Bri @n01likeu - Tumblr Blog

MAGIC MINGI

[ S. Mingi ]

╚═════════

summary: he’s your best friend. he also happens to be a stripper and the moment you finally see him onstage changes the entire trajectory of your friendship

warning: switch mingi, switch reader, fingering, oral, choking, light double penetration, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, creaming, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

genre: smut, slow burn friends to lovers

pairing: stripper mingi x afab reader

word count: 22.7k

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The shrill chirp of your phone alarm dragged you out of a dream that dissolved the second your eyes cracked open. Too bright. Too early. Too… Thursday. You groaned, rolling onto your back and immediately regretting it when the sunlight knifed through the window, slicing across your face as you flung your blankets off with a dramatic sigh and sat up in your bed, the cotton of your oversized tshirt twisting at your hips. It was one of your oldest pieces of clothing, some faded college logo, soft from years of wear, and hung halfway to your thighs. You shuffled your way toward the bathroom with all the grace of a zombie in compression socks. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of the city starting to wake up outside your window. The air smelled faintly like Mingi’s shampoo, minty, clean, and the lemon candle you’d left burning on the kitchen counter overnight.

You were halfway through a yawn when you turned the corner into the narrow hallway and smacked face to chest first into Mingi. “Oof…shit, sorry….” he muttered, stepping back as your breath caught in your throat and your hand shot out to steady yourself against his chest. Bare chest. Warm and solid and way too close. His skin was still damp from a shower, short messy black hair sticking up everywhere, a towel slung over one shoulder, and he was wearing nothing but… boxers. Black Calvin Kleins. Low on his hips. Hugging his thighs like they were painted on. You’d seen him like this before. So many times. Post showers. Late nights. Early mornings. But lately? Lately, it was driving you crazy. His eyes dropped to where your hand still rested against his chest and your fingers twitched as if suddenly aware of the contact making you jerk your hand back like you’d been burned. “I didn’t think you were up yet,” you said quickly, voice still rough with sleep. He grinned, lazy and unbothered. “Didn’t think you were awake either. You usually don’t roll outta bed until after you threaten your alarm like it owes you money.”

“Rude,” you muttered, stepping past him to the bathroom, careful not to brush against him again. But Mingi didn’t move. He just stood there for a second, eyes lingering on your legs, bare beneath the hem of that shirt. That shirt he recognized, because it used to be his. You didn’t look back, but you felt it, his gaze on your thighs, on the way your hips shifted as you moved. You turned on the faucet and closed the bathroom door a little too fast and leaned on the counter, heart thudding in your chest like it knew something your brain was still trying to deny.

By the time you remerged from the bathroom, hair damp and wrapped up in a towel, the apartment had settled into its usual late morning rhythm. The AC hummed through the vents, the coffee machine gurgled in protest as it brewed something criminally bitter, and from the living room, the low buzz of the TV drifted down the hallway as you padded barefoot into the kitchen, now dressed in light blue scrubs that hugged in all the wrong places when you were running late. You grabbed a travel mug from the drying rack and poured what might have been coffee and might have been battery acid. Then you saw Mingi laid out across the couch like sin in sweatpants. Still shirtless. Still glowing from his shower. Still smug as hell. His long legs were stretched out, one ankle hooked over the other. He had a half smoked blunt pinched between his fingers, resting on his stomach like it belonged there. His hair had started to dry in messy. On the TV, some loud anime was playing, subtitles on, volume low as he looked over at you like he always did. Like he didn’t even realize how unfair he was being just by existing. “You look cute in blue,” he said casually, eyes dropping to your chest for a beat too long before dragging back up.

“Shut up,” you muttered, trying to sip your coffee like your face wasn’t burning. “What?” he grinned. “I meant it.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to the counter, pretending to dig through the junk drawer for a pen that wasn’t there. You needed to breathe. You needed to not look at his abs. Or his chest. Or that faint little glimpse of a happy trail disappearing under the…. “I don’t get why you work mornings,” he said through a cloud of smoke. “You’re always dead inside before noon.” You rolled your eyes. “Because not all of us can grind three nights a week and come home with enough cash to pay rent and buy overpriced cereal,” you fired back.

“Jealous?” he teased, voice low and smoky as you glanced over your shoulder…. mistake. He had his arms behind his head now, which only made the cut of his biceps more obvious. The blunt dangled from his lips as he smirked around it and you had to turn back around, muttering, “I hate you.” He laughed, so sure of himself. “No you don’t.” You didn’t answer. Because he was right. And if you stayed any longer, you were going to say something stupid, like how much you liked the way he smelled in the mornings, or how the sound of his voice saying good girl during one of your dreams last week had woken you up in a sweat. So instead, you grabbed your keys. “I’m gonna be late,” you said, tossing him one last look on your way out the door. “Don’t burn the couch.” He waved you off. “No promises,” he called after you, grinning with the blunt still between his teeth.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The hospital was already buzzing when you arrived, nurses huddled over clipboards at the station, the smell of antiseptic biting at the back of your throat, and call lights flickering like a Christmas display gone rogue. You clocked in, grabbed your patient sheets, and headed to the break room to caffeinate before the chaos could fully begin. Seonghwa was already there, perched on the edge of the worn sofa like he didn’t have a single bone in his body. Dressed in his usual scrubs. black, fitted and unfair, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a medical drama, not elbow deep in bedpans and IV drips like the rest of you. He looked up the moment you walked in, smirk already forming. “Late night?” You sighed. “Hardly,” you grumbled, pouring your second cup of coffee for the day. “I just had to deal with Mingi being shirtless and smug at seven in the goddamn morning.” A knowing look formed in his eyes. “Ah,” Seonghwa said, amused. “So a normal Thursday.” You shot him a look over your shoulder, and he laughed, swinging his stethoscope around one finger. “You know,” he said casually, like he wasn’t about to drop a conversational grenade, “I’ve known Mingi for three years now. Worked with him every Friday night at Velvet Inferno. And I still don’t get how you’ve never seen his show.”

You stiffened. “I’ve been busy,” you said quickly, reaching for the coffee creamer like it would shield you. “For three years?” Seonghwa scoffed. “I work weekends sometimes.” You argued as he tilted his head. “You had last weekend off.” You stirred your coffee too hard, spilling a little. “Maybe I just don’t want to see my best friend grinding on strangers in leather pants.” Seonghwa arched a perfect brow in amusement. “Strangers? Or you?” You froze, fingers tightening around the mug as he leaned forward, voice lower now, teasing but not unkind. “Look, I’m not judging. Honestly? I think it’s kind of sweet. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. And I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think I’m not watching.” You opened your mouth, ready to deny everything…. but nothing came out. Because what could you say? That the idea of seeing Mingi dance…. seeing him like that…. scared the hell out of you? Because if you did, everything might change. Seonghwa smiled, leaning back. “Just come this Saturday. Just once. You don’t even have to tell him. I’ll put you in the back. No pressure. But I think you need to see what everyone else already knows.” You swallowed hard, heart thudding in your chest. And you hated that a tiny voice in your head whispered you wanted to go.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The sun was dipping low by the time you pulled into your usual spot in the apartment complex lot, the air thick and heavy with the scent of summer rain still lingering from earlier. Your body ached, shoulders tight, feet on fire, and your brain running on its last ounce of caffeine and spite. All you wanted was a hot shower and silence as you dragged yourself up the stairs to your apartment and pushed the key into the lock just as the door opened from the inside. “Whoa… oh hey,” Mingi said, stopping short when he nearly walked right into you. “Timing.” You blinked up at him, a little stunned. He was in his usual off duty gear: oversized black tee hanging loose over baggy sweats, worn Vans on his feet, a crossbody slung over his chest. His hair was damp and tousled like he’d just showered, and he smelled like cedarwood and laundry detergent. Comfort and home to you. “Heading out?” you asked, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as he nodded, stepping aside to let you in. “Yeah, club night. You good?”

“Long day,” you said, toeing off your sneakers, “one guy tried to bite me. That was new.” Mingi let out a breathy laugh, keys jingling in his hand. “Your job’s wild.” You snorted. “Says the guy whose job title might as well be professional panty dropper.” He smirked. “Exotic dancer, thank you.” You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged up at the corners as he glanced at the clock on his phone. “I gotta run or Hongjoong’ll give my slot to San.” You waved him off. “Go shake your ass for the masses.” He saluted you as he walked out the door. “Always do.” And just like that, he was gone, door closing softly behind him leaving you standing there for a minute, the silence settling around you. Then, as you made your way to the kitchen, you paused, eyes drifting toward the living room where his hoodie hung over the back of the couch.

You’d known Mingi danced. You’d joked about it, teased him about it, supported him in theory. But you’d never actually seen him at work. Never seen what he became when the lights hit him, when the music started, when the shirt came off. You didn’t even know what he wore onstage. Just the vague idea that it was… not much. And now? Now the curiosity had claws as you opened the fridge and muttered to yourself, “What the hell does he wear?” The curiosity stayed with you as you settled in. The movie you picked was already thirty minutes in, something easy and familiar you’d seen a dozen times before. It played low on the TV while you lounged on the couch, fresh out of the shower now and buried in a hoodie that still smelled a little like your favorite fabric softener. Your legs were tucked under a throw blanket, but your mind wasn’t anywhere near the screen. It was with him still as you stared blankly at the movie, but your brain kept chewing on the same question you hadn’t let yourself fully ask until now. Why haven’t you gone to see him perform?

He’d been working there for over three years. Seonghwa did Friday nights. Hell, he’d had even joked once about how you were the only person in Orlando who hadn’t seen Mingi shirtless under a spotlight. So why? Why had you avoided it like it would ruin you? Your fingers tightened slightly around the blanket. Because you knew exactly why. It wasn’t about the fact that he danced. It wasn’t about the teasing, or the way he’d wink when you told him to shut up, or how he’d come home at 3:00 am still buzzing with energy, collapsing on the couch to eat cereal straight from the box. No. It was because you’d already seen it once. Not the stage lights. Not the show. But close. A year ago. You had just gotten home late from your first overnight shift. Quietly unlocked the door, trying not to wake him. But the second you stepped inside…… you heard it first. Low moans. Gasping breaths. The unmistakable rhythm of someone getting absolutely wrecked. You hadn’t meant to look. You really hadn’t. But you turned your head anyway, and there he was….. Mingi, shirtless and flushed, sweat slicked and panting, one hand braced against the back of the couch while the other gripped the thigh of the girl riding him.

You remembered her, she used to come by a lot. A regular at the club, you’d later find out. Gorgeous, confident, the type of girl who knew what she wanted and went after it. And she had Mingi wrapped around her like he was hers. You’d frozen in the entryway. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He didn’t even notice you. Too far gone. Eyes dark, jaw slack, letting out a low groan that made your knees buckle. You’d backed out the door like a ghost, quietly closing it behind you. He never found out you saw. And you never told him. But that night had haunted you. Not because he was having sex. But because for the first time in your life, you realized how badly you wanted to be the one underneath him. And ever since then? You’d kept your distance. In all the ways that counted. Because if seeing him like that from across the room nearly broke you… what the hell would happen if you watched him onstage, knowing that, for three nights a week, Mingi wasn’t just your best friend anymore. He was fantasy. And worse? You weren’t just craving the fantasy. You wanted the real thing.

The movie had long since faded into background noise, the credits rolling over a dramatic orchestral swell you didn’t register as you sat curled on the couch, blanket tucked around you, bowl of popcorn untouched in your lap, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. You were thinking about him still. Of course you were. The way he looked earlier, casual, smiling, smelling like shampoo and cologne. You’d bumped into him like it was nothing, like he wasn’t your best friend, like he didn’t get up onstage hours later and become someone else entirely. Someone you’d never seen. Someone the rest of the world paid to see. And you? You kept pretending like you didn’t want to know what he looked like under those lights. But God, you did. You tossed the blanket off your lap and stood, pacing without realizing it. Every logical part of your brain was screaming don’t go. That this was a terrible idea. That seeing Mingi in his element…. seeing him be seductive, powerful, untouchable… wasn’t going to fix anything. Maybe it would even break something. But your heart had already made the call. Fuck it.

Maybe if you saw it for yourself, really saw it, you could finally snap out of this stupid crush. Put it to bed. Get over the fantasy. Even though every part of you knew that was a lie. You grabbed your phone off the charger and opened your messages, thumbing through the chaos of your shift notes until you found the thread with Seonghwa and let him know you wanted to go tomorrow night and then locked your phone and stared at the wall for a long time while in your chest, your heart thudded a little too loud, a little too fast, as you whispered to yourself, “This is probably gonna make it worse.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The street outside Velvet Inferno was packed, black ropes, velvet lined doors, sharp dressed people waiting with anticipation and lip gloss, some hoping to get in, others already drunk off the idea of it. But you weren’t waiting in line. Not tonight. Not when you were with Seonghwa, who nodded at the bouncer with a smirk and tugged you gently by the wrist. “Still time to run, you know,” he said as he led you down the side alley toward the back entrance. His tone was teasing, but there was something else in it too, like he wasn’t sure if he should be dragging you in or dragging you away. “I said I was coming,” you murmured, adjusting the off shoulder sleeve of your black corset top. “And I didn’t think you meant it,” he shot back, glancing you up and down. “Not looking like that, anyway.” You ignored the warmth creeping up your neck. Your outfit had taken a solid hour of second guessing. Corset laced, form fitting black top. Wide leg dark jeans studded along the seams. Towering platform shoes that made your legs look unreal and your presence even taller than it already felt.

The hallway behind the club was dimly lit and smelled like fog machine residue and cologne. Seonghwa tapped a few beats on the staff door and the guy working security cracked it open, giving him a nod before letting you both slip inside. The dressing rooms were just ahead. Music pulsed faintly through the walls, heavy bass, muffled cheering, the rush of a crowd already half lost in the show. Mingi was somewhere in there. Completely unaware. Seonghwa led you out from the back and into the main heart of the club, bringing you towards the bar. He just grinned, lounging back as a server dropped off your drinks and you took a slow sip of yours, trying to act cool, trying not to let the rising hum in your chest give you away. Because any second now, Mingi would be on stage. And you had no idea what you were about to see. You’d only ever known him in hoodies and backwards hats, baggy sweats and sleepy eyes. That was your Mingi. But this? This was his world. And for once, you were stepping into it…..

Backstage at Velvet Inferno was a whole world of its own. Dimly lit mirrors flickered with rows of bulbs, costumes and props scattered across hooks and benches. The air was thick with cologne, sweat, body glitter, and ego. Music from the stage thumped through the walls like a second pulse, and somewhere out front, the crowd was already screaming. San was stretching, shirtless and grinning like a menace. His routine was up next. Yeosang sat on the bench nearby, buttoning a tight, sheer black shirt over his bare chest, his movements slow and precise, like every inch of him knew it was being watched even back here. Mingi was in the corner, half dressed, tugging on a pair of tight black jeans, shirt still slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t on for another two sets, but he liked being ready early. And then there was Wooyoung, draped over the bench like a cat in heat, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “God, I’m so horny,” he whined, flopping dramatically. “San and I need a third. I’m tired of rotating amateurs.”

“Maybe stop scaring them off,” Yeosang muttered, sliding on his rings and Wooyoung sat up, eyes gleaming, completely unfazed. “You know what? We should ask her.” Mingi looked up. “Who?” Something was telling him he wasn’t going to like what Wooyoung was about to say. “Your roommate,” Wooyoung said with a grin. “What’s her name again?” Mingi blinked, jaw clenching a little. “Why?” Wooyoung better not fucking say it….. “She’s hot,” Wooyoung said easily. “And if she’s lived with you this long, she’s probably used to the lifestyle. San and I need someone who can keep up. Emotionally, sexually, spiritually…. like, we light candles and everything.” Yeosang answered without looking up. “Y/N.” Wooyoung snapped his fingers. “Yes! Y/N. That’s her name.” Mingi stared at him, jaw tight. “No.” Wooyoung blinked. “No?” Mingi glared now. “No.” Wooyoung tilted his head, smile curling. “Why not?” He was antagonizing him now. “Because,” Mingi said, yanking his shirt on roughly, “she’s not like that.”

“Ohhh…” Wooyoung’s grin spread, slow and sharp. “Ohhh.” Yeosang raised a brow, glancing over. “Here we go.” Wooyoung was like a shark and Mingi’s emotions were like blood to him right now. “You like her,” Wooyoung said, pointing like it was a mic drop. “You like like her.” Mingi rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.” Wooyoung laughed, giggling and clapping his hands together. “That’s why you’ve never invited her here. That’s why you don’t talk about her. That’s why you looked like you were gonna commit a crime when I said she was hot.” Mingi didn’t say anything as Wooyoung leaned in, elbows on his knees, smug as hell. “Dude. You’re in love with her.”

“Wooyoung….”

“You gonna make a move?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Mingi’s jaw flexed. “Because she’s my best friend.” Wooyoung made a dramatic face. “That’s the best kind of person to ruin your life with!” Yeosang snorted as San popped his head in, fully dressed for his set in leather pants and a harness. “Did Wooyoung start the polyamory evangelism again?” It wouldn’t be the first time. “He tried to recruit Y/N,” Yeosang said and San grinned. “Oh damn. She’s hot.” Mingi threw his towel at the nearest locker with a loud clang and Wooyoung just laughed. “Better hurry up, lover boy. A girl like that doesn’t stay single long.” Mingi didn’t answer. Because deep down, he knew Wooyoung was right. And he also knew something Wooyoung didn’t. Y/N was the one thing he could never afford to fuck up.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You were adjusting your top when the lights dimmed and a hush rippled through the crowd as Hongjoong’s voice came through the speakers, smooth, sultry, trained like velvet over whiskey. “Put your hands together, ladies and gentlemen… for your favorite little devil…. SAN.” The spotlight hit center stage and the room exploded. You nearly spilled your drink as the crowd screamed, shrill and feral, as San sauntered out under the lights. Shirtless, with a harness of course. Leather pants hugging him like they were scared to let go. A black choker glinting under the lights. Smirk full of sin. “Oh my God… “He’s really……” you whispered. “Yep,” Seonghwa replied, sipping his drink without flinching. “He’s their chaos demon.” On stage, San dropped to one knee and rolled his hips like he was summoning something dark and holy. Women screamed. Someone threw a bra and you couldn’t stop staring. Not because of San. But because Mingi was going to walk out there soon. And you had no idea how you were supposed to breathe when he did.

You sat there frozen, drink half forgotten in your hand, as the man you’d only ever seen as Mingi’s ridiculously sweet coworker turned into something else entirely under the lights. San prowled across the stage like he owned it, like he’d built it himself. His leather pants clung to every curve, every flex of his thighs as he stalked toward the front, bathed in red light like sin incarnate. The bass pounded. The fog machine kicked. A woman in the front row stood up in her seat and screamed like she was being exorcised. Seonghwa leaned toward you, voice close to your ear. “You’re lucky you missed his firefighter set last month. He had a damn hose.” You choked on your drink. San’s body was shimmering under the lights, abs flexing with every roll of his hips. And then… he jumped down off the stage and stalked through the crowd like a panther, grabbing the arm of a woman in a rhinestone dress and guiding her onto a chaise lounge at the edge of the floor. She looked like she might faint but San didn’t give her a second to recover, just climbed up beside her, straddled the seat, and slowly rolled his hips down against hers, one hand braced beside her head, the other dragging up her thigh like he was checking the strength of his own self control.

“Holy shit,” you muttered and Seonghwa just smiled, sipping his drink. “Told you.” San leaned in like he was going to kiss the girl, but stopped just short, lips hovering a breath away. Her hands were everywhere, chest, arms, back, and San let her. Even encouraged it, grinding slow and deep while the crowd screamed and tossed bills. It was chaos. It was art. It was sex with a lighting designer. And you couldn’t stop watching as San got off the lounge and winked as he pulled the woman up to her feet, gave her a playful little slap on the ass that made the whole table behind her screech, and guided her back to her seat like a gentleman. Then he walked back to the center of the stage, arms out, chest gleaming, a grin on his face that said I just wrecked your soul and I’m not even winded and then bowed as the house lights dimmed and the stage went dark. He came strutting offstage, chest gleaming with sweat and bills sticking out of the waistband of his pants. He grabbed a towel off the rack, wiped his face, and tossed it onto the bench like it owed him money.

The dressing room was a blur of movement, Yeosang doing last minute checks in the mirror, Wooyoung adjusting his earrings, Hongjoong’s muffled voice echoing the last of San’s name through the speakers. But San? He had tunnel vision right for Mingi who was sitting on the edge of a bench, elbows on knees, fully dressed in his performance gear now, black jeans tighter than sin, a mesh shirt hanging loose over his chest, and his hair styled spiky. He was scrolling through his phone, earbuds in, probably blasting his pre set playlist to ignore Wooyoung. Until San kicked his boot. “Yo.” Mingi looked up, pulling out one earbud. “How was it?” San just grinned. Too wide. Too smug. Like he’d just won a bet no one else knew about. “Set was great,” he said. “Crowd’s wild tonight. I swear someone tried to lick my abs.” Mingi snorted. “Not surprising,” he muttered, standing to stretch. “You’re a menace.”

“Guilty.” San didn’t move. Just stared still grinning which made Mingi raise a brow. “What?” San grinned wider. “You’re not even curious who’s in the audience tonight?” Mingi grabbed his water bottle. “I don’t need to be. It’s the same as every week. Bachelorettes. Drunk office girls. That one lady with the glitter cane who tips like a goddamn queen.” San licked his lips, still grinning. “You sure?” Mingi paused, staring at him suspiciously now. “What?” San just tilted his head, leaning against the lockers like a man with secrets. “You really don’t know she’s here?” Mingi frowned. “Who?” San laughed then, shaking his head. “Y/N.” Mingi froze as San’s grin widened even more. “Seonghwa’s here too, but I wasn’t exactly looking at him.” Mingi blinked in denial. “Y/N’s not here.”

“Oh, but she is,” San said, stretching his arms up behind his head like he didn’t just casually nuke Mingi’s entire night. “Sitting in the third booth off center. Black corset top, jeans with studs. Platforms. She looks good. Like someone who absolutely should not be watching you do what you’re about to do.” Mingi’s mouth went dry. “You’re messing with me.” San smirked. “Am I?” Go look.” Mingi didn’t move. Just stood there, every muscle in his body coiled like a wire pulled tight. San patted him on the shoulder as he walked past, towel slung around his neck. “Good luck out there, lover boy.” And then he was gone. Leaving Mingi in a storm of adrenaline, nerves, and something dangerously close to hope.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The lights dropped low again. The bass thudded once, deep and resonant, followed by a rush of fog spilling out across the stage like the start of a storm. Hongjoong’s voice purred over the sound system, dripping with anticipation. “You’ve been waiting for him… and he’s ready to ruin you.” The crowd screamed. “Give it up for the man who makes fantasy look easy…. your headliner tonight… MINGI.” You couldn’t breathe. Not when the spotlight hit the center of the stage and he walked out like he was made for it. Not when the cheers around you turned primal. Not when the bass dropped and the music started. Because there he was. Mingi. But not the one you saw every morning in his hoodie, grumbling about cereal and half asleep on the couch. This version? This version was lethal. Tight black jeans that looked like they’d been sewn onto his body. A cropped mesh shirt unbuttoned all the way down his chest, the fabric clinging to sweat slick skin and teasing every dip and plane of muscle. Thick silver rings flashed on his fingers. He moved with slow confidence, every step perfectly timed to the thump of the beat. Not rushed. Not overdone. Like he already knew he owned the room. And God, he did.

The screams rose as he reached center stage, his hand sliding down his chest as the first switch in the music hit, a slick remix of something dark and sexy, all bass and breathy vocals. You couldn’t move or look away. And Mingi? Mingi was trying so hard not to look for you. He’d known the moment the curtain parted. He felt it like gravity. The shift in his breath. The hum in his chest. The way his heart slammed once, hard, like it recognized you before his eyes even did. But he didn’t turn his head. Not yet. He started slow, hips rolling in time with the music, hands skimming down his own body like he wasn’t teasing the entire room. His movements were smooth but controlled, like he could go harder but was choosing to drive everyone mad instead. And it was working. Women screamed. Money flew. A few already stood at the edge of the stage, reaching as Mingi dropped low into a crouch, legs spread wide, one hand dragging up his thigh to his chest. His lip curled into a smirk as he popped his hips once sharp. Then again slower. But still… he didn’t look.

Your hands were clenched in your lap, knuckles white. Your drink sat untouched. Your pulse? Absolutely fucked. Seonghwa leaned closer, whispering into your ear with a grin, “You breathing?” You didn’t answer. Because just then Mingi stood and turned, his eyes sweeping the crowd. Searching. Trying to pretend he wasn’t. Trying to stay smooth. Sexy. In control. But the moment his gaze landed on you? He stopped. Only for a second. But it was enough. Enough for you to know he saw you. Enough for him to forget the choreography for a half beat before snapping back in with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. You felt it. That flicker, real Mingi, underneath the performer. And in that moment, the game changed. Because now he wasn’t dancing for the room. He was dancing for you.

He’d always been good on stage. Controlled. Smooth. A slow burn with a fuse he could light and kill at will. He could flirt without touching, seduce without a word, tease until the whole room was ready to explode and then walk off like it was nothing. But tonight? Tonight was not a normal night. He wasn’t sure what came over him. Maybe it was the way you looked, corset laced tight, sitting back like you were trying to disappear, but your eyes were locked on him like they were chained. Maybe it was the memory of all the nights he’d come home from this stage and found you asleep on the couch, unaware of what he became after dark. Or maybe it was just that he’d waited too long to know what it would feel like to really perform for you. So he stopped holding back. He turned away from the crowd, letting the music climb into a filthy, distorted drop, shoulders rolling once, twice, before he grabbed the hem of his mesh shirt and yanked it off in one smooth pull and the screams that followed shook the walls as he tossed the shirt offstage and ran a hand down his chest, slow, like he was savoring it before he turned back around and met the crowd head on. And you.

There was no mistaking it now. He was performing for you. No more playing it safe as Mingi strutted forward, bare chest gleaming and dropped into a low squat near the front of the stage, spread his knees wide, and rolled his hips up, a deep, obscene grind that had a woman near the edge drop her drink and scream and he smiled. Then came the pants. He didn’t rush it. Oh no. He turned, showing off his back, hands sliding low over his waistband. Then…. pop, the button came undone and he dragged the zipper down slowly before he bent forward and rolled his hips. And then stood again in nothing but black briefs stretched dangerously across his thighs, low enough on his hips to make your throat go dry and the room lost its mind. Bills rained down like confetti. San’s name had gotten cheers. Mingi’s got worship. The lights followed him as he walked back down the runway, body pure heat and precision, muscles shifting under skin like he was carved to be stared at. He grabbed one of the poles, spun once, and dropped into the floor with his knees spread and thighs flexed so tight you thought you might pass out. Your nails dug into your thigh as he looked right at you as he did it and held your gaze as he popped his hips again. And again. And again.

You could feel your breath catching in your throat, your body burning under his stare. You didn’t even realize you were leaning forward slightly until Seonghwa whispered beside you, “He’s gonna destroy you.” You didn’t answer. Because right then, Mingi climbed back to his feet, chest rising and falling like a man on fire and he smiled. Smug. Sinful. Targeted. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Like he didn’t care if you were ready. Because you were already his.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

You weren’t sure how much time had passed since Mingi left the stage. Minutes? Hours? Your concept of time had evaporated somewhere around the third hip thrust. And Seonghwa had been absolutely insufferable since. “Drink some water before you pass out,” he said casually, pushing a glass toward you while lounging in the booth like he hadn’t just watched your entire soul leave your body. “I’m fine,” you muttered, eyes still half glazed. “Oh yeah? You haven’t blinked since he took off his shirt. Do I need to check your vitals, Nurse Y/N?” You took the water purely so you wouldn’t dump your drink on him. Wooyoung had performed next, of course, and it was exactly the chaotic firestorm you expected, leather pants, fire visuals, and a lot of tongue. Yeosang followed, graceful and untouchable, a sharp contrast that left the crowd breathless. But you? You barely saw them.

Your mind was still spinning from Mingi. From the way he looked straight at you. The way he moved like he knew what he was doing to you. And worst of all…. the way he smiled right before the lights went out. Smug bastard. And now the Hongjoong’s voice came booming back through the speakers, and the lights shifted, soft pinks, warm reds, the kind of glow that signaled one thing and one thing only. Audience participation. “Alright, alright, alright,” he purred, grinning as he walked across the stage. “You’ve seen them solo, but what if I told you there’s more?” The crowd screamed. “Oh, I know we’ve got some special people in the house tonight… where’s our bride to be?” More screaming as a spotlight snapped toward the left, landing on a girl in white with a tiara and glitter down her arms. She was losing her mind as Hongjoong grinned. “I think she deserves one last sin before the ring, don’t you?” Another round of unhinged cheering. “Ladies and gentlemen, for our bachelorette tonight… the Velvet Inferno All Stars!”

The lights dropped. The bass hit. And the entire team came out. San, Wooyoung, Yeosang, and, of course, Mingi, now in a sleeveless black tank and ripped jeans, hair still wild from earlier. He wasn’t even trying to perform yet. Just walking. And somehow still ruining your life. The crowd was feral as the guys spread out across the stage, moving in sync, just a taste of choreography, enough to tease, before they surrounded the bachelorette’s chair like lions circling a meal. “Now,” Hongjoong grinned, “you get to pick who gives you the lap dance of your dreams.” The bachelorette looked like she was about to ascend as San leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. Then Wooyoung dropped to his knees in front of her with a wink. Yeosang stood back, arms crossed, smug and untouched. And Mingi didn’t even approach her. Not at first. Because he was scanning the crowd again. Looking for you. And when he found you? He smirked. That same dangerous smirk he’d worn earlier. But this time? He winked and your stomach dropped.

Seonghwa leaned in. “You’re not getting out of here without at least five more people knowing you’re in love with your best friend.” You didn’t answer. Because on stage, the bachelorette finally picked her dancer. But Mingi’s eyes never left yours as the crowd erupted. San let out a dramatic, fake gasp. Wooyoung fell to the floor clutching his chest like he’d been robbed. Yeosang clapped, deadpan as Mingi just grinned. Slow. Sharp. Like he’d been expecting it. He strolled forward with that lazy, lethal confidence, towering over her like a fantasy made of smoke and basslines. The bride squealed, half standing before Hongjoong gently pushed her back down into the chair at center stage. “Stay seated, sweetheart,” he smirked. “He’ll do all the work.” Seonghwa sipped his drink beside you, not even pretending to hide his smile. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.” Your soul left your body again as the music kicked in, something filthy, heavy and slow. It wasn’t choreographed like the main sets. This was freestyle. Improvised. Raw. The dancers were encouraged to push the envelope. To read the room. Or in this case…. read you.

Mingi circled the chair once, eyes never leaving the bride. But you could feel it. His awareness of you as he straddled one leg of the chair and bent low, arms braced on either side of her shoulders, mouth brushing her ear as he whispered something that made her slap a hand to her mouth and giggle like a teenager at a sleepover. Then he dropped to his knees and placed his hands on her thighs, spreading them slowly, obscenely, before dragging them back up to her waist. She was losing her mind. Laughing. Squealing. Gripping the sides of the chair like her life depended on it. And then he climbed into her lap and you almost stood up. Instinct. Jealousy. Something primal and embarrassing that you tried to crush before it showed on your face. But of course Seonghwa noticed. “Ohhh no,” he whispered, clearly delighted. “You’re suffering.”

You ignored him as Mingi started grinding down into the bride’s lap, rolling his hips in slow, punishing waves that had women throwing money onstage like it was a religious offering. He leaned back, arms behind his head, chest on full display, eyes closed for a beat…. then he cracked one eye open and looked right at you. Still moving. Still in her lap. But his gaze? Locked. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t wink. He just stared, slow and steady, while he kept rolling his hips. You couldn’t breathe as the bride squealed again when he leaned forward and brushed his mouth along her jaw, not quite kissing, just enough to make her sob laugh and fan herself as the other dancers hyped the crowd. He stood a moment later, still grinning, and backed away as the MC brought down the lights and pulled the bride up for a round of applause. You barely clapped as Seonghwa leaned in close, eyes glittering. “He’s going to be insufferable after this.” You didn’t even wait for the lights to come back up. The second Mingi stepped offstage, you turned to Seonghwa with wide eyes and a tight jaw. “I need a drink.”

Seonghwa didn’t argue. He just grabbed his jacket and his phone, tossed a few bills on the table, and followed you without a word as you slipped past the last wave of screaming fans and out into the thick Florida night air. The sidewalk was quieter out here, but your head was still full of him. Of the way his hips moved. The smug weight of his gaze. The grind in that girl’s lap and how you could still feel it on your skin even though he never touched you. You needed something cold. Strong. Preferably on fire. “There’s a place down the block,” Seonghwa said as he fell into step beside you, not even out of breath. “Divey but not gross. Some of the guys go there after shows.” You didn’t care, you just nodded. “Perfect.” Two blocks later and you were both stepping inside a bar that was comfortably dim, the kind of place that didn’t demand conversation. The music was low, the hum of quiet voices around you almost soothing. Your drink was half empty. Your walls? A little more than that. Seonghwa didn’t push. He never did. He just sat across from you, nursing his whiskey, eyes steady as you stared at the table for a long time before you said it. “He’s my best friend.”

It came out small. Honest. Like you needed to remind yourself. Seonghwa looked at you, but didn’t speak. “I mean… he wasn’t dancing for me. Not really.” You swirled the ice in your glass with a fingertip, watching it spin. “If anything, he was messing with me. Teasing. He knows I’ve never seen him perform. He probably just wanted to make me squirm a little. Mission accomplished.” Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “You don’t actually believe that.” You kept going like you didn’t hear him. “I mean…” you laughed, short and hollow. “Don’t you think if he actually saw me like that…. saw me the way he sees those girls in the crowd, or the ones he brings home sometimes… he would’ve made a move a long time ago?” Seonghwa’s glass clinked softly as he set it down but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight. “I’ve been living with him for five years,” you said quietly. “I walk around in his shirts. I do his laundry half the time. I know what cereal he likes and what side he sleeps on and that he cries during sad movies when he thinks I’m not looking. And nothing’s ever happened. Not once.” You looked up finally, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach. “That means something, right?”

Seonghwa didn’t speak right away. He just watched you before finally, softly, saying, “Yeah. It means he’s an idiot. He’s also your best friend,” Seonghwa added, tone even. “Which means he probably thinks you don’t see him like that. And knowing Mingi? He’d rather suffer in silence than risk losing what you already have.” You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because a small, stupid part of you wanted to believe he was right. But the louder part? The part that watched Mingi grind into a stranger like she was the only woman in the world? That part couldn’t help but think…. if he wanted me… wouldn’t he have said something by now….. the bell over the bar door chimed. You barely registered it at first, still caught in the haze of what you’d just said. Still chewing on the weight of your own words, feeling them echo in your chest like you’d carved them into your ribs.

But then Seonghwa’s eyes flicked up and something about the way his posture shifted made your stomach twist. You turned and there he was. Mingi. Laughing. Loud. Glowing. Still flushed from the stage. Black jeans. Flannel shirt that clung to his chest in all the worst ways. Silver chains catching the low bar lights. His hair a mess, like he hadn’t even stopped to cool down. Right behind him, San and Wooyoung pushed through the doorway like they owned the building, talking with their hands, both laughing about something Wooyoung said way too loudly as Yeosang trailed after, calm and unreadable as always, already scanning the room. They were a unit. A storm. A problem. And they saw you immediately. Wooyoung spotted Seonghwa first, and his grin bloomed like trouble. “Ohhh shit, look who finally came out to play!” San followed his gaze and his eyebrows lifted when he saw you. Mingi was still scanning the bar casually, mid laugh, until his eyes landed on your booth and stuck. His smile didn’t drop. Not quite. But it changed. Like a curtain had lifted and he was aware now. That you were still here. That you hadn’t run far enough.

Seonghwa exhaled, drained his drink, and muttered under his breath, “Brace yourself.” Too late. The guys were already heading straight for you. Wooyoung got there first, sliding into the booth beside Seonghwa without asking. “Didn’t know this was a post show party. You guys should’ve told us you were coming here.” Seonghwa rolled his eyes as Yeosang stood at the end of the booth, nodding to you with that unreadable expression. San pulled up a spare chair, flipping it around and straddling it with ease. And Mingi hovered for a second before dropping into the seat right beside you. Close enough that his knee brushed yours. Close enough to smell his cologne. His sweat. The faintest trace of whatever body oil was still on his skin from earlier. “Didn’t expect to see you again tonight. Figured I’d get home and you’d be passed out.” he said, voice low and a little rough. You turned to him, blinking slowly. “We just wanted a drink.” His gaze dipped to your lips. “Yeah?” You nodded, trying to stay calm. “That’s all.”

He hummed. “Did you enjoy the show?” You opened your mouth then closed it. Because how the hell were you supposed to answer that? You looked away as Mingi leaned back in his seat, grin pulling at the corner of his mouth as he turned to Wooyoung like he hadn’t just gutted you in one line. But you could feel it. His knee still brushing yours. His fingers resting just close enough to yours on the table to make your skin buzz…… Wooyoung slammed his hand on the table. “Tequila shots. Extra lime. We’re celebrating.” Seonghwa opened his mouth to object, but the server was already nodding and disappearing as San leaned over the back of your chair, draping his chin on your shoulder with all the innocence of a man who had just dry humped on stage thirty minutes ago. “You stayed for all of us, huh?” You gave him a tight smile. “Regretting it.” He grinned “You loved it.” He backed off just as the server returned with a tray of shots and a grave warning about their strength. No one listened as Wooyoung handed them out like a bartender on his last shift, one for each of you, no hesitation. Then he turned to you, raised his glass, and said with zero warning, “You know, Y/N… I asked Mingi if San and I could get you to be our third and he looked like he wanted to murder me.”

You choked on air. “What?” you asked, eyes going wide as Mingi tensed beside you and San coughed into his hand, failing to hide a grin. Wooyoung? Absolutely shameless. “Our third,” he repeated with a smirk. “Like… in bed. Between us. On top of us. Around us. You get the vibe.” Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I…. what the hell, Wooyoung?!” Seonghwa was straight up wheezing across the booth. Even Yeosang finally cracked a smile behind his glass as San lifted his shot like it was a toast. “For the record, I supported the idea.” You looked back and forth between him and Wooyoung. “You two are feral,” you snapped, flushing hot. “And yet,” Wooyoung sang, tilting his head at Mingi, “he said no. Real fast. Like he was ready to throw me through a wall.” You turned to Mingi who was staring into his shot like it had betrayed him personally. “Mingi,” you said slowly. “Did you actually threaten Wooyoung?” He didn’t look up. “Not explicitly.”

“He snarled,” Wooyoung added helpfully.

“I did not snarl.”

“He made a noise. It was primal. Hot, if I wasn’t scared for my life.”

You just sat there, blinking. Because what the fuck. What did that even mean? Why would he care? And why did that tiny part of you, the one curled up deep inside, drunk on heat and nerves and years of tension, feel something dangerously close to hope? Wooyoung, never one to let go of chaos, spun his empty shot glass between his fingers with a devil’s grin. “I’m just saying, Mingi told me you weren’t into that kind of thing.” You froze as more shots arrived. Seonghwa snorted under his breath. San went suddenly quiet, eyes flicking from Mingi to you with a little too much interest. Yeosang leaned back, his face unreadable, but you swore his brows ticked up a fraction as your gaze snapped back to Mingi. He wasn’t looking at anyone. Still just sitting there, jaw tight, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed hard on the table now like he could physically will this conversation into the void. And something in you cracked.

You reached out, grabbed your shot glass, clear tequila sloshing near the rim, and turned your stare back to Wooyoung. “He has no idea what I’m into.” The whole table went still. Like someone had yanked the volume knob on reality. Wooyoung’s mouth opened into a perfect O. San actually whistled. Seonghwa pressed his lips together to stop a smile. And Yeosang murmured, just once, “Oof.” But Mingi? He finally looked up. Slowly. Eyes sharp, wide, locked on you like he’d just seen you for the first time. There was something in his expression you couldn’t place. Like your words had knocked the air out of him and he wasn’t sure whether to get angry, get flustered, or get closer. You didn’t break the stare. You just tipped your shot back and slammed the glass down like punctuation. “Cheers,” you said and San immediately grabbed his own, grinning like this was the best night of his life. “To wild revelations and poor self control,” he toasted. You didn’t look at Mingi again. But you could feel him. Watching. Burning. And you knew, without a doubt, that something had shifted for real this time.

The rounds of shots had cracked something open at the table, walls lowered, filters slipping, everything a little too loud, a little too easy. Even Yeosang was smiling now, and that almost never happened without money involved. Everyone had another drink in hand, courtesy of Wooyoung, and the conversation had swerved somewhere between sex, injuries, and unhinged post show stories. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before the chaos god himself struck again. Wooyoung turned to you and Seonghwa, chin in his hand, eyes gleaming. “So… be honest. You two ever get hit on at work? Like, emergency room drama plus sexual tension? Feels like it happens.” You rolled your eyes with a laugh. “You have no idea. Hwa once got hit on while treating a girl’s dislocated shoulder.”

“She asked for my number while crying,” Seonghwa added proudly as he raised his glass. “Okay, but nothing beats the screwdriver guy.” You blinked. “Seonghwa.” San perked up. “Wait…. screwdriver guy?” Mingi tilted his head, brow twitching. “Yeah, what screwdriver guy?” You were gonna kill Seonghwa. “Ohhh yeah,” Seonghwa said, glancing at you with a wicked grin. “This guy walks into the ER with a screwdriver literally embedded in his skull. Just sticking out like a goddamn cartoon. And he still had the audacity to flirt with her.” Wooyoung gasped. “Did you say yes?” You wished the floor would swallow you whole because you could feel Mingi staring at you. “She didn’t say anything,” Seonghwa replied. “But get this…. he comes back a month later for follow up scans, totally healed, and smooth as hell. And she…” He leaned back smugly. “Ends up hooking up with him in the on call room.”

The table exploded. “No fucking way,” San cackled. “I love that for you,” Wooyoung declared, reaching across the table to cheers your glass as Yeosang blinked. “Was this pre or post screwdriver?” You groaned. “Post,” Seonghwa answered for you, already laughing as you hid your face in your hands, groaning. “You were supposed to take that to your grave.” Seonghwa shrugged, grinning. “Too good not to share.” You peeked through your fingers only to lock eyes with Mingi. And he looked… not okay. Not angry. Not sulking. But something had definitely shifted. His jaw was tight. One of his hands flexed slightly against his thigh. And his eyes? Still on you, but narrowed now, more focused. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had just gotten a new piece he didn’t like. It was a casual story. But it hit him like a loaded gun. You sat back slowly, pulse picking up as Mingi looked away.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The front door creaked open, the hinges protesting like they knew what kind of night it had been. Mingi half carried, half guided you inside, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other catching your wrist as you stumbled slightly over the threshold. “Okay, okay, I got you,” he muttered, voice low and warm as he toed the door shut behind him. You giggled into his shoulder, completely drunk and unapologetically soft, letting yourself be steered down the hall like gravity had taken the night off. Your heels were dangling from your other hand, fingers limp around the straps. Your hair was a mess. Your corset had shifted slightly, and your voice had that dreamy slur you only got when you were too far gone to care about appearances. And Mingi was suffering. He had one hand splayed against your bare waist where your corset had ridden up. The heat of your skin against his palm was killing him slowly. You weren’t heavy, but every sway of your hips against his side, every little laugh into his neck, it was all too much. “Did I thank you for not letting me fall in the street?” you mumbled as he helped you into the apartment.

“Twice.”

“You’re strong.”

“You’re wasted.”

“I mean it,” you said, looking up at him with those half lidded, glassy eyes. “You could probably carry me with one arm.” Mingi swallowed hard. “Maybe,” he muttered. “Don’t test me.” You stopped walking suddenly making him turn, confused, until he realized…. you were just staring at him, head tilted, eyes soft. Curious. Honest in the way only drunk people and small children ever were. “Mingi,” you said quietly. “You didn’t like that story.” His breath caught as your fingers brushed his wrist. “You got weird after it. The screwdriver guy thing.” He tried to play it off, forcing a small laugh. “Wasn’t that deep.” But you shook your head. “No. It was.” You reached up, hand clumsy but gentle, fingers brushing the chain at his neck. “He was just some guy,” you whispered. “It didn’t mean anything.” Mingi’s jaw clenched. “I don’t care,” he said quickly. Too quickly. And you blinked at him, swaying slightly. “Liar.” Mingi exhaled through his nose, chest tight. “You’re drunk, Y/N.”

“Not that drunk.” He looked at you then, really looked at you. Your flushed cheeks. Your parted lips. The strap of your top sliding off your shoulder. The way your body leaned into him without even realizing it. And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t touch you. Didn’t say the thing sitting right there on his tongue. Because he didn’t know if you’d remember in the morning. And if you didn’t? It might break him. So instead, he whispered, “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

One week later, you were one minor inconvenience away from snapping. The ER was chaos. Of course it was. Flu season had hit like a freight train, two interns were arguing about IV placement, someone spilled coffee on the med cart, and the vending machine ate your last dollar without giving you your fucking chips. But none of that was the real problem. No, the real problem was lower. Cramping. Aching. Heat blooming in your gut in waves that had nothing to do with illness. You were on your period, bloated and irritable and craving every carb known to man. And horny. Not like regular horny. Dangerously horny. The kind of hormonal spiral that made you want to climb someone like a tree, and unfortunately, that someone was currently folded into your brain like a goddamn highlight reel.

Mingi. Mingi on stage. Mingi shirtless. Mingi grinding in slow motion with his tongue poking out slightly and sweat dripping down his chest. You growled quietly and slammed a clipboard down on the counter. “Everything alright?” Seonghwa asked, suddenly appearing beside you with a chart and a little too much amusement. “No,” you snapped. “Everything is not alright.” He blinked, then gave you one long, knowing look. “Cramping or craving?”

“Both.”

He nodded solemnly. “Mingi again?” You said nothing. But your face said everything. You hadn’t stopped thinking about him. Not since the bar. Not since the lap dance. Not since he half carried you home and stared at you like he was dying to say something and didn’t. He hadn’t brought it up since and neither had you. And that? That was driving you insane. You were stuck in limbo. Frustrated. Sensitive. Needy in ways you couldn’t even explain. And every time your mind drifted, it went right back to him. The way his hands looked on someone else’s thighs. The way his jeans sat on his hips. The way he smelled when he was that close, cologne and sweat and something you swore was designed to break you. You clenched your thighs and Seonghwa noticed. “Y/N.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re literally sweating.”

“I said don’t.” He raised both hands in surrender, but he was laughing now. “Just saying…. maybe you need to… handle it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

You glanced at the clock, hating everything. “Because I have rounds in ten minutes, and also this is a hospital.” He gave you a slow smirk. “So no on call room hookup today?” You turned to him, eyes dead. “You are not funny.” But you were already thinking about it. Already thinking about him. And wondering how much longer you could go before you snapped completely.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The second you opened the front door to the apartment, the scent hit you first…. your favorite candles. Not one of his woodsy ones. Not one of the weird incense sticks he picked up from that crystal shop San dragged him to once. Yours. The vanilla and lavender one you only lit when cramps were killing you and you wanted to feel human again. Your throat tightened as your bag slipped from your shoulder with a dull thud against the hardwood as you stepped further in. The living room was dimmed, lamps only, no overhead lights, and the coffee table had a neatly arranged setup of your favorite snacks. A giant bottle of water. Chocolate covered pretzels you didn’t even realize he remembered you liked. A heating pad, already plugged in. And your favorite fuzzy blanket, folded on the couch with Grey’s Anatomy already queued up on Netflix.

You stood there frozen. Like an emotional bomb had gone off and you were the only one left standing. “Mingi!” you called out, voice cracking slightly. He emerged from the hallway. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Hair damp from a shower. He looked freshly scrubbed and so soft it made something behind your ribs ache. “Hey,” he said, voice gentle, like he already knew. “Rough day?” You nodded, not trusting your voice and he smiled coming over. “I set it all up. You just missed the rain too, it started like five minutes ago, perfect sad girl weather.” And that’s when you almost lost it. Your eyes burned. Your nose stung. Not because of the cramps. Not because of work. But because how could he care about you like this and not feel it too?

You dropped your eyes to the heating pad, to the snacks, to the blanket you’d once told him was your favorite two years ago, and whispered, “You didn’t have to do all this…” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “I wanted to.” And that was it. The thread snapped. You sat on the couch too quickly, trying to hide your face in the blanket, but your voice cracked again when you said, “You’re gonna make me cry, and it’s so stupid.” Mingi blinked, concerned now, crouching beside you. “What? Hey. No, it’s not stupid.” You shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m just hormonal and tired and….” And in love with you. He touched your knee gently. “Y/N.” You looked at him, trying to hold it together as he smiled, quiet and soft. “You don’t have to say anything. Just let me take care of you tonight.”

Two hours later and the soft hum of Grey’s Anatomy played through the apartment, but you weren’t really watching. It was Friday night. Which meant Mingi was working. Which meant somewhere, right now, this very minute, he was onstage. Shirtless. Smirking. Running his hands over someone else. Letting them run theirs over him. Laughing into someone’s ear. Grinding into some stranger’s lap like it didn’t mean anything. Because to him, it probably didn’t. But to you? It felt like a slow stab to the chest. You sat curled on the couch, fuzzy blanket pulled around you like armor, a half eaten bag of chips crumpled beside you and your phone screen lit up every so often from some irrelevant notification. Your heating pad had long gone warm instead of hot. But your thoughts? They were scorching. You hated how vivid your imagination was. How easily your brain conjured it. The way his thighs looked when he moved. The roll of his hips. The way his fingers looked tangled in someone’s hair the night of the bachelorette set. The way he looked at you while grinding on someone else like he wanted you to feel it. And God, did you feel it.

Even now, alone in your apartment, the jealousy crawled up your spine like a fever. You didn’t want to care. You really didn’t. He’d been dancing long before you ever stepped foot in Velvet Inferno. You’d known what he did. Hell, you supported it. Encouraged it. But seeing it? Feeling it? Knowing he was out there right now with hands on him that weren’t yours? It made your chest ache. Made your throat tight. Made your eyes sting. And worst of all, you couldn’t do anything about it. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t his anything. Just his roommate. His best friend. The one he made soup for when you were sick. The one he knew better than anyone. The one he carried home drunk and tucked into bed like she was something precious. But still… Not the one he touched like that. Your jaw clenched as your hands curled in the blanket. You tried to focus on the TV, but the tears were already pressing against your lashes.

And suddenly…. you just missed him. Even though he’d only been gone a few hours. Even though he’d come home eventually. Even though he wasn’t really yours to miss in the first place.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The music was finally dying down. Velvet Inferno had started to clear out, lingering bachelorette groups giggling out the doors, dollar bills scattered like confetti across the stage, the haze of sweat and body spray still thick in the air. Staff moved in practiced rhythm, cleaning, counting, cashing out. Mingi sat backstage in his usual spot, toweling off the last of the sweat from his neck, his black tank clinging to his chest. The adrenaline had faded, but he was still wired. Not from the show. From thoughts of you. He hadn’t been able to shake you all night. The way you looked curled on the couch before he left. That soft, tired smile. The heat pack in your lap. The blanket around your shoulders. You’d barely said anything when he left, just mumbled “have a good night” without looking up from the TV. But he’d felt the shift. The distance. And now? Now he just wanted to get home.

He was sliding on his jacket when he heard a voice behind him. “Heading out already?” Mingi turned and looked at her. Daphne. Same long legs. Same red lipstick. Same skin tight dress she always wore on Friday nights when she came to watch him work. The same girl who used to be a routine. Who never asked for anything more than what he gave, and who gave exactly what he used to want. Used to. “Yeah,” he said casually, zipping up his jacket. “It’s late.” She smiled, slow and familiar. “Wanna come back to your place?” He blinked. “What?” She smirked at him. “You said you were heading home. I figured…” She stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his chest. “It’s been a while.” Mingi gently removed her hand. “Nah,” he said, voice quiet. “Can’t tonight.” She tilted her head, a flicker of irritation passing behind her eyes. “Why not?”

“Y/N’s home,” he said simply, not even thinking about it and Daphne’s brows lifted. “Your roommate?” Mingi nodded. “Yeah.” And my best friend. The woman I love. Daphne laughed. “So? You’ve had girls over when she’s home before.” He flinched slightly but didn’t answer. Didn’t explain that he didn’t do that anymore. Daphne took a half step closer. “Okay, fine. Come back to my place then.” He hesitated. Just for a second. But it was enough for her to see it. “Mingi,” she said, a little sharper now, “you and I both know this doesn’t have to mean anything.” Now his patience was growing thin. “I know,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.” Candace blinked, thrown as Mingi adjusted his bag and nodded toward the exit. “I’ll see you around.” And then he was gone.

Outside, the night air hit him hard. But it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver. It was the image of you, curled on the couch, waiting for him. And the ache in his chest that told him the only place he wanted to be was home with you.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Two weeks later and the ER was slow that day, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead and Seonghwa’s relentless nagging being the only consistent sounds in the small break room. You were sipping on lukewarm coffee, flipping through a clipboard when Seonghwa burst in with all the dramatics of a Broadway curtain call. “Please, please, please come tonight,” he begged, leaning on the desk like the fate of the world depended on your attendance. “It’s my birthday. I’m literally performing to Pony just for you. And I got you on the guest list. VIP. No excuses.” You rolled your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re trying to bribe me with Ginuwine?” He gasped. “How dare you disrespect a classic.” You laughed, trying not to cave too fast, but truth was, part of you wanted to go. Even if it meant risking seeing Mingi onstage again. Especially after that first time when the sight of him dancing for someone else nearly cracked you in half. But it was Seonghwa’s birthday… and damn it, you did miss that energy. “Fine,” you groaned, “but only because it’s your birthday.“ Seonghwa grinned like he’d won the lottery. “You won’t regret it.”

When you got home, your bare feet padded across the wood floor as you dug through your closet like a woman possessed. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for until your fingers brushed the silky fabric, pulling out that black dress. The one with the daring cutouts, gold clips, and the power to make any man forget how to spell his own name. You hadn’t worn it in ages. You barely remembered buying it. But something in your chest tightened as you held it up to your body in the mirror. Let him look, you thought. Mingi was in the shower, steam rolling under the bathroom door as you shimmied into the dress, adjusting the straps and making sure the clips were perfectly in place. The door creaked open behind you and you didn’t have to look to know it was him. You heard his steps pause. “Where are you going?” came Mingi’s voice, low and casual but with that distinct edge only someone who just walked past your door in a towel and saw you in that dress could have.

You turned slowly, watching him lean on the doorframe, towel slung low on his hips. You met his eyes, cool and effortless. “It’s Seonghwa’s birthday. He begged me to come to the club again. Said he’s dancing tonight.” Mingi blinked once. Then again as you turned back to the mirror like it was nothing. Like your heart wasn’t suddenly doing backflips. “You’re wearing that dress?” His voice was low, unreadable and you shrugged. “Yes.” Mingi didn’t respond. He just kept looking at you like you weren’t real. Like the air had gotten punched out of him. You tilted your head, a little amused. “Why?” His tongue pressed into the inside of his cheek and you saw it hit him. The memory. You saw it in the way his throat bobbed. The way he blinked like he was trying to snap himself out of something. Because you had worn that dress once before, two years ago, at his birthday party. The rooftop one with the string lights and the terrible punch. You’d shown up late and he’d been halfway through a drink when he saw you across the crowd in that exact dress. He hadn’t lasted ten minutes. He’d walked straight out. Claimed he had to take a call and never came back.

His fingers twitched at his sides and his gaze dropped again, slower this time, heavier as you shrugged, smoothing the fabric again as you turned slightly in the mirror, checking the back. “Hwa said dress slutty.” Mingi huffed out a laugh but it wasn’t amused. It was breathless. Frustrated. His hand dragged through his still damp hair, and he muttered something under his breath in a tone you couldn’t quite catch. “Something you wanna say?” you teased lightly, not looking at him. He stepped back, eyes still locked on you like you might disappear if he blinked. “Nah,” he said eventually. “Just… I remember that dress.” You finally met his eyes through the mirror. “So do I.” For a moment, neither of you said a word as the air between you thickened, warm and electric and dangerously unspoken. Then he cleared his throat, eyes darting away. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you there.” And just like before, Mingi turned and walked away. Except this time, you heard his breath catch the second he rounded the corner.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The club was already packed by the time you got there. Friday nights were always heavier, more tourists, more regulars, more people celebrating birthdays they’d never remember by tomorrow morning. The line outside wrapped around the block, but you didn’t wait in it. You knew better. You slipped through the side entrance like you’d been there a thousand times before, heels clicking against the hallway tile as the muffled bass grew louder with every step. And then you stepped out into the main room and every set of eyes in the place might as well have turned your way. Especially the women. It was subtle at first, side glances, a few narrowed eyes, a whisper behind a manicured hand. But the closer you got to the front, the more obvious it became. Your dress wasn’t designed for subtlety. Black. Clinging. Cut in ways that defied logic and modesty.

You sank into the velvet chair, legs crossed, ignoring the judgmental looks from the women at the bar. Let them look. Let them whisper. Let them wonder why, for the first time ever, Mingi wasn’t behind the curtain doing shots or smoking a blunt or hyping himself up for his number. Because Mingi wasn’t hyped. Mingi was pacing. Mingi was sweating. Mingi was seconds from walking onstage because he knew you were already here. In that dress. The lights dimmed just as you settled deeper into your seat, the chatter fading into a hush as a smooth, bass heavy track spilled from the speakers and a spotlight flared to life, and there he was. Yeosang. Golden skin, dark eyes, lean muscle dressed in all black and leather. His entrance was smooth and practiced, dripping with that quiet confidence only he had. The crowd responded immediately, cheers, catcalls, a few high pitched moans from the row behind you but you just smiled and sipped your drink as you watched him move with surgical precision, hips rolling, fingers dragging down his chest as he danced for the women at the edge of the stage, grinning when one of them tried to reach for his belt but Yeosang winked and stepped back just out of reach. Your gaze moved to the door behind him, the one leading backstage.….

Mingi was sitting on the edge of the couch backstage, bouncing his knee like it owed him money. Shirtless, sweat already misting his collarbones as he glared at the floor like it had personally offended him. That fucking dress. He couldn’t get it out of his head. Not the current version of you in it, though that was bad enough. No, what was really wrecking him was the memory of it. You, two years ago, walking into his birthday party without a clue what you were doing to him. Hair loose, smile innocent, body hugged tight in that goddamn black fabric. He remembered the exact second he saw you, how the world tilted, how the air left his lungs, how he had to walk out because if he didn’t, he was going to do something that would’ve ruined everything. And now? Now you were wearing it again.

“Bro, if you bounce your knee any harder, the floor’s gonna crack.” Mingi looked up to find Seonghwa zipping up his pants in the dressing mirror, shaking his head with a smirk. “She wore that fucking dress,” Mingi muttered. Seonghwa paused. “What dress?”

“The one ruining my existence.”

Seonghwa let out a low whistle and turned back to the mirror. “Well. Guess I’m not the only one getting a present tonight.” Mingi groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna combust.”

“Don’t. I need you alive. You’re after me.” Across the room, San was pressed against the wall with Wooyoung in his lap, both of them shamelessly making out like they didn’t care it was a shared dressing room. Which, to be fair, they didn’t. Wooyoung’s hands were already halfway up San’s shirt, and neither of them looked like they had plans to stop. “Do they have to do this right now?” Mingi grumbled. “Have you met them?” Seonghwa said without turning around as Hongjoong pushed through the door, headset in place, clipboard in hand, his expression all business until he saw Seonghwa. “Alright, birthday boy. You’re up next, and your set’s been extended. Two full songs instead of one. You good?” Seonghwa blinked. “Wait….. what?” Hongjoong grinned. “It’s your birthday. Consider it a gift. Work the stage, soak it in. And wear the silver chains tonight, make the old women in the back row faint.” He turned and disappeared before Seonghwa could protest, leaving him staring at the mirror in disbelief. “Well,” Seonghwa said, glancing at Mingi. “Guess I’ve got more time to keep her warm for you.” Mingi rolled his eyes, but his stomach twisted.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The lights changed again, darker now, drenched in purple and silver, bassline deep and sultry as the Hongjoong announced the next set. “Ladies and gentlemen… for the birthday boy himself…” You leaned back with a smile, just as the music kicked in, slow, smooth, something with a wicked little rhythm. And then Seonghwa stepped into the spotlight and the audible gasp from the crowd was immediate. You could hear someone behind you whisper “holy shit,” and you didn’t blame them. Seonghwa looked good. Silver chains draped across his chest, the open black blazer showing just enough skin to make knees buckle, his hair styled back but a few strands rebelliously falling forward. You sipped your drink, half listening to the screaming around you. If only your coworkers at the hospital could see him now. Confident, clean, seductive, the kind of controlled performance that made everyone pay attention.

Seonghwa didn’t beg for the spotlight. He commanded it. He hit every beat with sharp precision, giving attention to each side of the stage, a knowing smirk curling his lips. Until he found you. Your eyes widened a little as he walked toward your side of the stage, fingers tracing his chest before he pointed directly at you, hips grinding to the beat. You groaned and laughed, covering your face for a second before looking back up at him with a smirk, mouthing, “You’re ridiculous.” Seonghwa winked and didn’t break rhythm for a second.

“Someone’s enjoying herself.” Wooyoung was peeking out from the side curtain, chin resting on Mingi’s shoulder, both of them hidden in the shadows just past the curtain near the stage entrance. Mingi didn’t say a word. He was standing like stone, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on you. You, in that dress. You, laughing and glowing and completely unaware that you were slowly ruining him. Wooyoung whistled low and let out a chuckle. “Goddamn… if you don’t finally make a move tonight, San and I will.” Mingi didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Didn’t even breathe. And Wooyoung, always a menace, grinned. “You’re on next, lover boy. Better figure it out quick. I don’t think that dress is gonna last the night.” Seonghwa’s performance ended to deafening cheers, the crowd still buzzing as the lights shifted and another playlist took over the speakers for the brief intermission. You clapped and whooped with the rest of them, smiling when Seonghwa blew a kiss toward the audience before disappearing behind the curtain.

You needed a drink. Not just because it was hot in here, not just because Seonghwa had turned the place into a damn sauna, but because the momentary flutter in your chest, the one you really didn’t want to acknowledge, was starting to feel familiar. You weaved your way toward the bar, still getting looks. A few women gave polite smiles. A few didn’t bother hiding the fact they were sizing you up. The bartender handed you your drink, vodka soda, extra lime, and you sipped slowly, watching some of the staff rearrange props on stage for the next set. You’d just started heading toward the back when the line for the restroom came into view, and you groaned. Of course. You took another sip and slipped into the hallway anyway, heels clicking softly against the dark floor. It was quieter back here, the sound of music muffled by the heavy curtain and door. You were mid scroll on your phone, waiting for the next stall, when you saw her. Daphne. She was across the hall, leaning against the wall by the lounge door, laughing at something on her phone. She hadn’t changed much. And even if you hadn’t clocked the flirty body language and the way her lipstick was too perfectly smudged, you’d know that face anywhere. Because it was her. The girl you’d walked in on with Mingi.

You took another slow sip of your drink, shoulders straightening, not meaning to eavesdrop. You were just waiting your turn for the restroom, but then she laughed, a sharp, airy little thing, and it drew your attention before you could help it. She’d been joined by two other women, both dolled up in the kind of designer clubwear that screamed I’m not here for drinks, I’m here for backstage. You couldn’t help the sideways glance as Daphne sighed dramatically. “I swear to god, he gets hotter every time I see him,” she said, tossing her hair back like she was still center stage. One of the other girls giggled. “You mean Mingi?” Daphne rolled her eyes. “Who else? That man could make me forget my own name. I swear, if he so much as glanced at me tonight, I’d be backstage with my legs in the air before he finishes his set.” That earned a chorus of laughs from the others. “He’s got that energy,” another one chimed in. “Like, the moment he touches you, you know. I still think about that one night….. his hands? Unreal.”

“Please, I could still feel him the next morning,” Daphne said, sipping her drink with a smug tilt of her lips. “He knows what he’s doing. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t talk much, either. Just grabs your throat and owns you.” Your stomach tightened, a strange, cold twist curling low. You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. It didn’t matter. They could talk about the way he fucked them all they wanted. What you had with Mingi was different. It had always been different. Still, you couldn’t help the small flicker of something in your chest, some stubborn, possessive ember sparking in the dark. You made quick haste in using the restroom before sliding back into your seat, smoothing your hands down your thighs, trying to push the unease out of your chest. The voices from the bathroom still lingered, too clear to forget. Daphne’s obnoxious giggle, one of the other girls saying something about how fast he always pulled her into his lap, and someone else laughing, “Mingi’s a slut, but like, in a fun way.” You knew better. You’d known him since you were thirteen. You’d seen every version of him, from the awkward middle schooler who used to trip over his own feet to the man now regularly grinding on stage under heavy lights. But that didn’t make it sting any less.

You crossed your legs, sitting straighter, chin up like you weren’t affected at all, even though your stomach still felt off as the lights dimmed suddenly, shifting the attention back to the stage, and the low thrum of bass pulsed through the club. Hongjoong’s voice came over the mic, smoother than the whiskey he drank. “Alright, alright… try to keep your hands to yourself for this next one. You know who he is.” A moment of silence passed, followed by a mischievous grin. “And judging by how loud some of you get when he so much as breathes…. yeah, I know you know.” The crowd laughed, whistles already rising. You blinked, heart kicking a little harder despite everything. “Put your hands together for the one and only…. MINGI!” The lights exploded in a rush of violet and gold as the music shifted. And there he was. Mingi barely looked at the crowd when he stepped out…. except for the split second his eyes found yours. A quick glance. But it landed like a punch to the chest. No wink. No smirk this time. Just that unreadable look that made it impossible to tell if he was affected by your presence… or trying hard not to be. The music started slow, deep bass with a teasing rhythm, and the screams erupted around you, the kind of shrieking only Mingi’s hips could cause. You swallowed thickly, crossing your legs tighter as he started moving, rolling his shoulders and swaying to the beat with that devastating ease he was known for.

You tried. You really tried not to stare. He was your best friend. He was also wearing pants that looked spray painted on. And you were only human. Your gaze flicked away, anywhere else, anyone else. But of course, it landed on her. Daphne. And her little fan club. Clustered just a few seats down, leaning forward in their chairs like they were watching their favorite scene in a movie. Daphne had one hand resting under her chin, eyes locked on Mingi’s chest like she already had plans for it, while one of her friends whispered something and giggled behind her hand. Jealousy rose in your throat like smoke. Stupid. Stupid. You had no right to be jealous. You weren’t his girlfriend. You’d never even kissed him. But you had seen the way he used to smile at you in high school when no one else got him. You had been the first one to know about his audition. The first to hug him when he got the job. The one who helped him with his first eyeliner wing and teased him for crying during Pixar movies. And now here he was, grinding on stage in front of everyone. Including them.

You blinked hard, forcing your eyes back to the stage as he dropped to his knees and ran one hand up the inside of his thigh, his mouth parted just slightly like he knew exactly what he was doing. No. No, you were not going to fall into the Mingi trap again tonight. Even if you already had. The second verse hit, and the lights dimmed to a smoky red, casting long shadows over Mingi’s body as he stalked down the stage with slow, deliberate steps. His eyes swept over the crowd like a predator picking his target, and you felt your breath catch when, just for a second, they landed on you again but he didn’t do anything. He just kept going. There was something different tonight. His usual energy was there, the raw confidence, the way his body moved like he knew it was a weapon, but he wasn’t pushing it as hard as he usually did. He wasn’t playing up to the crowd, no shirt ripping dramatics, no licking his fingers before dragging them down his chest. It was… restrained. Controlled. Almost like he didn’t want to give it all away. Still, the screams got louder when he rolled his hips in time with the beat, running one hand through his hair and letting his head tip back. His shirt was already long gone, tossed somewhere into the lights during the first chorus, and now his hands moved to the buckle of his belt, slow and showy but still somehow not cocky.

You caught your bottom lip between your teeth as the pants hit the floor. Black underwear. Tight. Low. Dangerous. Your heart pounded in your ears. The club was electric. One of the girls near Daphne squealed, clutching the other’s arm, while Daphne herself sat there smugly, eyes dragging up Mingi’s thighs like she owned them. You had to look away. You had to. But your eyes didn’t listen. Mingi moved to the edge of the stage, kneeling at the end of it, sweat glistening down his chest as the music hit a low, pulsing bridge. His hands slid slowly down the tops of his thighs, just barely skimming over the elastic of his underwear, and he let the tension sit there, soaking into the air like heat. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. And he hadn’t even touched himself yet. Because he was holding back. He wasn’t here to blow the crowd away tonight. He wasn’t here for the loudest cheers or the biggest tips. He wasn’t performing like a man who wanted the world’s attention. He was performing like a man who already knew exactly whose attention he had. And he was being careful with it.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Backstage was chaos. Sweat, laughter, leftover glitter, the low buzz of someone’s portable speaker still playing the tail end of the track Mingi had just walked off to. But he didn’t really hear it. His pulse was still racing, muscles tight, lungs catching on a breath that had nothing to do with dancing as he ran a towel down his chest, flinching a little when the fabric passed over the still damp waistband of his underwear. God. He barely remembered stepping off stage. His mind was stuck on the time your eyes locked with his….. “Mingi!” Wooyoung’s voice cut through the noise like a shot. “You good? Or did someone forget it was Seonghwa’s birthday?”

Mingi blinked. “What?” Wooyoung crossed his arms, tilting his head with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “That performance? That was, like, 70 percent. Maybe 75 if I’m being generous.”

“I hit every step,” Mingi muttered, still towel drying his hair like it would help him avoid this conversation. “Yeah, yeah, the steps were there. But the filth? The drama? The tongue and hand action?” Wooyoung held up his fingers like a checklist. “Gone. Missing. On vacation.” Mingi threw the towel at his face. “Get out of my business.”

“I would…. if your business wasn’t being all tense because a certain someone’s sitting out there looking like a sin in heels and barely even glancing your way.” Mingi froze. “She glanced.”

“Oh, she glanced,” Wooyoung agreed with a smirk. “But the other girls? They drooled. And you didn’t even give them a good reason to.” Mingi dragged a hand down his face with a frustrated sigh, ignoring the heat curling in his chest. “It’s Seonghwa’s night.” Wooyoung grinned. “Exactly! Which means you should’ve been out there slutting it up in his honor.” He threw a dramatic hand to his chest. “Instead, you came off like a sad stripper who’s in love with his best friend but trying to hide it by pretending he’s not thinking about her in that tiny black dress.” Mingi narrowed his eyes. “That was weirdly specific.” Wooyoung gave him a slow blink. “Am I wrong?” Mingi didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Because Wooyoung already knew.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The final song boomed through the club, the kind of bass heavy anthem that had drinks sloshing, phones up, and the floor vibrating with heat and sweat. San and Wooyoung had just finished their performance with the kind of chaos only they could pull off together, shirts missing, glitter somehow everywhere, Wooyoung mouthing something obscene into a camera someone definitely had on him. The rest of the guys had joined them on stage, shirtless, glistening, hyped, all of them catching their breath as Hongjoong stepped forward with a mic and that dangerous glint in his eye again. “Alright, alright!” he yelled, breathless, cheeks flushed from champagne and adrenaline. “It’s that time again….. lap dance giveaway!” The crowd screamed. Phones shot higher. Someone whistled so loud Hongjoong flinched. “So here’s how it works,” he grinned, gesturing behind him. “All our lovely dancers are up here. But you, the audience, get to vote who gives the final lap dance of the night!” The crowd erupted into cheers again, hands shooting up, chants starting. Names were shouted, screamed, begged for, Seonghwa, San, Wooyoung, Yeosang. But then someone yelled Mingi’s name. Then someone else. And another. Until it turned into a wave. “Mingi! Mingi! Mingi!”

“Alright!” Seonghwa suddenly cut in, grabbing the mic from Hongjoong. His voice was full of playful command. “It’s my birthday, which means I get to pick who the lucky recipient is.” That brought fresh noise from the audience, whooping in anticipation as Seonghwa turned in a slow circle, gaze sweeping the room like a spotlight until it landed on you. He didn’t say your name. Didn’t need to. Because every single person in the room watched his eyes land on you. Watched that wicked birthday smirk spread across his face. “I pick…” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, still staring dead at you, “her.” The spotlight followed his gaze, landing on your stunned, wide eyed face as Wooyoung literally turned around on stage, hand clamped over his mouth, his whole body shaking with silent laughter. Because your expression? Stunned. Borderline panicked. And Mingi? He looked like he’d just been told to walk a tightrope over a pit of lava with you on the other end. “Oh, this is so much better than cake,” Wooyoung wheezed under his breath, turning just enough to glance back at the two of you. “Happy fucking birthday, Seonghwa.”

San’s hand was warm as it wrapped around your wrist, pulling you to your feet before your brain could even catch up to what was happening. “Come on,” he grinned, voice low in your ear. “Don’t make me carry you.” Your legs moved on autopilot, your heart slamming behind your ribs as the crowd parted and Yeosang appeared like some smug ass magician with a sleek black chair, placing it center stage with a little bow like tada. Your knees nearly gave out when San guided you to sit. The spotlight was on you, heat prickling down your spine, adrenaline crashing through your bloodstream. Somewhere in the fog of music and shock, you became vaguely aware of more movement behind you. A couple of the club staff were rolling out a cart with a glowing birthday cake lit up in white and gold, sparklers shooting off on either side with Seonghwa’s name scrawled across the top in elegant frosting. You could barely register the cake though. Because your eyes found Mingi. He hadn’t moved. He was standing off to the side, jaw locked, eyes dark, arms loose at his sides like he was trying so hard not to look at you but failing miserably.

And then he did look at you and it was like the whole club disappeared. Every person, every scream, every spotlight. Just his eyes on you as your thighs clenched automatically under his gaze, heat crawling up your neck because fuck, your best friend was about to give you a lap dance. In front of everyone. At Seonghwa’s birthday show. With Daphne still watching. And you still weren’t sure if this was a dream or a fever or both as Mingi finally moved and stepped in front of you, and for a moment… he didn’t move. His hand flexed at his side. His jaw clenched. The song pulsed through the air, but he stayed frozen, just looking at you like you were a loaded gun aimed right at his chest. You tilted your head, a teasing smile trying to save you both from this moment, from whatever this was turning into. But Mingi didn’t smile back. He exhaled through his nose, low and slow, and finally stepped closer and the screams got louder. But you could barely hear them. All you saw was Mingi, hesitant, trying to remember how to perform when his best friend was the one looking up at him in that dress, legs parted now just enough to flash bare thigh under the dim red lighting. He moved to the beat, slow, calculated, his fingers dragging across his chest, down the sculpted lines of his stomach. But it was cautious, more controlled than usual. Like he was holding back. Because he was. This wasn’t just a show anymore. This was you. And Mingi didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to pretend anymore.

Each step was perfectly timed, but you knew him, knew when his movements were real and when he was playing a part. And this? This was him half there, his body moving on autopilot, hips swaying gently as he circled behind you. The crowd didn’t care though, they were eating it up either way, but you felt it. That barely there tension in his hands as they hovered just above your shoulders. The stutter in his breath as he leaned in, but didn’t touch. It was the hesitation of a man trying not to cross a line he’d drawn for himself a long time ago. But then your hand lifted. Just a little as you reached behind you and placed it lightly on his thigh. And that was it. That was all it took. Mingi snapped. The second your hand pressed against his leg, his hands dropped to your shoulders, firm now, grounding himself on you as his body rolled into yours from behind like instinct had taken over, dragging his hips against the back of the chair, down the curve of your spine as the crowd screamed louder, but it sounded distant to you still, muffled beneath the rush of blood in your ears as Mingi’s hands slid down your arms, gripping your wrists gently and placing them on his chest as he stepped around to face you. His eyes locked with yours, full of something raw and deep and buried far too long. You didn’t even know where to put your hands until he guided them, keeping his over yours as he rolled his hips forward, grinding down just slow enough to feel obscene and your legs fell open allowing his knee to push between them. And when the chorus of Happy Birthday to you hit Seonghwa’s name, Mingi dropped it low.

One of his hands braced on your thigh, the other sliding up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he rocked his body into yours like he wasn’t surrounded by people, like you were the only one in the room. Because to him, you were. And Seonghwa, bless him, just laughed, clapping along, fully aware his birthday performance had officially been hijacked by a man realizing far too late that he he should of said too long ago that he was in love with his best friend. The music pulsed louder now, slower and dirtier, like it knew what was happening. And so did he. Mingi didn’t hesitate anymore. His hands, once careful, once unsure, were everywhere now. Gripping your waist, skimming your hips, dragging up your sides like he had permission now. Like he’d finally allowed himself to stop pretending this didn’t mean something. And you weren’t any better. Your fingers slid up his chest, nails grazing the skin at his waist as your head tipped back, eyes half lidded as you let him move against you. Let him show you exactly how good his body could feel pressed this close, this tight, this intentional. It wasn’t a performance anymore. Not really. It was foreplay. The way he rolled his hips, slow, deep, then faster, grinding into your inner thigh like he needed the friction. The way your nails dug into his back, pulling him down just enough that your lips brushed his jaw. You weren’t even thinking anymore, just feeling. The scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin, the way the room spun a little every time his hand gripped your thigh and squeezed. And the crowd? Still singing. Still cheering. But quieter now. Because something was happening on stage they weren’t meant to see as Mingi leaned in, his mouth grazing your ear as his breath fanned hot across your neck. “You look like a fucking dream in this dress,” he murmured, voice low, hoarse, possessive. “You know that?” Your breath caught as you looked up at him, your best friend. Your Mingi. Except not the same Mingi you knew. This was the one who couldn’t hold back anymore as his hand slid between your thighs, not quite touching, but just hovering, the ghost of contact making your whole body ache and your thighs to press together, chest rising, eyes locked with his right as the final beat hit.

Then the music ended and the lights dimmed. And for just one breathless moment, the two of you stood frozen in the silence. Mingi’s hand still on your thigh caught between the clench of them, heat pulsing between you like the crowd never existed. The spell didn’t break until San whooped and slapped Mingi on the back like he hadn’t just dry humped his best friend in front of the entire club. Laughter exploded around the room, cake was smeared across Seonghwa’s cheek, but Mingi didn’t laugh as he looked at you. And you knew…. he felt it too. That nothing between you would ever be the same after tonight.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The bar glowed in warm amber light, crowded but cozy, the bass of the music low enough to talk over, the laughter loud enough to ignore the awkward silences. You were still buzzing from the show, from the attention, from Mingi’s hands on you. But now, seated across from him at the long booth table, all that heat had simmered down to a prickling awareness. Every time you looked up, he was already looking at you. Every time he looked away, you wanted to ask why. But neither of you said a word. Wooyoung, of course, had no such filter. “Okay, okay…. but remember when Hongjoong walked in on me and San with that guy backstage?” he grinned, already snorting into his drink before the story even started. “Like pants around ankles, San’s hand halfway to heaven, and Joong just… deadpan. Completely dead inside.” Yeosang choked on his beer as San just threw a napkin at him. “You promised you’d never bring that up again.” Wooyoung sing songed. “Oops,” Seonghwa leaned over, grinning lazily. “Honestly, I’m just mad I missed it.” They all laughed as Wooyoung looked to you and Mingi with a devious look. “What about you two? You ever accidentally walk in on each other?” You felt your heart stop for a second as Mingi shook his head. “No,” he said instantly, like it was a dumb question. “Never.” You hesitated. It was maybe half a second but Mingi noticed. Wooyoung noticed too, but he just raised a brow and took another sip, letting the silence stretch. “Wait,” Mingi said slowly, leaning forward a little. “Why’d you pause?”

You looked at him, really looked at him. And maybe it was the lingering jealousy. Maybe it was the feel of his hands on your thighs still haunting you. Or maybe it was just time. You set your drink down carefully and met his eyes. “A year ago,” you said, voice calm. “I came home…. You were…on the couch.” His brows pinched together for half a second. “Wait…. what?” You took a long sip of your drink, eyes fixed on the amber liquid. “You were on the couch. With Daphne.” The name hit the table like a dropped glass. Yeosang’s chewing stopped. San blinked. Seonghwa looked between you and Mingi like he was watching the opening act to a car crash as Mingi sat back slightly. “You never said anything.” You met his gaze. “What would I have said? Hey, saw you getting rode last night, looked busy?” Wooyoung snorted hard. “Oh my god. You’ve been holding onto that?” You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Wasn’t exactly something I wanted to remember.” Mingi’s jaw clenched. “You… how long were you there?” You shrugged not meeting his eyes. “Long enough.” It was quiet for a long moment before Seonghwa raised his glass with a smirk. “Happy birthday to me. Damn.” The table chuckled. But Mingi’s gaze didn’t leave you. You didn’t say anything else. Just slid out of the booth and made your way toward the bar, your dress hugging every curve like it knew Mingi was watching. Because he was. Everyone was. But he looked wrecked, jaw set, brow furrowed, eyes tracking you like you might disappear if he blinked.

“Bro.” Mingi didn’t look away from where you stood now, leaning your elbows on the bar. Wooyoung leaned in, voice louder this time. “Bro.” Mingi blinked, barely glancing at him. “What?” Wooyoung leaned across the table like Mingi was two seconds from being smacked upside the head, “you practically fucked her onstage. I had to turn around.” Mingi ran a hand down his face, groaning. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far.” Yeosang snorted into his drink. “Yes you did. Now you’re just too scared to do anything about it.” Silence settled for another moment before Mingi stood and the rest of the guys just watched him go, heads tilted like they were watching a soap opera in real time as Wooyoung raised his glass. “Godspeed, idiot.” You were mid laugh, fingers lightly curled around the straw of your drink as the bartender leaned just a little closer than necessary. “On the house,” he said smoothly, sliding you another cocktail you hadn’t asked for. “Pretty girls shouldn’t have to pay.” You were about to respond, something between polite and dismissive, when a body moved in behind you, warm and familiar, towering enough that the bartender’s cocky grin faltered.

“Didn’t know we were offering free drinks for anyone,” Mingi said, voice calm but edged. His hand slid along the bar beside yours, not touching you but close enough your breath caught as the bartender gave a chuckle. “Club policy for regulars.” Mingi tilted his head. “She’s not a regular.” You finally turned your head, trying not to look startled by how close he was. “Hey.” He looked at you, not the bartender. “Hey.” The air shifted. Dense. Charged. “I was just…” you started, but the bartender cut in. “She was telling me about a cake. Big party. You guys always go this hard?” Mingi didn’t smile. “Only when it matters.” His eyes dropped to the drink the bartender had slid over to you. “You sure you want that one?” You raised a brow. “It’s just a drink.” Mingi stepped a little closer. His chest almost brushing your back. “Some drinks have strings.” You felt the words low in your stomach as the bartender, sensing the tension, awkwardly wiped his hands on a bar towel. “I’ll, uh… check on the other side.” Mingi nodded. “Good idea,” he said flatly but he didn’t move even after the guy disappeared down the bar. You turned to face him fully, chin lifted “Subtle. You just scared off the bartender.” Mingi shrugged like he didn’t care. “He was flirting with you.” You snorted. “I know.” Mingi stepped closer, crowding into your space like he had every right to be there. “And you were flirting back.” You swallowed hard, your voice a little softer now. “What if I was?” His eyes dropped to your lips. “Then I guess I’m done pretending to be just your best friend.”

You stared at him, heart stuttering in your chest like it couldn’t decide whether to leap or freeze. “What?” The word came out small, not because you didn’t hear him but because it hit you like a damn freight train. Mingi didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t try to play it off. There was a pause thick enough to cut, bass from the music thumping through the floor beneath your heels, laughter echoing from the other side of the bar, none of it touching the two of you though as he said it, voice low and rough at the edges, “Best friends don’t look at each other the way we did tonight.” Your breath caught. He wasn’t smiling. There was no teasing in his eyes. Just truth. Hot, heavy, terrifying truth. “You wanna go home?” It was simple. But it wasn’t. Because home didn’t mean your shared apartment anymore. It didn’t mean crashing on the couch with takeout and reruns of shitty reality shows. It didn’t mean what it usually did. Not tonight. Tonight, it meant crossing a line you’d both been toeing for years. You stared at him, pulse thudding in your throat like it was trying to answer for you. “Yeah,” you said softly, throat dry. “Let’s go.” Mingi nodded, sharp, determined, and gently took the drink from your hand to set it on the bar behind you, fingers brushing yours, just barely, but it was enough to ignite sparks that raced up your spine. You didn’t even look back as he led you toward the door.

Seonghwa, still nursing a half melted cocktail, watched with narrowed eyes before smirking around the rim of his glass. He set it down with a little clink and looked at the rest of the guys. “Finally,” he muttered, like he’d just won a long running bet with the universe. Yeosang grinned. Wooyoung practically choked on his drink and leaned into San as the doors opened and in walked Daphne with two friends flanking her like backup singers. She spotted Mingi immediately, a slow smirk curling on her face. “Well, well,” she purred, walking right into his path, tilting her head. “Didn’t expect to see you leaving so early…” Mingi didn’t even break stride. He didn’t even look at her. He just tightened his grip on your hand and led you straight past her like she was nothing but background noise.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The door clicked shut behind you, the quiet thud echoing through the apartment louder than it should have. Neither of you said a word as you toed off your shoes slowly, one heel, then the other, the soft tap of them hitting the floor sounding way too intimate in the silence. Mingi did the same, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the back of the couch, his eyes never once leaving you. The room felt heavier now. Warmer. You stood there, still dressed like temptation, your chest rising and falling just a little faster than usual as Mingi’s jaw twitched, watching you, like he was trying to keep a leash on something, something coiled deep and tense behind his eyes. “Nineteen,” Mingi finally said, voice low, like it physically hurt to get the word out. His eyes didn’t waver. “Nineteen. We were nineteen when I realized I was in love with you.” Your breath stuttered. “Eight years,” he went on, stepping closer, slowly, like he was afraid if he rushed it, you’d disappear. “Eight years pretending I didn’t want you. Eight years burying myself in other people, eyes closed, pretending it was you.” You swallowed hard, heart thudding, knees wobbling slightly from the weight of his confession as Mingi let out a shaky laugh, no humor in it. “This dress,” he murmured, gaze dropping for the briefest second before dragging back to your face. “First time you wore it, I left my own birthday party. Because if I didn’t, I was gonna drag you into the back room and rip it off you.” You stood there stunned, lips parted, head spinning. And Mingi? He just looked like a man who’d finally stopped running.

Your lips parted, breath shaky. “Do it. Mingi blinked, confused. “What?” You stepped forward, slowly, your eyes locked on his. “Rip the dress off me.” For a second, he didn’t move, like he was trying to make sure you really said it, like maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. But then his jaw clenched, nostrils flared, and something in his expression shifted, snapped. “You…” he started, voice cracking. “You can’t say shit like that unless you mean it.” You didn’t hesitate. “I do.” Mingi surged forward, grabbing you and crashing his mouth onto yours like he’d finally lost the battle with himself. His hands cupped your face at first, tender despite the heat between you, lips hungry and frantic as years of tension detonated all at once. You clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer, the kiss turning messy, deeper, desperate. When you gasped into his mouth, his hands dropped, skimming down your body until they gripped your hips tight and he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his breath ragged. “Last chance,” he whispered. “Tell me to stop, and I will.” But you didn’t. Instead, you slid his hand up the side of your dress, resting it right at the seam with your thigh, and whispered, “Rip it.” His fingers curled into the fabric, and with one hard pull, the dress tore with a sharp rrrrip, seams splitting clean down the back. It slid from your shoulders like it had been waiting to fall off you, pooling around your feet as the air hit your bare skin and his eyes darkened, swallowing the sight of you whole as he stood there, chest heaving, his gaze devouring every inch of you like he was seeing you for the first time, not his best friend in a towel, not the girl who’s lived in oversized shirts and underwear on lazy Sundays, not the one he’s caught glimpses of a hundred times in shared spaces and never touched.

This was you. Naked, save for the thin scrap of panties clinging to your hips. Wanting him. And he was completely undone. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice low, reverent, almost in disbelief. “You’re gonna ruin me.” He wrapped his arms around your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively hooking around his waist as his mouth found your breast the moment you were against him, hot and hungry, tongue dragging over your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth. One hand held you firm while the other palmed up your spine, fingers splaying against your skin like he needed to memorize the shape of you. You gasped, your hand tangling in his short hair as his teeth grazed your nipple. He didn’t stop walking. He carried you down the hallway, dimly lit by the soft glow of the living room behind you. He passed his room and paused in front of your door before kicked it open gently, not even looking, his focus locked entirely on the way your body trembled in his arms, the way your breath hitched every time his mouth moved. He lowered you onto your bed like he was setting something sacred down, carefully, slowly, even though his chest was tight and his pulse wild. His mouth never left your skin, lips still wrapped around your breast, tongue swirling as he sucked and teased. The second your back hit the mattress, he settled between your legs, one arm braced beside you while the other slid down, tracing your side, your hip, dragging goosebumps in his wake.

You arched into him when his hand finally slipped between your thighs and the soft, wrecked sound that escaped him when he felt how wet you were….. “Shit…” he groaned against your chest, breath hot. “You’re soaked.” His fingers teased over the damp fabric, tracing you slowly, reverently, like he was still trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream. Then he pressed down just enough to make your hips twitch and pulled his mouth from your breast to look up at you. “All that… from me?” he murmured, voice low and dark. “From that dance? From touching you?” A moan escaped you as you met his gaze. “Both,” you whispered, breath hitching and Mingi groaned like it punched the air from his lungs, raw and low in his throat. His fingers curled into your panties, dragging them down just enough, his gaze flicking between your face and where his hand disappeared. “You’re killing me,” he muttered, voice rough, almost pained. And then, finally, his fingers slid through your folds, slow and teasing, gathering your wetness before pushing inside. “Fuck,” he hissed, head dropping to your chest as he curled his fingers and felt you clench around him. “You feel like this for me? All night?” You nodded, your fingers threading through his hair, your thighs parting wider as your hips tilted to chase the pressure as he started moving them, slow at first, deep, curling with every stroke as your body arched under him. “Mingi,” you gasped, and he shuddered, biting down gently on your breast as he pumped his fingers faster. “Say it again,” he growled.

You grabbed his jaw, hard enough that his lips parted, his eyes snapping to yours like you’d just yanked a leash. “Fuck me with your fingers,” you ordered, dragging his face closer, your thighs tightening around his wrist. “Make me come like I’ve wanted you to for years.” Mingi’s eyes darkened, and something unholy snapped behind them. He growled, a sound from deep in his chest and then his mouth was on your neck, teeth scraping skin as his fingers slammed back into you, no more teasing, no more hesitation. He curled them hard, rough, filthy and perfect, pumping into you with the kind of rhythm that made your hips lift and your moans fall apart. “Like this?” he rasped into your throat. “Is this how you want it?” You barely managed a nod before your back arched off the bed, your nails raking down his arm, every nerve ending on fire. And he wasn’t stopping. Not until you screamed for him. Your fingers dove into his hair again, tugging hard enough to make him groan against your skin as you yanked his head back just enough to meet his eyes, eyes that were already glassy with lust, lips slick from the path they’d traced across your chest. “Don’t stop,” you panted, grinding down against his hand, riding his fingers like you owned them. “Fuck…. just like that, Mingi. God, you feel so fucking good… why the hell did we wait so long?” Your voice was wrecked, dripping filth and fire, every word going straight to his already aching dick. He swore under his breath, low and guttural, his jaw clenching as your wetness coated his hand and wrist. “You have no idea,” he growled, fingers curling harder, deeper. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.” You leaned in, lips brushing his as you whispered, “Then shut up and ruin me.”

Mingi’s whole body tensed, he was gone. Absolutely gone. Nothing about this was best friends anymore. Nothing about this was safe. Not with you saying things like that, not with your body soaked and begging for him, not with the way your thighs were trembling around his wrist as your orgasm started to crest. He’d never been more turned on in his life. “Fuck,” He groaned, voice wrecked as he watched you tremble around his fingers. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t take you like this, soaked, panting, eyes glazed over with need and begging for more. He pulled his fingers out slow, slick dripping down his knuckles, and you whined at the sudden emptiness. But before you could even finish the sound, he was already dropping between your thighs. “Spread for me,” he muttered, breath hot against your core as he hooked his hands under your knees and pushed them wide. Then his mouth was on you. Hot, hungry and possessive. His tongue slid through your folds like he’d been starving for you, moaning into you as if he’d just tasted salvation. He sucked your clit into his mouth, slow at first, teasing the way he knew would drive you insane and when you gasped and tried to grind into his face, he growled, locking your hips down with his arms. You could feel how messy it was, his spit, your arousal, his tongue working like he was trying to memorize every part of you. And the worst part? He wasn’t stopping. He wasn’t giving you room to breathe. “Mingi…” you gasped, thighs shaking, hands flying back to his hair. But he still didn’t let up. He just moaned again, eyes dark and locked on yours from between your legs as he devoured you like he was never letting you go.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, both hands gripping as you ground yourself against his mouth, chasing every wicked flick of his tongue. You could feel him moan into you again and again, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your clit as your hips rolled harder. “Just like that…. fuck, Mingi, don’t stop…. your mouth feels so fucking good,” you gasped, voice breathy. “Always wondered how that pretty mouth would feel between my thighs…. look at you, baby, making me so goddamn wet.” Mingi let out a desperate sound at that, eyes fluttering shut as his grip on your thighs tightened. You felt him rock forward slightly, and when you glanced down, the sight had you gasping all over again. He was rutting against the bed. Still fully clothed, still eating you out like it was the only thing keeping him alive as his hips grounded down into the mattress, trying to get even the smallest bit of friction as he moaned with every move you made. Your back arched, hands fisting tighter in his hair. “Fuck, you’re gonna make yourself come like that?” you whispered, completely wrecked. “Humping the bed like a needy little thing while your tongue’s buried in my pussy?” His growl vibrated right through you and somehow, impossibly, he started devouring you even harder before he pulled back just long enough to catch his breath, lips slick and swollen, the look in his eyes feral. You were trembling beneath him, but it didn’t stop him, his fingers slipped right back in, two thrusting deep into your soaked heat while his thumb dragged slow, tight circles over your clit. You barely had time to gasp before he added pressure, angling just right…. and then you felt it. A smaller finger, his pinky, teasing your other hole. “Mingi…. fuck…”

“I got you,” he whispered, voice ragged with need, “I got you, baby, just feel me.” It was overwhelming, his fingers stroking deep, his thumb rubbing perfectly, his pinky pushing in so carefully it made your whole body jolt. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only chase the high he was pulling from you so ruthlessly. You reached for him without thinking, fingers tangling in his hair again, dragging him up to crash your mouth into his. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, but it grounded you just enough right before it hit. Your whole body tensed as you came hard, crying out against his mouth, your thighs clamping around his hand as you squirted, soaking him, the sheets, everything and Mingi moaned into the kiss, swallowing every sound you made as he worked you through it, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe what he just did to you. Like he wanted, needed, more. He barely had time to catch his breath again before you shoved at his chest, pushing him back until he sat at the edge of the bed, hands bracing behind him, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. “Strip.” Your voice was low, wrecked, but laced with command making him blink once, then grinned, slow and sinful. The kind of grin that always came out on stage when the beat dropped and the lights hit just right. Except now it was for you and only you. “After all,” he murmured, fingers already moving to the hem of his shirt, “it’s my job, isn’t it?” You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Because Mingi was already peeling his shirt up over his head, revealing that strong, lean torso you’d seen a thousand times but never like this. Never with that fire in his eyes, never with your slick still glistening on his fingers. His pants followed, slow and deliberate, teasing. And when they hit the floor, and he stood there in nothing but tight black briefs, hard and straining, the outline of him unmistakable, you couldn’t help the way your legs shifted restlessly on the sheets. “Tell me,” he said, voice a little breathless, “do I take these off too, or do you want to do it?”

You slid off the bed, the air thick between you as you sank to your knees in front of him. Mingi stood there, chest rising, lips parted, watching your every move as your fingers hooked into the waistband of his briefs, and he let out a shaky breath, hips twitching forward before he caught himself. You dragged the fabric down slowly, his briefs slipping past his hips, your eyes widening just slightly because he was big. Thick, heavy, already flushed and twitching, curving just a little toward his stomach. The kind of big that made your mouth water and your thighs press together. “Fuck,” you whispered without thinking. Your hand wrapped firmly around the base of him, and when you looked up, your voice was low, teasing and daring. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” Mingi’s breath stuttered. His hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His mouth opened but nothing came out at first, just a flush creeping up his neck, dark and undeniable. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, nearly a groan. “So many fucking times.” You tilted your head, your grip giving just the slightest squeeze, and his abs tensed. “Show me how much,” you whispered. “Show me everything you’ve been holding back.” Mingi’s hand slid up, fingers curling under your chin as he tilted your face up to meet his gaze. “Open,” he said, voice low and wrecked. And you didn’t hesitate, just smirked, lips parting slowly, eyes locked on his as your tongue teased the air between you. The sound he made was pure sin, one of his hands bracing atop your head as the other guided himself to your mouth, slow and deliberate. He let the tip brush your bottom lip, and your tongue flicked against it, dragging a ragged groan from his chest. “Fuck,” he breathed, as he began to slowly push in, the heat of your mouth making his jaw clench, every muscle in his body drawn tight with restraint. You started slow, the heat of your mouth wrapping around him as your tongue teased lazy circles. Mingi’s hand twitched at his side, fighting the urge to grab your hair, his breath already uneven. “Don’t do that,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Don’t tease…” But you didn’t listen. You sank down just a little more, then pulled back with a filthy pop, smirking up at him like you had all the time in the world. Like you weren’t seconds away from wrecking him. And then you hollowed your cheeks and the groan that ripped out of Mingi’s chest was downright desperate as you took more of him, hands sliding up to grip his thighs for leverage. You let your nails dig in just enough to make him twitch, then started moving, slow, controlled strokes at first, lips gliding, tongue working every inch of him with practiced ease.

“Shit,” he breathed, his hand finally tangling in your hair. “You…. fuck, baby…” But you had control now. And you didn’t let up. You looked up at him with glassy eyes, mouth full of him, and let him see the exact moment you relaxed your throat and pushed deeper, your grip on his thighs tightening as you urged him to move. And he did. Thrust by slow, shaking thrust, Mingi began to fuck into your mouth, his rhythm building as you moaned around him, the sound sending shivers up his spine. His other hand joined the first in your hair, voice broken as he whispered your name like a curse and a prayer all at once as you moaned around him, the vibration making his knees nearly give out. His grip tightened in your hair as he rutted into your mouth, breath ragged, jaw slack. You let him use you, let him fall apart like he had no control left, taking him deep, your moans growing louder, wetter, filthier. He was close. Too close. And then he groaned, a rough, strangled sound, and pulled out, chest heaving, dick glistening as it twitched in the air between you. “Fuck…” he looked down at you like he didn’t know whether to drop to his knees or throw you onto the bed and ruin you. “Not yet.” His voice was thick. “Wanna be inside you when I come.” He reached down and pulled you up with ease, one hand on your hip, the other sliding around your waist like he was ready to take control, like this was going to go the way it always did for him. But he had no idea. You pushed against his chest, hard, catching him off guard and sending him stumbling back onto the bed. “What….” Before he could finish the question, you were crawling up after him, slow and purposeful, your eyes locked on his, a wicked little smirk tugging at your lips as you straddled his hips. “Mingi,” you purred, hands sliding up his chest, nails grazing just enough to make him twitch, “you really thought you’d be the one in charge tonight?” He swallowed hard, pupils dilating, the realization sinking in as you leaned down, lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Lie back. Be good. And let me fuck you.” You didn’t give him time to respond. Instead, you lowered yourself slowly, lips brushing his chest, the line of his ribs, the dip of his stomach, every kiss deliberate, a tease and a promise all in one as Mingi’s breathing turned ragged beneath you, his muscles tense under your mouth, but he didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

You reached his hips, sitting up, your nails dragging lightly along his sides as your eyes met his again. His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white as you finally reached between you, guiding him to your entrance, already soaked and ready. You took your time, just the tip at first, the stretch enough to make you both exhale. Then, with one slow, deliberate roll of your hips, you sank down onto him, inch by thick inch, until he was buried inside you. Mingi’s head fell back with a choked moan, his hands flying to your thighs but stopping short of grabbing, like even now he was waiting to see what you’d let him do. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel….. fuck.” You smiled, starting to move, slow and deep, claiming him like you always should have. You rolled your hips in tight circles, feeling every inch of him stretch you open. Then you picked up speed, bouncing harder, riding him faster with each thrust. Your thighs flexed as you slammed down onto him, the wet slap of your bodies filling the room as you reached up, fingers wrapping around his throat, squeezing just enough to make his eyes flutter. “Look at you,” you breathed, voice thick with heat. “Taking my pussy so fucking good.” You pounded down onto him, your ass meeting his thighs with every drop as your grip on his throat tightened and you leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “You see what you do to me, Mingi?” You pulled him up by the throat so he could watch, his eyes going wide at the sight of you coating his dick, creaming him, strings of it stretching every time you lifted off and slammed back down.

He whimpered, the sound raw and broken, hips twitching up to meet you as you kept fucking him, relentless, your walls gripping him tight. “You gonna come for me, Mingi? You said you pictured me while you were buried in someone else…” your grip on his throat tightened again, pulling yourself all the way up before slamming back down onto him. “now look at me as you come.” A broken “fuck” tore from his throat as his dick jerked inside you as he did, cum flooding your pussy in thick pulses as his body shook under you. But you didn’t stop riding him, milking every drop while your hand stayed locked around his throat. “You’re mine,” you growled, squeezing tighter. Your free hand sliding down between your bodies, fingers rubbing fast circles over your swollen clit and pleasure slammed into you hard making you cry out, pussy clenching and fluttering around him as you came gushing out around him. Before you could lift off, Mingi’s hands locked around your waist and he sat up in one fluid motion, still buried inside you, grabbing your legs, hooking them over his shoulders, holding you up like that, your back arched, his dick angled deeper. “Clench me,” he ordered, voice low and rough. You obeyed instantly, your pussy squeezing around him in rhythmic pulses. He didn’t move at first, just held you suspended, feeling every squeeze. Then he started thrusting, slow, deliberate lifts that dragged his dick almost all the way out before sinking back in. The pace building gradually, each thrust deeper, harder, until he was fucking you with full force and your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as he took complete control, pounding up into you while you hung onto him.

“Such a good girl,” he praised between thrusts, voice strained. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.” Your orgasm crashed over you again without warning, squirting hard around him, soaking his abs and thighs. Mingi pulled out just enough to watch the mess, holding you up so he could see your pussy pulsing and dripping before he flipped you onto your stomach, spreading your legs wide. His tongue dragged through your soaked folds, licking up the mess you’d made, sucking at your clit before kissing his way up your spine and flipped you again onto your back, wrapping your legs around his waist as he sank back into you with one smooth thrust. He sucked at one of your nipples, tongue swirling over it while he started fucking you slow and deep. One hand grabbed both of your wrists, pinning them above your head as his other braced beside you, hips snapping harder, pace picking up. Sweat slicking your bodies together. “I love you,” he panted against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you.” You were too far gone to form words at first, just moaning and gasping as he fucked you relentlessly. “Come for me,” he growled. “Fuck…. you’re mine. Mine. I’m yours.” Your orgasm ripped through you, body shaking as you cried out, “I love you too” and Mingi followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and filling you once more, his dick throbbing as he groaned your name and stayed inside you, rocking gently through the aftershocks, both of you panting and clinging to each other. The room smelled like sex and sweat, your bodies joined, hearts pounding in sync as he kissed you, hands finally releasing your wrists so he could stroke your hair, whispering how perfect you felt around him, how long he’d wanted this, how he never wanted to let you go and you stayed wrapped around him, legs locked at his back, his cum leaking out around his softening dick while you both caught your breath, the intensity of everything you’d just done settling into something warm and possessive between you.

You stroked his back as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. Then you could think. The thought of him now after everything, onstage, not the stripping part, but the touching other women. The lap dances…. the thought made you surge with possessiveness. “No more lap dances.” It took a moment for Mingi to register but when he did, he laughed softly into your neck. “I promise from now on I will only grind on you.” He lifted his head and looked down at you. “No more sex with hot patients who flirt with you.” You laughed this time, fingers tangling into his hair, pulling him back down, your other hand moving to stroke his jaw, thumb brushing his bottom lip. “I promise from now on….” You kissed him. “You’re the only one I will fuck in an on call room.” You both laughed at that. Snuggling into each other.

Still best friends.

And now also so much more.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @seungminniemin @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @love--in-stayville @hartsablaze @remi-young @bubbly-moon @fvxyxnh0 @herpoetryprincess @prchiquita8 @dreamgirlevilera @booposaurusrex @onecursedkitty @dvrktvnnel @atinynoona @metalheadatiny @uchihabbynic @eggielix @dodot04lover @thenumberoneangelcollection-blog @navydotz @auxiny

@showmedemkittiesss @yungi-bby @wont-you-guide-my-gay-tonight @tianahawk21 @thirstyybitch @monicatiny @goblin-pop @sunflowers-and-rainy-days @ateezbbys @piecessoull @tinyuyireads @ackermansass @shootforthestar8 @chaoticwonderertale @shuelyneon @thenumberoneangelcollection-blog @barbtiny @lucadeeeeznuts @yungisworld @minyunsan-kitten @fixonmingi89

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Bri