Don't Hold Back ⚡🦋💌[k.mg] Part 3
Summary- Aishwarya, short for Ash has been friends with Kim Mingyu for as long as she remembers, since she was eight and her family, a traditional indian bengali one, shifted to Korea. During their growing phase, Ash kinda went MIA for a while, preparing for her KSATS diligently as both of them got into the same uni- Seoul National Uni- Ash in English Literature, while Mingyu in architecture. even though her parents were against her living with a men they welcomed Ash shifting with Mingyu but it's only gonna make her life worse as the bestie she took as harmless who doesnt even see her as a woman hid behind a goofy and smily facade bringing girls over on weekends that made her think she was off his radar while she remained oblivious of their predatorial gaze at her, which is part longing, yearning and passion. Then begins flatsharing with two different rooms, but one shared bathroom and kitchen. Ash wears yard-long t-shirts to hide her curves, her olive warm complexion and blue-grey eyes, a contrast to Mingyu's honey tanned skin and brown molten soft eyes. Speaks fluently in Korean as a Korean citizen, English normally with non-Koreans. While slips Bengali and Hindi at times when she needs space to think and not let the guy she considers a puppy living with her know what she's thinking. In the story every seventeen member is a uni student majoring in something while the story revolves around Aishwarya and Mingyu.
★ 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: non-idol Kim Mingyu x Aishwarya (Ash) original character
Word Count: ~3.1k
Rating: 18+ MDNI (Minors Do Not Interact)
Tropes: Best Friends to Lovers, Non-Idol/University AU, Forced Proximity / Roommates, Slow Burn to High Heat, Hidden Yearning.
Warnings/Tags: College/University Student AU, Comedy, SMAU (Social Media AU) elements, Homoerotic friendships, Mutual pining, Dense Female Lead, Oblivious Ash, Possessive/Jealous Mingyu, Sneaky Big Puppy Gyu, Ovulation/High Libido, Cultural attire (Sari/Saree), Explicit Smut, Mommy and Lactation Kink, Handjob, Mutual Oral, Multiple Orgasms, Protected Sex, Subby Mingyu.
TMI- This came out better than I imagined lol...I was possessed by Joshua's spirit once at the 'then die' part lol!
Chapter Three-Silver and Submission
Dawn crept through the curtains like a secret.
I woke before Mingyu. That wasn't unusual—he slept like the dead, always had, ever since we were kids and he'd doze off on my bedroom floor during study sessions. What was unusual was that I was in his bed, naked except for a fortune in silver jewelry, with the ache between my legs reminding me exactly how we'd ended up here.
The mangtika had slipped sideways during the night. The nosepin was still in place, catching the pale light. My bangles sat heavy on my wrists, and the waist chain—that damn waist chain—was still cold against my stomach.
But it was his chest that snagged my attention.
Mingyu lay on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his stomach. The sheet had pooled at his hips, and his chest rose and fell with the slow rhythm of sleep. Broad. God, he was broad. The kind of shoulders that filled doorways, the kind of pectorals that strained against the thin white t-shirts he favored. Pinkish-brown nipples, flat and soft in sleep, sat centered on each swell of muscle.
My mouth watered.
Literally watered. I had to swallow twice.
This chest had been tormenting me for months. Every time he shuffled into the kitchen shirtless, every time he stretched and that sliver of skin appeared above his sweatpants, every time he leaned past me to reach a high shelf and his shirt rode up—I'd looked. I'd always looked. And then I'd slapped myself, or fled to my room, or buried my face in a Bengali novel until the urge passed.
No more slapping. No more fleeing.
I propped myself up on one elbow, the bangles chiming softly at the movement. Mingyu didn't stir. His lips were parted slightly, his dark hair a mess against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way it never was when he was awake. The goofy, smily mask he wore for the world—gone. This was just Mingyu. My Mingyu.
The thought made something curl in my stomach. Possessive. Hungry.
My gaze drifted down his chest again. The pectorals rose and fell. The nipples were calling to me like a dare.
I reached out. One finger. Just the tip. I traced the outline of his left pectoral, the muscle firm even in sleep, the skin warm and smooth. His breathing didn't change. Emboldened, I flattened my palm against him, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath my hand.
Still asleep.
The waist chain clinked as I shifted closer. The anklets sang a tiny silver song. I leaned over him, my hair falling in a curtain around my face, and pressed my lips to the center of his chest.
His skin tasted faintly of salt. Of last night. Of us.
I kissed a path upward, toward his collarbone, then back down. Toward his nipple. The left one, pinkish-brown and soft and completely unaware of what was about to happen to it.
My tongue darted out.
The first touch was electric—for me, at least. The texture was unexpected. Smooth skin, then the slight roughness of the areola, then the nipple itself, pebbling instantly under my tongue. Mingyu made a sound in his sleep. Not a word. Just a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into my mouth.
I did it again.
Slower this time. I circled his nipple with the tip of my tongue, tracing the edge of the areola, teasing the center without touching it. His breathing changed. Deepened. One of his hands twitched on the mattress.
"Ash..."
My name came out slurred, still half-asleep. His eyes were closed. But his nipple was hard now, a tight little peak that begged for attention, and I was not going to deny it.
I closed my lips around him and sucked.
His whole body jerked.
"Ash—what—"
"Shh." I lifted my head just long enough to meet his bleary, confused, rapidly-awakening gaze. "I'm busy."
His eyes went wide. Then dark. Then so, so dark.
"You're—"
"Busy." I lowered my mouth to his other nipple. This one got teeth, a gentle scrape that made him gasp and grab the sheets. "You had these on display for months. Every morning. Every night. Did you know what you were doing to me?"
"I—" He broke off, groaning, as I sucked hard enough to leave a mark. "Fuck. Ash."
"Did you?"
"Yes." The word came out strangled. "Yes, I knew. I knew exactly."
"Good." I sat up, straddling his hips, and the waist chain caught the morning light. His eyes dropped to it immediately—the silver links against my bare stomach, the delicate drape of it across my hip bones. His hands came up automatically, reaching for me, but I caught his wrists and pinned them to the pillow on either side of his head.
"Not yet," I said.
His jaw went slack. "What are you—"
"I'm taking control." The words felt foreign on my tongue, bold in a way I'd never been before. But something had shifted last night. Some door had opened. And behind it was a version of me who'd been waiting thirteen years to touch this man the way I wanted to touch him. "You had your turn last night. Now it's mine."
Mingyu stared up at me. His chest was heaving—that chest, the one I'd just been worshiping, the one that was now marked with a small red bruise from my mouth. His sweatpants, the same gray ones he'd worn yesterday, hung dangerously low on his hips. I could feel him stirring beneath me, hardening, pressing up against the thin fabric.
"You're going to kill me," he breathed.
"Then die happy."
I released his wrists. He kept them where they were, gripping the pillow, knuckles white. The restraint made something hot twist in my belly. He was strong—so much stronger than me—and he was letting me hold him down. Letting me take what I wanted.
I wanted everything.
My hands found his chest again. Both palms flat, fingers spread, covering as much of him as I could. The muscles jumped under my touch. I kneaded, slow and deliberate, working my way from his collarbone down to his ribs and back up. His skin was honey-warm, a shade lighter than my olive complexion, and the contrast where my hands rested on him was beautiful.
"Your chest," I said, tracing the line between his pectorals, "has been driving me insane."
"Yeah?" His voice was wrecked already, barely a rasp.
"Every time you walked around shirtless. Every time your sweatpants hung off your hip bones like they were about to fall." My fingers found his nipples, both of them hard now, and I rolled them gently between thumbs and forefingers. His hips bucked under me. His cock, fully hard now, pressed against my inner thigh through his pants. "I used to slap myself. Physically slap my face. To stop thinking about what I wanted to do to you."
"You—I saw you do that. The mosquito thing."
"There was no mosquito."
He laughed. The laugh turned into a groan as I pinched harder, and the sound went straight between my legs. I was already wet—had been wet since the moment I'd put my mouth on his chest, maybe since the moment I'd woken up beside him.
"Can I—" His hands twitched on the pillow.
"No."
"Ash."
"I said no." I scooted backward, settling lower on his thighs, and hooked my fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants. The drawstring was loose. One tug and they'd be down. "You're going to lie there and let me enjoy my breakfast."
"Breakfast?"
I pulled the sweatpants down.
His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip. The sight of it—so close, so ready, so utterly at my mercy—made my thighs clench around his legs.
"You," I said, wrapping my fingers around the base, "are my breakfast."
The sound he made wasn't human.
I started slow. Just my hand, stroking from base to tip, learning the weight and heat of him. The skin was velvet-soft over steel-hard, and every time my thumb swept across the head, his whole body shuddered. The waist chain clinked with my movements. The bangles slid up and down my wrist, a constant silver accompaniment.
"Look at me," I said.
He did. His brown eyes, those molten soft eyes I'd known for thirteen years, were blown wide with lust. His lips were parted. His cheeks were flushed.
"You have no idea," he managed, "how long I've imagined you looking at me like this."
"Tell me."
"Years. Fucking years." His voice cracked. "Every time you looked away, every time you fled to your room, I'd lie here and imagine you staying. Imagine you touching me. Imagine—" He broke off as I lowered my head. "Ash. Ash, you don't have to—"
"I want to."
I licked the tip.
Salty. Warm. A drop of pre-cum beaded on my tongue, and I swallowed reflexively, and the taste was strange but not unpleasant—him, just him, and I wanted more. I took him into my mouth.
Slowly. Inch by inch. My jaw stretched to accommodate him, and I breathed through my nose the way I'd read about, the way I'd practiced on nothing but air in my bedroom late at night. His hips jerked, but I pressed my free hand against his stomach to hold him down.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, Ash, your mouth—"
I hummed around him. Just a vibration, just a little one, but his whole body arched off the mattress and his hands flew to my hair—not pushing, not pulling, just holding, just gripping the strands like they were his only anchor to the earth.
The bangles sang every time my head moved. The anklets chimed against the mattress. The mangtika shifted against my hairline, and the nosepin caught the light, and the waist chain was a silver pool around my hips as I bobbed over him, taking him deeper, then shallower, then deeper again.
His thigh muscles were rock-hard under my knees. His stomach was clenched, the ridges of his abs standing out. His chest—that chest I'd been worshiping—was heaving, the nipples still peaked, the skin flushed pink.
I pulled off with a pop.
"Good?" I asked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Good?" He stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "Good doesn't even—there aren't words. There aren't words for what that was."
"Good." I crawled up his body, dragging the waist chain across his stomach, and positioned myself over his hips. His cock pressed against my entrance, slick with my saliva and his pre-cum and my own wetness. "Because I'm not done."
"Condom," he said, the word automatic even now, even with his voice thready and his pupils blown. "We need—"
"In the drawer. I already checked."
He fumbled for the nightstand, nearly knocking over a glass of water in his haste. The foil packet crinkled. His hands were shaking so badly I had to help him roll it on, and the intimacy of that—my fingers guiding the latex down his length, his breath hitching every time I touched him—made my heart squeeze.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Been ready for thirteen years."
I sank down onto him.
The stretch was still intense, still foreign, still a little overwhelming. But this time I was in control. This time I could set the pace, could stop and breathe, could watch his face contort with pleasure while I adjusted to the fullness of him inside me.
"Oh," I breathed. "Oh, that's—yes."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I started to move.
Slow at first. Experimental. My hips rolled in a rhythm I'd only ever practiced alone, grinding against pillows, imagining it was him. But the reality was infinitely better—the slide of him inside me, the way he filled every inch, the way his hands found my hips and gripped hard enough to bruise.
The bangles sang. Sings. A chime with every rise and fall of my body. The anklets answered from below, a higher note, a silver counterpoint. The waist chain caught the sun and threw sparks across the ceiling, across the walls, across his chest.
"You're so beautiful," he said, looking up at me. "You've always been beautiful, but this—you taking what you want—this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I leaned forward, bracing my hands on his chest. The angle changed. Deeper. He hit something inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes.
"There," I gasped. "Right there. Don't move."
I moved instead.
Faster now. Harder. My hips snapped against his, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. The bangles were a frenzy of chimes. The anklets were frantic. The nosepin wobbled with every thrust, and the mangtika slid sideways across my forehead, and I didn't care, I didn't care about anything except the heat building low in my belly and the way his cock was hitting that perfect spot over and over and over.
His hands slid from my hips to my breasts. Cupped them. Squeezed them. His thumbs found my nipples—dark brown and pebbled hard—and rolled them in time with my rhythm.
"Fuck," I gasped. "Mingyu, I'm—I'm close—"
"Come for me." His voice was rough, desperate. "Come on my cock, Ash. Let me feel you."
His hands tightened on my breasts. His hips bucked up to meet mine. And the combination—his grip, his thrust, his voice saying my name like a prayer—sent me over the edge.
I came with a cry that was half his name and half something in Bengali, some curse or blessing my grandmother used to mutter. My inner walls clamped around him, pulsed around him, milked him, and the sensation must have been too much because his rhythm stuttered and his groan filled the room and he was coming too, his hips slamming up into me as he spilled inside the condom.
I collapsed onto his chest.
The silver jewelry pressed between us—the bangles digging into his shoulders, the waist chain cold against his stomach, the mangtika askew on my forehead. His heart was thundering under my ear. His arms wrapped around me, holding me close, and for a long moment neither of us spoke.
Then: "Breakfast, huh?"
I snorted. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying. If that's breakfast, I can't wait for lunch."
I lifted my head. He was grinning—that wide, goofy, eye-crinkling grin that I'd loved since I was eight years old. But underneath it was something else. Something new. Something that looked a lot like forever.
"I love you," I said.
His grin softened. "I love you too. Ami tomake bhalobashi."
"Your accent is still terrible."
"I know." He kissed my forehead, right where the mangtika had left a red mark. "I'll practice."
We stayed like that for a while—me sprawled on his chest, him stroking my hair, the morning light growing brighter around us. The jewelry was still on. Every piece of it. And I realized, with a start, that I didn't want to take it off. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.
"We should probably clean up," I said eventually.
"Probably."
"Shower?"
"Together?"
The question hung in the air. Loaded. Promising.
"Together," I agreed.
He carried me to the bathroom. Again. The man had stamina that defied logic. And as the hot water streamed over us and his hands found the hooks of my blouse—the blouse I'd never taken off last night, the blouse that had somehow survived everything—I thought about what came next. Telling my parents. Telling our friends. Navigating a relationship that had been thirteen years in the making.
But those were problems for later.
Right now, there was just this. His hands. His mouth. The silver jewelry chiming against the shower tiles as he pressed me against the wall and kissed me breathless.
"Round three?" he murmured.
"Round three," I confirmed.
And the water kept running.