten-lick the head, tasting the salt of his pearly precum. 

Mingyu’s breath hitches, his fingers tightening in your hair. 

You grin wickedly, lips puckering to kiss his tip, moaning at the taste of him. Mingyu’s eyes roll back at the sensation, whimpering. 

“Don’t tell you how hot you are? What you taste like?” you whisper, hands magical on his throbbing cock. “Because you’re so hot, Mingyu. You look so hot with your muscles,” you run a fingers down the middle of his abs, “and your cute little blush,” your thumb brushes his cheekbone, “and you taste,” you look down at his length that you’ve been stroking, and Mingyu almost chokes on his own spit at the way your tongue dart out to lick at his slit. You finish off your sentence with a small giggle, looking up at Mingyu. He swears to God, he’s gonna lose his mind.

He whimpers, his cock throbbing in your hand. “Y’ gonna kill me.”

You giggle, the sound muffled as you press a kiss to the side of his shaft, then another to the underside, your lips trailing up and down his length, messy with spit. “You like it,” you murmur, your breath hot against his skin.

“Fuck– yeah–” Mingyu gasps, his hips lifting off the bed, chasing your mouth, fingers gripping your hair.

You grin, looking up at him through your lashes. “Can I suck you off?” Your voice is soft, sweet, but your eyes are dark with promise. “Pretty please?”

Mingyu nods frantically, his chest heaving. “Please–”

Thank god that’s all the permission you need.

Your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock, licking from base to tip before you take him into your mouth, slow and deep. You make a cute little sound when he hits the back of your throat and there’s still more of him left. Mingyu groans, his fingers tangling in your hair, his hips rolling up to meet you unconsciously. “Oh fuck–” His voice is broken, desperate, as you hollow your cheeks, sucking, taking him deeper, your hand stroking the base of his cock in time with your mouth. You pull back, taking a big breath in, before you go back down, and Mingyu has to fist the sheet with one hand because you don’t stop at where you were. Instead, your head goes down and down, until your nose meets the tuft of neatly trimmed hair at his base, spit foaming at your stretched lips, your throat constricting as you gag on him. He lets out a sound in between a moan and a sob, begging his hips to stay in place. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he pants, the hand in your hair so, so, so tight. “God– shit–!” His other hand comes crashing down above his head against the wooden headboard as you swallow and swallow around him. “Fuck!” he groans, and his hips buck up and he barely registers how you choke and his hand pulls you back. 

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, teasing the slit, before taking him back in, your lips sealing around him. 

“Y/n– fuck – y’ gonna–” he moans when you suck on his tip like he’s some oversized lollipop, “Fuck! Y’ gonna m-make me c-cu– oh shit – cum!” 

You pull off, giggling, wiping off your spit from your chin like some cock-drunk bimbo. “Cum, then. ‘M not stoppin’ you.” 

Mingyu’s body tenses, his cock throbbing, pre dripping onto your tongue.

“You feel so good,” he pants, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hair just right.

You moan around him, the vibration sending a jolt through his body. His hips buck, his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, your eyes watering just a little.

Mingyu’s fingers tighten in your hair, his hips rolling up as he pushes you down just a little further, his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck– just like that, baby,” he groans, his voice rough and desperate. You whimper, your nose pressed against his lower abs, your breath coming in short through your nose as you try to relax your throat around him. The sound you make – need and want and just a hint of struggle – sends a jolt straight to his spine.

“Y’ take me s-so well, yeah?” he pants, his hips stuttering up, holding you there for a beat before letting you pull back, gasping for air. “Fuck, l-look at you–” His voice cracks as his gaze drops to where your free hand is gone between your thighs, your hips rolling subtly against the bed, chasing friction. “You l-like this, d-don’t you? Like being su-ugh-such a good – nngh – girl for me?"

You moan around his cock, your thumb circling the slit, spreading the pre that beads there before licking it off, your tongue swirling over the head. Mingyu hisses, his body tensing, his cock throbbing in your mouth. “Ugh—fuck—nnghh–”

Your fingers trail lower, massaging his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. 

“Mmm,” you hum, the vibration making his hips jerk. “Taste sshooo good,” you murmur, your voice muffled as you take him back in, hollowing your cheeks.

“I can’t—” Mingyu gasps, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you slow and deep. “I can’t last—” His words jumble together, his mind short-circuiting as he watches you: lipstick smudged, eyes watering, still grinding against your fingers like you’re desperate for more. “You’re so fuh-fuckin’ perfect.”

You pull back just enough to lick a strip up the underside of his cock, your hand pumping the base slowly. “Y’ wanna come in my mouth?” you whisper, your breath hot against his skin. “Or d’ya wanna fuck me first?"

Mingyu groans, his cock twitching. “I want—fuck—” His eyes roll back as you take him deep again, your tongue flat against the underside. “Wanna– nngh–” Mingyu moans so loud he’s pretty sure people could hear him over the party noise. “Wan’ both!"

You giggle, the sound vibrating around him, and Mingyu whimpers, his hips lifting off the bed. “Please,” he begs, his voice broken. “Y/n, please—”

Your thumb presses against his slit, teasing, and Mingyu’s body locks up, a broken moan spilling from his lips. “You little—fuck—!” His gaze snaps down to where your hips are rolling against the bed, the wet sound of you rubbing your pussy against the sheets filling the room. “So wet f’ me, right?" He says it like his well-being depends on you being turned on by this. So turned on by this that you’re dripping onto his sheets.

You nod, your cheeks hollowed around his cock, sucking and sucking, tongue dipping into his slit, your fingers picking up speed on his balls. Mingyu’s breath hitches, his cock pulsing. “Fuh-uck, baby, stop—I’m gonna—!” he squirms, trying to get you to stop, but it only makes his cock hit the back of your throat over and over again, until your throat constrict around the head. 

Mingyu’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his fingers clawing at the sheets as you work him over, your lips wrapped tight around the head of his cock, sucking, your tongue swirling over the sensitive spot just beneath the ridge. 

“Fuck, Y/n, I needa fuck you,” he rambles, his voice raw and desperate, on the verge of sobs. “Please, baby, let me—I-I’ll show you how m-much I wan’ you—fuck, I can’t— can’t c-cum yet—"

You pull off for a split second, your hand pumping him slow and deliberate, your thumb pressing against the slit, teasing. “No,” you murmur, your voice low and firm. Your words have a twinge of annoyance, like when he forgot to submit an event form and you had to do it yourself. “If you don’t cum in my mouth,” you say, stroking him faster, “you’re not fucking me.” Your eyes lock onto his, dark and commanding. “So,” you breathe, all doe-eyed and sweet smiles again, “Gyu, won’t you be a good boy and come for me?”

Mingyu whines, his hips jerking up into your hand, his cock throbbing. He lets out a low moan, thighs shaking, abs clenching. His gaze drops to where your other hand is sliding between your legs, your fingers circling your clit, glistening with how wet you are. “You’re so wet—I know you want me to—”

“I do,” you breathe, leaning down to lick a strip up the underside of his cock, your lips brushing the head. “But,” you tighten your grip, your tongue flicking over the tip, “you’re gonna cum right here.” You take him back into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, your hand pumping the base in time with your mouth.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu’s voice breaks, his body tensing as you focus on the head, your tongue swirling, your lips sealed tight. “I can’t—I need to fuck you—please—”

You pull back just enough to speak, your breath hot against his skin. “Cum in my mouth,” you order, your voice husky. “And then you can fuck me however you want.” You kiss his tip. “I know you’re close.”

Mingyu groans, his cock pulsing in your hand, pre dripping onto your tongue. "You’re killing me—"

“Good,” you murmur, taking him deep again, your fingers picking up speed on his balls. “Cum for me, Mingyu.” Your free hand slides back between your legs, your fingers rolling over your clit as you moan around his cock, the vibration sending him over the edge.

“Ugh! Fuck—Y/n—!" His orgasm hits him hard, his cock pulsing as he spills into your mouth, his moans loud and broken. He shudders as wave after wave crashes down on him, cock straining against the tight suction of your mouth, weeping thick ropes of hot, white cum that paints the back of your throat with a milky gloss. You swallow around him, moving so that you’re sucking his tip, licking him clean before pulling back with a soft pop, your lips glossy, your eyes dark with satisfaction. You stick your tongue out at him, and he could die right there. Not a single drop of cum left on your tongue. 

Mingyu collapses back onto the bed, his chest heaving, his body trembling. "Fuck," he pants, reaching for you, pulling you up to crash his lips onto yours. He can taste his salty cum on your tongue. “You’re fucking made for me,” Mingyu growls against your lips, his hands gripping your waist before he flips you onto your back in one swift motion. His body covers yours, his knees spreading your thighs wide as he settles between them. “Fucking hell, Y/n,” he mumbles, his voice rough and breathless, his lips crashing onto yours again. His kisses are messy, desperate—teeth clashing, tongues twisting—as he mutters nonsense between them. His fingers trail down until they meet a slick wetness. His eyes almost bulge out. "You’re impossible—fuck—how are you this wet—?"

You giggle against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Don’t forget your forms are due tomorrow night," you tease, your hips arching up to grind against him.

Mingyu pulls back just enough to glare at you, but his eyes are dark with lust, his chest heaving. "Shut up," he groans, kicking his sweats and boxers the rest of the way off before his fingers trail down your stomach, slow and deliberate. "You drive me crazy."

His touch is light at first, teasing the top of your thighs, the dip of your hip bones, before finally—finally—brushing against your cunt, fluttering, missing his mouth, his fingers. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice rough with awed disbelief. "You’re soaked."

You shudder, your back arching off the bed as his fingers glide through your wetness, circling your clit just once before dipping lower. “Mingyu—” Your voice is broken, needy, as he slowly pushes two fingers inside you, curling them just right. You let out a moan right by his ear.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips pressing against your collarbones, your breasts, everywhere he can reach. His fingers work you open, slow and deep, his thumb brushing your clit in lazy circles. “Look at you—all wet f’me.”

You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body trembling beneath him. “More—” you gasp, your hips rolling to meet his hand.

Mingyu chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your skin. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding in and out of you, stretching you, preparing you. “Want t’feel you come on my fingers first.” His voice is low, husky, his eyes locked on yours as he watches you fall apart. “You can do that f’me, right? Jus’ f’me?”

Your breath hitches as he adds a third finger, his thumb pressing firm against your clit. “Fuck—nnghhh!—” Your body tenses, your orgasm building fast, uncontrollable.

“That’s it,”  he growls, his lips capturing yours again. "Let me hear you." His fingers pick up speed, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, his thumb rubbing your clit in perfect rhythm. 

You whimper, your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coils tight in your stomach. “Mingyu—” His name is a plea, a warning, your body trembling on the edge.

“Shhh," he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and rough. “Not yet.”

You whine, your hips rolling against his hand, chasing the release that’s just out of reach. One hand digs into his shoulder, the other gripping his wrist, unsure whether to push him away or press him down harder. “Please—” Your voice is broken, desperate, but Mingyu doesn’t give in.

Instead, he slows his fingers, teasing you—just enough pressure to keep you there, right on the brink, but never enough to push you over. “You feel so good,” he praises, his lips trailing down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "But I want you begging for my cock."

You moan, your body aching, needing. “B-b-but! M-mingyu, mmnghh! Y-you s-s-said!”

“I know, I know, baby. Almost,” he promises, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl, his thumb pressing just hard enough to make you whimper. And then—fuck—he pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching.

"No—!" You gasp, your body trembling, your orgasm hanging just out of reach.

Mingyu grins, feral, as he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue. "So sweet," he murmurs, his eyes dark with lust.

Before you can protest, his lips are on yours, his kiss gentle—slow, deep, tasting of you. "M sorry,” he whispers against your mouth, his cock throbbing against your thigh.

You meet his lips, hands in his hair. 

“Good girl,” he whispers against your mouth, “Wanna fuck you properly. Can I, baby? Can I fuck you?” he mumbles. 

You nod blearily. “Mhm, fuck me, please, fuck me,” you pant, hips canting up as you whine. “G-Gyu,” you whine, bare pussy rubbing on his thigh, “Wan’ it. W-wan’ it sshhooo bad.” Your hips cant up. “It hurts, Gyu, S’ hurts,” you whine, tears in your eyes. “You’re s’mean.” 

“Fuck,” Mingyu gasps, eyes bulging at your words. “N-no, I gotchu, baby. M’ gon’ fuck you now, m’kay? Fuck you nice and good,” he murmurs, kissing you, hand wrapping around his cock, stroking himself slowly. He leans over to the nightstand, fumbling around in the drawer for a condom. When he fishes it out though, you’re faster. Your fingers snatch it from his grip, tearing the wrapper open with shaky hands. His breath hitches as you roll it down his length, your touch light but electric, your eyes locked on his.

"Y/n—" His voice is rough, thick with restraint, as he catches your wrists, bringing your hands to his mouth. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, then another to your palm, his lips lingering against your skin. "We don’t have to do this," he murmurs, his forehead pressing against yours. "If you don’t want to—"

You shake your head, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I want to," you whisper, your voice raw. 

Mingyu exhales shakily, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to ground you. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he admits, his voice cracking. His lips find yours, his kiss slow and deep, pouring every ounce of need into it. "Fuck, Y/n—"

He shifts, his body hovering over yours, one arm bracing his weight as the other slides down to guide himself to your entrance. The head of his cock presses against you, hot and heavy, and you whimper, your hips lifting to meet him.

"Wait—" Mingyu breathes, his forehead resting against yours. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

You nod, your chest heaving, your nails digging into his biceps as he pushes in—slow, inch by inch, letting you adjust to the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him. "Fuck—" The word spills from your lips as a moan, your back arching off the bed, your body trembling beneath him.

"You feel—" Mingyu groans, his voice cracking as he pushes in, his hips stuttering to a halt as your body clenches around him, unyielding. "Fuck—Y/n, relax," he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and ragged. His fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand bracing against the bed beside your head. "You’re so fucking tight—I can’t even—"

A whimper escapes you, your nails digging crescents into his arms, your face burying into the crook of his elbow. The stretch is intense, the pressure almost too much. "It’s too big—" Your voice shakes, breathy and raw, your body trembling beneath him. You can feel him—thick, hard, unrelenting—and for a second, panic flares in your chest.

Mingyu lets out a weak, nervous chuckle, his fingers brushing your cheek in an attempt to soothe you. "Three inches of my dick and you’re already complaining?" he teases, his voice light but strained. "At this rate, you’re gonna think I’m hung like a horse." His thumb traces your bottom lip, trying to coax a smile from you. "Maybe you need better taste in men, baby."

Your hand snaps out before you can think, slapping his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make him hiss in surprise. "’s not funny!" Your voice cracks, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and the second he sees them, his smirk vanishes.

"Shit—baby—" His thumb gently wipes away the first tear that spills over, his expression softening into something tender, worried. "Hey, hey—" He cups your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We can stop. Right now." He starts to pull back, his cock sliding out just enough to ease the pressure, but your legs lock around his waist, holding him in place.

"No," you whisper, shaking your head frantically. Your fingers clutch at his biceps, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps. "I can do it. Just—go slow."

Mingyu exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against yours again. His eyes search yours—dark, intense, filled with something that makes your stomach flip. "You sure?" His voice is gentle, laced with concern, his hands cradling your face like you’re something precious. "Because I don’t want to hurt you."

You swallow hard, nodding again. "I want to," you breathe. "I’ve wanted this. Please."

He studies you for a long moment, his gaze flickering between your eyes, searching for any hesitation. And when he finds none, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss—soft, slow, reassuring. His lips are warm, patient, coaxing you to relax beneath him. "Okay," he murmurs against your mouth. "Okay, baby. Breathe." His hand slides down, wrapping around his cock, guiding himself back in with painstaking slowness.

You whimper as he pushes in another inch, your body stretching around him, the burn easing into a deep, aching heat. "Mingyu—" His name spills from your lips like a plea, a prayer, your fingers clawing at his skin.

"I’ve got you," he promises, his voice rough with restraint. "Just like this, okay?" He pulls back just a little, then pushes in again—slow, steady, letting you adjust to every inch. His forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

Your nails dig into his skin as he bottoms out finally, his cock seated fully inside you. The sensation is overwhelming—pleasure and pressure and something so intimate it makes your heart pound against your ribs. "Fuck—" The word tumbles out of you, broken and breathless, your body trembling around him.

"You feel so good," Mingyu groans, his voice thick with need. "Fuck, Y/n—" His lips press against your neck, your jaw, anywhere he can reach, his hips rolling slowly, giving you time to adjust. "You’re doing so good."

You can feel the way your body slowly opens for him, the way the discomfort melts into something deeper, hotter. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and Mingyu groans, his control fraying.

"More—" you gasping, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him down into another kiss. "Please."

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice.

His hips begin to move—slow at first, shallow thrusts that let you feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse. "Like this?" His voice is husky, his breath hot against your ear.

"Yes—" You moan, your body arching up to meet his, the pleasure building deeper, hotter, more intense with every movement. "Don’t stop."

His lips crash onto yours, his kiss desperate, hungry, as his hips pick up speed. Still slow, but deeper, faster, each thrust dragging a moan from your lips. "Fuck, baby—" His voice is raw, broken, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. "You feel so perfect."

And god, you do. You feel full, stretched, owned in a way you’ve never been before. Your moans spill into the air between you, your body clenching around him, pulling him deeper, harder, until neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

Mingyu’s hips roll into you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his cock filling you inch by inch as he buries himself deep. The burn has eased into a throbbing heat, and every time he pulls back, only to push in again, you whimper, your fingers clutching at his biceps. His skin is slick with sweat, his muscles tensing beneath your touch as he moves inside you—deep, steady, like he’s savoring every second.

"You feel," his voice is rough, broken, as he leans down to press his forehead against yours, "so fucking good." His lips brush yours, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes dark with lust.

You moan into his mouth, your body arching up to meet his thrusts, your nails digging into his skin. "Mingyu," his name is a plea, a prayer, as he hits that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. "Don’t stop."

He doesn’t.

Instead, he speeds up, his hips snapping faster, his cock sliding in and out of you with wet, obscene sounds. The bed creaks beneath you, the sheets tangling around your legs as he fucks you deeper, harder. His hands grip your hips, holding you still as he pounds into you, his thighs pressing your legs wide open.

"Fuck—" he groans, his voice thick with need. "You take me so well, baby." His lips trail down your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he sucks a mark into your skin.

Your moans grow louder, more desperate, as pleasure builds inside you, coiling tight and hot. "Harder—" you gasp, your body clenching around him. "Please—"

Mingyu obliges, his thrusts becoming sharper, more insistent. His cock drags against your walls, hitting that same spot over and over until you’re seeing stars. "You like that?" he pants, his voice husky against your ear. "You like when I fuck you like this?"

"Yes—" You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down into a messy kiss. "God, yes—"

His lips crash onto yours, his tongue sweeping against yours as his hips piston into you, fast and hard. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mixed with your whimpers and his groans. "You’re so fucking perfect," he growls, his voice rough with lust.

You can feel him losing control, his movements becoming less measured, more desperate. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he shifts your legs to wrap around his waist. The change in angle hits you deep, and you gasp, your nails raking down his back.

"Fuck, right there—" The words spill out of you, broken and honest, your body arching into his. "Don’t stop, please."

Mingyu groans, his cock throbbing inside you. "I won’t," he promises, his voice rough. His lips find yours again, his kiss hot and messy. "Y/n—fuck—" Mingyu groans, his voice rough and unsteady, his hips snapping harder, faster. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. His forehead is damp with sweat, his chest heaving, his blush darkening as he loses himself in you. "You feel so good, fuck, I can’t—"

You moan, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down into a messy kiss. "I love it," you gasp against his lips, your confession spilling out unfiltered. "I love how you fuck me. How you make me feel."

Mingyu groans, his cock throbbing inside you, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Oh shit," his words tumble out in a jumbled rush, nonsense and need and something raw. "You’re so,” a kiss on your cheek, “fucking,” a nibble of your earlobe, “perfect." A hard thrust against your hips.

Your legs tighten around him, your heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. "Harder," you beg, your voice desperate, your body clenching around him. "Please, Mingyu, don’t stop."

He obliges, his hips pounding into you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I can’t—I can’t last." His lips crash onto yours, his kiss sloppy, desperate, his tongue sweeping against yours. 

Mingyu’s hips roll into you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his cock filling you deep, dragging against that spot that makes your vision blur. Your arms are wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. His head is tucked into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, his moans spilling out in broken, need whimpers.

"Mingyu, fuck," You whine, your voice high and desperate, your body trembling beneath him. "I’m so close, please." You’re not sure what you’re begging for now as your fingers claw at his back, legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper.

"Y/n–" His voice is a whimper, slutty and broken, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach. His breath shudders against you with every desperate exhale. "You feel so fucking good." His hips stutter, thrusts losing their rhythm as he loses himself in the heat of you, the way your body clenches around him. "Fuck—no one else feels like this—" His voice cracks, raw and honest, like he’s confessing something he’s never said before. "It’s only you. Always you. Dreamed of this, fuck you’re so tight still, dreamed of fucking you."

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you tight as he grinds into you, deep and slow, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. "I’m gonna cum so hard for you, baby. ‘M gonna cum so hard—" His words spill out in a jumbled, messy rush, unfiltered and wild. "I can’t— I can’t—" His cock throbs inside you, swollen and aching, his thrusts becoming short, shallow, desperate. 

"Are you feeling good, baby?" His lips brush your ear, his voice thick with need, pleading. "Does it feel good for you too?" His tongue flicks over your pulse point, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweat beading there. "Tell me—please—" His hips roll again, hitting that same spot, and you whimper, your body trembling beneath him.

"Yes," You gasp, your voice high and breathy, your body clenching tight around him. You’re so close to the edge you can taste it—electric, intense, just out of reach. "Mingyu—fuck—please. I need—I need more—"

"I know," he moans, his voice breaking. "I know, baby." His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with just the right pressure. "I’ve got you." His lips crash onto yours, his kiss messy and desperate, swallowing your moans. "I want you to come for me." His thumb presses firm, unrelenting, drawing circles that make your hips jerk up to meet his. "Please, Y/n," his voice is a plea, raw and needy, "can you come for me? Please?" His cock pulses inside you, throbbing with every beat of his heart.

You whimper, your body coiling tighter, pleasure building hot and unbearable inside you. "I can’t—" Your voice cracks, frustrated, desperate. "I need—" You don’t even know what you need—just him, more of him, everything he can give you.

"You can," Mingyu growls against your lips, his breath ragged. "Let go, baby—" His thumb moves faster, harder, pushing you right to the brink. "Come for me. Need t’feel you come around my cock." His hips snap once, twice, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. "Please—fuck—please, Y/n—" His voice is broken, begging, his body tensing above you as he chases his own release.

"I—I—" Your words cut off in a broken moan, your back arching off the bed as pleasure teeters. "Mingyu—!" His name spills from your lips like a prayer, a plea, as your orgasm builds, coiling tight and uncontrollable. "Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop." Your nails dig into his shoulders, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you together.

"Never," he promises, his voice rough. His lips find your neck again, sucking, biting, marking you as his thumb keeps working you, his cock filling you over and over. "Come on, baby," His voice is a whisper, a command, filled with so much need it sends a shudder through your body. "Fuck—Y/n—I—"

And then it tumbles out of him before he can shut his stupid fucking pussy-drunken mouth.

"Fuck, I love you."

Your eyes widen, your body freezing beneath him. But before you can process it, Mingyu’s lips are on yours again, his kiss swallowing your shock. He pulls back just enough to see your expression, wide-eyed, stunned, and panics.

"Shit—" he breathes, his face flushing deeper, but you don’t let him take it back.

"Shut the fuck up," you gasp, “You don’t mean that,” you mutter, yanking him down by his hair, crashing your lips onto his. He wants to tell you that he does. He does mean it, but your kiss is hard, possessive, and swallows whatever else he was going to say.

Mingyu groans into your mouth, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside you. "Y/n—" His voice is broken, vulnerable, but you don’t let him think. You don’t let him apologize.

“M’ gonna cum,” you sob, hiccuping, nails scratching his back raw. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum– don’t stop,” you pant, “don’t you dare fucking stop,” you cry, clinging onto his shoulders. 

Mingyu’s brain is mush. He’s dizzy, lightheaded, dry-mouthed, hips canting into yours faster and faster and faster, your moans spilling into his mouth. His fingers work quicker, tighter, pinching, slapping, rubbing, hands lifting your hips up and up, your ankles locking high around his waist. 

“F-fuh-fuck!” you squeal, tears brimming your eyes, “G-gyu! C-c-cumming–!” 

"Come for me," he orders, his voice raw. "I gotchu, baby," His thumb presses against your clit, circling it firmly. 

You sob out a broken moan of his name, back arching off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure wracks your body. Your orgasm hits you hard, wave after wave of intense, shuddering ecstasy crashing over you. Mingyu doesn’t stop—his thumb keeps circling, his cock twitching inside you, drawing out every last shudder until you’re boneless beneath him.

“Nnghh!” You throw your head back, body shuddering with overstimulation. “M-Min–! Umph! P-puh-lease c-cum!” You cry into the crook of his neck. “Ohmygod, feels s’good– y’ feel ssshhoo good— sshhoo deep–!” 

Mingyu shatters—his body tensing, his cock pulsing as he spills inside the condom, his moans muffled against your lips. "Fuck—Y/n—" His voice is broken, desperate, as his hips jerk uncontrollably, dragging out every last wave of his release. His balls tighten almost painfully as you squeeze around him as his spent cock pulses and throbs inside of you, spurting out aftershock bursts of pearly cum into the rubber. 

The air between you is thick with the heat of your bodies, the scent of sex and sweat lingering in the room. Mingyu collapses onto you, his chest heaving against yours, his skin damp and sticky with sweat. His weight is heavy, comforting, but the intensity of the moment fades into something quieter, more vulnerable. The only sound is your ragged breaths, slowly steadying, the thud of his heartbeat against your chest.

"Fuck," he pants, his voice rough. "What I said, I didn’t—"

You cut him off with another kiss, slow and deep, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I told you to shut up," you murmur against his lips, your heart pounding wildly.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s soft, intimate, the kind that settles in the aftermath of something raw and real.

Mingyu shifts just enough to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin. "A-are you okay?" His voice is muffled, rough from exertion, but tender.

You swallow, your fingers lightly tracing the dips of his spine. "Yeah," you whisper, your voice quiet, almost fragile. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving you aware of every inch of skin, every place his hands had touched you. You suddenly feel exposed—not just physically, but emotionally, like the barriers you’d kept up have crumbled with the rest of your control.

Mingyu must sense it. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. Without a word, he reaches for the rumpled sheets, pulling them up to cover you, tucking them around your shoulders like a shield. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a softness that makes your chest ache.

"Here," he murmurs, rolling onto his side without pulling out and pulling you with him, tugging you against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you close, his breath warm against the top of your head. "You good?"

You nod, burrowing into the heat of him, letting his body chase away the sudden chill. "Yeah," you repeat, softer this time. His other hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together, squeezing just enough to ground you.

For a while, you just lie there, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his heart slowly calms beneath your palm. His lips press against your temple, then your cheek, slow and unhurried, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. "I’ve got you," he murmurs, his voice low and sure.

You bury into his chest, cunt pulsing around his softening cock. You swallow.

Mingyu’s chin rests on top of your head. “I can almost hear you overthinking,” he jokes, fingers combing through your hair. 

“We just fucked,” you mutter into his chest. 

“I know,” he hums. 

“We hooked up, Mingyu,” you repeat, eyes closing. “Basically completely sober.”

“I know.” 

“We just–”

“-Y/n, I’m sorry, but you saying the same thing three different ways does not make it any less true,” Mingyu sighs, fingers drumming on your bare waist. 

“...sorry,” you mumble. 

“...No, don’t be.” Mingyu strokes your hair. “Don’t be sorry. I know I’m not.” 

The two of you fall into a silence again. 

Mingyu stirs after a few minutes, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before slowly pulling away. You hiss as he eases out of you, the sensitivity making you flinch. 

"Fuck, you’re huge," you mutter, half joking, half exhausted. Your poor attempt at lightening the mood. 

Mingyu laughs quietly, the sound rumbling against your back as he disposes of the condom and grabs a few tissues from the nightstand. "Yeah, yeah," he teases. With gentle hands, he slowly cleans you up. You finch. "You complaining?"

You swat at him weakly, but there’s no heat in it. "Shut up," you mumble, already half-asleep as he tosses the tissues aside and pulls you back into his arms.

“Hey,” he mumbles into your hair. 

“Hm?” 

“Will you be here tomorrow?” He asks, voice quiet. His heart thuds against his ribs, scared of your answer. 

You turn to look up at him, brows knitting. “For what?” 

“No, like I mean, when I wake up,” Mingyu coughs, clearing his throat as a blush rises on his cheeks. “You know, like, will you be here? Next to me, I mean. In the morning.” 

You stare at him and you don’t say anything. For a good five seconds, he stares back at you until the silence gets tense and he laughs shakily. “I mean, you don’t–”

“-Yeah,” you murmur, lips pursing. 

Mingyu immediately shuts up, eyes widening. “Like–” he swallows, hands tightening on your body, “like ‘yeah’ you’ll be here?” 

You laugh. “Yes. Like ‘yeah’ I’ll be here.” 

He giggles like a stupid schoolboy, kissing your forehead before reaching for the blanket and drawing it over both of you. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

The sheets are cool against your skin, but his body is warm, solid, a perfect contrast. You melt into him, your eyes drifting shut as his fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm.

"Sleep," he murmurs, his voice soft and rough with fatigue.

You don’t argue. You also don’t think about how domestic this feels. 

The last thing you register is the way his breath evens out, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the way his arm tightens just enough to keep you close. The room is dim, the only light filtering in from the hallway, casting long shadows across the bed. It feels domestic—quiet and safe and something you don’t dare name—but you don’t say it out loud. You just let yourself sink into it, into him, as sleep pulls you under.

Mingyu’s lips brush your hair one last time, his voice a bare whisper. "Goodnight, Y/n."

And for once, you don’t overthink it. You just close your eyes to the sound of Mingyu’s heartbeat and his fingers threading through your hair. 

Mingyu lies awake, listening to you fall asleep, repeating the cursed fucking thing he said in the heat of the moment. Well, technically, he guesses, not in the heat of the moment because it’s true. 

When your breathing evens out and he’s sure that you’re asleep, Mingyu carefully extricates himself from your limp grip, pressing one last kiss to your temple before sliding out of bed. He pulls on his sweatpants, wincing as the fabric brushes against his over-sensitive skin, and tiptoes toward the door. The floorboards creak slightly under his weight, but you don’t stir—out cold, breathing slow and even.

He eases the door shut behind him, exhaling sharply as he turns—only to come face-to-face with Wonwoo, leaning against the hallway wall with a rag in one hand and a smirk on his face.

"Took you long enough," Wonwoo drawls, raising an eyebrow. "Cleaning up already? Or just sneaking out?"

Mingyu flips him off, but there’s no heat in it. "Shut up," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

Seungcheol chooses that moment to round the corner, a trash bag slung over his shoulder. He takes one look at Mingyu—disheveled, flushed, still catching his breath—and laughs. "Finally. Took you fuckers long enough." He drops the bag by the door and crosses his arms. "So. How was it?"

Mingyu groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Dude—"

"Oh, come on," Wonwoo scoffs, tossing the rag into a nearby bucket. "We’ve been waiting for this shit for months. Details."

Mingyu glances back at the door, as if worried you’ll hear, before lowering his voice. "It was—fuck, I don’t know. Good. Really good." He exhales, running a hand through his messy hair. "Really, really good."

Seungcheol grins. "That’s my boy." He claps Mingyu on the shoulder, shaking him lightly. "About damn time you stopped moping and did something about it."

Wonwoo snorts. "Yeah, moping. That’s what we’re calling it." He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "So. She finally admit she’s into you, or are you still pretending this is just casual?"

Mingyu opens his mouth, then shuts it, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t just tell them that he sort-of-kind-of-maybe-most-definitely confessed his love to you mid-fuck, could he? "I—she—fuck off."

Seungcheol laughs, full and loud, earning a glare from Mingyu. "Oh, man. You’ve got it bad."

"I don’t—" Mingyu starts, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. "Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that." He picks up the bucket and heads toward the stairs. "Just don’t fuck it up again, yeah? Or I swear to god, I’ll personally make your life a living hell."

Mingyu flips him off again, but Seungcheol just laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Relax, Gyu. We’re happy for you." He grins. "Now go hydrate. You look like shit."

Mingyu shoves him off, but he’s smirking now, the weight in his chest lighter than it’s been in weeks. "Yeah, yeah." He glances back at the door one last time, then follows them downstairs, shaking his head, muttering under his breath as he heads toward the kitchen, bare feet padding against the cool tile. He pulls open the fridge, the light spilling out into the dim room as he grabs a bottle of water. "You two are insufferable,"* he grumbles, twisting off the cap of a bottle of water and taking a long swig before pouring a glass for you.

Wonwoo leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with amusement. "We’re realists," he corrects, smirking. "And realistically, you’ve been pining after her for how long now? Years?"

Seungcheol snorts, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge and tossing one to Wonwoo. "More like forever," he says, popping the cap off his own with a flick of his thumb. "Remember last year, when you got all moody because she dated that one guy for, like, two months?"

Mingyu glares at him, filling the glass with more force than necessary. "That guy was an asshole."

"Uh-huh," Wonwoo drawls, taking a sip of his beer. "And you were jealous."

"I was not—" Mingyu starts, but Seungcheol cuts him off with a laugh.

"Oh, please. You sulked for days." He grins. "We all saw it."

Mingyu exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. "Can we not do this right now?" He grabs the glass and turns to leave, but Wonwoo blocks his path, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine, fine," Wonwoo says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But seriously—what happens now? You finally hook up, and then what? You just pretend it didn’t happen?"

Mingyu hesitates, gripping the glass tighter. "I don’t know, okay?" He runs a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his voice. "It’s complicated."

Seungcheol leans against the counter beside Wonwoo, studying him. "Only as complicated as you make it," he points out. "You like her. She clearly likes you. Or maybe just your dick, but same difference. What’s the problem?"

Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the water swirling in the glass, thinking about the way you looked at him earlier—flush and breathless, your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. "She didn’t say it was anything more than," He waves a hand vaguely. "This."

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. "Because you didn’t ask before you stuck it in her."

Mingyu frowns, opening his mouth to retort, but Seungcheol cuts him off.

"Or maybe she expects something out of it," Seungcheol adds, shrugging. "Sometimes actions speak louder, Gyu."

Mingyu glances at them, then sighs, defeated. "I don’t know what to do," he admits quietly.

Seungcheol claps him on the back, grinning. "Then don’t overthink it. Just, keep doing whatever this is. It’s clearly working… somehow. And maybe," he stresses, "actually talk to her about it instead of brooding in the corner like a tragic hero."

Mingyu flips them both off, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, yeah." He takes a deep breath, nodding to himself. "I’ll … figure it out."

"Good," Wonwoo says, pushing off the counter. "Now go bring her that water before she wakes up and thinks you ditched her."

Mingyu shakes his head, but he’s already turning to leave, the glass clutched in his hand. "You two are the worst."

Seungcheol laughs, raising his beer in a mock toast. "But we’re right."

Mingyu doesn’t bother arguing. He just heads back upstairs, mind racing with possibilities. And for the first time in a long time, hope feels like something tangible. Something waiting for him on the horizon.

Mingyu eases the door open, slipping back into the room with the quiet stealth of someone who’s practiced sneaking around too many times. The glass of water clinks softly as he sets it down on the nightstand, the sound lost in the steady rhythm of your breathing. He hesitates for a second, just watching you—your hair spread across the pillow (his pillow !?!), your lips parted slightly, your chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Gorgeous. Fuck. He could stare at you forever if you let him.

He carefully lifts the blanket, sliding in beside you, his body molding to the curve of yours. The second his skin touches the sheets, you stir, mumbling something incoherent before rolling over—right into his chest. His breath hitches as your bare skin presses against his, warm and soft, and fuck, he wants to scream. 

"Mingyu…" You murmur his name sleepily, nuzzling closer, your arm draping over his waist like it belongs there. Your cheek presses up against his bare chest and your hair tickles his chin and your legs weave in between his and you let out a cute little sigh. 

His arms wrap around you instinctively, pulling you tight against him, his chin resting on the top of your head. His chest aches—not from exertion, but from something deeper, something that feels like it could spill out of his mouth again if he isn’t careful. God, he wants to tell you. He wants to whisper “I love you” into your hair, wants to press his lips to your forehead and promise you everything.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he swallows the words down, letting them settle in his chest like a secret. His fingers tighten just enough to feel the steady beat of your heart against his ribs, and he exhales shakily, pressing his lips to your hair.

"Not fair," he whispers, so quiet you won’t hear it. It’s not fair that you do this to him. Make him feel so much with just a look, a touch, the sound of his name on your lips. It’s not fair that other guys – assholes and fuckboys and undeserving maggots – latch onto your precious arm and leech through empty words that he would say to you with such vigor. It’s not fair that he can only be your secret, that he’ll probably wake up tomorrow morning to an empty side where you had slept. Still warm, if he wakes up early enough. 

He should move. He should put space between you before he does something stupid, like confess everything in the dark. But he can’t. Not when you fit against him like this, not when your breath fans warm against his skin, not when every part of him screams to hold you closer.

So he doesn’t move.

He just breathes you in, lets the weight of you against him anchor him to the moment. His eyes drift shut, his mind quieting for the first time in hours. The last thing he thinks, as sleep pulls him under, is that he’ll find a way to tell you. Soon. Before he loses his mind.

(And god, he hopes you feel the same way.)

: ̗̀➛ wrong thing, classic

@vwintershire ; @wonu13 ; @jm1655 ; @christinewithluv ; @gyuhao365 ; @wonu13 ; @abbaebay ; @erylilly

[bei-b]

Jeonghan + Wonwoo accept the Presidential Commendation for SVT Korean Popular Culture and Arts Awards, 2025

[sugurugetos]

9 Years of SEVENTEEN 💎 2015 — #세븐틴과_함께한청춘_벌써_9주년 #SVT_Shinin9_Diamonds

[imimmortal4-deactivated20170713]

[maisonmilli]

i can legit hear it :Cry

mingyuaa..melon pang !! 🥺

[yoonggi]

✨✨

[h00mandied]

I LAUGH FOR FIVE MINUTES 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💀

[kiestrokes]

Sorry @minisugakoobies but @minttangerines has influenced me

[chwedout]

blah blah blah. proper name. place name. backstory stuff.

[mochacoda]

ykw im having a vernon renaissance what about it

[kyeomic]

happy burstday trailer behind

[wnjunhui]

S.COUPS | MET GALA 2025

[jeonghan-yoons]

jeonghan : 손오공 mv

[ruinedchildhood]

Bro switched to eco mode

[soonhoonsol]

warning: tiger is affectionate when drunk

[cosmonautroger]

colors

[sugarplumfuckwit]

Color theory is a real sumbitch

[cassia-c]

[mariamlovesyou]

new uterine lining just dropped

[ocqueen]

[pippelineito]

[peskyfirefly]

iris by goo goo dolls really is insane though. I'd give up forever to touch you? you're the closest to heaven I'll ever be? all I can breathe is your life? and I don't want the world to see me cause I don't think they'd understand? when everything's meant to be broken I just want you to know who I am? does anyone hear me.