࿔. 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 : citação a hard sex, muito dirty talk, blow job, spit kink, degradação, copa do mundo 2026 universe, engasgos e acho que só.
࿔. 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 : já to liberada de meter os 'especial copa do mundo 2026'...? ai gente eu estava subindo pelas paredes por algo dele, então esta bem sujinho. aproveitem!
𝄞 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 — luz, cama e ação - alee, mc cabelinho, qualywav1.
Imaginava a encheção de saco que cairia nos ouvidos de Richard por parte dos parceiros de time no outro dia. Duvidaria muito que aquelas paredes finas do quarto de hotel luxuoso reservado para o jogador da seleção colombiana, no México, estivessem abafando os barulhos do sexo ríspido que vocês faziam. Você não era lá muito contida; qualquer toque mais bruto era o suficiente para lhe tirar um sonzinho manhoso e, bom… Richard amava isso. Já tinha a feito gritar aos quatro cantos do cômodo, ao passo que a pica a empalava sem dó, indo e vindo sem um pingo de clemência, acertando seu fundo com força e um ritmo ininterrupto, acertando tapas ardidos onde as mãos másculas alcançavam, marcando todo seu corpinho mole. Iria ficar toda assadinha nos próximos dias para o acompanhar no jogos, mas ah! Era por uma boa causa. Uma ótima causa.
No momento, seu estado era deplorável. Baba escorria por seu queixo, ao passo que a extensão douradinha era abrigada em sua boca. Ajoelhadinha no chão, ao lado da cama, o corpo grande e atlético do Rios a encurralando. Ah, era muito! Chegou a dar algumas tossezinhas contra o falo grosso ao se engasgar, mas não larga o períneo de jeito nenhum, os sonzinhos molhadinhos a deixando mais molhadinha. Você se separa do falo apenas para cuspir em abundância na cabecinha avermelhada do moreno, emendando uma punheta rápida e babona contra a extensão, mas não dura muito; logo a boquinha engole todo o comprimento novamente, os olhinhos brilhantes de luxúria mirando a vista para o jogador acima, que mantinha a palma entrelaçada em seus fios, acompanhando o vai e vem do boquete babão que recebia.
— Filha da puta gulosa do caralho… — ele murmura rouco, não escondendo o sorriso de puto que nasceu nos lábios, se atrevendo a empurrar o quadril contra sua boca, sentindo o gemidinho manhoso que veio de sua garganta bater no caralho completamente engolido por sua boca. Você conseguia perceber, mesmo que com os olhinhos meio embaçados, a marra dele oscilar de vez em quando, os grunhidos roucos escaparem sem permissão junto das risadas torpes pelo tesão avassalador de estar completamente entalada em sua garganta. Por mais que evidentemente estivesse no controle dos movimentos imundos da sua boca, ele estava completamente rendido no macete da sua cavidade, que expelia baba em volta do prepúcio rijo. “Caralho, porra.”
Compartilharam um riso lascivo após você afundar o membro até o final da garganta e prontamente os sonzinhos dos leves engasgos ecoarem mais uma vez pelo quarto, retirando o pau todo babado da cavidade quente para recuperar um pouquinho de ar em ofegos, podendo ver o fio de saliva que ainda os mantinha conectados. Você não perde tempo em o engolir todinho novamente. Não estava nem aí para as tossezinhas que dava contra o falo grande quando se engasgava; estava faminta. Queria tirar tudo dele, cada gotinha da gala espessa. Sugava o períneo com muita gula, gemia contra o falo, soltando-o apenas para cuspir em abundância no períneo e logo voltar a sorver todo o comprimento novamente, mirando os olhinhos aguados para o colombiano acima de vez em quando.
Sua boquinha encostava na virilha aparada dele, a cabeça gorda do caralho escorregava com afinco pelas paredes da sua garganta. Uma de suas mãozinhas de unhas bem feitas circundava o cacete numa punheta curtinha quando sua boca deixava parte da extensão de fora da cavidade, enquanto a outra fazia vergões na pele dourada e tatuada do namorado, fazendo mais sons roucos serem soltos da boca do Rios. Filho da puta, sádico, gostoso.
Quando você sente o caralho grosso dar uma guinada em sua garganta, se apressa a cessar o contato da boca, se afastando da rola para deixar a boquinha bem aberta, de um jeitinho erótico que sabia que o levaria ao êxtase mais rápido, estirando a língua abeirada ao topo da glande.
— Fode minha boquinha, hm? — Seus olhinhos pidões beirariam a inocência, se não houvesse a contradição do sorrisinho de vagabunda plantado em seus lábios. “Fode ela e depois esporra na minha cara, amor…” Seu tonzinho judiado evidenciava o esforço da gargantinha em abrigar tudo aquilo, a frase sensual saindo mais chula por esse motivo. Esfrega o pau velho na carne gorducha da bochecha, soltando um leve ronronar, enquanto mantinha os dedos apertando a base e as bolas graúdas de leve.
— Caralho, amor. — Escuta a voz rouca proferir entre dentes, observando o abdômen trincado contrair e o pau teso guinar mais uma vez, fazendo-a fechar os olhinhos e rir manhosinha ao escutar a sequência de gemidos roucos escaparem dos lábios avermelhados de Richard, não tendo tempo de sentir o pau grosso judiar mais um pouco de você, prontamente sentindo toda a porra quentinha ser despejada em abundância em sua língua no momento seguinte, com algumas jatadas caindo para suas bochechas úmidas, te obrigando a tirar os dedinhos da coxa tatuada e levar até a área rechonchuda, retirando as gotas de porra da pele que se alojaram em sua bochecha e levando à boca, soltando gemidinhos em deleite ao chupar as próprias falanges meladas.
Um risinho ecoa de sua garganta quando o jogador segura o pau, agora flácido, e bate em seu rostinho, esfregando a pontinha do caralho que ainda escorria esperma por sua boquinha. “‘Tava gostoso, amor?” Ele questiona. O sorriso cafajeste desenhado nos lábios. Você não o responde, apenas desce o tronco e se inclina um pouquinho, deixando um selinho na cabeça gorda do falo, deslizando sua língua num movimento devasso para capturar resquícios de porra que vazavam no cantinho de seus lábios junto à quantidade copiosa de saliva. Richard sentia que poderia ficar duro mais uma vez com a cena do seu rostinho manhoso e acabado. Os lábios totalmente vermelhentos, a boquinha entreaberta soltando ofegos, os olhinhos aguados completamente entregues. Estava tão, mas tão acabada… Porra, que delícia…
Ao você limpar toda a bagunça, sente a mão grande do do Rios que residia na base de sua nuca, escorregar até seu rosto e se firmar no maxilar, o anelar de um lado e o polegar de outro, prendendo seu olhar no dele. “Vadia suja... ” É o que a voz rouca dispara, ainda com um riso repleto de libidinagem aberto nos seus lábios, observando sua boquinha se abrir e a linguinha se estender para fora novamente, mostrando para o namorado que não tinha sobrado nada.
Dividem uma risada enodoada ao você se encostar contra a base da cama, tentando recuperar um pouquinho de sanidade depois de toda a sua energia ser levada pela foda intensa. Quando menos espera, seu corpo é impulsionado para cima e em seguida acomodado sobre a kingsize disposta ao meio do quarto. O corpo imenso de Richard se abrigando sobre o seu, entre suas pernas, não perdendo tempo em juntar os lábios no seu num beijo lentinho, em que ele engolia as suas lufadas ofegantes. Um risinho manhoso sai de você em meio ao ósculo quando o escuta sussurrar um “Gostosa” seguido de estalar certeiro de um tapa na lateral de sua bunda redondinha.
Você separa o embolar das línguas com uma expressão arteira em seu rosto, roçando sua boquinha de leve na dele ao proferir num tom sujo, sussurrado:
“Vou ficar esperando meu gol amanhã, ouviu?”
. ۟ 🍥 ⃞░ curtiu? deixa um comentáriozinho, uma curtidinha ou um rblog. até a próxima história ⟡﹒🐺
miga do céu sempre que eu vejo você atualizando seu perfil minha mão soa de ansiedade pra ver muito do haaland por aqui 😭🙏🏼
Erling Haaland in...
⛓️SELF CONTROL II
Após a eliminação da Noruega, você precisa consolar seu namoradinho...
🤍 Notes: Missão dada, missão cumprida amores! Tentei misturar algumas coisinhas relacionadas a maioria das asks para não ficar repetitivo, mas também combinar com o resultado do jogo de hoje (eliminaram minha loira do tchan 🥺). Espero que gostem e muito obrigada de novo!! 🖤✨️
[⛓️AVISOS:] conteúdo adulto/+18, oral!masc, cum, dirty talk, bastante size kink, menção à anal, menção à trisal, romantismo pq é fic minha né e acho que é isso :)
Já era quase madrugada quando Haaland finalmente chegou. A frustração da derrota e o cansaço tiveram que esperar devido aos eventos de pós-jogo: entrevistas e satisfações sobre a perda para a Inglaterra, conversas com colegas do time sobre erros, acertos, pensamentos positivos e negativos… Caramba, tudo o que ele queria agora era mais um banho — quentinho, diferente da banheira de gelo que se enfiou para recuperar os músculos.
Te viu deitada, aparentemente adormecida, e preferiu nem acender as luzes para não perturbar o seu sono. A figura alta se inclinou sobre você e selou seu rostinho, arrancando as roupas do corpo às pressas.
Seus olhos se abriram.
Certo, já tinha captado como seu namoradinho estava.
Assim que ouviu o som da ducha quente sendo ligada desceu da cama, tirando o robe de seda vermelho e engatinhando até o banheiro. O vapor colidiu com seu rostinho, arrepiou sua pele, mas avançou mesmo assim.
Até os olhos azuis te acharem do outro lado do box.
Depois de horas difíceis, ele finalmente deu uma risada tranquila:
— O que você tá fazendo aí? — a mão grande afastou o vidro temperado que lhes separava. — O que você tá fazendo assim? — arrancou dele mais um riso incrédulo ao te ver nua e com a bunda empinadinha.
— Sinto muito pela Noruega ter perdido hoje, Erling — você falou, ignorando as perguntas.
Ah, mas ele negou com a cabeça e fez um bicão:
— Mentirosa, você jogou praga em mim por que eu eliminei o Brasil!
— Não joguei!
— Jogou, sim!
— Amor…
— Nem vem, ficou sem falar comigo por quase dois dias!
Bem, aquilo realmente aconteceu. Ainda se lembrava de ter sentado nele com raiva, segurando cada gemidinho manhoso e devotado que costumava dar, aguentando cada centímetro grosso dentro de você por pura birra… E ainda tirou aquele pau delicioso da sua bucetinha antes que Haaland pudesse te encher de porra como sempre.
Mas, quem tem boca vai à Roma. Seu namoradinho acabou com a sua raivinha no dia seguinte, te chupando com os lábios gordinhos até você esguichar e perdoá-lo por ter colocado seu país para fora da Copa.
— Mas eu te defendi pra minha família e para as minhas amigas, okay?! — ressaltou, pousando as mãos nas coxas definidas. — Te defendi com unhas e dentes, mesmo quando eu ainda tava puta contigo!
Haaland abriu um sorriso largo:
— Ah, é?
— Uhum… — mordeu o lábio inferior, assistindo o pau enorme guinar tão perto do seu rostinho. Foi impossível não agarrá-lo com uma das mãos, que mal se fechava na grossura. — Disse que você só tava fazendo o seu trabalho… — selou a glande vermelhinha, ouvindo o arfar pesado do loiro. — Que a Noruega nunca tinha chegado tão longe… — Espalhou mais beijinhos pela extensão cada vez mais dura. — Que a gente tem que aprender a dividir também…
— Igual eu te divido com o Bellingham, é? — debochou, tocando naquele assunto que fazia seu íntimo se contrair.
Tinha dois namoradinhos. A mídia surtaria se soubesse que aqueles “bons amigos” eram tão próximos que até dividiram a mesma boquinha, a mesma bucetinha, a mesma mulherzinha…
— Uhum, igual! — concordou, deixando mais um selinho estalado na cabecinha.
— Eu tô tão puto com ele, não sei se vou te dividir mais… — as mãos grandes já foram até o seu cabelo molhado, fazendo um rabo de cavalo desleixado. — Tava metido pra caralho no pós jogo, sabia?
— Eu vi, ele tava uma delícia… — provocou.
Haaland revirou os olhos e bufou.
Prontinho, o suficiente para tentar enfiar o pau inteirinho na sua boca.
— Te amo pra caralho, mas cala a boquinha na minha pica, cala, amor — sussurrou.
Ah, mas você ficou caladinha com gosto!
Era meio obcecada em tentar engoli-lo inteiro, mesmo que soubesse que era impossível. Sabia que ficaria rouquinha de tanto forçar a garganta contra a cabecinha inchada, mas não ligava, babava na extensão com vontade e mamava olhando para Haaland com a maior falsa inocência do mundo.
O gosto da pica dele era viciante, assim como tudo o que o envolvia — num instante estava encontrando com um carinha engraçado num evento, no outro estava fascinada por futebol e por ele, com uma aliança no dedo e gritando “Haaland” a cada gol que presenciava. Mal conseguia respirar, mas algo em você tinha certeza de que morreria mesmo era se parasse de chupá-lo.
— Ei, ei, se controla! — Erling riu, tendo que te afastar. — Você sabe que nunca vai caber.
— Vai sim!
— Sua boquinha é muito pequena, gracinha — acariciou seu lábio inferior, quase rosnando quando seus lábios inchadinhos capturaram o dedão dele, numa carência que quase o fez gozar. — Já pedi pro Jude te ajudar a engolir e nem ele você aguentou, lembra?
Injustiça! O pau do Bellingham também era enorme!
Contudo, você estava burrinha demais para debater naquele momento.
— Mas eu quero… — choramingou ao tirar o dígito branquinho da boca, com os olhinhos lacrimejando. — Eu preciso te consolar, Haaland…
Porra, você ainda o mataria chamando-o assim!
— Quer me consolar? — se abaixou, selando sua boca: — Chupa minha cabecinha igual uma putinha e me deixa esporrar nesse seu rostinho lindo, uh?
Você sorriu como se tivesse ganhado o mundo inteirinho, abocanhando-o de novo e masturbando o restante com as mãozinhas num vai-e-vem lentinho, apertando, fazendo Erling gemer seu nome como um gatinho adestrado — ah, ter aquele homem tão grande literalmente na palma das mãos…
Haaland precisou de mais autocontrole para não investir o quadril contra a sua boquinha linda. Sabia que podia te machucar, te fazer engasgar pateticamente várias e várias vezes… Ah, mas ele imaginou! Imaginou muito…
Você mal recuperou o fôlego ao ser afastada quando sentiu os jatos quentinhos e espessos de porra caíndo no seu rostinho úmido.
Continuou punhetando, com os olhinhos fechados, a bucetinha carente ardendo de vontade enquanto o sentia gozar mais e mais — Haaland gozava pra caralho quando ficava estressado, era o segredinho sujo de vocês.
— Vem aqui… — os braços fortes te ergueram de uma vez para que ele pudesse ver o estrago que havia feito de pertinho.
A língua quentinha lambeu sua bochecha meladinha, a boca cheinha do seu namoradinho ficando suja com a própria porra.
— B-Beijinho… — você pediu, já fraquinha demais por ele.
Haaland te deu o que queria, enfiando a língua grossinha na sua boca enquanto dedilhava sua bucetinha, indo mais para trás…
Algo geladinho.
Separou a boca da sua, totalmente incrédulo de que a mulherzinha dele estava com um plug.
— Era só se eu ganhasse — balbuciou, não controlando o impulso de mover mais, vendo seus olhinhos se revirando.
— Você sempre vai ser… Meu campeão — arfou baixinho, se agarrando aos ombros largos. — Eu só preciso me preparar direitinho, né?
— Uhum, direitinho… — agora era ele quem sorria como se tivesse ganhado o mundo inteirinho.
Empinou mais, amando a atenção que estava recebendo onde nunca havia sido estimulada antes. Segurou o rostinho de Haaland, olhando no fundo dos olhos dele:
namorado!haaland x leitora ♡ smut [18+ menores não interajam] #avisos: sexo bruto, sem proteção, sem preparação, penetração, size kink, haaland com pau grande (canon né bbs), relacionamento estabelecido, gozando dentro, humilhação!!!!!, haaland ta meio doido de tesão.
contexto da putaria: seu namorado está estressado após ser eliminado da copa do mundo :)
n.a: sem revisão sem pensar mt só escrevi enfim....
desde o momento em que deixou o estádio, não sabia muito bem o que esperar do seu namorado. erling sempre foi um cara centrado, principalmente agora que a seleção norueguesa estava em sua melhor campanha, se esforçava ainda mais para honrar a camiseta da seleção. o loiro sempre soube lidar com a mídia em cima, mas te preocupava como estaria o psicológico dele, afinal, o gol anulado foi uma consequência causada pela falta que ele mesmo cometeu.
haaland te mandou uma mensagem simples no vestiário, dizendo pra você ir pro hotel, que tudo ficaria bem e terminando de dar as entrevistas ele iria te ver. mas isso te preocupou.
algumas horas depois você ouviu as batidas na porta, e logo destravou, assistindo a figura do seu namorado entrar no quarto e se sentar na ponta da cama.
“se eu não tivesse cometido aquela falta…”
sente o peito apertar, sabendo que dizer que não é culpa dele não iria adiantar nada, porque erling não foi o unico responsável pela eliminação da seleção, mas foi o responsável pela anulação do gol que, se validado, ao menos poderia ter os levados aos pênaltis.
“cê sabe que deu seu melhor, vida! e porra, para de falar como se a falta fosse a única chance, teve vacilos do time todo.”
ele não parece chateado, e sim irritado com toda a situação, “era só a porra do sorloth ter me passado a bola, caralho. e pra ajudar o filho da puta do técnico ainda me tira, eu não pedi pra sair, cuzão!” explode.
a voz alta não é com você, não é sobre você, então não repreende, apenas escuta o desabafo frustrado do namorado, afinal, também está irritada com a situação, mesmo que na semana passada ele tenha eliminado a do seu país, não torcia pra que acabassem assim.
“como você tá com isso?” pergunta simplista, quase que automático.
“que pergunta de merda, né? tô puto pra cara-” antes mesmo de terminar a frase ele se toca do tom que está usando agora com você.
haaland sempre foi meio bruto num geral, quase dois metros de altura, uma dieta de seis mil calorias por dia, um corpo alto e forte o suficiente para destruir qualquer um.
exceto você, o cristalzinho perfeito dele, haaland sempre lambeu o chão que você pisa, o tipo de namorado perfeito que faz tudo que a mulher dele quer, nunca havia ao menos levantado a voz diretamente pra você.
“d-desculpa, amor. perdão, eu não quis…” o arrependimento era nítido na frase.
“tá tudo bem, é estresse, te entendo.”
sentou no colo do loiro, o braço logo rodeando sua cintura, o remorso quase palpável, como se pudesse o tocar, a cabeça baixa deixando explícito a culpa pela forma como te respondeu, incapaz de te encarar.
você dá um sorrisinho de canto, um tanto quanto perverso, sentindo o calor subir pelo corpo, nunca havia visto seu namorado assim, a raiva misturada com a frustração e adrenalina não te assusta, muito pelo contrário.
se remexe um pouquinho nas coxas grossas, levantando o rosto pelo queixo, firme, forçando o olhar.
“vida, relaxa… tá tudo bem mesmo.” sussurra. a voz carregada de segundas intenções que ele entendeu no mesmo segundo, dificil seria não entender, já que suas mãos descem pelo peitoral largo. “você tá tenso demais, amor. não dá pra ficar guardando raiva assim.”
erling franze o cenho de leve, um pouco confuso se realmente estava entendendo aquilo certo, “o quê?”
ri, se inclinando de leve, colando um pouco mais os corpos, sentindo o corpo do norueguês enrijecendo ainda mais. levou a boca até a orelha dele, mordiscando de leve, pra então sussurrar baixo. “desconta essa raiva em mim, vida! me maltrata pra se aliviar.”
o lado racional até tenta falar mais alto, porra, haaland tem quase 2m de altura, vocês já transaram bruto diversas vezes, em todas ele precisou se controlar, tem noção da força que tem, e ainda sim te deixou andando meio torta nos dias seguinte, agora imagina nessa situação, ele não sabe se consegue, não quando a raiva dominou todo seu corpo.
“você tá maluca, eu tô cego de raiva… se eu te pegar… merda..” balança a cabeça, negando.
não responde, burrinha de tesão só de imaginar seu namorado arrebentando seu corpo sem dó. rebola bem lentinho no colo dele, escutando ele suspirar.
“para, porra!” as mãos cravam na sua coxa de forma brusca, tentando te fazer parar, mesmo sabendo que não consegue, mesmo sabendo que no fim de tudo é você quem manda.
e você não para, rebolando mais uma vez, mordendo de leve o pescoço branquinho, sentindo o pau grande endurecer na calça de moletom. o aperto ainda mais rude, o suficiente pra te deixar marcas.
“tô mandando parar, inferno!”
“e eu tô mandando você me usar pra se acalmar.”
“filha da puta.” o xingamento sai rasgado, áspero, numa brutalidade que te deixa surpresa.
e em meio segundo, seu namorado carinhoso não existe mais.
erling te joga contra a cama, e o beijo te machuca. ele realmente está cego de raiva, pressionando os lábios carnudos com raiva contra os seus, chupando sua língua com o que beira ao desespero, enquanto a mão firme maltrata todo seu corpo.
ele não pensa, você não pensa, e no segundo seguinte ele rasga o seu babydoll por completo, tão simples que parece ser feito de papel. nunca viu ele irritado, não assim, e o ódio só te faz sentir mais tesão.
o olhar do seu namorado transborda de insanidade, delirando quando percebe que o tecido virou apenas fiapos presos ao seu corpo. ele se afasta só pra encarar, os olhos azuis viajando pelo seu corpo nu na cama.
ele ri, completamente descontrolado. “vou acabar com você, cachorra.”
a mão dele te aperta com força, sem qualquer carinho, sem qualquer cuidado, o mesmo haaland que derrubava jogadores brutalmente no campo está em cima de você, seu namorado carinhoso foi completamente pro caralho.
e sua buceta fica cada vez mais molhada com isso.
“qual a palavra de segurança, vadia?”
joga a cabeça pra trás, completamente perdida na sensação gostosa que a queimação no quadril te traz, a humilhação misturada com o tom raivoso te deixando bamba.
“me responde, porra!”
“b-baunilha.” choraminga, o corpo grande pressionando você, te deixando sem ar.
ele ri, tirando a camiseta e a bermuda junto com a cueca, o pau grande pulando pra fora, a cabecinha rosa e inchada brilhando devido ao pré-gozo vazando ali.
"é pra te usar? então aguenta, putinha."
com puxão violento, ele joga suas pernas contra os ombros largos, te abrindo totalmente e te deixando vulnerável.
e num único impulso, enfia a piroca dentro da sua bucetinha. sem camisinha, sem lubrificante, sem nem ao menos cuspir ou ir devagar.
o ardor te faz gritar, o cacete grosso abrindo você sem qualquer pena, a buceta molhada engolindo na marra a pica do norueguês.
“porra, apertada pra caralho!”
é nítido que haaland tá cego de ódio, a raiva da eliminação se transformando num tesão brutal. você geme coisas desconexas, sentindo o pau abrindo sua xotinha, te forçando a levar os centímetros brutais até o fundo.
“aguenta, biscate!” a estocada ainda mais funda te fazendo engasgar no próprio gemido. “não mandou eu te usar? agora aguenta.”
sua buceta ainda arde, e isso faz parte do prazer, porra, ter seu homem completamente descontrolado te comendo sem qualquer pena é tudo que você poderia pedir.
“vou te arrombar inteira, cadela!”
o impacto de cada estocada ecoando pelo quarto, e a essa altura foda-se qualquer hóspede ao lado. a cama começa a ranger, a investida violenta do corpo de quase 100kg contra o seu fazendo o móvel arranhar o piso de madeira.
haaland olha um pouco pra baixo, vendo sua buceta aceitando tão bem o cacete dele, assistindo o pau socado até o talo na puta dele, os pelinhos loiros roçando em você a cada estocada.
suas unhas agarram as costas do norueguês, arranhando ali sem qualquer pudor, deixando escorrer um pouco de sangue, mas nem você, nem ele, se importam com isso.
o buraquinho esticado pra acomodar a largura do seu namorado começa a contrair no cacete dele.
“porra, tá me apertando. vai gozar no meu pau?”
você não responde, incapaz, apenas gemendo enquanto ele acaba com você.
“vou encher sua buceta de porra, minha vadia, essa buceta é minha, você é minha.” ele choraminga.
sua mente está um borrão, a buceta ardendo devido as estocadas brutas, o pau grosso latejando dentro de você, tudo te leva a insanidade. o corpo do seu namorado por cima do seu pesa um pouquinho mais, quase te dobrando ao meio, te sufocando inteira.
o norueguês aperta seu queixo, te obrigando a olhar pra ele, o olhar maquiavélico enquanto continua te fodendo como se fosse uma boneca.
"minha putinha pessoal!"
os espasmos do orgasmo te atinge com força fazendo sua buceta prender o pau num aperto violento enquanto você literalmente chorava no meio da gozada.
e ele não parou, mesmo com você chorando de tanto tesão, erling continuou maltratando sua buceta sem qualquer piedade, afundando cada vez mais o caralho duro no seu buraco.
“minha cadela.”
o seu corpo afunda contra o colchão, a visão turva, você incapaz de qualquer reação, sentindo o corpo pesado usando o seu.
“vou esporrar na tua buceta.”
não bastou mais que três estocadas. haaland gozou dentro da sua buceta, pressionando seu quadril firme contra ele, não deixando nenhuma gota sair pra fora.
te deixando completamente cheia.
o corpo grande tremia contra o seu, despejando todo o líquido espesso dentro, lavando todo o interior da sua xoxota com o esperma quente, garantindo que a mulher dele levaria tudo.
aos poucos o quadril relaxa, mas não sai de dentro, recobrando a própria respiração enquanto o pau ainda continuava semi duro em você.
“vira de quatro.” é a única coisa que ele consegue dizer.
e você obedece. sentindo a mão firme bater forte contra sua bunda.
é… ele ainda tinha muita raiva pra descontar.
caso gostem de contexto: a jogada dor sorloth que ele menciona é essa aqui outro angulo com o haaland bolado + o desquerido pedindo DESCULPA por nao ter passado a bola
miga do céu sempre que eu vejo você atualizando seu perfil minha mão soa de ansiedade pra ver muito do haaland por aqui 😭🙏🏼
Erling Haaland in...
⛓️SELF CONTROL II
Após a eliminação da Noruega, você precisa consolar seu namoradinho...
🤍 Notes: Missão dada, missão cumprida amores! Tentei misturar algumas coisinhas relacionadas a maioria das asks para não ficar repetitivo, mas também combinar com o resultado do jogo de hoje (eliminaram minha loira do tchan 🥺). Espero que gostem e muito obrigada de novo!! 🖤✨️
[⛓️AVISOS:] conteúdo adulto/+18, oral!masc, cum, dirty talk, bastante size kink, menção à anal, menção à trisal, romantismo pq é fic minha né e acho que é isso :)
Já era quase madrugada quando Haaland finalmente chegou. A frustração da derrota e o cansaço tiveram que esperar devido aos eventos de pós-jogo: entrevistas e satisfações sobre a perda para a Inglaterra, conversas com colegas do time sobre erros, acertos, pensamentos positivos e negativos… Caramba, tudo o que ele queria agora era mais um banho — quentinho, diferente da banheira de gelo que se enfiou para recuperar os músculos.
Te viu deitada, aparentemente adormecida, e preferiu nem acender as luzes para não perturbar o seu sono. A figura alta se inclinou sobre você e selou seu rostinho, arrancando as roupas do corpo às pressas.
Seus olhos se abriram.
Certo, já tinha captado como seu namoradinho estava.
Assim que ouviu o som da ducha quente sendo ligada desceu da cama, tirando o robe de seda vermelho e engatinhando até o banheiro. O vapor colidiu com seu rostinho, arrepiou sua pele, mas avançou mesmo assim.
Até os olhos azuis te acharem do outro lado do box.
Depois de horas difíceis, ele finalmente deu uma risada tranquila:
— O que você tá fazendo aí? — a mão grande afastou o vidro temperado que lhes separava. — O que você tá fazendo assim? — arrancou dele mais um riso incrédulo ao te ver nua e com a bunda empinadinha.
— Sinto muito pela Noruega ter perdido hoje, Erling — você falou, ignorando as perguntas.
Ah, mas ele negou com a cabeça e fez um bicão:
— Mentirosa, você jogou praga em mim por que eu eliminei o Brasil!
— Não joguei!
— Jogou, sim!
— Amor…
— Nem vem, ficou sem falar comigo por quase dois dias!
Bem, aquilo realmente aconteceu. Ainda se lembrava de ter sentado nele com raiva, segurando cada gemidinho manhoso e devotado que costumava dar, aguentando cada centímetro grosso dentro de você por pura birra… E ainda tirou aquele pau delicioso da sua bucetinha antes que Haaland pudesse te encher de porra como sempre.
Mas, quem tem boca vai à Roma. Seu namoradinho acabou com a sua raivinha no dia seguinte, te chupando com os lábios gordinhos até você esguichar e perdoá-lo por ter colocado seu país para fora da Copa.
— Mas eu te defendi pra minha família e para as minhas amigas, okay?! — ressaltou, pousando as mãos nas coxas definidas. — Te defendi com unhas e dentes, mesmo quando eu ainda tava puta contigo!
Haaland abriu um sorriso largo:
— Ah, é?
— Uhum… — mordeu o lábio inferior, assistindo o pau enorme guinar tão perto do seu rostinho. Foi impossível não agarrá-lo com uma das mãos, que mal se fechava na grossura. — Disse que você só tava fazendo o seu trabalho… — selou a glande vermelhinha, ouvindo o arfar pesado do loiro. — Que a Noruega nunca tinha chegado tão longe… — Espalhou mais beijinhos pela extensão cada vez mais dura. — Que a gente tem que aprender a dividir também…
— Igual eu te divido com o Bellingham, é? — debochou, tocando naquele assunto que fazia seu íntimo se contrair.
Tinha dois namoradinhos. A mídia surtaria se soubesse que aqueles “bons amigos” eram tão próximos que até dividiram a mesma boquinha, a mesma bucetinha, a mesma mulherzinha…
— Uhum, igual! — concordou, deixando mais um selinho estalado na cabecinha.
— Eu tô tão puto com ele, não sei se vou te dividir mais… — as mãos grandes já foram até o seu cabelo molhado, fazendo um rabo de cavalo desleixado. — Tava metido pra caralho no pós jogo, sabia?
— Eu vi, ele tava uma delícia… — provocou.
Haaland revirou os olhos e bufou.
Prontinho, o suficiente para tentar enfiar o pau inteirinho na sua boca.
— Te amo pra caralho, mas cala a boquinha na minha pica, cala, amor — sussurrou.
Ah, mas você ficou caladinha com gosto!
Era meio obcecada em tentar engoli-lo inteiro, mesmo que soubesse que era impossível. Sabia que ficaria rouquinha de tanto forçar a garganta contra a cabecinha inchada, mas não ligava, babava na extensão com vontade e mamava olhando para Haaland com a maior falsa inocência do mundo.
O gosto da pica dele era viciante, assim como tudo o que o envolvia — num instante estava encontrando com um carinha engraçado num evento, no outro estava fascinada por futebol e por ele, com uma aliança no dedo e gritando “Haaland” a cada gol que presenciava. Mal conseguia respirar, mas algo em você tinha certeza de que morreria mesmo era se parasse de chupá-lo.
— Ei, ei, se controla! — Erling riu, tendo que te afastar. — Você sabe que nunca vai caber.
— Vai sim!
— Sua boquinha é muito pequena, gracinha — acariciou seu lábio inferior, quase rosnando quando seus lábios inchadinhos capturaram o dedão dele, numa carência que quase o fez gozar. — Já pedi pro Jude te ajudar a engolir e nem ele você aguentou, lembra?
Injustiça! O pau do Bellingham também era enorme!
Contudo, você estava burrinha demais para debater naquele momento.
— Mas eu quero… — choramingou ao tirar o dígito branquinho da boca, com os olhinhos lacrimejando. — Eu preciso te consolar, Haaland…
Porra, você ainda o mataria chamando-o assim!
— Quer me consolar? — se abaixou, selando sua boca: — Chupa minha cabecinha igual uma putinha e me deixa esporrar nesse seu rostinho lindo, uh?
Você sorriu como se tivesse ganhado o mundo inteirinho, abocanhando-o de novo e masturbando o restante com as mãozinhas num vai-e-vem lentinho, apertando, fazendo Erling gemer seu nome como um gatinho adestrado — ah, ter aquele homem tão grande literalmente na palma das mãos…
Haaland precisou de mais autocontrole para não investir o quadril contra a sua boquinha linda. Sabia que podia te machucar, te fazer engasgar pateticamente várias e várias vezes… Ah, mas ele imaginou! Imaginou muito…
Você mal recuperou o fôlego ao ser afastada quando sentiu os jatos quentinhos e espessos de porra caíndo no seu rostinho úmido.
Continuou punhetando, com os olhinhos fechados, a bucetinha carente ardendo de vontade enquanto o sentia gozar mais e mais — Haaland gozava pra caralho quando ficava estressado, era o segredinho sujo de vocês.
— Vem aqui… — os braços fortes te ergueram de uma vez para que ele pudesse ver o estrago que havia feito de pertinho.
A língua quentinha lambeu sua bochecha meladinha, a boca cheinha do seu namoradinho ficando suja com a própria porra.
— B-Beijinho… — você pediu, já fraquinha demais por ele.
Haaland te deu o que queria, enfiando a língua grossinha na sua boca enquanto dedilhava sua bucetinha, indo mais para trás…
Algo geladinho.
Separou a boca da sua, totalmente incrédulo de que a mulherzinha dele estava com um plug.
— Era só se eu ganhasse — balbuciou, não controlando o impulso de mover mais, vendo seus olhinhos se revirando.
— Você sempre vai ser… Meu campeão — arfou baixinho, se agarrando aos ombros largos. — Eu só preciso me preparar direitinho, né?
— Uhum, direitinho… — agora era ele quem sorria como se tivesse ganhado o mundo inteirinho.
Empinou mais, amando a atenção que estava recebendo onde nunca havia sido estimulada antes. Segurou o rostinho de Haaland, olhando no fundo dos olhos dele:
Mingi is very good at pretending he’s normal about the way you flirt with clients for tips, about the way you touch other people for a living. The problem starts when he realizes you might not belong to him at all, and suddenly he’s pinned against the wall confessing feelings far too big to keep inside anymore.
Pairing: sub!Mingi x TattooArtistFem!Reader
Tropes: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pinning, Confession under pressure, Soft masculinity, “He’s so big but so soft for her”.
Genre: Smut, Fluff, Romance.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, sub!mingi, sexual tension, sexual activity in a semi-public workspace, praise kink, dry humping, male orgasm, possessive thoughts, touch-starved behaviour, jealousy, mild choking, explicit language, alcohol, emotional dependency but make it hot
Word Count: 7.7k
a/n: this fic wouldn’t exist without a conversation with @darjeelinglemontea. it was just one thing she said, but it stuck with me and turned into this. thank you for that, i really hope you like where it ended up <3 also sorry for disappearing. i’m deep in a project and barely find time to write, but i needed to get this out anyway before vanishing again for a bit longer haha
masterlist
Your studio hums softly around you. Low music. Warm light. The familiar buzz of the tattoo machine steady in your hand like a second heartbeat.
Outside, the street beyond the front windows is already dark, neon signs reflecting faintly against the glass. Your last appointment of the night stretched later than planned, the rest of the building long since quiet.
The smell of antiseptic and ink clings to the air, clean but intimate in a way most places never are. People let you touch them here. Let you get close enough to hear the change in their breathing, to feel tension beneath their skin before they even notice it themselves.
You’ve always liked that part.
“Breathe out,” you murmur.
Your client obeys immediately.
He’s stretched beneath the lamp, shirt tossed somewhere behind him, skin warm under your hand where you steady him by the waist. The tattoo curves along his ribs in clean black lines, and you lean closer to finish a careful stroke, thumb pressing lightly into his side to keep him still.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
“There,” you say softly. “Relax.”
“You say that every five minutes.”
“And somehow you still trust me.”
He laughs under his breath, eyes dragging down to your mouth for a second too long. “Hard not to.”
You ignore that easily. You’ve heard versions of it a thousand times before. You wipe excess ink from his ribs.
His gaze flicks down to your hands again. “You always this nice to clients?”
“You’re paying me.”
“Could charge extra. I’d still come back.”
The bell above the studio door jingles softly. You don’t look up immediately. You know who walked in anyway. The heavy steps. The careless confidence of someone who’s been here enough times to stop asking permission for anything. The fridge opening.
“Beer tax,” Mingi calls from the back.
Your mouth curves before you can stop it.
“Get your own studio.”
“You’d miss me.”
You don’t answer. Because you would. Terribly.
Instead you lean closer to inspect the tattoo, fingers spreading against your client’s stomach as you stretch the skin carefully beneath the needle.
From behind you, the couch creaks, and you finally glance back at him.
Big hoodie. Work boots still on. Slouched deep into the couch cushions like he lives there. Watching you over the rim of the bottle with that lazy heavy-lidded stare that always does something unfortunate to your nervous system.
He comes here almost every night after work.
At first it had been accidental. Quick stops before heading home. Then takeout between appointments. Then sitting with you while you cleaned your station at midnight. Then coffee appearing beside your machine before you could ask for it.
Somewhere along the way, your studio started feeling wrong without him in it. Somewhere along the way, you started falling in love with him. Quietly. Stupidly.
Because Mingi is like this with everyone. Warm. Affectionate. Easy with touch. The kind of person who leans into you when he laughs and throws an arm around your shoulders without thinking. The kind of person who makes you feel chosen even when you probably aren’t.
So you buried it under routine and late-night beers and the hoodies he keeps leaving behind in your studio chair. Under the certainty that none of this would ever become more.
Your client shifts slightly beneath your hand. “You know,” he says, “if I met you somewhere else, I’d think you were flirting with me.”
You drag the needle into a clean line. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“I’m serious.” His smile turns crooked. “Soft voice. Hand on my waist. Eye contact. It’s confusing.”
“You came to a tattoo appointment.”
“Yeah, but you’re making it hard to stay professional.”
Mingi sets his beer down a little too hard against the table. You glance back automatically. He’s staring at the floor now, jaw tight for half a second before he notices you looking.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing.”
Your client looks between both of you once, then keeps talking. Unbothered. As if Mingi isn’t watching his every word.
“No, but seriously,” he says, looking at you again. “You’ve got dangerous energy.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yeah. Like you flirt for fun and ruin lives accidentally.”
You laugh softly through your nose.
But Mingi doesn’t. He should. He could. He usually does.
Instead his eyes keep lifting every time your hand settles against the client’s ribs. He goes quiet whenever the client calls you sweet. He keeps trying to insert himself into the conversation and failing to catch your attention the same way the client does.
And underneath all of it, something uncomfortable starts pulling tighter in his chest. Because the client gets your teasing. Your soft voice. Your hands all over him. And Mingi suddenly can’t stop wondering if that’s just who you are with everybody.
The rest of the session passes normally. Mostly. Your client keeps trying.
“You gonna miss me when I’m gone?”
You smooth the wrap carefully against his ribs. “I’ll think about you sometimes.”
“Damn. Sometimes?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
He laughs again, completely charmed by you in the way men always are.
And every time you touch him, Mingi notices. Not angry. Not even resentful. Just painfully aware. Like hearing your favorite song playing from somebody else’s car.
By the time the tattoo’s paid for, the studio feels strangely dense. Your client grabs his jacket, already backing toward the door.
“Same time next week?”
“We’ll see if you survive this one first.”
“I survived because you were gentle.”
Something shifts in Mingi’s jaw. The client notices immediately. A grin spreads slowly across his face.
“Tell your boyfriend thanks for the emotional support.”
The door closes before either of you can answer. Silence spills into the studio after him. The buzzing needle’s gone now. The music suddenly sounds louder. Slower.
From the corner of your eye, you catch Mingi pushing himself off the couch. He flips the sign on the front door to CLOSED before sliding the lock into place with a quiet click. Then he walks toward you.
You start cleaning your station, peeling off gloves and reaching for disinfectant.
Usually Mingi waits for you to drift back toward him naturally. Tonight he comes to you instead. You feel him before he speaks. Close enough that your body notices immediately.
“So,” you say lightly, wiping down the tattoo bed, “my boyfriend, huh?”
Mingi nearly chokes on his beer. You glance over just in time to catch the way his eyes widen above the bottle.
“He was joking,” he says too fast.
“You seem stressed for someone who’s definitely not my boyfriend.”
“I’m not stressed.”
You hum like you totally believe him.
Mingi reaches past you for the paper towels at the exact same moment you turn. His chest brushes your shoulder. Tiny contact. Barely anything. Still, his hand lands automatically at your waist to steady you.
Your stomach flips immediately.
Neither of you moves. Then his thumb shifts once against your side before he pulls away like he only just realized where his hand is.
“You were very attentive with him,” he says casually.
You glance sideways at him.
“It’s my job.”
“Hm.”
Not convinced.
He leans against the edge of the bed while you keep cleaning, entirely too close for someone pretending to be normal right now. His knee knocks yours once.
“You know,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about getting another tattoo.”
You snort softly. “You complain through every appointment.”
The answer slips out so easily you almost miss it. Almost.
Your mouth curls before you can stop it. That seems to make him realize he said it out loud, because he looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck while you reach for the petroleum jelly beside him.
His hand catches your wrist first. Lightly. You freeze.
“There,” he murmurs, thumb brushing across the inside of your wrist. “Ink.”
Your breath catches a little stupidly.
Mingi has always touched you easily. Like affection is something that lives in his hands naturally. This doesn’t feel careless. This feels slow. Aware.
His thumb drags once more before he lets go. Neither of you pulls away right away.
“That guy was flirting with you.”
You tilt your head. “You think?”
Mingi gives you a flat look.
“He literally asked for your number.”
“And?”
“And you flirt back.”
You blink. “I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
That lands heavier than it should. Like he’s been holding onto it longer than just tonight. You turn fully toward him, arms folding loosely.
“Oh my god,” you say slowly. “You’re jealous.”
“No.”
Immediate. Too immediate.
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You looked ready to bite through drywall because he called me dangerous.”
“That’s because he sounded ridiculous.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself. Mingi’s eyes narrow slightly.
“There,” he says immediately. “That.”
“What?”
“That. You do that with everybody.”
“Do what?”
“That—” He gestures vaguely at you. “That thing.”
You stare at him for two full seconds. Then burst out laughing. Mingi groans instantly, dragging both hands down his face.
“Forget I said anything.”
“No, no,” you say, stepping closer. “I want details. What thing?”
“I hate you.”
“That’s not very boyfriend of you.”
His head snaps up so fast it almost makes you grin.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Maybe you are. Because suddenly everything from tonight rearranges itself perfectly in your head. The hovering. The watching. The way he kept interrupting. The way his eyes tracked your hands every time you touched the client.
And now this.
Song Mingi, who walks through life like nothing rattles him, suddenly can’t even look at you properly.
You should let him recover. You don’t. Instead, you step closer. Slow enough that he notices. Close enough that his attention snaps back to you immediately.
Now there’s barely space left between you.
Your hand lifts automatically toward the silver chain half-hidden beneath the collar of his hoodie, the pendant twisted awkwardly into the fabric. You hook two fingers under it, easing it free, then straighten it against his chest. A small gesture. Almost domestic.
Your knuckles brush warm skin where the chain slips under his shirt.
Mingi freezes. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to feel it.
“You’re touchy today,” he says softly.
“You started it.”
“Did I?”
“Mhm.”
Your fingers trail once along the chain before falling away. He watches every second of it. Like your hands are speaking a language he’s trying desperately to translate before it disappears.
A reluctant smile threatens at the corner of his mouth again, weaker now. Distracted by the fact you’re still standing too close.
“How many clients leave here thinking you’re into them?”
You blink once. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious.” His jaw shifts faintly. “You look at people like that and then act surprised when they start falling in love with you.”
The sentence lands hard enough to knock the air slightly out of your lungs. Because he says it like an accusation. But underneath it, there’s something rawer. Softer. Something dangerously close to confession.
Your mouth twitches despite yourself. “It gets me better tips.”
“Right.” He glances away briefly. “Cool.” Then, quieter, “you flirt with me for free.”
Mingi’s eyes widen slightly like he physically felt the words leave his mouth and wants to grab them out of the air.
You blink once. Then tilt your head.
“…Do I?”
His ears turn red instantly. Actually red. And that’s new enough to make warmth bloom low in your stomach.
“I just mean,” he says quickly, taking half a step back, “you’re naturally like that. With everyone.”
“With everyone?”
“Yeah.”
You follow him when he steps back. Not enough to scare him. Just enough to make him realize you noticed.
“And you hate it?”
“No.” Too fast again. “I mean. Not hate. I just don’t like watching people flirt with you.”
The words slide warm and heavy into the room. Your heartbeat stumbles.
“Oh,” you say softly.
Mingi laughs once, humorless around the edges. “Yeah. Oh.”
Another step back from him. Another forward from you. The rhythm becomes almost absurd. Mingi retreating inch by inch while you slowly invade every space he gives up. Like he’s trying to survive this conversation and you’re trying to see how long until he breaks.
“I just think,” he says carefully, “most people don’t pay attention properly.”
“And you do.”
He hesitates. Then nods once. Small. Honest.
God.
The air suddenly feels too thick in your lungs.
“I know when you’re tired before you admit it,” he says quietly. “I know you pretend to hate sweet drinks but steal mine every time. I know you stop talking when something’s actually wrong.” His voice softens. “I know you hum when you tattoo.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
Mingi keeps talking now like he can’t stop once he’s started.
“I know which clients piss you off before they even sit down. I know you clean your station twice when you’re stressed. I know you act meaner when you’re embarrassed.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself.
“And I know,” he says, finally looking at you again, “that you flirt with people when you want them comfortable. But it doesn’t feel the same when you do it to me.”
The room goes quiet. Not empty. Heavy. Your heart is beating so hard now it almost feels embarrassing.
“Mingi…”
He keeps backing up as he talks. You keep moving forward. Until eventually his back brushes the wall near the hallway leading to the back room. Trapped. His breath catches slightly.
He tries to shift forward again on instinct. He can’t. Because you’re still there. Not crowding. Just close enough that the space he needs is gone. He’s actually stuck. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Just physically there, pinned between the wall and you.
His breath turns shallow.
And suddenly you realize he’s actually nervous. Not teasing nervous. Not playful nervous. Real nervous. Mingi, who flirts with strangers like breathing and walks through every room like he belongs there, is looking at you like one wrong sentence might crack him open completely.
The realization sends warmth blooming painfully through your chest.
“I think about you too much,” he blurts suddenly.
The words hang there between you. Honest. Unpolished. Mingi winces immediately after saying them like he regrets how revealing they sound. But he keeps going anyway.
“Like… an embarrassing amount, actually.” His eyes flick away again. “At work. On my way home. I see things and think you’d laugh at them. Or hate them. Or make fun of them for being ugly.”
Your lips twitch helplessly.
“And then you flirt with random guys in front of me and suddenly I’m sitting on your couch acting like a fucking psycho because some dude called your hands magic.”
The laugh that escapes you is soft. Warm. Fond enough to make his face flush deeper.
“I’m serious,” he mutters weakly.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
That lands differently. The air shifts with it. Mingi swallows hard, debating whether to say the next thought out loud.
“I…” His voice catches briefly. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary. Like you’re enjoying this more than you should.
“You said that out loud,” you murmur.
Mingi groans again, covering his face briefly. “I know.”
The words leave him too easily. You see the exact moment he realizes that. Mingi drops his hands from his face slowly, looking at you now with this exhausted kind of honesty that almost hurts to look at.
“And the worst part,” he says more quietly, “is that I don’t even think it’s just a crush anymore.”
Something deep in your chest folds in on itself. Because his voice changes in that sentence. Softer. Heavier. Deeper. Like he didn’t mean to admit that part out loud.
“I think…” He exhales shakily, eyes finally lifting fully to yours. “I think somewhere along the way you became the first person I look for everywhere.”
The room goes completely still. No music. No neon outside. No buzzing lights overhead. Just him, and the way he’s looking at you like he’s just handed you something fragile with both hands and doesn’t know what you’re going to do with it.
You should say something. You should probably breathe. Instead, you step closer. Slow enough that he notices immediately.
His eyes widen slightly. A flicker of confusion first. Then something sharper, like he’s just realized the distance is disappearing.
Your hand catches lightly in the strings of his hoodie, fingers curling there as you guide him back into the wall behind him. Not rough. Just certain.
The soft thud of it stops his breath for half a second. His shoulders hit first. Then stillness.
Mingi blinks up at you, wide-eyed now. Caught off guard in a way that makes him look younger, softer. Like his brain is a beat behind his body catching up to the fact that he’s not moving anymore.
Trapped, but gently so.
The realization flashes across his face in real time:
Oh.
Your hand stays at his chest, twisting the soft fabric once around your fingers. And for the first time since he walked into your studio tonight, Mingi has absolutely nothing left to hide behind.
No jokes. No easy grin. Just wide dark eyes and a pulse hammering visibly in his throat beneath your touch.
He stares at you like you’ve just pulled the floor out from under him.
“…You have to stop looking at me like that.”
His voice barely survives the sentence. Low. Rough around the edges. Like every nerve in his body is pulled too tight beneath your hands.
You tilt your head slightly, still twisting the drawstring between your fingers.
“Like what?”
Mingi shuts his eyes for one dangerous second. Like he physically can’t withstand this much of you at once. When he opens them again, there’s only helpless honesty bleeding through every crack.
“You know,” he says quietly.
“Explain it to me.”
A shaky breath leaves him.
“It’s just…” His eyes flick helplessly between yours. “You keep looking at me like you already know every stupid thing I’m trying to say before I say it.”
Your pulse stumbles.
“And it’s making me insane because I had this whole speech in my head on the drive here and now you’re standing this close and I can’t remember any of it anymore.”
A laugh threatens at the corner of your mouth.
“Mingi—”
“No, wait.” He shakes his head quickly, words starting to tumble out faster now. “I’m serious. I was gonna do this properly. I had actual thoughts. Like coherent ones.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” His ears are pink now. “And now all I can think about is your mouth.”
That almost breaks you immediately. Mingi realizes what he just admitted and groans softly, the back of his head nearly knocking against the wall behind him.
“See? This is exactly what I mean.”
“You’re doing great.”
“I’m literally not.”
You smile despite the violent rhythm of your heartbeat. Because this is what you’ve wanted for so long. Not perfection. Not some polished confession. Just him. Big hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Voice falling apart mid-sentence. Looking at you like wanting you has become unbearable to carry alone.
His eyes snap back to yours instantly. And that does it.
Because Mingi has always looked enormous next to you. Broad shoulders. Height that swallows space when he walks into a room. But right now? Right now he’s melting under your fingertips. And the realization floods through you like heat.
You step even closer. Until his breath catches against your mouth. Until the wall is the only thing keeping him upright.
“I just…” His voice catches again. “I really like you.”
The sentence lands between you soft and devastating. And suddenly kissing him feels less like a decision and more like instinct. So you do. Fast. Sudden. Like finally giving in to gravity after fighting it for months.
Mingi freezes instantly. A sharp inhale catches hard in his chest the second your lips touch his. For half a heartbeat he doesn’t move at all. Like his brain genuinely stopped working. Then his hands hit your waist. Hard. Not rough. Desperate.
A wrecked sound tears out of him somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as he melts forward into you all at once, like the kiss physically knocked the strength out of his body.
You kiss him harder immediately. Months of swallowed wanting snapping loose at once.
Mingi tries to follow too fast, too overwhelmed already, and his head knocks lightly against the wall behind him with a soft curse breathed straight into your mouth.
“Fuck,” he whispers against your lips.
You laugh softly into the kiss.
“You talk too much.”
“I was trying to…”
Another kiss cuts him off.
“I know.”
Mingi makes that sound again. That helpless little exhale that seems to punch straight through your ribs.
His hands finally settle at your hips, huge and shaky and warm through your clothes. Not controlling. Just holding on. Like he’s afraid this might disappear if he loosens his grip.
You pull back barely enough to look at him. His lips are flushed already, swollen and wet from your mouth. Eyes blown wide and dazed beneath messy dark hair.
He looks ruined. By a kiss.
The realization sends another pulse of heat straight through you.
“Mingi,” you whisper.
He visibly swallows. You brush your thumb against his jaw and he leans into it immediately without thinking. That almost undoes you.
“You don’t get it,” he says suddenly, breath uneven.
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t when you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you want to eat me alive.”
You smile slightly. “Maybe I do.”
His entire body reacts. A shiver runs through him so obvious you feel it beneath your palms.
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
Mingi’s forehead drops briefly against yours with a quiet groan, like even hearing you laugh right now is too much for him.
“You make everything worse,” he blurts suddenly.
You blink once. “Excuse me?”
“I mean good worse,” he says quickly. “Jesus Christ.”
His forehead bumps yours again, embarrassed.
“I’ll be fine all day. Totally normal. And then you smile at me once and suddenly I can’t think straight for hours.”
Your expression softens before you can stop it. Mingi notices immediately. You can see the exact second he realizes he said too much. But instead of retreating this time, he exhales shakily and lets his forehead stay pressed to yours.
“It’s not just this,” he says quietly. “It’s never just this with you.”
Your fingers loosen against his hoodie. The teasing drains out of you slowly, replaced by something warmer. Deeper. Aching.
“Then what is it?” you whisper.
Mingi’s eyes close. And for a moment he just breathes against you. Like he’s spent months holding this inside his chest and doesn’t know how to survive finally letting it out.
Then, barely above a murmur:
“It’s you.” Your heart stumbles violently. “It’s always been you.”
That one nearly steals your breath. You kiss him again before he can recover from saying it. Slower this time. Intentional. And he melts properly. No hesitation left now.
Mingi makes this quiet, wrecked sound into your mouth like the kiss physically knocks the air out of him. His hands tighten at your waist for a second before one of them slides higher, tentative at first. Like he’s not fully sure he’s allowed.
Your breath catches when his fingertips slip beneath the hem of your shirt at the small of your back. Warm skin against warm skin.
Mingi shudders immediately at the contact. You feel it happen under your hands.
The kiss breaks for half a second on his end, like his brain short-circuits from touching you there, but then he’s kissing you again instantly. Hungrier now. Still soft, still careful, but with this desperate edge underneath it that makes your pulse stumble hard.
His hand spreads slowly against your lower back beneath your shirt. Huge. Shaky. His fingertips drag upward inch by inch along your spine like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone.
The sensation sends heat straight through your chest.
“Mingi,” you breathe against his mouth.
That sound almost ruins him. A helpless exhale leaves him as his forehead bumps yours briefly before he kisses you again, deeper this time. Like hearing his name in your voice just dissolved whatever restraint he had left.
He keeps touching you carefully. That’s the dangerous part. Not greedy. Not rough. Just unbearably attentive. His fingertips trace lightly along your spine again and your entire body reacts before you can stop it. You feel him notice immediately in the way his breath stutters into the kiss.
“Oh my god,” he whispers against your lips, sounding dazed. “You felt that.”
You hate how much your stomach flips at the shaky little note of wonder in his voice.
“Keep kissing me,” you murmur.
He obeys instantly. Like reflex. Like he’d do anything you asked right now.
Every sound you make wrecks him further. You can feel it happening in real time.
The little breathless noises he keeps losing into your mouth. The way his hand trembles slightly against your back every time you kiss him deeper. Every time you pull back half an inch, Mingi follows immediately like instinct. Like distance physically hurts now that he’s had you this close.
Your hands slide fully into his hair now, tugging lightly at the roots.
A shaky sound breaks out of him immediately. You feel it against your tongue.
“Fuck,” he whispers again, ruined already.
One of his hands stays spread beneath your shirt, warm against the center of your back. The other slides up suddenly, almost clumsy with urgency, until his fingers bury into the hair at the back of your head.
Then he kisses you deeper. Not confident this time. Needy. Like he can’t get close enough anymore.
Your breath catches softly against his mouth. One of your hands stays tangled in his hair while the other drifts slowly down his arm, fingertips tracing the hard curve of his bicep beneath his hoodie sleeve before sliding higher again. Over his shoulder. Around the back of his neck. Up along his jaw.
Mingi visibly shivers when your thumb brushes beneath his ear. You feel his hand flex hard against your spine beneath your shirt. Like he doesn’t know what to do with how badly he wants to touch you.
You kiss the corner of his mouth. His jaw. The warm skin beneath his ear.
Mingi’s head tips back against the wall automatically, exposing more of his throat with a helpless inhale that nearly destroys your composure entirely.
“There you are,” you murmur softly against his skin.
A wrecked sound leaves him immediately. Not even words anymore.
“You have any idea,” you breathe between kisses, “how hard this has been for me?”
Mingi goes still for half a second.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His lips are parted now. Eyes dark and blown wide beneath messy hair. Completely wrecked.
“I mean it.” Your forehead presses against his again. “You take care of me without even thinking about it. You show up every single time. You make every room feel safer just by walking into it.”
His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking.
“And you have been driving me insane for months,” you confess softly. “So don’t stand here acting shocked because I finally kissed you.”
A wrecked laugh breaks out of him, immediately swallowed by another desperate kiss.
Your mouths keep finding each other between breaths, between half-finished sentences, between tiny overwhelmed sounds neither of you can hide anymore.
Everything feels overheated and too close and slightly off balance.
Then suddenly his kiss falters. Not because he pulls away. Because his body gives out first. A rough breath punches out of him against your mouth as his knees buckle unexpectedly beneath him.
“Mingi—”
Your hands grab for him immediately, trying to steady him, but he’s already sliding down the wall in one overwhelmed motion, dragging you with him instinctively. One hand catches hard at your waist while the other slips from your hair, fumbling clumsily for balance that clearly no longer exists.
“Wait, wait—”
A helpless laugh breaks out of him mid-collapse.
Your knees hit the hardwood on either side of his thighs as he lands heavily against the wall with a stunned exhale. Boots scraping awkwardly against the floorboards. Long limbs everywhere at once. Completely uncoordinated now.
For one messy second, neither of you knows where to put your bodies.
Then stillness.
Mingi’s chest heaves beneath you. Your brows knit immediately. Concern flashes through you first.
“Min?”
He shakes his head once quickly. Not hurt. Just catastrophically overwhelmed.
You can see it everywhere. The violent flush spread down his throat. The dazed look in his eyes. The way his hand is still under your shirt like he forgot it was there entirely.
And something about it feels almost surreal. Song Mingi. All sharp height and broad shoulders and effortless confidence. Reduced to this because you kissed him.
“…Did your legs just give out?”
“No,” he says immediately.
“They literally folded.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re on the floor.”
“So are you.”
The comeback would land better if he wasn’t staring up at you like he’s moments away from short-circuiting completely.
And then you feel it. The thick, hard press of him beneath the dark denim where you landed directly on his lap. Heavy and unmistakable, pressing right up between your legs through your clothes. Fuck. He feels as big as he carries himself, maybe bigger.
Your breath catches slightly. Mingi notices instantly. A mortified sound leaves him.
“Don’t start,” he says quickly.
You look back up slowly. “…Start what?”
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you realize things.”
Your mouth twitches immediately. His throat bobs hard.
You feel his fingers flex under your shirt instinctively before his nails drag lightly down your back in one slow scrape that makes your entire body jolt.
Fuck.
Mingi notices that too. His eyes darken immediately.
“I’m trying so hard to be normal right now,” he whispers.
The honesty of it nearly knocks the air out of you. Because he sounds wrecked. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just overwhelmed down to the bone. Still holding onto you like letting go would physically kill him.
Your eyes flick briefly to the way his hands are gripping you now. One spread hot against your spine beneath your shirt. The other tight on your waist. Strong enough to leave bruises. Shaking anyway.
Something hot curls low in your stomach at the sight. You can feel the strength coiled in him, the way he could easily lift you, pin you, take control if he wanted to. But he doesn't. He just looks up at you like he’s dying from how much he wants you.
When your hips shift experimentally against his, his reaction is immediate. A broken sound tears out of his throat as his head falls back toward the wall.
Your hand catches it before it can hit too hard, fingers tightening at the base of his neck as you cushion the impact instinctively.
Mingi melts instantly beneath your touch. His eyes squeeze shut for one second as your fingers tighten slightly in his hair. His grip spasms hard against your waist.
You bite your lip, suppressing your own sounds at the way he reacts so fast, so visibly, like every nerve in his body is wired directly into your hands.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, almost fascinated now. “I broke you.”
"Shut up," he breathes instantly, voice cracking.
Your laugh brushes warm against his mouth. Mingi’s eyes open again immediately, locking onto you like he’s afraid to miss a second of this.
And suddenly your concern dissolves into something hotter. Because he looks huge beneath you. Broad chest rising hard beneath his hoodie. Big hands gripping your body like he can’t stop himself. Thick thighs spread under yours. But none of that changes the fact he’s completely unraveling for you right now.
You tug his hair again, sharper this time. A wrecked sound punches out of him immediately.
“There he is,” you murmur softly. “My good boy.”
“Please don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I already can’t think.”
His fingers scratch lightly down your spine again, rougher now, and the sensation shoots heat straight through your stomach. You feel him twitch between your legs, the pressure catching your clit perfectly even through denim, and you have to swallow your own moan down before it escapes.
You grin instead. Then you kiss him again.
And whatever control he had left finally snaps. His hand fists suddenly in your hair while he tilts your head enough to deepen the kiss properly. Sloppier. Hungrier. He kisses you like he can’t get enough oxygen from anywhere else.
You drag your mouth down his jaw, over his throat, and Mingi immediately tips his head back for you again with a helpless sound, exposing more skin like instinct.
His head knocks toward the wall once more and you catch him again automatically, palm sliding behind his head while your other hand stays around his shoulders.
“There,” you murmur against his throat. “Careful.”
That almost makes him whine.
Your teeth scrape lightly over his pulse. Mingi’s hips jerk up involuntarily beneath you.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, hands tightening hard enough to drag you fully against him. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
He sounds terrified.
Your forehead brushes his gently, breath mingling between you while his entire body trembles underneath yours.
You kiss him again, slower now, while your hips move in tiny experimental rolls against his. Barely anything. Just enough friction to make his breathing fall apart completely.
He’s concentrating so hard you can see it in his face. Jaw clenched. Brows pinched slightly. Trying desperately not to cum on the spot from just this. He tries to slow you once, but he fails instantly when you press closer and another helpless, broken moan slips out of him into your mouth.
Then he’s moving too, dragging desperate open-mouthed kisses down your neck like he doesn’t know where to put all this wanting anymore.
His hands slide lower.
One stays beneath your shirt, fingers tracing your spine again and again like he’s addicted to the feeling of your skin.
The other grips your ass hard, dragging you tighter against him while his mouth presses sloppy kisses against your throat.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers against your skin, voice wrecked beyond repair. "So fucking pretty, baby, look at you—"
You’ve never seen him like this before. Never seen him stop trying to perform strength. And maybe that’s why this feels so intimate it almost scares you. Because he’s letting you see every vulnerable part without fighting to hide them anymore.
“Mingi,” you murmur softly.
He looks at you immediately.
“You okay?”
A quick nod. Then, quieter, “don’t stop.”
Your thumb smooths gently across his cheek.
“I won’t.”
And that’s what finally breaks him open. You see it happen in real time. The exact second the last bit of distance leaves his face. The exact second he realizes this isn’t temporary. That you’re not going to pull away from him tomorrow and pretend none of this happened.
His forehead drops against your shoulder with a shaky exhale.
Then he kisses you again. Different this time. Slower. Still hungry, but softer around the edges, like he can’t decide whether to devour you or memorize you.
His hands roam more boldly now, your back, your waist, your hips, your ass, gripping like he keeps remembering he’s allowed to touch you like this.
Your knees ache against the hardwood, but you barely notice once he plants his boots against the floor and pulls you flush against him with one helpless pull of his hips.
The breath leaves both of you at once.
Suddenly there’s nowhere your body ends without running into his. Broad chest. Heavy thighs. Strong arms boxing you in, without feeling threatening for even a second.
That’s the thing that gets you. How big he is and how careful he still is with you anyway.
Your hand slides to his throat experimentally, fingers loose against his pulse. Mingi's eyes go dark instantly, pupils blown wide. He swallows against your palm. Breath catching hard enough you feel it against your mouth.
"Yeah?" you whisper.
He nods, fast and desperate. "Yes. Please."
The smallest increase in pressure tears a wrecked sound out of him, his head falling back against the wall. The sound goes straight between your legs.
After that, everything loses rhythm. Kisses turning sloppy. Breathing uneven. His hands gripping harder whenever you get too close.
His hips are thrusting up, rolling, seeking more friction, and you feel yourself getting wet just from the desperation in his movements. He's so hard it must hurt, straining against the denim, and when you grind down against him, he cries out, hands gripping your ass to try to make you move faster.
He realizes what he's doing halfway through and stills himself with visible effort, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to regain control.
“Wait,” he breathes roughly. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”
The honesty of it sends heat curling low in your stomach.
And you're barely doing anything, but the fact that he's this close from almost nothing makes you want to feel him fall apart because he wants you that much.
You kiss him again, deep and filthy, and keep your movements light. Just small, teasing rolls of your hips.
"So pretty," he whines, "baby, you're so—fuck. Seriously. You're so beautiful, so hot, I can't—I can’t even look at you properly right now."
“You’re so cute,” you breathe against his mouth.
Your fingers slide softly through his hair again, gentler this time, scratching lightly at his scalp while his eyes flutter half-shut.
“That’s my pretty boy,” you whisper softly. “Trying so hard to hold it together.”
His face flushes deeper immediately.
“You’re doing so good for me, Min.”
That one finally ruins him.
His hips twitch up again, needy and involuntary, and you feel the damp heat spreading at the front of his jeans where he’s already leaking from almost nothing. The realization barely has time to settle before his whole body jolts beneath you.
A strangled grunt punches out of him.
His grip clamps hard around you so suddenly it knocks your balance backward. You catch yourself instinctively, palm slapping against the wall beside his head before either of you can crack into it.
Mingi goes tense all at once, hips stuttering up into yours before he buries his face instantly into your neck with a sharp gasp, biting down hard enough to muffle the wrecked sound that follows.
And then he’s coming. Fast. Sudden. Hard enough his whole body shudders under you.
For the first time all night, he stops holding himself back. His arms lock tight around you as he pushes himself off the wall just enough to drag you with him, forcing you to tilt back slightly in his grip while he shakes through it. Like he physically needs you closer to survive it.
Your arms loop around his neck automatically to steady both of you, one hand sliding into his hair, fingers spreading against the back of his head to keep him tucked against your throat while he rides it out.
You feel every pulse through the denim between you. The hot spread of wetness. The helpless way his body betrayed him from almost nothing except your mouth, your weight against him, your hand at his throat.
His hips jerk once more before he folds inward completely, trembling against your neck, breathing ragged through clenched teeth while he tries desperately to hide how easily he came.
Then nothing. No movement. No sound except his uneven breathing against your skin.
You blink once, heat rushing straight through you at what just happened. At how little it took. At how desperately his body gave in the second you told him what he wanted to hear.
“Mingi.”
A horrified groan muffles straight into your neck.
You bite back a laugh instantly. Not mean. Never mean. Just unbearably fond. Because this man. This man who walked in here trying to act normal about being in love with you is now actively attempting to fuse himself into your shoulder to avoid eye contact.
You shift slightly, trying to look at him. He follows immediately, burying himself deeper against your neck.
“Mingi,” you repeat, softer now, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Hey.”
A helpless smile spreads across your face as you press a kiss against his temple. He shudders under it instantly.
“Don’t look at me.”
That actually makes you laugh. Quiet and warm against his skin.
You coax his face back enough to look at him properly and nearly lose your mind all over again. Pink cheeks. Wet swollen lips. Eyes glassy and unfocused beneath messy hair. Completely wrecked.
And beneath you, you can still feel him, hot and sticky and probably uncomfortable as hell in his jeans, but making no move to fix it because that would mean acknowledging it.
“Shit,” he says immediately, mortified. “I’m sorry.”
That catches you off guard enough your expression softens instantly. Because he sounds embarrassed, yeah, but underneath it there’s sincerity too. Like he’s genuinely worried he ruined something.
“I was trying really hard not to cum,” he blurts, words tumbling out faster now that they’ve started. “I was trying to hold it together and then you kept kissing me and calling me pretty and I just—”
He cuts himself off with another groan, dragging a hand over his burning face.
“Min.” You wait until his eyes finally flick back to yours. “Why are you apologizing?”
His brows pull together slightly.
“…Because I came in my jeans like a teenager?”
You laugh softly. “And?”
“And we were literally just making out.”
You grin despite yourself, pulse still throbbing low and hot between your legs. Because honestly? The more you think about it, the more turned on you get.
Your hips shift unconsciously against him and Mingi sucks in a sharp breath immediately, eyes squeezing shut.
“Shit, sorry,” you murmur, fascinated. “Still sensitive?”
“Please have mercy on me.”
The shaky way he says it sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You lean in until your noses brush.
“You know this was hot, right?”
“That was hot to you? You’re not making fun of me?” he asks carefully.
Your heart actually aches a little.
“Mingi.” You brush your thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m trying very hard not to climb you again right now.”
“Oh my god.”
You kiss him again before he can get more embarrassed. Just a small one. Quick. Soft.
Mingi exhales into your mouth immediately, shoulders dropping another inch. There’s something dangerously addictive about it. Like the second you kissed him, his body decided hiding anything from you was impossible.
Your gaze drops again before you can stop it. Right between his legs. And right on cue, he shifts under you again and you feel it. Hard again. Twitching faintly beneath the damp denim. Still reacting to every little thing you do.
You pull back barely enough to look at him. “You’re kidding. You’re hard again?”
Mingi groans immediately. “Don’t say it out loud.”
Your laugh spills warm against his skin. He shivers hard at the sound. His hips shift unconsciously like he’s trying to relieve pressure and instantly regrets it when the denim drags against him.
Mingi must see something change in your face, because his breathing catches again immediately.
“Can you stop looking at me like you’re about to climb inside my ribcage?” he whispers.
You grin. “No.”
Mingi groans. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“…No. I really don’t.”
You laugh again and finally climb off his lap. Your knees ache faintly when you stand, but the sight in front of you almost takes you back out again.
Mingi looks ruined. Hoodie twisted crooked from your hands. Lips bitten red. Dark stain obvious across his jeans now no matter how he tries to angle himself away from it.
You bite your lip softly and hold your hand out toward him.
“C’mon.”
He blinks up at you. “…Where?”
Your smirk sharpens just slightly.
“You’re a mess,” you say, pointedly glancing at his lap before meeting his eyes again.
His face goes red all over again.
“Besides…” Your voice softens. “I don’t think I’m done with you yet.”
Mingi goes completely still. Then his fingers tighten around yours hard enough to feel it.
“Cool,” he says faintly. “Awesome. Great. Yeah,” he says quietly, standing now, towering close enough to steal the air from your lungs again. “You have no idea what you just started.”
Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard at the look on his face now.
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
You open your mouth to answer, but Mingi kisses you first. Slow enough to distract you completely. Which is exactly why you don’t notice him crouching until the floor disappears beneath you.
“Wait, wha—”
A squeak bursts out of you as Mingi hooks an arm behind your legs and lifts you clean over his shoulder in one smooth motion.
“Mingi!”
He laughs against your startled noise as he playfully smacks your thigh before he starts walking toward the bathroom like carrying you around like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Oh, now you’re shy?” he teases.
Heat rushes straight to your face. “Put me down.”
“No.”
He punctuates it with another slap against your ass that makes you gasp so loudly he nearly folds over laughing himself.
“You were talking real brave five minutes ago.”
You bury your burning face against the back of his hoodie while his laugh rumbles warm through your legs.
“You let me recover. Rookie mistake,” he says, opening the bathroom door. “You’re gonna regret giving me confidence.”
erling is a very competitive guy, which means he hates it when he loses to someone else. which leads to why he’s currently fuming at the sight of you, his ex-girlfriend, enjoying the night with his new teammates. which leads to why he can’t wait to show you that you belong to him.
erling haaland x you
tw: dirty, dirty sex (hate sex; rough handling; bit of degrading kink; mentions of sex tape/taping kink)
wc: 2.1k
prompts: “protective erling” + “rough sex tape”
note: a highly coveted request coming out from the vault as the next post for smut week! sorry i fell asleep last night lolol & this is based on two asks here! pls bear in mind this is 18+ content therefore minors DNI! but as usual, I happen to write at dawn so it’s not beta-read yet.
“you need to relax, big guy.”
oh, if only he could… jack didn’t know how much erling had been wanting—no, needing—to relax throughout the party his club was throwing for their latest success.
but how could he relax when you showed up like a goddess sent by zeus to seduce every single human who possessed desire in this earthly realm? who invited you?
as far as erling’s knowledge goes, you didn’t know anyone in Manchester. it was probably one of the reasons why he picked the sky blue jersey instead of other offers when he decided to move on from his old life in Dortmund. when he decided to move on from you.
when he decided to forget the fact you broke his fragile heart big time.
but seeing you again, in flesh and blood this time, after almost a year, enticed all these forbidden feelings he was supposed to supress. he wasn’t supposed to feel the longing, he wasn’t supposed to miss you, he wasn’t supposed to want you again.
it should be forbidden too, the sight of your wearing a little black dress like that. so little that erling was sure everyone could’ve seen your panties if you were bent over a desk. thinking about the possibility really boiled the temperature of his blood.
so erling didn’t waste any more time to cut off the interaction between you and his teammates. you looked up because he was rude, your teammates looked up because they didn’t know you both knew each other.
“we’re going home.”
and before you could protest, he’d hauled you off his shoulder—without compromising your underwear, of course—and you were both outside of the club in less than a minute, thanks to his extremely long legs. you were too dizzy to figure out the upside down of your vision to even launch a protest to him, you had to wonder how the girls on those movies made it easy.
your buzzing head didn’t help you to digest the reality faster. all the sudden, erling opened the side of your door, waiting for you to come out rather impatiently, judging from the clicking of his shoes. so you pushed your featherlight body up to meet the giant’s eyes because you knew better than to test his patience, despite the months apart and despite the fact that you wanted to be mad at him for cutting short your temporary escapade.
“you got me home, erling,” you groaned as you noticed he was still following your tail. the last thing you wanted tonight was a giant intruding your home. “now go home.”
but he didn’t budge, for whatever reason. he didn’t even respond to your order and kept his distance behind you silently. he only cut down the Atlantic between you two when you were struggling with your keys, grabbing them and initiated to unlock the door.
still in silence, though.
with your questionable sanity, you couldn’t figure out if he was silent because he wanted to get this done and over with—getting you home, that is—or he was silent because he was angry with your slow motion. you could only hope the former because you shared the same sentiment.
you were about to say thank you as well as bidding him goodbye on your door step when he pushed you inside of your sanctuary. you wanted to bark at him for somehow barging in but he went straight for the fridge, fetching you a carton of milk and a glass of water.
“what erling haaland wants, erling haaland gets, huh?” you couldn’t stop the venom from your mouth, and you decided that it was a better response than to lash out at him. “what else can I get you?”
you were always a goody-two-shoes girl, you were the water to his fire… well, at least until you dropped a nuclear bomb in his head when you broke up with him out of nowhere without a single justification given to him. and now you were pouring him a sarcasm? the norwegian certainly didn’t appreciate the tone, at all.
erling didn’t hesitate to grab you by the jaw, rather harshly, when you approached him. he knew you were playing with fire by coming to him, testing his sanity that was barely hanging on the thread, and he saw that defiance in your eyes.
and it clicked on him.
you were purposefully trying to evoke his anger by coming into the party unannounced.
fuck your link—he’d bury whoever that was, but later when he was done with you. if there was one thing he hated than you possessing no more manner was that he hated anyone else looking at you like a pray, knowing you intentionally provoked them. back when you were a couple, you used to do it to prove you had no eyes but for erling and erling haaland only, but now…
the fire was still burning in your eyes, matching his fiery ones. while you were accustomed with his jealousy heat, the sight was rather new for erling.
while your eyes were sparkling with a rebellion tint, your entire posture was limp and powerless against his strong hold. how could someone so fierce, so… disobedient be so submissive and helpless in his hands? but as they said, new is always better. and god was he lying when you were sexier this way.
and to know that erling was the only one who could turn her into this vixen version of you?
fuck your link—he’d bury himself in you first for now.
erling didn’t waste any more time to dive into your lips, sealing them in a ruthless kiss that demanded your further obedience. but of course you didn’t give up to the point you could feel your teeth, your tongues, all clashed in the battle that was taking place inside the cavern of your mouth. not even a single space for you to catch your breath before he stole them away, probably as his ammo to keep your defences down.
the oral exchange was so hot that your body was slowly burning—from the heat of his body, his hands more over that you had to shed your clothes the moment he’d touched you there, everywhere. and before you could realise it, you were both standing naked at your kitchen. amazing you could do that in record time and record pace, considering your lips were still interlocked, keys to the locks were probably lost in the sea of pleasure by now.
erling pulled you by the nape of your neck, and you had to tiptoe your feet as you followed suit. the imbalance was utilised by erling to turn you around, folding your arms behind your back while his other hand was holding you in place by the throat. you could see your nipple rigid already by the mirror placed on your living room, and god you had never felt so sexy than at that point.
he dipped his head down, grazing dangerously lightly against the shell of your ears. you could feel his breaths—deep, slow, yet erratic breaths—brushing the soft bone before biting them gently, his tongue swirled the boneless lobules like it was a sour candy.
“enjoying this?”
but before you could answer that, the hand on your throat suddenly went away, only to comeback to slap one of your breasts, just right on top of your puckering nipple. you didn’t bother hiding your gasp at the sensation—the overwhelming sensation of having him everywhere without a way out. at least until erling was done with you.
“I’m sure you do, schnuppa,” erling’s teeth were now grazing the sides of your neck, down to your collarbone. “this is what a slut wants, no?”
like before, you didn’t have a moment to answer him before the same hand slapped your other breast. the sound was so crisp you couldn’t help but feel sinful if you wanted more. but erling was in a sinful mood so he alternated in landing you some blows between your boobs. left, right, right, left for countless times you forgot to count at this point.
so wrong of you, though, to miss the counting. because erling would always ask.
“how many times now?”
and of course, erling would always punish you whenever you struck the wrong number. his hand immediately went to smack your throbbing clit, even opening your mound to find the clitoris and spank the bud gently with his free fingers. how he did it—you didn’t know. heck, you didn’t think your brain could process so much information and sensation and emotions simultaneously like that.
“what would those boys think if they heard you making a mess on my hand like this, huh?”
erling’s mouth was back ghosting your ear, the other pair this time but the insane sensation was still the same. your folded hands were now placed against the kitchen counter before you were told to spread your legs so the hand that was staying on top of your pleasure central could have more access to you—to tease you, to play you, to fuck you.
“I’m sure they’d hate it, hmm?” you moaned so loud when erling pushed his cock gently on your back, you could feel the standing shaft between your butt cheeks. “they’d better be because this belongs to me,”
you didn’t bother to mask your wailing when he pressed his digits inside you, while his thumb remained tickling your clit and the budding bud. “fuck, erling!”
“oh I’m fucking you, baby,” you swore erling’s fingers were orchestrating in and out of you slower than Mozart and Beethoven’s slowest composition combined. “but tell me first, whose this pretty cunt of yours belongs to?”
you truthfully didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, and sensing this, erling immediately switched his pace into a mindfucking fast one. so fast you could hear yourself drenching his hand so disgustingly sexy, your wetness swiftly cascading down your inner thighs, and you could feel your legs slightly trembling. a sign you were this close to the edge.
but of course erling pulled out. he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction too.
you groaned in desperation, your legs had to be pressed closely against one another so you didn’t lose the last bit of your energy left. you were so focused on gaining back your vision due to the earth-shattering sensation that you didn’t realise erling had set up his phone somewhere that could catch the sight of you both fucking like rabbits, just like he planned to.
you gasped dirtily as erling pulled your hips towards his cock, telling you silently to get ready for what was coming. “who do you belong to, schnuppa?”
erling knew you were not giving in that easily so he pushed the tip of his cock lightly at first. like a prediction, you moaned at the sensation—because god damn it, it’s been a long while since someone entered you and the last person was erling months ago—but moaned even louder when erling pulled his shaft out. the giant repeated the motion and the question again at the same time, and you replayed your dirty whines like a broken record.
erling had to applaud your tenacity for not backing down. this new version of you was surely a challenge he’d love to conquer. but he knew you were nothing but empty threats at the end of the day.
his smirk grew wider as you whimpered pathetically, “yours, erling. it’s yours, fuck!”
“there we go,” erling finally thrusted into you, and he groaned inwardly because no matter how much he denied you, it was the best feeling to be buried inside of you. “god, you feel so fucking good. I bet the boys can only shit themselves when they see this video of us.”
you could only hope erling was kidding about the video because there was no way you could hold your head high anymore if they’d seen you cum for five times in five different positions.
summary: The cute church boy you accidentally met one Sunday turns out to be far less innocent than he looks — and once Michael starts touching you, neither of you can seem to stop. ₊˚⊹♡
warning: sexual themes, smut, 18+, oral (f receiving & m receiving), thigh sex
a/n: GIRL idk i’ve been home from work for the past two days bc of really bad cramps so i guess the ideas have just been flowing lol, i hope you like this little story, i think i need to go outside（⊙_⊙）
Considering you had grown up in a fairly religious household, you never really became all that religious yourself.
Maybe it was the rebellious, anti-establishment streak from your teenage years still lingering into your early twenties, but the entire concept had always felt a little difficult for you to fully grasp.
Still, out of respect for your parents — and because you genuinely liked the sense of community it brought people — you continued going to church with them most Sundays whenever you could.
You liked the stories.
The way people from completely different walks of life gathered together to talk about their struggles, their families, the ways faith had helped them become kinder, better versions of themselves.
Even if you didn’t fully believe the same things they did, you appreciated the comfort of it all.
It had been two years since you graduated high school. Since then, you’d spent most of your time working odd jobs and trying to recover from the exhaustion school had left behind, before eventually applying to universities closer to home.
But just when you finally felt ready to settle somewhere, your father announced that he’d accepted a position as a music attorney for a major label in Los Angeles. Which was how you found yourself moving across the country only a month later, settling into the sprawling luxury of Encino, California.
You were grateful, of course. Your father had worked incredibly hard to give your family a comfortable life, and you admired the discipline it had taken to build it.
But despite the beautiful neighborhoods and massive homes tucked behind iron gates, loneliness still seemed to follow you everywhere.
Which was exactly why you had agreed to come to church that Sunday morning.
You missed feeling connected to people.
And maybe — if you were lucky — you’d meet someone your own age. Maybe even make a friend.
The California heat was already unforgiving by the time you arrived, making you silently grateful for the soft yellow wrap dress you had chosen that morning, paired with black wedge sandals that clicked softly against the church floors as you searched for somewhere to sit.
That was when you noticed them.
A large family gathered a few pews ahead of you, talking and laughing amongst themselves loudly enough to draw attention without seeming to care.
And then one of them caught your eye completely.
A boy.
Slender, with dark curls brushing against the collar of a crisp white dress shirt, a black tie hanging neatly down the front. High-waisted black trousers. White socks paired with polished loafers.
He looked almost painfully put together.
Your eyes met for only a second before he looked away immediately — shy enough that it almost seemed panicked.
The reaction made warmth spread through your chest before you could stop it.
Something about him intrigued you instantly.
Throughout the entire sermon, you kept finding your attention drifting back toward him, watching the quiet slope of his shoulders from a few pews ahead.
And every now and then, you could have sworn he was doing the same.
By the time the service ended and people began filtering toward the exit, your stomach had started fluttering nervously.
Maybe this was your chance.
Before you could overthink it, you “accidentally” bumped into him in the aisle, your black clutch slipping from your hands onto the floor.
It hit the ground with a soft thud.
“Oh—”
You crouched down immediately, only for another hand to reach it at the same time as yours.
“Sorry,” he blurted quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, that was my fault,” you laughed lightly.
He finally looked up at you properly then.
And God.
Up close, he looked even prettier somehow.
Large brown eyes framed by long lashes stared back at you with open nervousness, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do now that your attention was actually on him.
For a second, neither of you moved. Still crouched in the middle of the aisle, both holding onto the same clutch.
His cheeks turned pink first.
“Uh…”
He pulled his hand back quickly.
“Sorry,” he repeated, standing up a little too fast.
It made you smile instantly.
“You apologise a lot,” you teased before thinking better of it.
His eyes widened slightly.
“I do?”
“Mhm.”
A small laugh escaped him — nervous, warm, almost embarrassed.
“My mother says that too.”
That made you laugh softly too.
And for a second, Michael just looked at you.
Really looked at you.
Like hearing you laugh had become something he wanted to remember.
Before either of you could say anything else, a young girl — maybe twelve or thirteen — suddenly appeared beside him, tugging impatiently at his arm.
“Come on, Michael,” she complained dramatically. “You promised we were getting ice cream right after church.”
Michael glanced down at her with mild annoyance, though the fondness behind it was obvious.
“Alright, alright, Dunk,” he sighed. “Gimme a second.”
She narrowed her eyes at him like she didn’t believe him for a second, then rolled them dramatically before running off toward the rest of the family outside.
You watched her go, smiling faintly before looking back at him.
“Well…” you started lightly. “I probably shouldn’t keep you from your very serious ice cream plans, stranger.”
That made him look at you almost panicked, like this suddenly felt like an opportunity he couldn’t afford to lose.
Usually he was far more reserved — shy to the point of almost disappearing into himself — but the words still tumbled out before he could stop them.
“L-let me give you my number,” he blurted quickly. “If you want it, I mean.”
“You’re really pretty.”
The compliment made warmth rush straight to your face.
“Well… how am I supposed to say no to a face like yours?” you teased.
He let out an embarrassed laugh, looking away as his cheeks flushed even deeper.
After fumbling for a second, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook — worn at the edges, filled with scribbled notes and half-finished ideas.
He quickly wrote his number down before tearing out the page and handing it to you.
You slipped it into your pocket, smiling to yourself.
Before he could turn to leave, you reached out and gently caught his arm.
When he turned back, you introduced yourself properly — and for a second, he just looked at you like he’d forgotten what he was meant to say.
Your hand felt small in his. His was warm and noticeably larger, long fingers wrapping around yours almost carefully, like he was afraid of holding on wrong.
“Michael,” you repeated softly.
He blinked, then nodded quickly, finally snapping back into himself.
“It was nice meeting you.”
—————
You lasted exactly two days before finally working up the nerve to call the cute boy you had met at church.
He simply couldn’t seem to leave your mind, and eventually you realized you had to do something about it.
You picked up the receiver and waited for the dial tone.
One by one, you started dialing his number on the rotary phone, the soft clicking sound filling the quiet room as the dial spun back into place each time.
It took longer than you wanted, the kind of waiting that made you almost second-guess yourself.
Until finally — the number you had been hoping for so desperately connected.
A click.
And then—
“Hello?”
His voice came through softer than you expected, cautious at first, like he wasn’t entirely sure who he was speaking to.
“Hi Michael, it’s the pretty girl from church calling,” you said lightly.
You could almost hear the moment he sat up straighter on the other end of the line, like something in him had instantly shifted into attention.
What you couldn’t see through the phone was the way his face lit up, a bright pearly smile spreading across it almost immediately.
“The pretty girl… how could I forget?”
The words made your cheeks warm instantly, and a small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Just as naturally as ever, the words started spilling out from both of you.
He told you more about himself — his family, the band, the music, and how he was working on releasing music on his own.
You talked about your move, about being in that awkward in-between stage of settling in, before explaining that you were about to start applying for school.
It flowed so easily, almost as if you had known each other for years.
And so it continued.
You calling him, or him beating you to it.
Talking for hours.
Getting to know each other piece by piece over the following days.
Until, one day, right as you were about to end the conversation, you surprised yourself by asking something a little braver.
“Do you wanna come over on Saturday?”
A small pause.
“I have a pretty cool movie selection… we could watch a thriller, if you dare.”
On the other end of the line, his heart felt like it nearly stopped from excitement.
He tried to keep his voice steady, tried not to sound too eager — not wanting to come across as some desperate puppy just because all he wanted was to be near you.
Even though that was exactly what he was.
“I’d love to,” he said.
You smiled.
“I’ll see you at seven.”
You gave him your address.
“Bye, Mikey.”
The nickname shouldn’t have affected him the way it did — but it shot straight through him anyway, butterflies erupting in his stomach.
And somehow, he still managed to answer:
“Bye, pretty girl.”
On your end, it hit just as hard.
And as soon as the call ended, you were left with the exact same reaction — and a very dangerous little idea forming in your mind.
—————
Saturday rolled around eventually… painfully slow, you thought.
Your parents had planned a short trip to visit friends, which left you with the house to yourself — the perfect excuse for what you had in mind.
You were sitting at your vanity, carefully applying lipstick before adding the final touches and spraying yourself with perfume. The sweet vanilla scent filled the air around you.
A soft knock came at the door, and excitement immediately bubbled in your stomach.
You stood up and took a quick glance at your outfit — something you had thought about a little too carefully.
A white broderie anglaise top with puffy sleeves and a soft, elasticated neckline, paired with denim cut-offs that were a little too short to be subtle, slightly rolled at the hem.
Your legs were left bare, the whole look finished with a matching layer of red polish on both your fingers and toes.
A thought lingered in the back of your mind — one you probably shouldn’t have been having.
You shook it away quickly, exhaling softly before walking to the front door.
Taking a breath, you opened it.
You were met with the man you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past few days.
You looked at him and smiled, quickly glancing over his outfit.
He wore black trousers with a striped rugby-style shirt in beige and navy horizontal stripes, a white collar peeking out neatly underneath. On his feet were the same shoes from church — black loafers with white socks.
He looked more dressed down now, but still undeniably fashionable… and cute.
You broke your gaze before smiling at him.
“Hi, Mikey.”
You pulled him into a hug, standing on your tiptoes as your arms wrapped around his neck.
He nearly broke into a sweat at the sudden closeness, your sweet vanilla scent filling his senses and sending goosebumps across his skin.
You pulled away and he looked at you with a shy, wide smile.
“…Hi,” he said softly, his gentle eyes meeting yours.
“Well, come on inside,” you said, gently tugging him in as you slipped past him and closed the door.
You noticed him taking in the space as you walked beside him.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. We’re still unpacking,” you said.
He shook his head lightly.
“That’s alright. It still looks really nice.”
“Do you want something to drink? I have some orange juice.”
He nodded.
“I’d love that.”
As you walked toward the kitchen, he lingered for a moment, his attention drifting as he took in your outfit properly for the first time.
Your caramel-toned legs were on full display, and he quickly looked away again when his gaze accidentally lingered a second too long on how your shorts… stopped far too high for his ability to think properly.
As you came back with a cold glass of orange juice and handed it to him, your fingers brushed against his.
The brief contact sent a tingling sensation straight through your stomach.
At the same time, his breath caught slightly at the small interaction as he quickly took a sip of his drink, trying to calm the thoughts that had suddenly started racing through his mind.
You spoke softly.
“It’s a perfect evening for a movie night, honestly.”
Today was one of the rare days where the sun had been swallowed by gloomy clouds, leaving the air a little chilly — the kind of weather where being outside didn’t feel appealing at all.
You continued,
“Good timing too — my parents just helped me move their old TV into my room right before they left.”
His eyes widened at that.
“Right before they left?” he repeated, sounding slightly thrown off.
The idea clearly caught him off guard — he hadn’t fully processed the fact that he’d be alone with you in your house.
You looked at him and said innocently,
“Yeah! They went to see some old friends — they’re not coming home until tomorrow evening,” you added casually.
He looked at you with wide eyes again, swallowing hard.
“O-oh… o-okay,” he stammered, clearly caught off guard.
For a moment, he didn’t move, like the information was still settling in — the realization that it was just the two of you here, alone in the house, stretching a little too long in his mind.
A part of him briefly wondered if he should say something, maybe even turn around and leave before he got himself into something he wouldn’t be able to think his way out of later.
But then you were already taking his hand.
And the thought disappeared almost immediately.
You led him up the stairs into your room.
He stepped in behind you, letting go as soon as you did, his eyes immediately taking in the space.
Pink walls covered in posters and magazine cutouts. A cream-and-white wooden bed frame with a pink floral bedspread at the center. Flower-shaped pillows in hot pink and lime green scattered across it, surrounded by stuffed animals.
A pink rotary phone sat on one mismatched nightstand, while a small table lamp on the other cast a warm, cozy glow — the only light in the room aside from the television already playing at the foot of the bed.
He smiled softly, like your personality was reflected perfectly in the space around him.
You glanced at him and said,
“It’s very pink.”
He let out a small laugh.
“Yes… but it’s cute. It fits you.”
You smiled, heat rising slightly to your cheeks.
“Well, come on — the popcorn’s gonna get cold.”
You gestured toward the large bowl sitting in the middle of the bed.
The thought of actually sitting on your bed with you hadn’t fully registered for him yet — at least not until he suddenly became very aware of it.
Carefully, almost cautiously, he sat down, like he was afraid of breaking something.
You turned on the movie — a horror film, judging by the description.
Then you sat down on the other side of the bed, close enough that your hands could brush if either of you moved, but still keeping a small distance between you.
You sat in silence about halfway into the movie before a sudden jumpscare made you flinch. Instinctively, your body turned toward him, your face pressing into his chest as your arms wrapped around his waist in an attempt to calm yourself.
He let out a startled laugh — loud and breathless — before he fully realized the position you were in.
The sound died in his throat almost immediately.
You were too close. Way too close for his thoughts to stay in order.
Slowly, you looked up at him, still holding onto him.
He looked back.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
His eyes flickered over your face before dropping — briefly, instinctively — to your lips.
And just like that, his heartbeat spiked so hard he was sure you could feel it against your hands.
Just as you moved closer, hovering barely above his lips, he pulled away.
His expression shifted instantly — a little panicked.
“I… we shouldn’t,” he said.
You paused, still close enough to feel the tension hanging between you.
“Why not, Michael?”
“Well— your parents aren’t home, and I don’t want to, uh…” he trailed off, words spilling out in a rushed ramble. “Start something I can’t stop.”
He swallowed, shaking his head slightly like he was trying to steady himself.
“And I’ve… I’ve never really—”
He stopped again, letting out a small, embarrassed breath.
“I don’t want you to think I’m… bad at it or anything,” he added quickly, like he regretted it the second it left his mouth.
For a second, you just looked at him.
The movie was still playing quietly in the background, but it felt distant now — like it didn’t belong in the same moment anymore.
You were still close enough to feel everything, but now there was a gap where there hadn’t been one before.
Because he had pulled away.
And you were left hovering there, realizing how much you had actually wanted him to stay.
You gave him a reassuring smile, trying to ease the nervous tension radiating off him. Slowly, you crawled closer across the pink floral bedspread and swung one leg over, straddling his lap. You settled down onto him with clear intent, your denim cut-offs riding higher as you pressed against the growing bulge in his trousers.
A soft, involuntary whimper slipped from Michael’s mouth. His hands hovered uncertainly in the air for a second before gently landing on your thighs, fingers trembling slightly against your bare skin.
“That’s okay,” you whispered, voice warm and low. “You can practice on me…”
You reached up and threaded your fingers through the dark curls at the side of his head, gently twirling one around your finger. His breath hitched.
“…Besides,” you added, leaning in until your lips brushed the shell of his ear, “maybe I don’t want you to stop.”
Michael shivered beneath you, a quiet, shaky exhale leaving his lips. His fingers flexed gently on your thighs, like he was still deciding whether he was really allowed to hold on. You could feel the heat of him through his trousers, already hard and twitching under the slow pressure of your hips.
“I… okay,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, eyes wide and dark as they flicked up to meet yours. “Can you try kissing me again?”
You smiled softly and leaned in, catching his lips before he could second-guess himself. At first his kiss was tentative and careful, but the moment you deepened it, a tiny needy sound escaped him. He started following your lead, learning quickly even as his hands stayed sweetly hesitant.
When you rolled your hips again, grinding down against his hardness with more purpose, Michael broke the kiss with a soft gasp. His head tipped back against the floral pillows, exposing the long line of his throat as another quiet whimper slipped out.
“God… that feels really good,” he murmured, voice rougher than usual. “You feel so good…”
Encouraged, you dipped your head and pressed your lips to his neck, kissing and sucking gently, deliberately leaving a faint mark. His breath hitched sharply.
One of his hands dared to slide up under the hem of your broderie top, fingertips tracing warm, reverent lines along your waist. You caught both his wrists gently and guided them higher, slipping them fully beneath your shirt until his palms rested just below your breasts.
He squeezed carefully at first — almost too gently, like he was scared of being too rough. But when you let out a soft moan at the contact, it seemed to flip a switch in him. His fingers grew bolder, grazing over your hardened nipples before gently rolling and squeezing them between his fingertips.
A whimper left your lips. You rolled your hips again, pressing down harder against his throbbing length.
“Mmm, Mikey… you’re making me feel so good,” you breathed.
His eyes widened, dark with hunger he couldn’t hide. A helpless little whimper escaped him.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice trembling with want. His thumbs brushed over your nipples again, slower this time, like he was savoring every reaction he pulled from you.
He looked up at you with those wide, dark eyes, hesitation and desire flickering across his face. His hand slowly slid down again, fingers brushing the hem of your broderie top.
“Can you take it off… please?” he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper, almost reverent.
You didn’t need to be told twice. In one smooth motion, you pulled the top up and over your head, letting it fall somewhere beside the bed. The cool air kissed your skin, leaving you bare from the waist up.
Michael’s breath caught. He stared at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen — like you were a painting made just for him. His eyes traced every inch of you with pure, open adoration, cheeks flushed and lips slightly parted.
A faint blush rose to your own cheeks under the intensity of his gaze. You looked away, suddenly shy, the roles quietly reversing for a moment.
Michael smiled — soft, warm, and a little awed. He gently cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing over your heated skin, and the words slipped out of him so naturally:
“I’m so lucky…”
Then he pulled you into a deep, loving kiss. There was nothing rushed about it. His lips moved slowly against yours, full of quiet wonder and affection, like he was trying to pour every bit of how he felt into you. One of his hands eventually slid down to rest at the small of your back, warm and steady, holding you close while the other stayed gently cradling your cheek.
When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His voice was low and a little breathless.
“You’re so beautiful it almost hurts,” he murmured, eyes still drinking you in. His thumb traced a slow circle on your lower back. “I don’t even know what I did to deserve this…”
You let out a soft giggle and whispered, “You have such a way with words… I wonder what else that mouth of yours can do.”
Michael’s eyes widened, the flush on his cheeks spreading all the way to his ears. For a second he just stared at you, lips parted in surprise. Then a shy, flustered little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I… I’ve never…” he started, voice low and a little hoarse. But instead of pulling away, he swallowed hard and nodded, eyes flicking down your body with open reverence. “I want to. I really want to make you feel good. I want to taste you.”
The honest desire in his voice sent heat rushing through you. You kissed his forehead, then gently moved off his lap and leaned back against the pile of pillows. Michael followed eagerly as you pulled him into a passionate kiss.
With surprising confidence and clear determination to please you, he began trailing soft kisses down your body — first between your breasts, then slowly down your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your shorts, he paused and looked up at you with those big, nervous eyes.
“Can I… take these off?” he asked gently.
You smiled. “I don’t want anything else.”
He let out a soft, relieved smile and carefully unbuttoned your shorts, sliding the zipper down before tugging them off. They landed quietly on the floor beside the bed. His gaze lingered on your white ribbed panties — the delicate frilly edges and tiny bow at the center — and his breath hitched.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. With slightly shaky hands, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly pulled them down your legs.
The moment you were fully bare in front of him, Michael stilled. A flicker of nervous uncertainty crossed his face as the reality of what he was about to do hit him.
You noticed immediately. “Do you know what to do?” you asked gently.
“Uhm—in theory, yes,” he admitted, cheeks burning. “I’ve seen it in movies…”
The confession sent a thrill down your spine. The image of sweet, church-going Michael secretly watching filthy movies was unexpectedly hot.
“I’ll guide you, okay?” you said softly. “Just follow what feels natural.”
He nodded, eager to please, and slid down between your parted thighs. Curiosity quickly won over his nerves. He reached forward with two fingers, gently brushing over your sensitive clit before sliding them down between your slick folds.
“You’re… you’re so wet,” he whimpered, voice full of awe. His hips twitched against the bed.
“Mmm, it’s all for you, Michael,” you moaned.
“Oh my god…”
“Put them in, baby,” you guided, voice breathy. “Kind of in a curling motion.”
He obeyed instantly, sliding his fingers inside you and curling them exactly as you asked. Your sweet moans encouraged him, and he quickly found a steady rhythm.
“Mmm, Mikey… please, I need more, baby.”
He looked up at you, a little confused but desperate to learn. You smiled down at him.
“I need you to kiss me here,” you whispered, “gently, with your tongue too.”
Understanding flashed across his face. He leaned in and pressed a soft, experimental kiss to your clit, then dragged his tongue over you. He explored different pressures and patterns until your hips jerked and you moaned, “Don’t stop—”
Your hand pressed firmly into his dark curls, holding him closer. Michael moaned against you and started grinding desperately against the sheets, chasing his own relief while he licked and sucked with growing confidence. His fingers kept curling inside you, hitting that perfect spot over and over.
Your breathing grew ragged. Your thighs started to tremble and squeeze around his head as you tugged harder on his hair.
“Mmm, it feels so good, Mikey… I’m g-gonna cu—”
Your orgasm crashed over you, thighs clamping around him as you clenched tightly around his fingers. Michael kept going through every wave, like he never wanted it to end.
When you finally relaxed, he gently pulled his fingers out and sat back on his knees, looking up at you with glassy, adoring eyes. Without breaking eye contact, he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.
A fresh wave of heat spread through your chest. You sat up and pulled him into a deep kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Michael melted into it, making a soft, needy sound against your lips as his hands rested gently on your waist.
When you finally parted for air, he stayed close, forehead resting against yours. His cheeks were still flushed, lips shiny, and his breathing was uneven. He looked up at you through his lashes, a mix of nervousness and hope in his eyes.
“Did I… do okay?” he asked quietly, voice a little hoarse. “Was that good for you?”
The sweet vulnerability in his question made your heart flutter. You smiled, cupping his face with both hands and brushing your thumbs over his warm cheeks.
“Mikey… you were amazing,” you whispered, kissing him softly between words. “So good for me. I came so hard because of you.”
His eyes lit up at the praise, and a shy, relieved smile broke across his face. The tension in his shoulders melted away almost instantly.
His smile faded into something softer, almost dazed, as your hand slid down and gently palmed the obvious hardness straining beneath his trousers.
“You’re so big and hard for me, Mikey,” you whispered, voice low and warm against his skin. “I want to make you feel good too.”
A quiet whimper slipped from his lips. You guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, then sank down between his knees, the soft pink carpet warm beneath you. The lamplight painted gentle shadows across his flushed chest as you looked up at him through your lashes and slowly drew his zipper down.
His breathing had already changed — shallow, quick, trembling with anticipation. You took his hands, threading your fingers through his where they gripped the edge of the mattress, grounding him.
You brought two of his fingers to your mouth, letting your lips slide slowly over them, sucking gently, your tongue warm and teasing. When you pulled back, a glistening string of saliva still connected you to him. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide.
“J-Jesus Christ…” he breathed.
You let out a soft, amused laugh, the sound low and fond. “Using the Lord’s name in vain, Michael? That’s not very holy of you.”
He gave you a breathless, half-dazed smile, voice rough. “I think I’ve gone too far for the Lord to care anymore…”
The words sent a thrill through you. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and slowly pulled it down. His cock sprang free — long, flushed, and beautifully hard, the tip already glistening. For a moment you simply admired him, heat pooling low in your belly.
“Mmm… I wonder what you’d feel like inside me,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
His cock twitched visibly at your words, and a desperate little sound escaped his throat.
You wrapped your hand around him, stroking with slow, deliberate care, feeling the velvet heat of his skin, the way he pulsed against your palm. Leaning in, you pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses along his length before letting your tongue trace slowly over the most sensitive spot beneath the tip. Then you took him into your mouth, warm and wet, moving with unhurried reverence.
Michael’s head tipped back with a deep, broken moan of your name. One of his hands found its way into your bouncy curls, fingers tightening instinctively in the soft coils as pleasure overtook him. He tugged harder than he meant to, then immediately loosened his grip with a string of breathless apologies — until you moaned around him, the vibrations pulling another helpless whimper from his throat. His hips jerked gently, thighs trembling with the effort of staying still.
You could feel him getting closer — his thighs tensing, his breathing turning ragged and needy. Then suddenly his voice cracked:
“Stop— please—”
You pulled off gently, lips shiny, and looked up at him with soft concern. “What’s wrong, baby?”
He was breathing hard, cheeks burning, eyes glassy with want. “I’m okay… I just— I don’t want to finish yet.”
You kept stroking him slowly, tenderly. “Then tell me what you want, Mikey.”
He looked down at you, embarrassed but aching. After a long, shy pause, the plea came out barely above a whisper:
“Can I maybe just… put it between your thighs?” His voice cracked with desperation. “Baby, please? Pretty please?”
God, you loved when he begged like that — like you were something sacred and he was just a sinner asking for mercy.
With a big, satisfied smile you rose from the floor and climbed onto the bed, lying on your back against the floral pillows. Slowly, you drew your legs up and pressed your thighs tightly together, raising them toward the ceiling in offering.
Michael twitched at the sight. Almost instinctively, he knelt between your legs, facing you. His dark curls were damp and messy, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his chest as he rested his trembling hands on the backs of your thighs. His eyes were wide with awe and hunger while he lined himself up.
The moment the hot, heavy length of his cock slid between your pressed-together thighs, a soft moan escaped you. He felt incredible — thick, burning hot, and pulsing against your skin.
He pushed forward carefully, sinking fully between your thighs with a broken, needy moan. With every slow roll of his hips, the flushed tip of his cock grazed teasingly along your slick folds, brushing right over your clit. The delicious friction made your breath hitch sharply.
One of his hands braced on the bed behind him while the other gripped the front of your thigh, holding you like he feared you might slip away.
“Oh my God…” he whimpered, eyes fluttering. He kept that same slow, deep rhythm, the head of his cock kissing your wetness again and again.
The constant gliding pressure quickly became overwhelming. Your thighs began to tremble around him as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
“Mikey—” you gasped, fingers twisting into the sheets.
He looked down at you, completely mesmerized. “You’re… mmh, you’re so wet,” he breathed shakily. “Feels so good… so warm and slippery around me…”
That was all it took.
Your orgasm hit you hard. Your thighs clamped tighter around his cock as you came with a trembling moan, eyes locked on him the entire time. Fresh wetness coated his length, making the slide between your thighs even smoother and hotter for him.
Michael let out a desperate whine at the new sensation.
“Baby— oh God—”
His hips stuttered, then sped up, chasing the slick heat you were giving him. The wet, obscene sounds of his cock sliding through your soaked thighs filled the pink bedroom as he lost himself completely. His grip on your thigh tightened, thrusts growing faster and more desperate until broken moans spilled freely from his lips.
“I’m— I’m gonna—”
With a deep, shuddering cry, Michael came hard. Thick, warm ropes of cum painted your stomach and breasts as his hips jerked unevenly through every wave. When it finally subsided, he stayed kneeling there, breathing heavily, staring down at you with glassy, adoring eyes.
He looked utterly wrecked — curls plastered to his forehead, chest heaving, lips parted in quiet disbelief.
You smiled softly up at him, then dragged two fingers slowly through the warm mess on your skin. Holding his gaze, you brought them to your lips and licked them clean, savoring the taste with a quiet hum.
“You taste so good, Michael,” you murmured, voice low and sweet.
A broken, almost tortured sound escaped him — half moan, half sob.
“Oh my God… you’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, voice hoarse with awe and exhaustion.
He collapsed forward carefully, catching himself on his forearms so he didn’t crush you. His body pressed flush against yours, warm and trembling, as he buried his face in your neck. One hand gently stroked through your curls while he placed soft, reverent kisses along your shoulder and throat, like he was still worshipping the very same goddess who had just undone him.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the forgotten movie still playing on the TV. Michael’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your side, gentle and soothing, as if he couldn’t stop touching you.
Eventually he shifted slightly, reaching for the box of tissues on your nightstand. With careful, almost shy movements, he cleaned your stomach and chest, his touch so tender it made your heart ache.
When he was done, he pulled the pink floral blanket over both of you and wrapped you up in his arms, tugging you close so your head rested against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat slowly calming down.
After a few peaceful seconds of silence, Michael let out a soft, breathless laugh.
“…Did you plan this?” he asked, voice still a little rough. “The tiny shorts, the perfume, the empty house… Were you trying to seduce me the whole time, pretty girl?”
You tilted your head up to look at him, grinning. “Maybe. Is it working?”
Michael’s cheeks flushed again, but he smiled — that bright, shy, heart-melting smile you were already falling for.
“Too well,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I didn’t stand a chance.”
He hugged you tighter, nuzzling into your curls with a content sigh.
“I’m really glad you bumped into me at church,” he whispered, suddenly softer. “Best accident of my life.”
Summary: You are the daughter of a big shot producer close to Michael's album development team, at Epic. Your dad gives you michael's number after you beg him... and he actually decides to humour you and have a conversation
Tags: 18+, smut, Phone sex, sub!michael (sort of), thriller era, he is a bit older and probs yearns to be a bit more frisky, all those hormones, Michael comes out of his shell a bit, he has a filthy little voice, one he didn't even know about til now, but boy does he WHIMPER, silk pyjamas, but Michael still being Michael and talking about disney parks cuz hes a total NERD
Word Count: 4346
Author’s Note: just saw the movie again for the 7th time in imax today. i think i could play a part in it tbh. ALSO PLS LETS TALK ABOUT THE MIDDLE PHOTO ABOVE OF MICHAEL WITH HIS PANTS UNZIPPED PLS AND THANKS. feral. and its what inspired this.
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
The phone rang at an odd hour, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of his bedroom. Michael picked up the receiver, his voice soft and uncertain. "Hello?"
"Hi... is this Michael?" Your voice came through the line, slightly breathless, like you'd been working up the courage to make this call for hours.
He blinked, sitting up straighter against the headboard. "Yes. Who is this?"
"Hi Yes, well, I'm sorry, I know this is strange. My name is Y/N. My father—he's a producer at Epic—he gave me your number. I promise I'm not some fan who broke into his office or anything." You let out a nervous little laugh, and something about it made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
"Oh.. Well hi. And yes, I know your father quite well. He’s a great man." His tone was cautious but curious, not angry, his voice airy and highly pitched. Even more so than you had heard before in interviews.
"I know, he’s great, and he’s crazy about working with you," you admitted. "I just—I told him I felt like I needed to talk to you. He probably thought I was crazy. Maybe I am. But yeah. You know my dad, so don’t worry about me being a stranger, I guess."
There was a pause like he was mulling over putting the phone down, and then Michael asked, "Why… did you need to talk to me?"
You swallowed. "Because I saw that interview you did last month. The one where you talked about growing up in the industry and how it felt like you never got to just... be a kid… or a young adult. I feel the same, my dad moved us around a lot for his job, so i never got the childhood i deserved."
Silence on his end. Not quite the uncomfortable kind—the kind that said you'd struck something true in his heart. You had heard he had quite an old fashioned soul, really spoke from deep within.
"I've never had anyone say that to me so plainly before," he finally said, his voice even quieter than before. "Not someone who actually understood what I was talking about when I said i missed out on my childhood. Its odd to hear someone agreeing, actually."
"Then I'm glad I called." You smiled, curling the phone wire giddily in your hand.
The conversation flowed like water finding its natural course. You talked about childhoods that weren't really childhoods—yours spent hovering at the edges of your father's world, his spent at the center of a spotlight so bright it cast shadows everywhere else.
You discovered you both loved old Cary Grant films, that neither of you could sleep before midnight, that loneliness felt like a second skin, a skin, you both needlessly tried to shed but couldn’t.
"You know what I think?" you said, curled up on your bed with the phone pressed to your ear.
"I think the universe put us in each other's path. Too many coincidences for it to be random."
Michael laughed—his real laugh, breathy and bright, and you’d never heard it before. "You believe in fate?"
"Don't you?"
A pause. "I think I'm starting to. If I have my producer's cute daughter calling me this late. I’ve seen your pictures..." He said. “Your dad is proud of you, Miss training-to-be-a-nurse”
Your chest warmed at that. It was strange to think your father had sat across from this person — this boy who'd just spent twenty minutes debating the correct order to experience Fantasyland — and watched him become someone else entirely in a recording studio. A beast, your dad had called him. The kind who walked into a room and knew immediately when the string quartet had played their last note, who could hear a synth line once and tell you exactly why it was wrong. Someone who agitated his own vocal until it sat right, not because he was told to but because he simply knew.
You'd turned that over in your head for weeks after your father told you. The contradiction of it. Because nothing about Michael Jackson suggested beast. Everything suggested careful, considered, a little fragile around the edges; and tonight had confirmed it.
He'd been so clipped at first, his answers arriving in small careful portions like he was rationing himself. You'd talked about The Shining, which he'd been watching alone in the big quiet house while his family were out, and somewhere in that conversation something had loosened.
Then Disneyland, and he'd come fully alive, telling you about a replica Walt Disney World train set he kept, his voice losing every last trace of caution as he described it. He'd sounded like a kid. Like someone who'd never had to perform for a train set.
That was the contradiction your father hadn't mentioned. That the beast in the studio and the boy on the phone were the same person, separated by something you couldn't quite name.
By now his guard had come all the way down. You could hear it, the way he'd settled deeper into his pillows, the quiet rustle of silk against sheets, his voice sitting lower and easier than it had two hours ago.
"What are you doing right now?" you asked.
"Lying in bed. You?"
"Same." You smiled to yourself. "What are you wearing?"
A surprised little huff. "My pajamas. Why?"
"Hmm. What do they look like?"
"They're... blue. Silk."
"Sounds nice." You let your voice drop, just slightly—enough to shift the air between you. "I bet you look nice in them."
Michael's breath caught audibly. "That's—you don't have to—"
"I want to. Can I tell you something?"
"Yes. You may."
"I've been thinking about what you might look like up close and in person. What your hands might look like. The way your voice sounds right now, how low it's gotten."
You rolled onto your back, staring at your ceiling. "Is that okay that I am thinking along those lines?"
The silence stretched. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "Yes." he almost whispered.
Your pulse kicked. "Good. Can you do something for me, Michael?"
"Maybe."
"Make yourself feel good, in this moment"
You heard the sharp intake of breath. "I—I don't—"
“You’ve never touched yourself?” you asked, shocked and incredulous. You found it hard to believe someone so sensual on stage and in recording had never been intimate with himself.
“No, I absolutely have, a lot - I mean, I can’t find a girlfriend the normal way so its hard.” He said back, almost stuttering over his words nervously.
“Well, I am a girl and I want to make you feel good. Even if it is over the phone. I feel compelled to” you said, a blush starting to form on your face.
Michael never replied, but you could hear his breathing quicken
"Okay, move your hand for me. Just put it on your chest. Over your heart. Can you feel how fast it's beating?"
A rustle of fabric, then a soft exhale. "Yes."
"That's because of me. Because I'm talking to you in this way. Which I doubt any other woman has yet?." You let your own hand drift down, fingertips tracing your collarbone.
"Does it feel good? Having someone tell you what to do in a sexual way?"
Another long pause, but this one was weighted differently. He was thinking, not retreating. "I... no one's ever asked me that before or spoke to me so plainly"
"Ask yourself. Right now. Does it?"
His answer came out barely above a whisper: "Yes."
"Okay. I want you to slide your hand down. Slowly. Over your stomach."
Fabric rustled. His breathing changed, became shallower. You could picture him—long, beautiful fingers tracing his own skin, that honey skin tone and his beautiful face flushed in the dim light of his bedroom.
"Are you doing it?"
"I am." The word was almost a sigh.
"Keep going. Until you're touching yourself over your pajamas. Don't go underneath yet."
A strangled sound escaped him—half protest, half something else entirely. You heard him shift, the creak of his mattress, then the distinct rhythm of his breath turning ragged.
"There you go," you murmured. "Feel that? That's for me. You’re doing this for me."
"Y/N—" His voice cracked on the syllables. "This is—I shouldn't—"
"You can stop whenever you want. But you don't want to stop, do you?"
Quiet. A shaky exhale. "No."
"Tell me."
"I don't want to stop."
The admission hung between you, electric and trembling. You slid your own hand lower, fingers dipping beneath your waistband, finding the heat that had been building for the past hour.
"I want you to go under now," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Take yourself in your hand. Don't stroke yet—just hold. Feel how hard you are for me”
The whimper he let out sent a jolt straight through you. You heard him obey—the subtle sound of silk being pushed aside, his breath hitching as he wrapped his fingers around himself.
"Good," you breathed. "Now I want you to stroke. Slowly. Just the way you like when you're alone in bed, when no one can hear you."
He groaned, and the sound was exquisite—raw and unguarded, nothing like the polished performer the world knew. This was him, stripped bare. "Ahh—"
"Does it feel good?"
"Yes— It feels more dirty doing it with someone on the line" His hand started moving faster, and you could hear it now—the slick, rhythmic sound of him pleasuring himself, punctuated by those desperate little gasps he couldn't seem to control.
"Slower," you commanded. "I didn't say you could go fast."
A frustrated noise, but he obeyed. You could picture his hand moving in long, deliberate strokes—him biting his lip to keep from crying out.
"Y/N, please—" The word was ragged, almost pleading.
"Please what?"
"Tell me—tell me what you're doing. I want to imagine it.”
Your fingers moved inside yourself, your slick warmth clenching around your slim fingers, and your voice came out shakier than you intended.
"I'm touching myself too. Thinking about your hands on me instead of my own."
"Gods—" The profanity startled you both, spilling from his lips like he couldn't hold it back.
"Are you—inside?"
"Mmhm. Two fingers. Wishing it was you, filling me up"
The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a whine, his restraint crumbling audibly. "Want to feel you—want to be inside you so badly— I’d fill you up"
"Then earn it. Keep stroking. Faster now." you said, your hands moving faster on your heat. “And don’t be quiet, Michael. I want to hear that voice of yours.”
His rhythm picked up immediately, desperate and uneven. You could hear the wet sound of his fist sliding over himself, the slap of it, his breath coming in sharp bursts. "Hahh—ngh—I'm—gonna come on myself if you keep talking to me like that. So- so dirty and honest"
"Not yet," you whined, even though your own body was trembling on the edge.
"Y-you don't come until I say so, Michael."
A full-body shudder seemed to pass through him, audible even over the phone. "Ugh, Please, I can't—you're making me—"
"You can. You will." You pressed deeper, your thumb finding that spot that made your vision white out. "Tell me how badly you want it."
"I want to be inside you so deep—want to hear you say my name when you come—I- god, I—want to fill you up and watch you fall apart for me—" The words tumbled out like he'd been holding them behind a dam, dirty and raw and so at odds with the shy man who'd answered the phone two hours ago.
Your back arched, your fingers working furiously. "Michael—oh—"
"That's it, say my name—let me hear you—"
"Michael—oh—" The orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls clenching hard around your fingers, your thighs snapping shut as you rode out the waves. You couldn't hold back the moan that spilled from your lips—guttural and uncontrolled and so, so loud in the quiet of your bedroom.
You heard him make a sound like he'd been punched—broken and desperate. "Oh god—d-did you just—did you come? Did you actually just—"
"Mmhm," you managed, still trembling, your voice wrecked. "So hard, Michael. Came so hard for you."
"Oh f-fuck—" The word came out stuttered, reverent, like he'd never said it before in this context and wasn't sure he was allowed. "I've never—no one's ever—that was the most intense thing I've ever heard in my entire life, I—"
He was still stroking, you could hear it—the slick, obscene sound of his fist working his shaft, faster now, more urgent. His breathing had gone completely ragged, punctuated by these tiny whimpering moans he seemed to be trying to swallow.
"Don't stop," you breathed, coming down slowly, your body still pulsing with aftershocks. "Keep touching yourself. I want to hear you finish."
"I've never had anyone listen to me before," he admitted, his voice thin and strained. "When I'm alone I have to be so quiet, my brothers are always in the next room and I—ngh—I always imagine someone wanting to hear me, wanting to know what I sound like when I lose control and I—"
"And what do you sound like, Michael?" You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone tight against your ear. "Let me hear the real you."
A broken gasp. His hand sped up, the wet sounds growing louder, more rhythmic.
"I sound like—hahh—like this. Like I can't breathe. Like I'm losing my mind over someone I've never even met and it's—it's driving me insane—"
"Tell me what you're thinking about. Right now. What's making you so turned on?"
"I'm thinking about—" He broke off with a whine, and you could hear him struggling, his shyness warring with the pleasure coiling tight in his belly. "I'm thinking about your fingers inside you. How wet you must be. That you are a complete stranger. That I am unraveling for.” You could hear him gasping for breath, the phone was so close to his mouth.
“I want to—I want to taste it. I want to put my mouth on you and lick you until you're screaming my name again and again—"
"Michael—"
"No one's ever let me—" His voice cracked, raw and exposed. "I've thought about it so much. Going down on a woman. Having her grab my hair and use my face and I just—oh god, I'm so close, Y/N, I'm so close—"
"Then tell me what else you'd do to me." You slipped your fingers back inside yourself, still slick and sensitive, and the sensation made you gasp.
"Tell me everything. Don't be shy anymore."
A shuddering exhale. "I want to—I want to push into you so slowly. Make you feel every inch."
He was babbling now, the words tumbling out faster than he could filter them. "I want to watch your face when I first enter you, when you feel how hard I am for you. I've never—I've never been inside anyone before and I want it to be you, I want you to be the first pussy I ever feel clenching around my cock and I—"
He stopped abruptly, and you could practically hear him blushing through the phone. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—that word—I—"
"Don't apologize. We’re in the moment" You were grinding against your own hand now, impossibly turned on again. "Say it again."
"I want to—" He swallowed hard.
"I want to feel your pussy around me. Is that—is that okay to say? It feels so dirty when I say it out loud. Dirtier than when I think it alone in my bed. It makes me even harder, knowing you're hearing me say these words."
"Good. Keep going. What else would you do?"
"I'd—I'd flip you over." His voice dropped lower, gaining confidence even as it shook with need. "Pin you down. Take you from behind so I could watch you—watch your body move every time I thrust into you. Would you like that? Would you let me be a little rough with you?"
"Yes," you moaned. "God, yes."
"I've never been rough before. I've never even had the chance to find out what I like but I think—I think I'd like that. Holding you down. Making you take it. Feeling you get wetter and wetter every time I—every time my hips snap against your ass and I can hear the sound of our skin slapping together—"
"Fuck, Michael—"
"Am I doing this right?" he asked suddenly, his voice turning vulnerable again, that sweet uncertainty creeping back in.
"Am I—am I being sexy enough? I don't know what I'm doing, I've never talked to anyone like this and I—"
"You're perfect," you gasped. "You're so fucking perfect, don't you dare stop."
"Really?" The word came out like a prayer, awed and disbelieving.
"You really think—no one's ever told me I was—I'm always too quiet, too soft, too weird but when you say it like that I almost believe I could be—"
"You could be what? Tell me."
"Good at this." His rhythm faltered, growing erratic.
"Good at making you feel good. I've imagined it so many times, practiced in my head what I'd say if I ever had a woman who wanted me to talk to her while I touched her and ahh—hahh—now that I'm actually doing it I can't stop, the words just keep coming out and they're so filthy but it feels so right when you're listening—"
"Because you were made for this." You pressed your palm against your mound, grinding in tight circles.
"The shy boy who says the filthiest things when the lights go out."
"Oh god—oh god oh god—" His breathing had reached a pitch of desperation, each exhale a miniature moan he couldn't seem to contain.
"I'm gonna—I can't hold it anymore, please, Y/N, please let me come, I'll do anything, I'll say anything you want, just please—"
"Tell me something you've never told anyone."
"I think about—ngh—I think about someone watching me. While I touch myself. I want them to see how desperate I get, how pathetic I look when I'm chasing my release and I can't find it and I'm whimpering and begging and—I want them to see what you've done to me. I want you to see what you've done to me."
"Michael, come for me."
The sound he made, this raw, transcendent keen that seemed to tear itself from somewhere deep in his chest, would stay with you forever. You heard the rhythm of his hand stutter, then seize, then stop entirely as he let out a strangled series of moans, each one higher than the last.
"Oh—oh fuck, I'm—Y/N, I'm coming, a-all all over my stomach, it's so much, you made me come so much, I—ahhh—mmph—" It sounded like the receiver dropped for a moment
"Michael," you whispered, and you came again too, your second orgasm rolling through you softer but no less devastating than the first.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.
His gasps were ragged and uneven, yours shaky and light, and the silence between you felt sacred somehow.
Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "That was... that was my first time. Doing that with someone."
"Really?"
"I've never trusted anyone enough to let them hear me like that." You could hear him shifting, probably reaching for something to clean himself with. "I can't believe some of the things I said. It felt good to do it though. Did I really call it my—my cock?"
You laughed, warm and genuine. "You did."
"Oh god." A soft thump, like he'd dropped his head back against the pillow. "I've never even said that word out loud before. Not in that context. I’ve heard it in porn films. And… I said I wanted to feel your—your—"
"Pussy," you supplied helpfully.
He made a noise like he was dying. "Please don't say it again. I am going to die of embarrassment when I wake up in the morning and realise how vulnerable I have been with you on the phone tonight.”
"Don't you dare be embarrassed." You rolled onto your stomach, pressing the phone against your ear like you could somehow get closer to him through it.
"Michael, that was beautiful."
"Beautiful?" You heard the skepticism in his voice, the way he couldn't quite believe you meant it. "I sounded like... I don't know. Some kind of animal."
"You sounded like someone who felt good. Someone who let himself feel good for maybe the first time." You traced idle patterns on your sheets, your body still humming. "That's not embarrassing. It's normal to want release Sometimes you just need a good excuse to get it."
He was quiet for a moment, and you could hear him moving—probably pulling his pajamas back into place, wiping his stomach with whatever he'd grabbed. The domestic reality of the aftermath, the part they never showed in movies.
"I can't believe my father's BIGGEST artist just came while thinking about me," you said, a smile in your voice. "The Epic and CBS executives would have a heart attack if they were somehow to know."
"Oh, stop." But you could hear him smiling too now, that shy little laugh escaping him. "You're going to give me a complex. I'm never going to be able to look your father in the eye again."
"He'll just think you're being your usual quiet self. Little does he know his star performer has quite the mouth on him when he wants to."
"Y/N!" The indignation in his voice was undercut entirely by the laugh he couldn't suppress. "You're terrible. You're absolutely terrible and I—"
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. "I really liked talking to you. Before the... you know. And after. I like your voice."
"I like yours." You hugged your pillow closer. "Even more now that I know what it sounds like when you fall apart."
A soft groan. "You're not going to let me live this down, are you?"
"Not ever."
You heard him shift again, settling back into his pillows, and the intimacy of the sound struck you—how domestic this was, how comfortable, for two people who had never even seen each other in person.
"When can I see you?" The question slipped out before you could second-guess it.
Michael went still. "You want to see me? After... I mean, you've heard me now. You know I'm not exactly—"
"Michael." You cut him off firmly. "I want to see you. I want to sit across from you and watch your face when you talk. I want to know if you gesture with your hands when you get excited about something. I want to see your Walt Disney World toy train set in person. I want to feel what its like to cuddle up next to you on the couch whilst we watch a scary movie. I want to see what you look like when you blush, because I have a feeling you're blushing right now."
"I am not," he lied, his voice pitching higher in that way that told you he absolutely was.
"Liar."
"Maybe a little." A pause. "I'm free this Saturday. If you wanted to—maybe we could get coffee? Or tea? I don't really drink coffee. It makes me jittery."
"Tea sounds perfect." Your heart was pounding again, but this time with anticipation, not nerves. He’d finally see you in the flesh and not just in picture, or your voice on the other end of the receiver.
"There's a little place in Studio City. Very quiet, very private. No one would bother us." You spoke up after a brief moment of silent thought.
"How do you know I don't want people to bother us?" His tone was teasing now, surprising you both. "I'm a superstar, you know. I have an image to maintain."
"Is that right? Because from what I just heard, superstar, you—"
"If you finish that sentence, I'm hanging up this phone and changing my number and telling your father you're delusional."
You laughed, bright and real and full of something that felt dangerously close to hope. "Fine, fine. I'll be good."
"I sincerely doubt that."
Saturday felt impossibly far away. You had three days to get through, three days of classes and shifts at the hospital and pretending you were a normal person when all you could think about was the boy with the honey voice who'd whispered filthy things in your ear like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to listen.
"Y/N?" His voice pulled you back to the present.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For calling. For removing me from my mundane and lonely reality. It isn’t all its cracked up to be… being famous." He said it so earnestly, so sweetly, that your chest ached with it.
"I've never felt this comfortable with someone. Usually I'm so worried about saying the wrong thing, or being too weird, or making people feel awkward—"
"You could never make me feel awkward, Michael."
"No?" You could hear the smile in his voice, that tentative hope blooming again. "Not even when I said I wanted to—"
"Okay, goodnight, Michael!" you half yelled, feeling embarrassment gurgle in your belly once more. You didn’t want to rehash just how dirty you had both been.
His laugh was your favorite sound now—bright and breathy and completely unguarded. You wanted to bottle it. You wanted to fall asleep to it every single night.
"Goodnight, Y/N." A pause, weighted with everything neither of you knew how to say yet.
"Dream of me?"
"Only if you dream of me."
"I already know I will." And then, softer: "I think I started the moment you said hello."
The line went dead, and you held the receiver against your chest for a long time, listening to the dial tone, smiling at the ceiling. What on earth did your crazy and direct personality get you into?
* ˚ ✶ content/warnings: angstyyy, mean michael with a mean reader, NASTY AND HATEFUL SMUT, rivals to lovers, inaccurate details lowkey, slowburn till it gets real spicy, setting takes place at the infamous 1984 Grammys night
* ˚ ✶ WC: 10k (oops)
* ˚ ✶ A/N: this is so long and i debated making this into multiple parts, but i wanted y'all to EAT the tension. comment how you feel about their dynamic because i was ready to punch them both and i was the writer mind you...
﹏﹏﹏
CELEBRATORY DINNER
Michael rolls his eyes, masking his annoyed look behind his glasses. He spots you across the room, shaking hands with your fellow colleagues in the room. It was a few days after the 26th Annual Grammys, and all the Grammy-award-winning artists were invited to a celebratory dinner. Michael would be content with his victory, as he broke the record and won eight awards that night for his album, Thriller. The problem? You also won eight awards for your album.
Everyone in the room was shocked- a record like that has never been broken, let alone twice in one night. Michael remembers biting his bottom lip so hard that he drew blood as you walked onstage, a smirk planted on your face as you accepted the award and gave a short yet detailed speech. He would’ve been happy if it were someone else, don’t get it twisted. He isn’t that selfish. However, when it comes to you, he’s the most selfish he can be.
﹏﹏﹏
5 YEARS AGO
The competition between the two of you began a few years back, before he released his first solo album. He remembers the first time you met so vividly, more than he should, honestly. He was in Las Vegas for a performance with his brothers and had visited the venue a few nights prior. He walked inside with his security guard, Bill, ready to take a small tour, before a voice so melodic and powerful stopped him in his tracks. His brows furrow, running his hands down his pants before he walks to where the singing comes from. His breath hitches slightly, watching as you pace back and forth on the stage.
“Guys, let’s fix the light on this part of the stage. I want the center to be on me.” You spoke into the microphone, and people nodded to your orders as they adjusted the light. Michael squints his eyes, making sure his vision wasn’t deceiving him.
“Is that-“ Bill begins, and Michael hums, interrupting him.
“Yes, that’s her.”
The Jackson family knew who you were, too well. You were a year younger than Michael, and your success had been skyrocketing off the roof and into the stars, not backing down. You released a single at the same time as them, and it beat them on the charts by one place—number one, to be exact. You were interviewed by some reporters who asked how you felt about beating the talented and famous Jacksons.
You shrugged your shoulders, brushing your hair out of your face, feeling indifferent to the question. “Well, what can I say? Maybe they’re outdated compared to the new type of music the world wants these days.” The family fumed as your response sat on the front page of the newspapers for weeks. Outdated? The Jacksons? Never. Michael replayed the clip over and over, using it as a motivation as he worked on his album, Off the Wall, during his nights. Michael never wanted to be outdated; he wanted to be timeless. He wanted to make sure his music would live on forever. He knew this wouldn’t happen if he kept just making music with his brothers, so he released his studio album and was proud of the success. He would nod as reporters pointed out how his singles were charting the billboards, not missing how they’d be boldly asking how he felt beating your record.
“I want to be timeless. I think this album does an amazing job at this.” Michael would respond, hinting at your remark in the press. You rolled your eyes as you watched the interview, cigarette in hand, as your knee bounced up and down, as his soft yet taunting voice filled the silence in your living room.
Michael Jackson was talented; you could confidently admit that. But God, he was so egotistical, just like every other man in the music industry. You were above all the other women in the music industry; you were proud of that. But being a woman kept you from rising above on the latter any further, and your recent single was a barrier you were proud to break. Everyone comparing you to the Jacksons ticked you off. It made it seem like your talent always had to be compared to men. This led you to build a small resentment for the group, one you’d never actually say out loud. Or so you thought.
You take a small break from your rehearsal, irritated at your team’s inability to comply. You needed this tour to be perfect, and opening in Las Vegas was the ultimate masterpiece move to ensure you’d secure sales for your upcoming album. Your assistant comes up to you and nods his head at two people, just feet away from the stage. You recognized the shadow just by a single glance, and it made your insides begin to swarm. Annoyance, shock, and attraction all in one, and you hated every single lustful flutter.
“Well, look at what the damn cat dragged in.”
Michael lets out a laugh, walking down towards the center of the room, closer and closer to you. “More like the press. Your press, to be exact.”
You let out a satisfactory hum. “Is that so?”
Michael nods, looking around, mentally noting the details of your stage. He noticed how the stage light perfectly highlighted your features. He wanted that same effect, plus more. You noticed him studying and pointed to your crew member, giving him a warning look. He stops the effects altogether, directing another crew member to turn the lights on. Michael laughs, shaking his head as he smirks at Bill. “I’m not here to steal your ideas, girl. I was just in town, you know, for our three sold-out nights coming up.”
You scoff, wiping the sweat off your forehead as you walk to the edge of the stage, eyeing Michael carefully. “How pitiful it must be, to not be able to sell it out yourself. It seems you still have to have your brothers by your side to keep going.”
Michael’s eyes widen in surprise at your venomous words. He didn’t expect kindness out of you, maybe cordial words, yes, but this? This was pure disrespect. A level of disrespect so deep that he was scared that biting his tongue wouldn’t do enough justice to help him suppress his resentment towards you.
You smirk, taking a seat and crossing your legs. “Did I hit a nerve? I’m sorry, I forgot I wasn’t in an interview.”
“Why must you be so mean? I’ve never once said anything to make you dislike me.”
“Oh, I don’t dislike you, poor thing. I’m just not passing out like every other woman out there, and it seems that bothers you, which bothers me.” You respond, shrugging your shoulders.
﹏﹏﹏
WEEKS BEFORE GRAMMYS CELEBRATION DINNER
And since that moment, Michael has disliked your name, your face, and even your music. It was hard to avoid you, given your growing fame. Your music was beginning to stream everywhere, competing alongside other big names on radios and in shopping malls, and even his workers were playing your songs.
There was a recent moment, a few weeks before the Grammys night, when the two of you were set to be a part of a photoshoot together, meant to commemorate the world’s current big stars. You declined at first, not wanting to share any space with him, but your manager insisted it’d introduce you to another world of business. “Sponsorships,” she called it. You accepted, wanting no unnecessary contact with him before the shoot.
Michael felt the same, probably even worse. He practically begged his manager not to let him do the shoot. He reminded his team that he wanted to do no press for this album; he wanted to go big because people truly loved his music.
“This will look good for the members of the voting committee, Michael.” He was told, and if it weren’t for his mother next to him, he’d throw everything in front of him on the floor. They had a point, and he knew this too. The only detail keeping him from being completely grateful for the opportunity was the fact that he’d have to share it with you.
The day came, and the two of you arrived minutes apart. You walked into the building, sunglasses on, while you signed some documents your assistant was handing to you. You look up, Michael’s gaze on you. He tightens his lips, fingers fidgeting with one another as you walk past him without a double look. Once again, he didn’t expect you to hug him or be so interested. But it’d been years since he’d last seen you, and he expected at least a greeting.
“Fine, let it be that way.” He mutters under his breath, following behind you. He pretends not to notice the sway of your hips, the way they move so beautifully as you take each step. He puts on his sunglasses, using that to cover the fact that his eyes couldn’t stay off of you. You were mean, a very rude thing, but you were so beautiful. Michael’s exact type. He would’ve asked you out long ago if it weren’t for the weight of your cold heart. His cock hardens at the thought of gripping your hips under his touch, using all his force to pound into you mercilessly. He shakes his head. Why is he thinking like this? He hates you.
He walks into the office and finds you reading a document. Your assistant looks up, gulping at Michael as he sits across from you. “Hello, Mr. Jackson.”
“Please. Call me Michael. We’ll be working together for some time, I see.” Michael curtly smiles at your assistant, and you take your glasses off, rolling your eyes.
“Since when were you a Michael lunatic?” You turn to your assistant, irritation creeping up on your skin. The last thing you needed was an acquaintance formed between your worker and your pesky colleague.
“I’m not.” Your assistant whispers, a hint of fear and regret laced in his tone.
“Good. Keep it that way.” You sharply say, turning to give Michael an annoyed look.
“How are you?” Michael asks, and your breath hitches. His words would carry purity to them if he meant them. However, you know he wasn’t interested in your well-being. He was interested in your downfall, to see you crumble and call it quits forever.
“Better than ever.”
“You won’t even ask how I’m doing?”
You shake your head, feigning a look of innocence. “No. Because I don’t care how you’re doing.”
The room is silent, the air conditioning being the only noise either of you wishes you could really focus on. Instead, for you, your eyes rake over Michael’s ungloved hand. The veins in his hand begin to emerge, anger laced in between them. You shift your legs slightly, choosing not to focus on the wetness beginning to drip from your core. His hair was so perfectly styled against his face that it stood no chance against the flyaways standing out from yours.
You knew about his burn incident weeks prior, and you wished you hadn’t felt the sharp pang in your chest as you looked at the pictures of him in the hospital. Your team advised you to send flowers, a “comprising gift,” they referred to it as. You declined.
He looked so damn good, and he knew that. He sat there, proud as ever, as he focused on the emotion behind your eyes. He knew the true meaning behind your eyes. It was behind his. He had no shame, raking his eyes down your face, to your chest. He bites his bottom lip, looking away from your cleavage and to the door.
You sit in silence for almost half an hour, humming along to a popular song on the radio (your song), and continue signing documents. Michael takes glances at you, staring at the concentration in your eyebrows, at the shape of your lip as you bite it occasionally. He watches the flicker in your lashes, noticing how real you look in front of him. No makeup, no costumes, no words. Just you in silence.
The door opens, and you look up, setting your pen down as you stand to shake the editor’s hand. “Hi.”
You exchange names, and she smiles at you. “Thank you for accepting. The both of you. This will help you both succeed much further.”
“I’m glad I can help.” You laugh, and Michael gives a sarcastic laugh, shaking the editor’s hand as you all walk out.
“Okay. Here’s the plan. You’ll be wearing a few different outfits, most of which will match. Mr. Jackson, we got the approving list.” You turn to Michael, eyes twinkling with confusion. He got to give restrictions?
“I’m sorry. A list?” You huff.
The editor, Ellen, looks between the two of you, confusion in her eyes as she licks her lips. “Yes, Mr. Jackson sent a list on behalf of both of you.”
Your mouth parts, and your breathing becomes more aggressive and defensive. Michael lets out a soft laugh, hands on his hips as he watches your face crumble. Smile. You don’t want him to see you fall apart. “That’s correct, my apologies. It seems I may have forgotten.”
The editor smiles, points to your dressing rooms, and introduces you to your makeup and hair artists. You get familiar with the people and the room, taking a seat in front of the vanity mirror. You shake your head, turning to your assistant. “I hate his guts.”
Your assistant nods, crossing his feet. He doesn’t say anything; he knows better than to. So he stands there, listening to your pessimistic rantings. He wants to roll his eyes. Just fuck already, is what he wants to truly say. Instead, he hums, nodding his head to every single thing you spit out. You’re interrupted by your makeup artist, who smiles at you as she begins to shade-match your skin complexion with the makeup in her hands. You build a conversation, making the process go faster and much more smoothly. You almost forget what this photoshoot was for, and who it was with, before she applies lipstick on your mouth and whispers, “This will go so perfectly with Mr. Michael’s cheek colors.”
You let out an unsatisfactory groan. “Right.”
Michael, across the room, listened attentively to his makeup crew. He was a perfectionist and wanted meticulous attention to detail in his makeup. He, more specifically, however, wanted to make sure the discoloration in his face wasn’t evident. He wanted even strokes and shade, to ensure no one could see it at all. He didn’t want anyone to see the unevenness in his tone; it was an insecurity he had built up over the years. He didn’t want you, out of all people, to notice it up close.
It was hours later, and you two were finally dressed and in your makeup. You take a look at your first outfit. It’s a beautiful, brown leather dress, one that matches Michael’s brown leather jacket. You run your hands down your sides, pitching at the tight leather. You weren’t typically insecure; you loved your body and knew you captured most people's attention when you walked into a room. But for some reason, right now, you felt uncomfortable. The leather against your skin made you feel suffocated, and the blue details in your hair made you feel like a prop. You brushed off the feeling, feigning a smile in the mirror before walking out of the room and into the crowd of crewmembers adjusting the cameras, lights, and set.
“You look beautiful. That dress looks even better on you.” Ellen exclaims, clapping as you give her a small smile. You spot Michael walking towards both of you, and you pretend that the sight of him in casual attire doesn’t affect you. Your outfits match well together, and if you weren’t familiar with the distaste you both had for one another, you could easily look like a married couple. However, that wasn’t the case, and you suppress a roll of eyes as he does a spin.
“This jacket is beautiful. I almost want to keep it.” Ellen laughs, walking you both under the lights.
“We’ll start with some duo pictures, and then take some solo shots after. Once we’re done, we’ll review them and decide whether to do retakes. Got it?” You both nod and stand awkwardly next to one another.
Michael hums, inspecting every detail of you from head to toe. A small smirk crept on his face as he ran a finger on your waist. “You dress up nice.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes as you take a step away from him, crossing your eyes. “This dress is ridiculous. It doesn’t look right on me whatsoever.”
“Maybe it’s you that makes it look ‘wrong’, because the dress is beautiful.” Michael hums, shrugging his shoulder as he fidgets with his gloved hand.
You nod, looking down at your feet. Michael was right, it was a beautiful dress, but it just didn’t look good on you. You keep quiet, licking your lip as you clear your throat. “I guess you’re right about that one. First thing you’re ever right about.”
Michael slows his movements, and regret fills his body. He notices the crack in your voice as you speak, and he feels horrible. He thought you’d give him a smart remark back, but instead, you gave him a hurtful look. “I didn’t mea-“
“You said what you said, don’t take it back.” You interrupted him, giving the makeup artist who was touching up your makeup a small smile. You don’t speak after that, scared you’ll give away any more vulnerability. The artist walks away, leaving you and Michael in your space once again. Ellen yells some directions, so Michael grabs your waist. You pretend your skin isn’t heating to a perfect temperature under his touch, a touch you hate yet yearn for.
“Perfect! Now, Michael, look at her like you’re proud of her. Remember, the goal is to capture success, wealth, and respect.” Ellen voices, and you nod your head. You take your free hand and wrap it around Michael’s shoulder, and look up at Michael. The camera flashes, and you smile at Michael. A smile that Michael looks down on, noticing the fact that it doesn’t reach your eyes as it should. Instead, it carries resentment. Hurt. Pain. His stomach drops, and it takes every fiber in his body to stop him from calling the flashes off. He feels uneasy, and he hates that he does.
The flashes stop, Ellen announcing a five-minute break. You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and quickly walk away from the center, and to the back, where your assistant hands you a cup of apple cider juice. “Thanks.”
Unbeknownst to you, Michael’s watching you intensely. He notices the quiver in your lip as you talk with your assistant, the shaking of your hand as you take small breaths. It seemed like you were panciking, and despite the regret seeping deep in his heart, he stood where he was. He didn’t move, not to apologize, or to distract himself. Instead, he kept his eyes on you, even as you walked back and took your place beside him. You turn to Michael and give him a sharp look. “Going to comment on how ugly my makeup looks? Or is that for the next session?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Michael defends, crossing his arms. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t apologize; he knew he needed to. You just made it so damn hard to.
Ellen comes up to both of you and smiles. “The pictures look great. Now, I want you,” she turns to you, “to grab onto Michael’s shoulders as he sits. Michael, grab her hand and smile. You both are going to look so perfect.” You give her a small smile and take a step back as a crew member sets a chair, and Michael sits down. You wipe your hands on the back of your dress and stand behind Michael. You take in his scent, filled with a sweet and intoxicating scent, which distracted you from the fact that you were mad at him.
“Stop smelling me.” Michael hums, and you scoff. You lightly set your hands on his shoulders, putting on a smile as the flashes begin. Michael grips onto your hand, looking up at you and smiling. You look at him for a second, and the look he gives you makes you want to slap him. He stared at you like you were prey, and to him, that’s what you were. The camera clicks continued, and you looked back up, smiling into the camera.
“More eye contact with each other, please! Michael, don’t squeeze her hand, it looks purple through here.” Thank you. Michael lets go slightly, and the pain subsides.
“Do you genuinely like seeing me in pain?” You say through your teeth, fluttering your lashes as they continue to take pictures.
“Seeing you beneath me keeps me going, girl. Get it through your skull.” Michael responds, and your knees buckle. You harden your grip on his shoulder, smirking softly as he lets out a rasped breath.
“Amazing. Now, outfit change. 15 minutes.” Ellen instructs, and you pinch Michael’s shoulder before bending down to his ear.
“You’ll be kissing my feet one of these days, Michael Jackson. Remember that before you decide to use your ego on me.”
Michael grunts, watching as you walk away and into your dressing room. He stands, taking his jacket off and placing it over his hard-on before slamming his dressing room door open, letting out a breath. Why did you have that effect on him?
You undress and put on a teal suit, a color that was meant to radiate tranquility. Instead, it just reminded you of the insecurity laced in your spirit. You hated feeling this way, and most of all, hated that you felt this way because of him. You come out of the dressing room, standing behind the camera as Michael takes his solo shots. You focus on anything but him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admiration that everyone else on this set gives him.
“Great. Your turn.” Ellen points to you, and you walk past him, taking a seat in the beautiful red chair that matches your lipstick. Your suit is meant to represent “fuck the stigma,” but instead, it makes it seem like you’re falling right into the stigma. Michael looks at you, nodding.
You smile into the camera, leaning back as you lick your lips and let the flashes distract you from the fact that Michael is staring at you, more like focusing on every imperfection of you based on the judgment in his eyes. Nonetheless, you finish your part and move to another background, where it comes to posing with Michael.
You sit next to one another, watching as the crew works on staging the light just right. Michael clears his throat and looks at you. He opens his mouth, and despite the seriousness in your face, he is ready to let him say what he needs to say, but he can’t speak. He’s frozen, unable to speak.
“You won’t ever be timeless with that damn attitude. You put on a facade, fooling every single folk out there who listens to your music. They don’t know the real you.”
“Tell me, darling, what’s the real me?” Michael hums.
“A real dog piece of crap. You’re a bully, an egotistical man ready to ambush anyone willing to take any sort of spotlight away from you. Unlucky for you, that person happens to be me. A younger girl.”
Michael stares at you, gripping onto the armrest beneath him. He wanted to hurt you, make you cry, anything to shut you up. And so he venomously says, “Exactly. So stay where you’re at. Don’t try to ignite a fire where a fire already burns. You’ll just be a waste.”
Your breath hitches, and Michael turns, leaving you completely silent.
The rest of the shoot goes silent between the two of you, playing your parts as you work together to look good for the cameras, quickly pulling away when Ellen yells, “Done!” You change back into your clothes, removing your makeup, and request to be alone. Your assistant complies, leaving the door slightly open as he walks away. You look to the door, waiting for him to leave before biting your lip, watching through the mirror as your eyes begin to tear, and you close them. The tears fall, and you cover your mouth as you sob. This shoot, despite the constant compliments and reassurance that it was perfect, you felt angry and ugly. You hated the clothes against your skin, the fact that you were in a hairstyle you’d never wear willingly, and most of all, paired up with the one you hate the most. You continue to sob, wiping away the rest of your makeup before dropping the wipe onto the vanity and tucking your face into your hands.
Michael walks to your door, peeking through the space. He hears your sobs. He knows them all too well. He knows the feeling of crying after hearing constant consolation. However, he felt horrible. He felt like garbage. He knew you were in that state because of him. He took it upon his own liberty to make it up to you by speaking highly of you in his portion of the solo interview.
“She’s a very talented young woman. Her music is amazing, and her ideas are so intelligent. They’ve definitely inspired me. My brothers and I carry so much respect for her, despite all the press forcing us to hate each other.” He quoted, clawing at his pants as he practically had to make sure his heart wouldn’t stop beating as he said the words. They weren’t a 100% lie; he just hated that he even had to say something like that.
He debated knocking on your door, wanting to give you an apology, but instead, gave you one last look before walking off. You, on the other hand, pull your hands away from your face and smirk. You heard footsteps as soon as you placed your head in your hands, and took a small peek from under your eyes as Michael stood there and watched you. Your assistant had warned you that Michael would say some good things about you in the interview. You, on the other hand? You didn’t hold back.
“Michael, like every other man, hates to see a woman succeed. I mean, you can be timeless without putting others down. Jackson is the king in ensuring that he’s the saint in every situation. I mean, how jealous can you be? You’re allowed to share. I mean, that just shows the privilege he carries. He makes good music, I guess. But as a person? He’s difficult to work with, and I’ve only met him twice.”
﹏﹏﹏
MORNING AFTER GRAMMY NIGHT
The magazine and interview came out the morning after the Grammys, and Michael fumed. And I mean fumed. His family had never seen him slam doors so hard. He didn’t even greet his animal friends as he walked past them and into the backseat of his car. He was furious. He had spoken so well of you, even willing to lie to his family, and look at how you repaid him? You probably faked crying, he thought. He ignored the look of his family as he walked up and down the stairs, figuring out ways to get you back. Bill looked at him through the mirror, watching the sweat begin to build up above Michael’s lip as he bit it.
He had milestones to be proud of- that should’ve been his focus. Instead? He ripped apart every single copy of the magazine they had sent him. He kept one, however. He felt mad at the biological aspect of his body as he raked his dark eyes over your body. God, you were beautiful. In the pictures together, you two could’ve fooled anyone living under a rock and could say you two were in love, and they’d believe it. Michael hated the effect you had on his body, and that just made him despise you more than ever.
You, on the other hand, looked at your Grammys sitting in a perfect line at the top of your dresser. You drank the champagne in your hand, humming along to a Bruce Springsteen song as you looked through the magazine over and over again. Not only did you look better than you thought, but Michael had fallen into your trap. Although his words did hit a tiny spot, you knew he would feel bad and make up for it in the most cowardly and noble way possible. You traced your manicured fingers along his quotes, smiling. Maybe he was lying, maybe he was finally being honest. Either way, none of it mattered. You had eight Grammy awards in front of you, ready to be cleaned and placed in a cabinet. Oh, and an outfit and speech to prepare for the celebratory dinner that’d take place in a couple of nights.
﹏﹏﹏
CELEBRATORY DINNER
You approach Michael, and smirk as the cameras follow both of you. You rake your eyes over his body, a detailed jacket similar to the one he wore a few nights ago, reminding you of the very reason you decided to dramatize your look today. “Hello, Mr. Jackson.”
Michael leans in, feigning a formal cheek-kiss as the cameras click, harshly gripping onto your arm. “Save the dramatics, young thing. You already won.”
“Oh, honey, but we both did.” You pull away, grabbing his hand on you and interlacing it with yours, turning to smile at the camera. They move away to another guest, and you drop it, rolling your eyes. Michael’s stomach flutters at the nickname you give him, but he tucks that feeling away, focusing on the disdain that sits in his heart.
“Want the truth? I can’t be happy with that night. I don’t think I ever will be. All because of you.”
You place a hand over your heart, brushing away the loose piece of hair from your face. “Does it bother you that much to share such a milestone with a woman?”
Michael laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, please, don’t make it into that. You know perfectly fine why I hate sharing anything with you.”
You shake your head, grabbing a champagne glass off the waiter’s tray and gently sucking the candied cherry, giving it a small pop as you maintain eye contact with Michael’s dark eyes. The look he keeps on you is intense and dangerous, yet promising. “Michael, let go of the theatrics, and enjoy the fact that we’ve made history. If you drop this immature behavior just for one night, so will I, I promise.”
“Nothing about what I want to do to you is immature. I promise you.” Michael leans in, whispering in your ear as he softly pinches your cheek, spinning you as you both greet a member from the committee. You shut out the words from everyone else, focusing on the intentionality behind his words. Threatening, poisonous, and toxic. And yet, your body loved every single syllable that came out of his mouth, and you were more mad at yourself for feeling that way.
You both move on, appreciating the distance as a distraction from the fact that you two didn’t know what you were doing anymore. Michael didn’t care to be cordial or respectful. The things he wanted to do to you, the way he wanted to bend you over and pound into you roughly without mercy, the way he wanted to pull on your hair, putting pressure on your neck to the point where you’d beg him to stop, yet pull his hands back onto your neck if he dared to pull away. The looks he gave from across the room should’ve been forbidden. It carried lust, heat, and vulnerability. All of which he was willing to submit to just for one night, if it meant his mind would finally get rid of you.
The tables had labels with your names on them, and of course, your names were right beside each other. You took a seat next to him, holding onto your dress as you bent over, wiping away any nonexistent crumbs from the seat, as Michael focused on the softness of your breasts. You smirk, finally sitting and turning to him. “Done being a little crybaby?”
Michael rolls his eyes, giving a small smile to some guests as they walk by him, offering their congratulations. “I’m keeping track of every smart comment you make, by the way.”
“For what?”
Now he turns to you. “So you know how many times you’ll be denied finishing by my hand.”
Your mouth gapes open, and you lose grip of your clutch. It falls onto the floor, and Michael bends down, keeping one hand on the floor and another on your thigh as he presses a kiss near your ankle. He groans softly, sitting back up and placing your clutch on his lap. “You did say I’d be kissing your feet soon, huh? Guess you were right.”
You’re silent, clearing your throat as you push your chair closer to the table. You’ve gone completely speechless, and you hate yourself for it. Michael hums, smirking beside you as he takes a sip of his drink. Most of the night passes by, and it takes every smart neuron in your brain to stop you from running to the bathroom and pleasuring yourself. It seems you still have some common sense.
“Lastly, can we give it up for the record-breaking stars in the house?” Someone speaks into the microphone, and you smile and wave as the camera pans to you, then to Michael. Michael bows his head, waving. The cheers in the room break out of the trance you’ve unfortunately fallen into.
“You two are so young, and already legends to many. How do you do it?” You playfully shrug your shoulders, pointing to Michael as the crowd laughs. You cross your legs, biting your bottom lip as Michael smirks at the camera, wrapping an arm around you. You huff a breath, attempting to scoot away, but instead, Michael grips onto your back harder.
The crowd takes note of every single detail of you both- from your facial expressions to the unintentional matching outfits you two are wearing. They keep your interviews in mind as you smile at each other, confused by the sudden friendliness. You, on the other hand, want to kill Michael. Where did he get the audacity to think he could touch you like that? Why is his grip hardening, becoming warmer and warmer? Despite these thoughts, you don’t push his hand away. Instead, you keep it there, nodding along to the speaker.
“And now, a speech from our record-breaking artists!” You and Michael stand, and Michael takes out his hand, and you look down at it. You turn and spot Lionel Richie sticking out his arm, and you give a smirk to Michael as you grab onto Lionel’s. You hear some gasps around you, but you kiss Lionel on the cheek as you walk onto the stage. Michael stands beside you, grabbing onto your waist. He leans into your ear, and you feel yourself shudder. “You embarrassed me, girl. Another deny tonight.”
You gulp and watch as Michael pulls away, waving kisses to the crowd as he steps onto the podium. He begins his speech, and you don’t care to listen to anything he says. That’s a lie; you just can’t focus on anything besides the way he grips onto the glass podium and licks his lips.
“And of course, I get to stand here a proud and fortunate man alongside this beautiful artist.” Michael turns to you, and you give a small raise of your eyebrows, walking to the podium as you softly push Michael away.
“Whatever good he said about me just now, I agree.” You speak, and the crowd laughs. Michael nods his head, biting his lip as he gives a glance at Lionel, rolling his eyes as he keeps his gaze on you.
“I said most of what I meant the other night, in my speeches. But I truly hold so much love and appreciation for my team, family, and friends who supported me on this journey. As a woman, it isn’t easy getting any higher on the ladder in this industry.” You feel your voice crack, and the room focuses on you.
Michael tenses beside you, not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to steal your spotlight by attempting to comfort you, but he also didn’t want to see the press label him as a “jerk” for not giving you any solace.
“For so long, since I started being known, I was always compared to the men in the industry who have come before me. Of course, my respect to them for breaking their own barriers and creating their careers. But, as a woman, it isn’t fair for me to sit there and allow any interviewers to disrespect the career I’ve worked so hard to build.” You turn to Michael and give a small nod. A nod that makes Michael’s breath hitch. That nod, a gesture so minuscule yet so heavy with meaning. It makes Michael’s heart beat faster, confused yet relieved.
“I’m really grateful I’ve won all these awards- they look so good in my house,” you laugh, wiping a small tear away that threatens to fall, “but I’m more proud of myself. Proud that I’ve endured so much, and yet have come here and broken the barrier. A barrier I’m proud to say I’ve broken with the one and only, Michael Jackson.” The crowd literally erupts in screams, standing as you take a step back and laugh. Michael’s eyes slightly widen, shocked at your words. He takes them in, every single syllable entering his body, running like euphoria through his blood. You turn to him, leaning to hug him, pressing a kiss against his cheek. His cock hardens at your touch, twitching as you pull away, smiling as you run your fingers down his arms and into his free hand.
“I never hated him, by the way. You all just took away my words out of context!” You say, blowing a kiss before pulling Michael away and down the stairs, and back into your seats.
Music begins playing, and artists take the chance to group and gossip about what just happened. You grip onto the glass, taking a sip of the champagne. Michael subtly runs his hand over his crotch, wanting to find any friction to stop him from finishing in his pants then and there.
“You must want to see me worship you like you’re the only thing in the world.”
“That’s been the plan all along, sweetheart, I thought you knew.”
Michael hums, keeping a hand on your thigh as you smile at guests who walk by, offering their compliments to you both. He leans into your ear, brushing hair out of your way as he keeps his gaze on your face. “I’m going to ruin you tonight in a way where you’ll be begging for mercy.”
You lick your lips, smiling and pressing a soft and subtle kiss beside Michael’s ear. “What if I like that?”
“Then I don’t want you complaining when you’re not allowed to play with yourself, baby.”
A voice interrupts you both, and Michael begins talking with them. You’re impressed at his ability to act like he wasn’t just the reason your core was practically leaking down your legs. You straighten your posture, pretending not to notice that despite Michael’s attention being on his guest, his hand never left your thigh. You attempted to fidget yourself out of his touch, but he didn’t budge. If anything, it pushed him to keep his hand on you.
The rest of the night goes by in a blur, Michael keeping a grip on you with no shame. You were embarrassed, secretly. You knew the exact judgment you’d receive the same night by the media tabloids, but a part of you didn’t care.
You were having fun, that’s what you reminded yourself whenever you caught yourself smiling a little too hard.
﹏﹏﹏
You closed the door with a bit of aggressiveness, double-checking the lock as you walked to Michael, who was sitting on the bed, glove off and beside him. You throw your clutch and jacket across the chair, sitting in the other, crossing your legs as you throw your head back and keep your gaze on Michael. He invited you to his hotel room, and you refused.
You gave him a small pat on his back, walking to your car and opening the door, closing it a minute later, and walking back, rolling your eyes as Michael stood by his car door, nodding to it as you walked into the back and sat down, ensuring you had enough space from Michael where the cameras wouldn’t capture anthing suspicious, simply cordial respect between two superstars.
You changed your mind once you got to the hotel, giving an excuse that you were “tired,” and Michael hummed, leaving you in the lobby as he walked to his room. You stood there, feeling stupid and confused. You made up your mind an hour later, walking to his room and doing the walk of shame. You knocked softly on his door, sighing as he gave a warm “welcome.”
Michael’s eyes are on you, raking his eyes from your exposed legs to your unblinking eyes. “You had me waiting like a fool.”
“I wasn’t sure if coming up here was a good idea.”
“What makes you say that?” Michael jokes, and you let out a laugh.
Michael stands and takes off his coat. He kicks his shoes off and nods to your heels. You nod your head, carefully taking them off and placing them below the table next to you.
Michael walks to you, crouching down, bringing his lips to your ear. “Nothing about what I want to do with you is a good idea, baby. Catch up.”
You sigh, closing the gap between the two of you. The kiss was fierce, harsh, unloving. It wasn’t soft or filled with relief- it was filled with coldness and shame.
You let out a moan as Michael brings his hand down to your throat, putting pressure on it as you slip your tongue into his mouth. Your nipples harden against your dress, and you bring your hand down to your breast, toying with it as you whimper. Michael notices this, and he immediately tuts, shaking his head as he pulls your hand away. “No touching unless I say so.”
You shake your head, pushing his hand away as you fight to touch yourself, but Michael just watches, using all his force to keep your hand away. You softly groan, his grip hurting. You eventually give in, allowing Michael to take control as he puts pressure back on your neck. “Good girl, baby. I want you all to be compliant after being so mean to me these past few years.”
You close your eyes, the pressure on your neck darkening your vision. Michael hums, letting go as you let out a whine. Michael grabs onto your shoulders, helping you up as he unzips your dress. You stand naked in front of him, and you feel the weight of his words in the past haunt your mind. You instinctively cover your body, and Michael grabs your arms, pulling them away and keeping them next to your legs. “Don’t.”
You stay silent, unsure of what to say.
“You’ve always been the most beautiful woman to me. Always.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.” You spit back, anger lacing into your tone. Michael smirks, and you push him, gripping onto his shirt as you give him a frenzied kiss. Michael groans, allowing your taste to consume him whole. You taste so perfect against him. Your tongues play with his so cohesively, like the rhythm you two created was pre-planned. Maybe in a way, it was. All those years of pent-up tension were finally being expressed, and it felt so good. It wasn’t right, of course, but nobody cared about the ethical dilemmas around here. What was important was how the body chemistry worked out, and Michael appreciated a good beat against his own melodies.
You use all your force Michael’s shirt open, not caring about his whines about how expensive it was. You just cared about running your hands down his chest, his skin so soft against your palms. How can someone with so much disdain in his heart be so physically delicate?
Michael turns you around, laying you on your stomach against the softness of the bed. Michael presses against your shoulder and down to the waistband of your panties, where he brings them down. He stuffs them in his pocket, smirking as he lifts your bottom.
He licks his fingers, moistening them as he runs them down your neck and to your breasts, giving them a hard pinch before bringing them over your exposed pussy. He begins stretching your pussy with one finger, teasing at your whines. “Where’s all that back-talk now, hm?”
You bite Michael’s free hand, scared to make any more noise as he keeps his finger inside your wet hole. He doesn’t move, and your eyes roll back. “Please.”
“That’s more like it.” Michael thrusts his finger in and out, wetness coating his finger. He pushes another in, admiring how much you could take without already cumming. He pushes your limit, inserting another, and begins thrusting again. You cry out, grinding onto his hand, teeth clenching against each other as your clit receives stimulation from Michael’s palm.
“Look at how wet you get from me. Have you been like this the entire time?” Michael whispers in your ear. You know he’s referring to the entirety of your rivalry, and you suppress your remarks. You’re too busy focusing on the stimulation against your core, and how full Michael’s fingers are inside you.
“Oh, Michael.” You loudly whine, and Michael groans, rubbing his clothed cock against the back of your thighs. He begins dry humping you, refraining from doing anything more as your ass thrusts back against his stomach.
“Everything about your body makes me a submissive man. I hate feeling this way. I hate you for making me feel this way. And yet, I’ve never wanted to stay so close to a person like right now.” Michael breathes out, and his words bring more pleasure to you than his actions. You feel your legs begin to shake, and your vision becomes cloudy.
“I’m about to cum, Michael.” You regret it the moment the words leave you, because as soon as your wet walls began to tighten Michael’s fingers, he slides them out, juices flowing down your thighs. You let out a loud grunt, using all your energy to push away from him and turning around, legs still shaking as you sit up.
Michael smirks at you as your face heats up in embarrassment and anger, mostly embarrassment. “You’re a jerk.”
“I warned you, baby. Next time, remember to be nice if you want to cum.” You roll your eyes, and Michael readjusts himself on the bed, crawling to you. He pulls your hair, forcing your mouth open as he slides his tongue into yours, battling for dominance. He brings his hand to your nipple, immediately taking control as you let out a desperate sigh.
He starts pressing wet kisses down your face and into your neck, sucking gently against the softness of your throat, making sure he leaves bruises on you. He brings his tongue down to your breasts, spilling them out of your bra and stuffing his face in between them, humming. “These will be the death of me.”
You let out a breathy gasp, lying back onto the pillow as Michael runs his tongue over your nipples, sucking gently on each breast. You bring your hand down his shoulder, squeezing the muscle you began grinding yourself against him. He lays a hand on your stomach, halting your movements. “Let me eat in peace first, please.”
You whine but comply, holding onto his face as he continues to suck on your breasts, the pleasure becoming a familiar feeling your body knows it could get used to. His tongue builds up a pattern that makes your muscles tighten, feeling your stomach build up with a yearning to release. Michael brings his hand down to your stomach, humming before he pops his mouth off your breast. You whine, shaking your head, pleading incoherent words.
“Poor baby can’t even speak. How much more submissive can you get for me?” Michael smirks, pinching your nipples before standing up, sliding his shirt off his arms and onto the floor.
You keep your hazy gaze on him as he runs his hand down his chest and to the waistband of his pants, zipping the zipper down and pulling them down altogether. His cock springs out, and you have to bite your lip to suppress a humiliating moan from escaping your fevered body. He begins pumping it, and you get on your knees, crawling to him once he directs you to him.
“Suck it for me, fox.” Michael rasps, and you wrap your tongue around the tip, sucking gently before shoving as much as you can fit in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down. Saliva trickles down your mouth and onto the base of his cock messily, but neither of you cares.
Michael brings his hands to the back of your head, pulling gently on your hair into a rhythmic pattern. He hums, and every vibration runs through your body, electrifying every single cell in your body. You bring your hands down to your opening, fingering yourself before Michael harshly grips onto your hair, shaking his head.
“You don’t even deserve to feel pleasure from yourself.” Michael teases, and you let out a desperate moan into his cock, feeling a harsher grip on your face as he bobs you up and down. You feel his cock pulsate in your mouth, and you open your eyes, finding Michael’s eyes rolled back as he bites his lip. You pinch his thigh, and he lets out a rasped whimer. A whimper so beautiful you take it in, memorizing every harmonic note. Michael smirks, thrusting himself into your mouth, appreciating every noise you let out.
Michael thrusts himself into your warm mouth before spilling inside your mouth, keeping your mouth on his cock until it stops twitching.
“Be a good thing for me and swallow it, okay?” Michael grips onto your jaw, and you let out a gasp as you swallow, humming as Michael grips onto your arms, bringing you onto his lap.
Your breathing falls into a calm rhythm, matching Michael’s. You use the quiet to look into Michael’s eyes, looking for any trace of emotion. Your heart isn’t sure what’s looking for, but you see satisfaction, pleasure, and somberness. You bring your fingers across his face, an action so soft, yet Michael’s skin prickles, heart tingeing at your touch. He’s scared, unsure of why he feels so terrified to continue touching your skin. It felt so soft under his touch, perfect even. And Michael didn’t label perfection to just everything.
“You’re ruining me, and I hate you for it,” Michael murmurs, lining up cock to your entrance. He teases your slit, closing his eyes at your moans.
“But I’ve never felt more at home than I do at this moment.”
His cock thrusts into you, the pain hitting you instantly. He stays still, sighing as your head falls onto his chest. You grind onto him, wanting the pleasure to hit you all at once. Michael takes the hint and brings his hands to your hips, gripping them as he begins thrusting into you. It’s a pound so heavy, filling yet your soul feels empty. You shake your head, biting onto Michael’s chest as his ruts inside you make sin look so innocent.
“Please. I need more.” You whine, and Michael hums, quickening his pace. You’re stuffed completely, cock disappearing into your body. Michael moans at the pleasure, every massage working his thighs. The pleasure becomes overbearing, and his muscles begin to spasm. You smile softly, turning the languid movements into frenzied bucks, taking control. You grip onto Michael’s shoulders for support and begin hopping on him, the stimulation overpowering you. Your moans were pornographic, a shameful reaction you’d know you’d regret the next morning, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about the outside world right now, or the sad look in Michael’s eyes; you cared about how good Michael’s cock filled you, every vulnerable thrust swallowing you whole.
“Yes, ride it just like that, my girl. Ride my cock just like that.” Michael hums, and you whine. Every word assuring, every moan filling your ears like a delicious melody you never want to get rid of.
“You’re mine.” You shamefully mutter, and it brings Michael to tears. Your words hit him like a brick, not stopping him for his pleasure, however, and using that to bring him to his finish. His thrusts become messy, and you bring his fingers to your clit, demanding more pleasure. He gives in, and you feel the heat pooling in your back, crawling to your neck, and down your stomach, where your legs begin to shake. Michael nips at your lip, and he licks your tongue, every breathy moan filling him so perfectly.
Your gut tightens, and shockwaves run through your body as you come, and Michael follows, hips stuttering as he lets out a whiny groan, eyes rolling back. He bites your lip, drawing blood and licking it, every tremor making his skin heat up. You fall into his chest, head resting onto him as your knees buckle, Michael’s release running down your thighs. The room is silent, your breath being the only muse as proof of what just happened, setting into reality. You’re still scared to move. Michael hesitantly brings his hands to your face and pulls you to his face.
Your eyes are closed, scared to find anything you don’t want to see in his eyes. However, Michael holds onto your face, whispering, “Open them, please.”
You shake your head at first and feel regret. You open them eventually, and tears spring up to your eyes. “I’m lost.”
Michael nods and bites his bottom lip. “I know.” Your body shakes, silent sobs erupting out of you as you feel every piece of your heart wash away in a lost wind. Michael sits still, allowing your cries to relieve. He doesn’t want to stop you, because he knows you feel that way for a reason, but he feels a sharp pain in his chest.
“We need to talk about this, baby.” Michael pleads, and you wipe your eyes.
“Michael, what is there to say? You hate me. I hate you. That’s it. That’s.. all.” You get off his lap, and Michael’s skin cools without your warmth. You feel the chills crawl down your body, but you shake them off, choosing distance over comfort.
Michael’s silent, because you’re right. He kept replaying that in his head over and over as every kiss and thrust felt familiar against his body. That fueled him to go faster, and now, he regrets it.
“You don’t hate me, and you know that. That’s why you’re searching for that distance right now, isn’t it?”
You shake your head, tears falling down your face. “I will not talk about this with you, I won’t.” You say, and grip onto your dress, heading towards the bathroom. Michael steps in front of you, stopping you from moving any further.
“You do damage to me, that I can admit. But I love it. After tonight, there is nothing better for me out there.”
“This is abuse, Michael. We do nothing but damage each other. That isn’t healthy; this will not work past tonight.”
“Then I may just die if you walk into that door.”
Your heart drops, but you choose yourself. You walk past Michael and go into the bathroom. You turn on the faucet, sobbing as you put on your dress and wash your face. You lay your head against the cold skin, water still running as you pay it no mind. You hear the door open, and your sobs grow louder. After some time, you stand and walk out of the bathroom. The room is empty, no trace of Michael. No trace of anything, besides your heels. You put them on and walk out the door. You close it, leaning against it before you pull out your clutch, and take out a cigarette.
You smoke it as you walk down the halls and downstairs, finding your driver waiting for you at the front. You get inside the car and direct him to your hotel.
You walk into your room, heart empty and cold, as you sit on your bed. You knew you made the right decision, so why does your heart sit in a pile of black liquid, lost and unable to find satisfactory beating?
﹏﹏﹏
Bill groans, shaking his head as he sits beside Michael. “This is a bad idea, son.”
“Everything about her is a bad idea. Hell, she is a bad idea. But I think I want this.”
“You think, or you know?”
Michael doesn’t respond, looking out the window as the car pulls into the side of your hotel. He strolls in, not caring about the cameras and microphones pushed into his face as he rides the elevator and walks to your door. He stands outside it, ear pressed up against the door before he knocks.
“Come in.” He hears, and he assumes you must be waiting for someone. Yet, he walks in, and he finds you reading a newspaper while sipping coffee.
You point to the chair across from you and nod. Michael sits down, silent. He opens his name, breathing out your name before clearing your throat.
“Sign.” You say, handing him a paper.
“NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT,” in big, bold letters. Michael reads over the first and last paragraphs, letting out a laugh.
“You knew I’d come to chase you, didn’t you?”
You hum. “Don’t you always?”
Michael licks his lips, taking the pen from you and signing his name.
“So…” Michael begins, and you softly smile.
“I couldn’t sleep last night. Not because I was tired or sore, but because I sat there, my heart feeling lost. Dumbfounded. And I hate feeling that way. I hate you for making me feel like this. But, I also can’t be apart from you without feeling whole. Seeing you walk into that door made me the happiest I’ve been since you last touched me.”
Michael’s silent, unsure of what to say. What exactly were you trying to say?
You read his mind, because you bite your lip, set down your cup, and let out a shaky breath. “What I’m trying to say is that I still hate you. Maybe I always will. But every touch you linger on me is a molecule that washes in attraction and love, and it scares the shit out of me. But I need more, which means I-“
“You need me.” Michael finishes, and you hesitantly nod. Michael softly smiles, and his soft features build up on his face, making you squirm, but you mirror his smile.
“You’re poison, you know that, girl?” Michael laughs and stands, pulling you into a hug. He leans his forehead against yours and closes his eyes.
“And yet we’re still here.” You whisper.
Michael nods, eyes still closed. His fingers trace your face, familiarizing himself with the face he never wants to stop seeing, kissing, loving. His heart clenches a bit, anxiety and attraction creeping into his system. However, as he holds onto you, he lets out a breath. He’s right where he wants to be, and he can’t complain. You smile against him, eyes admiring his details. You’re in awe of him, of you, but most of all, the will to still yearn for something that isn’t guaranteed to ever work.
— tags : grammys84!michael, established relationship, nsfw, dry humping, riding, smut (ofc), mike is hungryyyyy asf and kinda sub ?
— disclaimer : you know i never get tired of opening tumblr whilst listening to music, because i come up with masterpieces like this… thanks beyonce for feeding my delulu ahh ! i love this mj so bad he looked a lil too hot that night
ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ even after winning every prize at the grammys awards, michael can’t help but focus on his real prize of the evening, especially when she’s looking a little too fine…
████████
the night is a blur of strobe lights and golden statuettes, a dizzying whirlwind of success that should have been the only thing on his mind. but as the 1984 grammy awards draw to a close, michael finds his focus narrowing until the rest of the room is nothing but a distant hum. his heart is thumping against his ribs, not from the adrenaline of the wins, but from the simple, agonizing sight of her standing across the velvet-draped suite.
she is breathtaking—a masterpiece of lace and skin that makes his throat feel tight. he moves through the sea of tuxedoed men and glittering gowns with practiced grace, shaking hands and offering soft-spoken thanks, yet his dark eyes are constantly drifting back to her. he watches the way the light catches the curve of her shoulder, the way her laughter vibrates through the air, and the way her dress clings to her every movement like a second skin.
he’s trying to keep it together, to play the role of the humble victor, but the mask is slipping. as they finally make their way toward the exit, the cool night air hitting them as they move past the final line of security, he can’t resist any longer.
under the dim, amber glow of the hallway, just before they reach the waiting limousine, he steps closer, his movements fluid and feline. he doesn't touch her yet, but the heat radiating from his body is enough to make her breath hitch. he leans down, his lips ghosting over the sensitive shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a low, velvet rasp that sends a shiver straight down her spine.
"i've been watching you all night," he breathes, the words barely a whisper, yet heavy with a hunger he’s been forced to hide for hours. "and i think it’s time we leave the crowd behind."
his hand finally finds her, his fingers splaying across the small of her back with a sudden, firm pressure that leaves no room for misunderstanding. he isn't the shy boy on the stage anymore; the weight of the night has shifted, and as he leads her toward the dark sanctuary of the car, the only thing he’s interested in winning is her.
the heavy door of the limousine clicks shut, sealing out the muffled screams of fans and the persistent flicker of flashbulbs. inside, the world is reduced to the scent of expensive leather, cool air conditioning, and her. the transition from the chaotic brilliance of the shrine auditorium to the dim, hushed intimacy of the car is instant.
michael sinks into the deep plush seat, but he doesn't stay on his side for long. he slides closer, his movements graceful and intentional, until his thigh is pressed firmly against hers. the golden trophies are forgotten on the floor of the car; he has no interest in them now.
"you have no idea," he starts, his voice barely above a whisper, rich with a soft, aching sincerity. he reaches out, his gloved fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw with the lightness of a feather. "i couldn't breathe tonight. every time i looked over at you, i forgot my own name. you were the most beautiful thing in that entire building. no... in the world."
he leans in, his dark eyes searching hers, filled with a raw, shimmering adoration. "i’m so proud of everything we did tonight, but i was just counting the seconds until i could have you all to myself. you look so perfect, it almost hurts to look at you."
his gaze drops to her lips, and the atmosphere in the car shifts. the sweet, romantic praise begins to melt into something much thicker, much more concentrated. his hand moves from her face, sliding down the column of her throat to rest right where her pulse is leaping against her skin. his thumb strokes the hollow of her neck, rhythmic and slow.
"this dress," he mutters, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, grainy rasp. "i’ve been thinking about the way it feels under my hands since the moment you put it on. it’s been driving me out of my mind, sitting there, having to be polite when all i wanted to do was this..."
he leans forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. he doesn't just kiss her; he lingers, his lips pressing firm, warm circles into her skin, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. his other hand finds her waist, pulling her flush against him until there isn't a whisper of space left between them. the "innocent" superstar is gone, replaced by a man who is very aware of the privacy the tinted windows afford them.
"don't move," he groans softly against her skin, his grip tightening just a fraction, possessive and sure. "just let me feel you for a minute. we're not home yet, but i don't know if i can wait that long."
the air inside the limousine is already charged, a heavy static of unspoken desire building between them. she feels his gaze—dark, molten, and focused entirely on her—and she knows exactly what he’s waiting for.
with a slow, deliberate grace, she reaches forward and taps the intercom. she doesn't take her eyes off him as she speaks, her voice dropping into a tone that is smooth, authoritative, and laced with a quiet, honeyed heat.
"sir, close the partition, please. and take the long way home."
the mechanical whir of the glass divider sliding upward is the only sound in the car. as the translucent pane seals them into their own private universe, turning the driver into nothing more than a blurred shadow, michael’s breath catches in his throat.
he absolutely loves it.
a small, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his eyes widening slightly with a mix of surprise and intense heat. he finds it incredibly intoxicating—the way she just took charge, the way she claimed this space for them without a hint of hesitation. it’s a side of her that sets his blood on fire.
"i like when you do that," he whispers, his voice trembling with a new, sharper edge of hunger.
he doesn't wait another second. he lunges forward, not with his usual shyness, but with a sudden, breathtaking hunger. his hands slide up her thighs, gathering the silk of her dress in his palms, his touch firm and demanding. he moves over her, his chest pressing against hers, pinning her back into the soft leather of the seat.
"you want to be alone with me that badly?" he murmurs against her lips, his breathing shallow and quick. "because now that it's just us... i don't plan on letting you go for a very long time."
he buries his hands in her hair, tilting her head back just enough to expose the long, elegant line of her throat. he begins to trail hot, lingering kisses downward, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that makes her toes curl. the velvet interior of the car feels smaller now, hotter, as he focuses entirely on the task of showing her exactly how much he appreciated her command.
the mechanical click of the partition locking into place acts like a starting gun. the silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of his cologne and the frantic beat of two hearts out of sync with the world outside.
michael lets out a low, shaky exhale, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. he’s hovering just inches away, his dark curls shadowing his face, but the heat radiating from him is overwhelming.
"the way you said that..." he rasps, his voice sounding like velvet dragged over gravel. "so bold. so certain."
his hands, still clad in those iconic sequins, begin to wander with a new, frantic purpose. he moves one hand to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, while the other slides down to the hem of her dress. he’s not being gentle anymore; there’s a desperate, starved energy in the way he bunches the silk upward, his palms finding the smooth, warm skin of her thighs.
"you have no idea what you do to me," he mutters, his lips brushing against her jawline as he speaks, each word a warm puff of air that makes her skin tingle. "all night, standing on that stage... people screaming my name... and all i could think about was the way you’d look in the dark. the way you’d feel when no one was watching."
he shifts, moving his weight so he’s practically hovering over her, trapping her between his body and the soft leather of the seat. he begins to trail his lips down her neck, finding that one sensitive spot just below her ear and lingering there. he doesn't just kiss her; he breathes her in, his teeth grazing her skin in a sharp, playful nip that pulls a soft gasp from her throat.
"tell me again," he whispers, his voice dropping into that deep, melodic register that vibrates right through her chest. "tell me what you want me to do now that the world can't see us. don't be shy. not after that."
he pulls back just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze dark and dilated, shimmering with a mix of adoration and pure, unadulterated hunger. he reaches down, his fingers tracing the lace of her undergarments with a slow, torturous precision, his touch firm and knowing.
"i'm all yours," he breathes, a small, possessive smirk playing on his lips. "every bit of me. and i think it’s time i show you exactly what that means."
the interior of the car is sweltering now, the windows beginning to fog as the outside world disappears into a blur of city lights. michael's composure has completely disintegrated, replaced by a raw, focused intensity that is both startling and intoxicating.
he doesn't wait for her to answer with words. his hand slides further, his fingers slipping beneath the edge of the gathered silk, finding the heat he’s been dreaming of all evening. when he feels the slight tremor in her legs, he lets out a jagged, triumphant sound—half-laugh, half-groan—and leans his weight fully into her, pinning her hips against the seat.
"you’re so warm," he breathes, his voice cracking with a desperate sort of hunger. "god, you’re so ready for me, aren't you?"
he begins to move his hand with a slow, rhythmic pressure that is devastatingly precise. he knows exactly how to touch her, his fingers dancing over her skin with the same legendary grace he uses on stage, but here, it’s private, heavy, and drenched in intent. every time a soft sound escapes her lips, he catches it with his own, swallowing her moans and turning them into his own fuel.
his other hand remains locked in her hair, guiding her head back so he can feast on the sight of her. he watches her eyes flutter shut, her head tossing back against the leather, and the sight sends a fresh jolt of electricity through him. he’s never felt more powerful, or more powerless, than he does in this moment.
"look at me," he commands softly, his voice dropping into that commanding, velvet rasp. "open your eyes. i want to see you when i do this."
as she obeys, he quickens the pace, his touch becoming more demanding, more insistent. he’s exploring every curve, every sensitive inch, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles that make her entire body arch toward him. he’s humming now, a low, wordless vibration deep in his throat that echoes the rhythm of his hand.
"we’re almost there," he mutters against the pulse point of her neck, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches. "but i don't think i can make it to the front door. i want to feel you right here, in the dark, while the city drives by."
he shifts his position, his hand moving to the fastening of his own trousers, his gaze never leaving hers. the sweet, shy boy from the television screen is miles away; in the back of this limousine, he is a man possessed, consumed by a love that has turned into something fierce, beautiful, and utterly uncontrollable.
the leather creaks under the weight of his movements as he shifts, his breathing now a series of ragged, uneven hitches that fill the small, darkened space. he doesn't stop his hands for a second; they are everywhere, mapping out her body with a feverish desperation. he slides his palms up her ribs, his thumbs grazing the undersides of her breasts through the thin fabric, feeling the frantic skip of her heart against his skin.
"i've been imagining this since the first standing ovation," he gasps, his voice a strained, beautiful wreck of its former self. "every time they clapped, i just wanted it to be the sound of your skin against mine."
he reaches down, his grip firm and sure as he hooks his hands under her thighs. with a sudden, powerful surge of strength, he lifts her, guiding her until she’s straddling his lap. the sequins of his jacket scratch pleasantly against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his chest. she sinks down onto him, the friction of their bodies meeting through the layers of expensive clothing making him let out a long, broken moan that vibrates through her entire frame.
he buries his face in her chest, his hands sliding down to her hips to anchor her to him, his fingers digging into her skin with a possessive force. he’s looking up at her now, his eyes wide and dark, shimmering with an intensity that is almost overwhelming. he looks like he’s worshipping her, his head tilted back as she begins to move against him, the rhythmic swaying of the limousine adding to the dizzying sensation of the moment.
"yes, right there," he whispers, a low, guttural sound that seems to come from the very depths of him. "don't stop. just like that."
he reaches up, his gloved hand coming to rest on her cheek, his thumb dragging across her lower lip to pull it down slightly. he’s watching her reaction to him, his gaze fixed on the way her expression softens and breaks as she finds her rhythm on top of him. his other hand is busy, sliding back down to find that perfect, aching spot, his fingers working with a frantic, expert precision that makes her world tilt on its axis.
"you're mine," he breathes, the words a fierce, velvet promise against the quiet hum of the tires on the pavement. "completely mine. and i'm never letting you go back to how it was before tonight."
the limousine takes a sharp turn, but neither of them notices the sway of the vehicle. they are locked in their own private orbit, a feverish heat radiating between them that threatens to melt the very air.
now that she’s seated firmly on his lap, the friction is unbearable in the best way possible. michael’s hands are like iron on her hips, his fingers digging into the silk of her dress to hold her exactly where he wants her. he isn't just letting her move; he’s meeting her, arching his hips upward with a slow, grinding rhythm that makes his own breath hitch in a jagged, desperate sob.
"god, you feel so good," he groans, his eyes fluttering shut as he focuses entirely on the sensation of her weight pressing down against him.
through the layers of his tuxedo trousers and her delicate lingerie, the contact is electric. it’s a heavy, rhythmic pressure—a slow, agonizing grind that is perfectly in sync with the low hum of the engine. he begins to move with more urgency now, his lower body pulsing against hers in a steady, demanding pace. the dry friction of the fabric creates a heat so intense it feels like they’re both going to catch fire.
he throws his head back against the leather headrest, his throat exposed, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back a louder cry. his hands slide from her hips to her lower back, pulling her even tighter, leaving absolutely no space for the air to circulate between them.
"just like that... stay right there," he pants, his voice dropping into a desperate, grainy whisper.
every time she moves, every time she grinds her weight down against the hard line of him, he lets out a low, melodic vibration from deep in his chest—a sound that is half-song, half-surrender. his sequins are cold against her skin, but his body is a furnace. he begins to pick up the tempo, his movements becoming more fluid, more frantic, his hips snapping upward to meet her every descent with a raw, unyielding hunger.
"i can't... i can't take it," he mutters, his hands wandering up to her shoulders, his grip tightening as he pulls her down to meet his lips again. "you’re ruining me, you know that? right here in the back of this car... you’re absolutely ruining me."
he’s completely lost to the rhythm now, his eyes glazed with a mixture of love and pure, unfiltered need, his body acting on an instinct that no amount of fame or awards could ever satisfy. turn after turn, light after light, they remain lost in the friction, the heavy, rhythmic thud of their bodies the only music that matters.
michael is past the point of no return. the rhythmic, agonizing friction of her body against his has pushed him to the edge of his sanity. his breathing is no longer just shallow—it’s a series of desperate, broken gasps that hitch in his throat every time she moves. he’s burning up, his skin damp under the layers of his stage outfit, and the silk of her dress feels like a fever against his palms.
his hands slide from her back down to her thighs, his grip tightening until his knuckles are white, his fingers digging into her skin with a raw, primal urgency. he stops his own movement for a split second, his chest heaving as he looks up at her through his messy, sweat-dampened curls. his eyes are dark, dilated, and absolutely starving.
"i can't... i can't do this anymore," he rasps, his voice breaking, sounding completely undone. "the clothes, the fabric... it’s too much. i need to feel you. really feel you."
he doesn't wait for a response. with a sudden, fluid motion, he reaches for the hem of her dress, his hands trembling with a frantic energy. he’s desperate now, his movements devoid of his usual careful grace, driven by a hunger that has been building since the moment she stepped into the light at the auditorium. he bunches the expensive fabric up in his fists, his breath hot and ragged against the skin of her stomach.
"i’ve been a good boy all night," he whispers, a low, wicked growl vibrating in his chest as he presses his face against the soft curve of her belly, his teeth grazing her skin through the thin lace of her lingerie. "i smiled for the cameras, i shook the hands... but i'm done being patient."
he shifts beneath her, his hips bucking upward with a sudden, forceful pressure that makes a sharp, needy sound escape her lips. he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her silks, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. there’s a fire in his eyes that burns away the shy superstar, leaving only a man who is tired of boundaries and ready to take exactly what he’s been craving.
"now," he breathes, his voice a commanding, velvet command that leaves no room for argument. "i want everything. right now."
the air in the limousine is suffocatingly hot, thick with the scent of his skin and the electric tension that has finally snapped. michael’s hands are no longer just wandering; they are frantic, moving with a feverish desperation as he works to bridge the final gap between them. he’s done with the teasing, done with the fabric, done with the polite distance of the last few hours.
he reaches for the fastenings of his own clothes, his fingers moving with a surprising, practiced speed despite the slight tremble of his adrenaline-soaked muscles. he doesn't take his eyes off her for a second, his gaze burning into hers with a raw, dark hunger that seems to consume the very little light left in the car.
"i've wanted this since the moment i saw you tonight," he pants, his voice a low, melodic wreck. "i wanted to tear this suit off just to get to you."
he guides her hips back down, but this time there is nothing but the heat of skin meeting skin. the sensation is so intense, so immediate, that he lets out a sharp, choked-off cry, his head snapping back against the seat as his eyes roll behind his lids. it’s a pure, unadulterated release, the culmination of hours of repressed desire finally exploding in the dim sanctuary of the moving car.
he grips her waist with a strength that is startling, his fingers splaying across her skin as he begins to move with a deep, rhythmic intensity. every thrust is a silent prayer, a desperate attempt to get even closer, to lose himself entirely in the softness of her. he’s humming again, but it’s different now—a low, guttural vibration that matches the frantic pace of his heart.
"you’re so perfect," he gasps against her lips, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. "so tight... so warm... i never want to leave this car."
he pulls her chest flush against his, his sequins forgotten, his only focus the way she feels wrapped around him. he’s pouring every ounce of the love he feels, every bit of the passion that fuels his soul, into every movement. the city lights continue to blur past the tinted windows, a world away from the beautiful, chaotic, and utterly private masterpiece they are creating together in the dark.
the rhythm of the limousine’s movement is now entirely eclipsed by the frantic, heavy pace they’ve set for themselves. michael is completely submerged in the sensation, his body moving with a fluid, rhythmic power that feels like a dance only they know. every time their eyes meet in the shadows, she sees a man who has traded his crown for something far more precious—this moment, this connection.
his hands are everywhere, never still for a second. he slides them up to her back, pulling her down so he can bury his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in hot, desperate hitches that vibrate against her skin. he’s not just moving with her; he’s trying to merge with her, his grip on her hips firm and possessive, guiding her every descent with a low, appreciative groan.
"don't stop," he whispers, his voice cracking, a beautiful, broken sound that makes her heart race even faster than the engine. "please... just like that. i’ve never felt anything like this. you're everything."
the friction is a slow burn that has turned into a wildfire. he arches his back, his muscles taut and glistening under the faint amber glow of the interior lights, his head falling back as a long, melodic sound escapes his throat—a high, silver note of pure surrender. he’s giving her everything he is, every ounce of the passion that the world usually only sees from a distance, now focused entirely on the woman in his arms.
as the car takes a slow turn toward the private gates of his estate, he realizes the world is about to intrude again soon, and it only makes him more urgent. he quickens the pace, his movements becoming more shallow and intense, his hands tangling in her hair to bring her lips back to his for a deep, searing kiss that tastes like salt and moonlight.
"i love you," he breathes into the kiss, the words heavy and sweet, a contrast to the raw, physical hunger of his body. "i love you so much it's driving me crazy."
he feels the familiar tension building, that final crest of the wave, and he holds onto her like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded. the windows are completely opaque now, a private cocoon of heat and velvet, as they finally reach the peak together, the silence of the night outside shattered by the quiet, beautiful chaos happening behind the partition.
the silence in the limousine is slowly filled with the sound of catching breath and the soft rustle of silk, until suddenly, a tiny, muffled sound breaks through—a shy, breathless giggle from michael.
he pulls back just enough to look at her, his iconic curls completely disheveled and his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of exhaustion and pure, radiant mischief. he looks down at his rumpled sequins, then at her dress—which is definitely not in the same condition it was when they left the red carpet—and he starts to laugh properly, that high-pitched, melodic sound that always feels so genuine.
"oh my god," he whispers, hiding his face in his hands for a second before looking back at her with a wide, toothy grin. "look at us. we are a complete mess. i’m supposed to be the man of the hour, and i look like i’ve been through a beautiful, beautiful whirlwind."
he pulls her back into his arms, but this time it’s all warmth and sweetness. he starts peppered her face with tiny, butterfly kisses—on her nose, her forehead, her chin—making her laugh even harder. he’s glowing, not from the stage lights, but from a deep, giddy happiness that only she can spark in him.
"i promise you," he chuckles, his voice soft and bubbly, "the driver is probably sitting up there wondering if we've forgotten how to get out of the car. he’s going to open that door and see me looking like this, and he’s going to know *exactly* why i’m smiling like an idiot."
he takes her hand, interlacing their fingers and squeezing tight, his gaze softening into something so tender it could melt. "i don't care about the trophies on the floor. i don't care about the speeches. this... being here with you, laughing like this... this is the real win. i’m so incredibly in love with you, it’s actually kind of crazy."
they stay there for a few more moments, tangled together and giggling like two teenagers who just got away with the biggest secret in the world. as the car finally comes to a complete stop at the front of the house, they share one last, silly look, the most famous man in the world and his favorite person, completely lost in their own perfect, messy, private universe.
████████
wallahi i was shaking while writing this omg 😭 can’t even imagine how this would feel in real life bruh ?????? ANYWAYS hope y’all liked it xoxo
one date with someone else is all it took to realize you're in love with your roommates, wooyoung and san. but do they want you as much as they want each other? ⋆.˚
━ woosan x fem!reader, roommates/best friends to lovers, smut minors dni, 18+, consumption, mxm, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, threesome, don't wanna spoil anything so read at ur own risk!
━ wc 28.6k
━ happy almost cb day! this fic is my second & final installment of @everyonewooeverywhere ‘s fic exchange event, and a gift for my bestest friend in the world, love of my life @chimivx ᢉ𐭩 this is the best lie ive ever told, the best secret i've ever kept, i even stole your layout for it! you deserve the world my plum, and i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it ⋆˙⟡ ⋆.˚
“I think that dress is saying, ‘Take me back to your place,’ but the other one leaves more room for mystery, like maybe, ‘I could come home with you, but I might just be here for free dinner.’”
With your hands on your hips, you stared at your roommate, San, unimpressed. Curled up on your bed, he laid on his side, one palm holding up his head, the other on your puppy’s belly, rubbing it while your black lab laid there with his paws up, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
“Which one are you going for?” He asks after receiving nothing but silence in return, one knee bent up, the other extended straight along the length of your mattress, his foot near your pillows.
A date with a shared friend of your two roommates, one you originally didn’t want to go on, but were now somewhat excited for. You haven’t been on a date in a while, which you didn’t think much of, but it seemed everyone and their mother was more than concerned for your love life than you were. You were content with San and Wooyoung, your two roommates, and your one year old black lab named Sweetie who was almost as big as you.
After fighting both San and Wooyoung’s attempts at convincing you to go out with Yunho for a week, you finally agreed, days into the follicular phase of your cycle, mere moments out of the month when you craved the touch of a man. Now, mid-ovulation, you weren’t completely sure where you wanted to end up tonight.
You knew Yunho well. Being a friend of both San and Wooyoung, he was over your apartment all the time, with his shaggy brown hair, cozy clothes that made him look like a librarian, legs that stretched on forever. Sometimes you caught yourself staring at his veiny hands for a second longer than what was considered appropriate, but you never thought of Yunho as an actual option.
When you came home after a long day of teaching, blabbing to San and Wooyoung how the other teachers at the studio teased you for being single yet again, telling you that you should at least go on dates, the pair took it upon themselves to find you a suitor. Silently, without your knowledge, they hooked you up with Yunho, one of the only other single people in their friend group. Your friend group.
“I guess the second one?” You tilted your head to the side in thought, turning to stare at yourself in the mirror again, a black dress that hugged your curves dangerously. “Maybe this is more club than it is dinner and drinks.”
“Try on the other one again,” San tilted his chin toward the brown dress you tossed on the chair in the corner of your room, the one usually tucked under your desk that held your two-monitor PC setup. Used mainly for The Sims 4. No one had to know that part, though, your set-up was sick.
You whined, head falling backward, effectively giving up. Sweetie’s head picked up, and San’s amused smile grew as you trudged across your bedroom, crawling on your bed, sprawling yourself across your best friend who rolled on his back, opening his arms to welcome you in.
San chuckled, your head tucked below his chin, vibrations bleeding through your skin. His body was so hard beneath you, so warm and inviting, you could happily stay here, buried into him forever. He turned his head, making room to press a kiss to the top of your head, “You’ll have fun, Yunho’s a great guy. He’ll treat you well.”
“What if I just want to cuddle and watch movies all night? Is it so bad to cancel now?” You mumbled, voice muffled by the cotton white tee he wore, one from the pack you bought him a month ago. His home uniform, a white tee that clung to his body like latex, and gray sweats that hung so low on his hips you wondered how they didn’t fall off sometimes.
“Come on,” San ushered you upward, his chest pushing on your cheek until you pulled your arms under your body to lift yourself off of him. You pouted, he smiled, dimples joining the party on your bedspread. “If you don’t like him, you leave, no harm, no foul.”
“He’s your friend,” you whined again, bottom lip jutting out in the most exaggerated way. “Why did I agree to a set up with one of your friends?”
Just as San was about to protest that Yunho is one of your friends too, you heard the front door snap open, sneakers hitting the wall as he kicked them off his feet, you always heard him before you saw him. Yours and San’s heads turned to your opened bedroom door as Wooyoung yelled from the living room, “It’s date night!”
You sighed, sitting backward, legs tucked under you. Sweetie got up from where he snuggled against San and joined your pity party by laying across your lap, head nuzzling into your tummy. Like a reflex, you scratched your fingers along his back, on the top of his head, he pushed air through his nose in delight.
Wooyoung ran into your bedroom, halting dramatically in your doorway, both hands propped up on the frame on either side of his head. His eyes danced between you, San and your dog, but they landed on San. “Why isn’t she ready?” Eyes sliding to you, “Why aren’t you ready?”
“I don’t wanna go,” your head tipped back again, whining, “Sweetie doesn’t want me to go either, look at him, he’s so cozy. He wants me to stay home and cuddle with him.”
Wooyoung’s lips flattened in a line, “You can’t cancel on him, Shy. He’ll be here in thirty minutes to pick you up, it’s rude if you cancel now. Get up, girl.”
Your top lip curled in distaste, you hated when he said your name like that, even if it was the nickname they both had for you. Really, it was San’s nickname, which was originally your mother’s, he picked it up when he was three, when your entire family called you their shy girl. The nickname had always stuck with him, even after moving away from your hometown and into the city that your family thankfully wouldn’t step foot in, even after almost a decade. When you met Wooyoung your junior year of college, he thought the nickname was so damn cute he started calling you Shy, too.
Wooyoung moved to the center of your room, movements fluid, eyes dancing about the space like he was your fairy godmother. Picking up the brown dress thrown over your chair, he cheered, “Aha! I love this one on you.”
Sighing, you tapped on Sweetie’s head, a warning to him before you stood up. He crawled off your lap and back into San’s chest, settling in his side just like he had before you interrupted. You stood up off the bed, pulling your dress down your thighs, and Wooyoung grinned, eyes flaring, “That dress is an option? What, are you planning on fucking him?”
Eyes narrowing, you scowled at him, crossing the room to snatch the brown dress from his hands. In all black, jeans, tee and jacket, he wore his hat backwards on his head, hiding his short, cropped black hair. Rings adorned his fingers, silver necklaces on his neck, he and San so opposite it still made you laugh at how close the three of you are.
You supposed you were the glue. To Wooyoung’s hotheaded, outspoken, free-bird self, San was more emotional, logical, he actually thought before he spoke, when his feelings didn’t cloud his mind. You were the perfect combination, spontaneous yet level-headed, in tune with your emotions, in tune with theirs, you were the ground they stood on, the final word in their decisions. Why did you need to go on this date when all you needed was in this room with you?
“No,” you bite, throwing the dress on the bed while you pull the one you already wore up and off your body.
Woo laughed, sitting down on the chair he stole the dress from, “No? Your panties match your bra.”
“I just wanted to be prepared,” you throw the dress at him as soon as it's off your body and he catches it with one hand, eyes obviously drinking in your figure. Too close for comfort, that’s what the three of you were, roommates and best friends and an enigma no one around you can understand.
When you turn to San, his eyes are on Sweetie before him, his fingers lightly scratching his head. Always polite, always considerate, you grabbed the brown dress you threw on the bed, forcing yourself to not recall the days where he wasn’t so respectful.
“Did you shave? Be honest,” Wooyoung’s eyebrows raise as you step into the low cut, bodycon brown dress. You snort, walking towards him so he can zip it up your back.
“I trimmed,” you answer simply, amusement dancing in your tone, pulling your hair to one side to give him access to the zipper. He straightens in the chair, one hand on your hip as the other tugs the chilly zipper up your back, he stands back up to reach the top. You turn to him, hair still grasped in your fist, brows raised as the thought crosses your mind, “Should I have shaved?”
“Hell no,” San responds from the bed, eyes trained on you and Wooyoung standing feet away from him. “Yunho’s a man, like, a man. He doesn’t give a fuck if you have a bush or whatever.”
“You should have left the bush,” Wooyoung’s smile is swimming in his eyes too, half-joking, half-serious, “it’s like unwrapping a present on Christmas morning.”
You peel away from him with a laugh as you stand before your full-length mirror, hands gliding down your body as you twist from side to side, head tilted to look at yourself from every angle. You look good, the color compliments your features, accentuates your curves just enough, you didn’t know if the heavy feeling in your gut was anxiety or if you didn’t feel confident or what. It’s been a long while since you’ve been on a date. You sigh, “I just feel like it’s too much.”
Wooyoung comes up behind you, one of his veiny hands on your waist, his cologne in your nose. Woody, notes of creamy sandalwood, spicy, you ease into his touch as he swings a pair of pumps around your front for you to look at through the mirror. You missed when he grabbed them from your closet. “You’ll feel better with these on,” his voice is low in your ear, velvety even if it wasn't intentional, “Your legs will look longer. He’ll wanna eat you from across the table instead of his food.”
You nod, swallowing, ridding your thoughts of all things incriminating about your roommate and best friend. He moves to crouch down on one knee in front of you, your heels on the floor beside him. San, on his stomach now, is beaming while he watches Wooyoung give you princess treatment as if your heart wasn’t reaching tachycardic level, “It’s like you’re Cinderella. Shinderella.”
Your brows scrunch as a punched laugh rushes from your chest, one palm holding the hat on Wooyoung’s head for leverage as you slip your foot into the deep maroon heel he’s holding out for you. “That was an awful joke, Sannie.”
“I liked it,” Wooyoung smiles up at you, sincerity in his eyes, all warmth and love as he grabs the other shoe, “You deserve to be treated like a princess, so if he doesn’t hold the door open for you, pull the chair out for you, if he doesn’t pay the bill, you come home straight to us.”
He stands up on two feet to lean forward, pressing a kiss to your freshly done hair, hands squeezing your shoulders, “Why does this lowkey feel like a big deal?” He turns around to look at San while your face flushes aggressively, “I feel like we’re giving her away.”
San snorts a laugh, tucking a muscled arm under his head to lay his cheek on, “She knows she’s ours at the end of the day.”
You roll your eyes, hands on your hips again as you turn to San, disagreement in your body language but in your heart you know it’s fucking true. Ever since you were little, you’ve looked up to San in a way, always taller than you, stronger than you, older than you. Even if it’s only by a year, you’ve always seen him as someone wiser, someone you could count on no matter what, if you needed him, he’d be there. Because of that you’ve always stuck by his side, never treading farther than arm’s reach, because as much as you were San’s, he was also yours.
And he knew it in his bones, too.
“It’s one date,” your voice is full of reassurance as you walk to your closet, pulling out your collection of bags, totes, purses, already having one in mind. Finally finding the tiny black Coach purse as you realize what you’d just said, you whip around to look at his dimpled-cheeks deep in the pocket of his elbow, purse tucked under your arm, “Why was I just about to convince you why I should go? This is getting very backwards.”
“Because you love us so much, you don’t want us to sit here all night, all sad because some six foot sexy man is taking you away from us,” Wooyoung’s voice is full of humor as he sits back on your bed, one leg tucked under him, one hand rubbing San’s exposed ankle. He sits up a little straighter, “You should still go, though. We won’t be that sad.”
With your features blown into offense, you scoff, “I’d expect you two to be crying, nervous wrecks while I’m gone. You’re telling me you’ll be fine and dandy while I’m off getting pounded by that same six foot sexy man?”
“Pounded?” Wooyoung and San answer at the same time, their eyes wide, eyebrows in their hairlines. San even picked his head up from the pocket of his elbow.
You laugh loudly as you put your everyday purse on Wooyoung’s lap, transferring all your necessities into the tiny handbag. San sits up, crawling behind Wooyoung with his legs straddling the younger man’s back, “You’re really gonna fuck him?!”
“Do we need to have the talk?” Wooyoung blinks at you, face completely shocked, leaning back into San’s arms that wrapped around his front, “When was the last time you even had sex?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old, first of all.” You hold up two hands in front of you, palms flat, facing both men. “Second of all, I don’t know! Who knows? If the date goes super awesome-ly then I might end up in his bed, yeah.” You point a finger at Wooyoung, eyes narrowing, “Third of all, screw you. Two years, shut up.”
Wooyoung raises his arms in defense, lips tucked between his teeth to stop himself from giggling. San still looks surprised, cheeks pink, jaw slack and eyes wide, “I– I don’t know why I’m so shocked that you admitted that so easily.”
“You’re acting like I’ve never had a boyfriend before,” you close the clasp on your purse, “I may have not fucked in two years but I’ve fucked plenty.” Looking at Wooyoung again, you ask, “Can I wear your Chrome Hearts jacket? The leather one?”
Wooyoung nods with his face scrunched like it was no biggie before asking, “So are we expecting you home tonight or what?”
“Why are you being so adamant about this?” Your eyes bounce between them, lingering on San’s cheeks that deepen by the minute, “I don’t know yet, jeez. What time is it?”
San scrambles for his phone, “He’ll be here in ten.”
As if Yunho himself was in your bedroom with the three of you, the doorbell rang. Your eyes widen, “Shit, he’s early.”
“We’ll distract him,” Wooyoung grabs your waist to move you to the side as he stands, rushing out of your room to greet Yunho at the door. Sweetie jumps off the bed next, following him, probably thinking something exciting was happening, and San mimics the two as the third musketeer.
Your finishing touches, extra deodorant, more perfume for good luck, a little lip gloss, a few fluffs to your hair. You caught yourself in the mirror again before leaving, doing another three-sixty, viewing yourself from every angle possible without twisting into a pretzel. Scrunching your lips, you stare at your own face, something still didn’t feel right. You hated when your gut was telling you something, but didn’t say what it was.
The three are in the kitchen, four if you count Sweetie, mid-conversation as your heels announce your presence before you breathe a word. Meeting San’s eye and then Wooyoung’s, both stared at you in awe, affection sparkling in their dark eyes, like they’d never seen you so dressed up before. Sweetie is at Yunho’s feet, the six foot man crouched into a hunched-over ball, hands scratching the dog’s ears until he sees you.
“Wow,” he stands, black slacks on his long legs, a cream-colored button up on his upper half, brown jacket thrown over his arm. Black hair styled and off his forehead, he looked clean, crisp, handsome. “You look beautiful.”
Your face heats up, beaming as you say, “Thanks, you look handsome, too.”
Wooyoung giggles like a child, you snap your head to sneer at him, catching San who’s still staring at you fondly. They’re like your parents, chaperoning your first date like you’re a teenager.
Wooyoung skirts around the kitchen island, “Your jacket, milady.”
Rolling your eyes, you smile apologetically at Yunho who looks amused as Wooyoung drapes the leather jacket over your shoulders. Yunho’s eye drops to the emblems on the sleeves as you slip your arms inside, the obvious Chrome Hearts crosses, the jacket Wooyoung paid an arm and a leg for. His eyes flicker before rising back to your gaze, face unreadable for a moment before he slaps the bright smile back on his cheeks.
“Ready?” He asks after you pull your hair out from beneath the collar.
Nodding, you murmur, “Yeah, ‘m ready.”
San and Wooyoung stay tucked into each other, watching like proud mothers as you wave your goodbye, wiggling your eyebrows. You blow a final kiss to Sweetie before you’re out the door, in the open air of an unforgiving February night, Yunho’s car parked directly next to yours. He opens the door for you, closes it behind you, and he’s in the driver’s seat in a flash.
“How are you?” He asks as he clasps his seatbelt and immediately you’re filled with the ick of inevitable awkwardness. You hated small talk, you hated this feeling, of a new relationship budding, of not automatically being at the oversharing-because-I-can stage.
But you respond politely, with a smile on your face that he couldn’t see through, all the way to the fucking restaurant. A nice place, moody lighting, an obvious date night spot. Your table is off to the side, against the beige-colored wall, more private than the center of the restaurant, thankfully. The air between you is a little more congenial by the time you’ve had a quarter of your fruity cocktail and there’s food placed at the center of the white tablecloth.
“I love my kids,” you shake your head, swallowing down a bite of the appetizer he ordered, “they’re all great kids, it’s the parents that make me want to rip my hair out.”
Yunho laughs, an easygoing thing, and you smile when it reaches your ears. “They’re all bad?”
“Not all of them,” you respond, words practiced, almost scripted, at the point in date talk where you were discussing what you do for a living. Next comes future talk, if this went anything like the dates you’ve been on in the past did. “Just the ones that nitpick everything I do, like they have any idea what they’re talking about.”
Yunho nods, “It’s like that at my job, too. But not with parents, with clients, the ones who talk about artwork like it means something to them. I know they just think it looks cool and they want it on their wall, but that’s enough, I mean, leave it at that. I understand not everyone is a connoisseur.”
Your grin widens, a giggle falling past your lips as you bring your glass up to catch it. You have to give it to him, he’s funny, but not as funny as Wooyoung. He doesn’t look at you the way San looks at you, either.
By the time you’re halfway through your entree you know you aren’t going home with him. You could possibly see him again, depending on how the second half of your entree goes, but the need to see him naked on top of you isn’t quite there. A sweet guy, heart of gold, you know he’s a genuine friend, you’ve had plenty of conversations with him before at your apartment during gatherings to know enough about his nature. But romantically, sexually, there isn’t a spark in your veins, a sizzling to your blood, a dampening in your panties that makes you want more.
He’s a great guy– but he’s not for you.
“Can I ask you something?” Now a singular piece of chocolate cake between you accompanied by two silver forks, you nod as you dig the prongs into the triangular edge.
“Your jacket,” he raises his perfectly trimmed brows to the leather that hangs off the back of your chair, “it’s Wooyoung’s?”
“Definitely,” you nod furiously, without missing a beat, “you know him and Chrome Hearts are in a very serious, very committed relationship.” The smile Yunho gives you in response doesn’t completely reach his eyes. You pop a brow, “Why?”
His fork dances around the plate, “I don’t know.” Setting it down softly, he leans back in the upholstered chair, “wearing his jacket on a first date, when he’s the one who set us up. I don’t know.”
Your head tilts, heat flooding you, the nervous kind. Confusion bites at the corners of your eyes as you blink at him, “What do you mean?”
“Can I be frank?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re Yunho, but sure.”
Amusement huffs from his nose, but he doesn’t exactly smile. “Is there anything going on between you?”
You pause, mid-bite, cake millimeters from touching your tongue. Body going hot, your arm lowers slowly, “Between who?”
“Between you and Wooyoung. You and San. Both of them, I don’t know.”
Your brows shoot upward, jaw dropping, “What the fuck?” Looking around, noticing the eyes on you, you cover your mouth with your hand. You didn’t realize the volume you cursed at— you mumble an I’m sorry sheepishly to the room around you.
“I’m serious,” Yunho leans forward again, and his eyes are so genuine it throws you for a loop. You knew your friendship with the pair was closer than the typical, a little strange at times, with the flirting and the touching and the looks. You knew how you felt about your roommates, your best friends, how there’s a certain depth in the way they treat you, love and respect too raw to be faked, how it always makes your stomach pang with gratitude too deep to express.
“No, Yunho.” You shake your head, fork landing on the small, ceramic plate. The words are short, not necessarily offended, but it’s clear the question didn’t sit well. Your relationship with the two men, both a third of your being, is completely platonic.
Did it really seem like it wasn’t?
“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, eyes squeezed tight, regret oozing off of him. “I don’t know why I asked you that, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you try to laugh to ease the tension, but it comes off demeaning. Yunho stiffens, hands coming up to dig the pads of his fingers into his eyes. “I’m serious, it’s fine. I know we’re a little closer than your average roommates, but we don’t fuck.”
You could feel eyes in the room on you again, this time you ignore them. Yunho’s hands leave his face, eyes cracking open, words escaping from his lips too quickly to have been thought about first, “You never have? Not even with Sannie?”
“Not even with Sannie, no. I haven’t seen him naked since we were seven, we’ve never once kissed, nothing.”
Lies. Lies, lies, lies. You don’t know why they spill from your lips like a waterfall, like you had to defend yourself. Maybe you were trying to convince yourself more than Yunho.
His brow pops like he asked the question just to receive your deception, “That’s not true.”
Taking you by complete surprise, your heart plummets, sputtering, “O-okay, well—”
How did he know? He shouldn’t know about your times in college, Sannie throwing you around the mattress with a boy from your English class. Or the handful of times with the girl from your contemporary dance class. Or the times you’ve been each other’s New Year's Kiss, or the times you’ve messily made out in the corner of a frat house after he finished a keg-stand. It was all platonic, anyhow, so whittled down to ancient history it wasn’t even worth bringing up.
“Why lie if you aren’t doing it still?”
Your eyes widen. You don’t know why you lied. You weren’t expecting him to catch you in it. Your ears are on fire.
“I’m not lying!” It comes out louder than intended, too defensive, too full of quickly found, nervous anger. If you were honest with yourself, you thought about ancient history often, you thought about what it would have been like with Wooyoung involved too, yours and San’s missing link. A line you haven’t crossed. You and San haven’t touched each other since you were twenty-one.
But you still think about it. More than you should.
You empty a much needed breath, one heavy and long. You ignore the stares of the people around you. You try not to let Yunho’s gaze be patronizing. You try not to feel the embarrassment radiating off of him.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, head dropping down until your chin is tucked. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“I do,” Yunho says quietly, almost shakily, like he’s scared of saying the words that follow. “You and them… you want it, don’t you?”
“We’re just friends,” you nearly whisper, an unexplainable tightness in your chest. “Roommates,” you add, and it sounds like an insult.
He lays an open palm on the table, and you pick your head up to meet his soft smile, eyes full of sadness, pity. You take his hand anyway.
“You should really tell them how you feel so this doesn’t happen again.”
How you feel?
How you feel?
You don’t even know how you feel. You have memories that linger, a soft spot for the two men you spend all your time with that was the size of a crater. You have touches, eyes, words you weren’t sure should mean more than they do. You have emotions, you have a fantasy you keep buried, you have a secret that would shatter you if it ever saw the light of day.
That line hung over your head the entire drive home. Yunho paid the bill, much to your dismay, you definitely didn’t give him the best date of his life, but your argument was cut short by the reminder that you had bigger fish to fry. You needed the brain power for the thoughts that’d keep you awake tonight, while your roommates were fast asleep in their rooms, unaware that you were pondering about the possibility of them ever being more.
Yunho parked beside your car again. Turning towards you, keeping the car running, he said, “I won’t say anything about tonight.”
“Thanks,” you mutter in a breath, “I’m sorry again.”
“Don’t be,” Yunho shakes his head, laying a hand on your thigh to squeeze it encouragingly, “I hope it works out for you.”
Giving him a weak smile, you unbuckle your seatbelt and let yourself out of the car, the stupid fucking heels on your feet clacking against the pavement. “Drive safe,” you say before closing the door behind you, and Yunho nods with a warm smile.
You face your apartment building with a pout. That could not have gone any fucking worse, and those two upstairs are going to do nothing but pester you for every single detail. Forcing a breath through your lips, you walk up the stone steps to your front door, bracing yourself for questions you can’t answer as you push it open.
The apartment was quiet, lights dim, you slipped your heels off upon entering, dangling them from your fingers. Sweetie didn’t greet you, very unlike him, but maybe he was asleep at this hour— with the frenzy in your mind you didn't realize it wasn’t late at all. You took the corner around your foyer to reach the living room, and the sight before you had a shriek ripping from your chest, eyes blowing wide, heart positively dropping into your ass.
On your living room couch, brown leather, wrinkled and weathered from years of use, was Wooyoung, shirtless, lip locked with a shirtless San beneath him. Bronzy, sculpted chests pressed together, veiny hands in dark hair, spit-stained lips messily tangled, Wooyoung’s toned hips were rutting against San’s before your shriek bursted their bubble.
They broke apart like teenagers getting caught, Wooyoung so surprised he launched off of San’s lap and onto the fucking floor. “Shy!” San yelped, as shocked as you are, gaze panic-stricken as it bounced between you and Wooyoung, he stood up instinctively.
Your insides felt like weeds. Tangled up, knotted together beyond belief, the air in your lungs was gone, there wasn’t enough oxygen in the closing room to fill them. You stared as Wooyoung blew his hair off his face, leaning back on his elbows on the floor, legs bent up and spread, denim unzipped, sporting a tent in the pocket of his undone fly.
San was no better. Undeniably hard, droplets of wetness on his low hanging gray sweats, skin red and splotchy, glowing with a sheer sheen of sweat. His hair was fucked up, as was Wooyoung’s, sticking out in every direction, curled where fingers had been rooted.
Wooyoung’s lips curled in a lazy grin, “You’re home early.”
Your hands are shaking. You think if you take one step, your knees will buckle. This feels like betrayal. Your skin is fire-hot, body buzzing with confusion, shock, rage, hurt— you were out on a date they set up for you, while they were at home fucking?! Did they just want you out of the apartment for the night? How long have they been hooking up?
You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, you can feel every ounce of blood thrashing beneath your skin like your heart was the eye of a hurricane.
Your vision blurs, words coming out short, “I-I don’t—” shaking your head, you move in the direction of your bedroom. Sweetie’s at your side, you don’t know where he even came from, you don’t have the heart to greet him. Under your breath you mutter, “I’m going to bed.”
“Shy,” San calls after you, his voice strained. A little louder, a little harsher, he tries again, “Shy!”
You close your bedroom door and flatten your back against it, breath leaving you in tremors, palms shaky against the wood behind you. Sweetie is at your feet, dancing on his paws, whimpering for some form of attention from you, sensing all the emotion in your chest.
You sink down until your ass meets the floor, eyes focused on nothing, hands mindlessly reaching for Sweetie as your brain replays everything you just saw. Wooyoung’s back arching his chest into San’s, San’s tongue slipping between Wooyoung’s lips, one hand on Wooyoung’s thigh while the other tugged at his hair. Wooyoung’s hips rolling against him, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, a shakiness to his lean body that could only be perceived as need. This was not the first time they’ve done that.
Your chin tilts upward as Sweetie licks your cheeks, you didn’t realize silent tears poured down them, dripping from your jaw. You couldn’t deny it now— everything Yunho insinuated, everything he said, how witnessing those two together made you feel. You wanted them. You wanted to be in the middle. You wanted their lips and hands on you just as much as you wanted to watch them touch each other.
Fuck.
You can’t pretend like your feelings don’t exist anymore. Half the reason you didn’t want to go tonight was because you wished they were taking you out, instead. You wished they begged you to stay home, with them, watching movies curled up on the couch, just to end up how they did without you. Without you. There wasn’t any room for you, they had a relationship on their own. They left you out of it. They set you up with someone else so they could have each other.
It hurts like a knife to your gut.
You can hear them whispering through the walls. You can’t make out a word, but they sound like they’re arguing, or debating. Then it’s quiet.
Sweetie whimpers again. You pouted at him, his precious face seemed like it was pouting back at you. “It’s okay,” you reassure the puppy, hands cupping his face, scratching behind his ears, “I’m okay, I promise.”
Wiping your tears, heaving a breath, you push yourself up, leaving your heels thrown beside the door where you dropped them. You tug the leather off your shoulders, hanging it in your closet— you didn’t have the heart to give it back to him right now, but it was too expensive to throw haphazardly on your gaming chair.
After pulling out pajamas, you reached for your zipper, but you couldn’t reach it to get it down. You tried again, folding your arms behind you, fingers touching, zipper out of reach. You curse under your breath, shoulders strained, it hurt, your breathing picks up again in frustration.
Sweetie jumps on your bed, watching you. It seemed he felt pity for you, too, sitting on his back legs, head tilted as watches how pathetic you looked— the tears bubbled up again.
San knocks on your door twice. You know it’s him because the knocks are soft, gentle, Wooyoung would have just barged inside after a slew of obnoxious knocks of his knuckles. You didn’t want to see either of them right now.
“Let me get your zipper.”
Your arms unfold from your back, hands planting against the mattress beside Sweetie, head dropping as a defeated sob silently rips from your throat. The black lab’s nose nuzzles in your hair as you force the tears back in, back down, away.
San opens the door without waiting for your response. You can’t see him eye the pair of heels on your floor, picking them up, placing them in front of your wide closet, you keep your eyes on the white comforter, laser focused on keeping your emotion locked up. On silent feet he comes up behind you, moving your hair out of the way, deft fingers slowly pulling your zipper down your back.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is as soft as his movements, tender, like if he spoke the wrong word you’d crumble in his hands. You shake your head, sniffing. His sigh is light, apologetic, “We didn’t think you’d be home so early.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine. The date just didn’t go as planned,” your voice is nasally from how much snot had formed in your sinuses. You wipe your nose with the back of your hand, standing up, turning to look at him. Still shirtless, skin still red and splotchy, the only difference now was that his face was filled with concern instead of shock. “I’m sorry I broke up your date night.”
He shakes his head fervently, “You didn’t break up anything, Shygirl, what happened on your date? You didn’t like Yunho? Are you okay? Did he do anything—”
A sharp chuckle tumbles past your lips, you look off to the side, shaking your head. “I don’t wanna talk about it, I just wanna go to sleep.”
You can feel the cool air of your bedroom on your bare back. You feel exposed, despite being naked in front of him so many times in your life, despite standing before him in a bra and underwear just hours earlier. You cross your arms over your chest. “Go back to Wooyoung.”
His lips tighten, but he nods, eyes searching your face for something he can’t find. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”
You nod, looking up at him just as another hot tear slips down your cheek. He raises a hand to cup your cheek, to wipe your tear away with his thumb, but you pull away. His eyes widen ever so slightly, you’ve never once pulled away from his touch. He doesn’t press it, instead he turns on his heel, leaving your room, closing the door behind him gently, knowing space was what you needed, even if he wished you needed him.
You felt better in comfy clothes, curled up in your bed, Sweetie snoring softly beside you, his head basically on your pillow. You tried to focus on that, how his shiny black coat rose and fell with each breath, how he stayed by your side because he knew you needed comfort. Your brain was too muddled to pick apart each and every emotion you were feeling, there were too many, too blended together.
But you definitely tried, for each hour you were supposed to be asleep.
The studio is quiet.
Rehearsal finished for the night, all of your kids home by now, probably doing last-minute homework or showering before school tomorrow, you don’t know what you’re still doing here. The floors are mopped, the mirrors wiped down, the speaker is off and plugged in, your laptop and charger tucked away in your tote. Sitting on the floor of your studio, criss-cross-applesauce, you leaned back on your palms, chin tipped up to the ceiling.
It’s been a week since you found out your two best friends, your roommates, the two people you now know you’re in love with, are in a relationship. You truly have no idea how you got away from their barrage of questions unscathed, the two men want to know every detail of your life on a regular Tuesday, let alone when you come home crying after a date. You put your deceptive shoes on, straightened your back, and blamed every single one of your tears on how sad you were about it not working out with Yunho.
Truth was, you haven’t spared the date with Yunho a single thought since you came home to see them making out on the couch. Since then, it’s been a constant fight convincing yourself everything was fine. In reality, everything was fine, you’re healthy, you’re stable, you have a puppy at home that still pees a little out of excitement when you walk through the front door.
You just couldn’t have what you wanted most, and you’re not a child anymore. Wooyoung and San seem so happy together, attached at the hip, pressing soft kisses to each other’s lips randomly, giggling at something the other said, so lovesick and ignorant to how shitty it all made you feel, you couldn’t be mad. You tried your hardest not to be upset.
As if you’ve been onstage for a week now, it’s felt like seven days of constant performance. Wearing the mask, playing the part of a perfectly-okay-girl, not letting them peer inside to see your heart shredded beneath your ribs. There was still a part of you that was disappointed they couldn’t see through the charade, they knew you better than anyone else, too occupied with one another to make an effort in seeing the truth.
“What are you still doing here?”
You picked your head up, wide-eyed as you glanced at Wooyoung in the doorway, holding a silver ring of multi-colored keys around his pointer finger. Gray sweats, hoodie on top, a black puffer layered over it, sneakers on his feet half-tied. His hair laid messy over his cheekbones, forced down flat beneath the deep red hood, the color compliments him. You think every color in his closet compliments him.
“Hello? Shygirl?” He’s smiling now, taking a few steps inside the studio, eyes raking over your frozen form. He pushes the ring of keys inside the pocket of his puffer as he gets closer, bending down at the knees, the backs of his thighs tucked to his calves.
“Just thinkin’,” you smile weakly, head rolling to the side, cheek landing on your shoulder. He’s so pretty, barefaced, skin clear and soft and beautiful. Shadowed beneath his hood he looks even more breathtaking, the hollows of his cheeks prominent, the freckle under his eye appearing darker.
With a heavy breath he leans backward, landing on his ass, arms stretched out behind him, mimicking the same way you sat. His legs longer than yours, they straighten out in front of him, feet tangled between where yours sat strategically. Always close, never close enough.
“About what?” He tilts his head. “Competition?”
Yeah, that sounds good enough. You nod and he begins his encouraging monologue all over again, softness in his tone, a determined edge of confidence, you’ve heard it all before. You didn’t care to listen to the details.
“Okay, be serious, what’s up?” He reigns in his knees, wrapping his arms around them, leaning forward, brows furrowed. “You’ve been off all week, Shy. I know it’s not dance-related.”
You give him a weak, disappointed smile, shaking your head. The worst, shittiest excuse comes to mind, but you’d rather use any excuse than tell him why shrapnel floated through your blood, pieces of your heart that shattered beyond repair a week ago. “I’m just getting my period, I’m in my head, that’s all.”
He pouts, “You swear?”
You nod, eyes heavy, “I swear.”
It doesn’t even feel bad to lie. Maybe you’re tired of wearing the mask. Tired of feeling.
“Wanna dance with me?”
Your eyes flicker up to him, a question in your lifted brow. “Dance?”
His grin has turned mischievous, lopsided eyes thinning with the giddiness on his cheeks, he plants his palms on the floor to push himself up, throwing his puffer to the side as he walks to the speaker in the corner of the room. Turning it on, static catching as he plugged in his phone, he looked over his shoulder to ask, “What song?”
“Woo,” you shake your head, “I don’t want to–”
“Come on,” he looks back at his phone screen, you can only assume he’s scrolling through his liked songs on Spotify, “your endorphins are in jail right now, they need to be released.”
Your lips tighten, he leaves no room to argue. He never does.
Ain't another woman that can take your spot, my…
He turns with the same feline grin as bass pounds through the room. He turned the volume up on the speaker, the building empty, no one lingering around to hear it.
Your brows raise, a smile begging to curve your lips, “Justin Timberlake? Really?”
“Get up!” He yells, chest pumping to each beat, limbs fluid as his feet glide in your direction, “It’s just you and me, Shy-Shy. Come on.”
You push yourself up off the marley flooring reluctantly, and then you hear his voice.
“If I wrote you a symphony, just to say how much you mean to me,” he grabs your hands as soon as you get your footing, a scowl on your face as he pulls you towards him, “If I told you you were beautiful, would you date me on the regular?”
You can’t fight the smile that creeps over your cheeks this time, letting him guide you to the center of the room, still fighting your instinct that begs your body to move to the beat of the song. Bodies facing the mirror that stretches from one wall to the other, he glides behind you, his right hand still over yours, freeing your left.
“I can see us holdin' hands, walkin' on the beach, our toes in the sand. I can see us on the country side, sittin' on the grass, layin' side by side,” still holding your hand, you sing with him as he guides you, his left hand on your hip. “You can be my baby, let me make you my lady, girl, you amaze me. Ain't gotta do nothin' crazy, see, all I want you to do is be my love.”
You’re giggling at first, moving with him, singing loudly in the studio, until he spins you around, two hands on your hips, holding you close.
Ain't another woman that could take your spot, my love…
Your smile falters, lips parting as you stare up at him, breath stolen from your chest. His hoodie had fallen, leaving his hair visibly messy over his face, a smile so true, chocolate eyes holding half of your heart, you remember who he is. Jung Wooyoung, roommate, best friend, coworker, he’s so many things to you, but not yours.
Is this some kind of sick joke?
Like he can read your thoughts, like he’s trying to make you forget, he twists you back around. Two hands on your hips, knees bent and legs spread, you follow suit, watching each other in the mirror. Your outfits look planned, your sweats baggy and low, hoodie tucked up, hair that was once in a bun now halfway spilling down your cheeks, you let your body flow. Allowing your mind to go blank, you let yourself feel the music, your hips sway with his, your movements clean, you dance together like you choreographed it.
“There you go,” he’s grinning again, nodding, encouraging, “my love, my love, my love.”
Four minutes and thirty-six seconds feels like a lifetime, yet no time at all. You and Wooyoung, your bluetoothed brains, and Justin Timberlake in the studio nearing eleven at night, you ended the song out of breath, staring at each other from feet away, as if you’re twenty-five all over again when San had just opened the studio. Brain cleared, endorphins released, you did feel lighter– not better, but lighter, like Wooyoung reached into your mind and took the edge off himself.
“Feel better?” He’s smiling, chest heaving, hands on his hips, one knee bent with the other holding his weight.
You nod, tugging on your ponytail to free your hair, just to pull it up all over again. Walking toward him, you’re still out of breath, “We should have recorded that.”
“We can do it again,” he offers, “although I don’t think we’ll ever reach that level of synchronicity without choreography again.”
You laugh, a lighthearted thing, “No, I think that was the extent of our bluetooth abilities.”
He takes a step forward, throwing his arms out to wrap around you, pulling you into his chest, pressing a kiss into your forehead. “I missed dancing with you.”
He smells like home, woodsy, spicy, sweaty– you can’t help the way you drink him in, letting the smell of him calm something primal, something integral in your soul.
Wooyoung is convinced you’re the only person in the world that can steal the breath from his lungs just by looking at him. Your arms wrapped around his torso, chin tucked into his chest, looking up at him with those big eyes he could get lost in, his breath catching in his throat is a verbal sound. He can feel the heat in the base of his spine, he settles into your touch as it spreads through him like wildfire, his heart picking up speed, pounding harder against his chest.
Holding you like this, wanting you like this, like he has since the day he first saw you– around a fire, in the backyard of a house party at Seonghwa’s place, sat next to San with a cute, shy little smile on your cheeks. He thought you were San’s girlfriend, he assumed it from the way you looked at each other, spoke to each other. Stars in your eyes, a soft, comforting tenderness in your voice that turned your words into song, Wooyoung thought he’d lost before he even entered the game.
But then he watched San leave your side for the pretty brunette from his dance class, the guy Wooyoung kept his eye on, taller than San, muscular, beautiful. Mere minutes went by before San kissed him, and even if San was shorter, smaller, Wooyoung watched as he dominated the kiss, hands in his hair, making the taller man cower for him. Obey him, even just in a kiss.
Then you stood, sauntering over in your ripped denim that hugged your ass perfectly, one hand on San’s shoulder had him pulling away fully, dimples out in a smile, face flushed with a hazy, lustful stare. You talked, talked, and talked before San was grabbing you by the hand, the man following behind you both as you left. The three of you, together, you left together.
Wooyoung was left confused– aroused, curious, hopeful, but still so fucking confused. He asked around, Yeosang told him the nature of your relationship, that San’s known you forever, that you do that sometimes. Casually. You weren’t dating– but you fucked. Other people. Together.
Wooyoung wanted to be next.
He wanted you. He wanted San. He wanted both of you. Carnally.
But that day never came. He formed a friendship with you easily, with San easily, the three of you becoming a trio that did everything together, but your hobby, your past-time after a party, never included him. In fact, it stopped altogether when Wooyoung became involved.
It’s not like he didn’t try, he’s flirty by nature, it comes as easily to him as breathing, but eventually he accepted that your relationship, your friendship, had taken root in something platonic. It bloomed into the best thing that’s ever happened to him, two people that love him fully, unconditionally, but by the time he moved into your shared apartment, he had to pluck the petals off the basis of his interest– his arousal, his want, his need, tucked away in his back pocket like it was never there to begin with.
It became easy, over time, until San kissed him for the first time, restarting all the work he’s done, placing him back at square one. Three in the morning in the kitchen of the apartment, the only light over the sink, dimmed and low, San took Wooyoung by his cheeks and made him feel like San wanted him the whole time, too.
And he did, Wooyoung learned. And he still wanted you. So did Wooyoung.
“I missed it, too,” you whisper, your face too close, he has to swallow down his instinct, every fiber of his being that tells him to fucking kiss you. Dancing with you, it’s something the two of you used to do often when San first opened the studio, when you weren’t as busy, as successful as you are now.
Sometimes San was included, in the corner of the room, correcting your form with a smile on his dimpled cheeks, amusement on his tongue, sometimes he was dancing with you, too. Late into the night, sometimes a few seltzers added into the mix, those nights Wooyoung could have sworn there was an understanding between the three of you, that there was a layer of arousal, of want, those nights Wooyoung prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that you’d repeat history with him. For him. The way you looked at him, the glint in your eye, even now, more often than not you looked at Wooyoung like you wanted him to pin you to the floor beneath you.
For years that look has given him hope, that eventually something will happen, something will bloom between the three of you. It won’t just be him and San pining over you while they try to fill the gap with each other.
He hasn’t seen that look once since you caught him with San. You said you were fine, okay, that their relationship doesn’t bother you, that you’re happy for them– and there’s truth to it somewhere, Wooyoung assumes the truth is mixed into the lies, that you weren’t completely bullshitting him, the only reason they tried to set you up with Yunho is because they were convinced it’d never happen with you. They gave up. At least Yunho was a nice guy.
His arms lift from your shoulders to push your hair away from your face, stray pieces that had fallen even if you’d just put it up, barefaced, maybe some mascara on your lashes, he’s stunned the way he always is. So beautiful it makes his stomach hurt, your skin soft in his palms, warm in such an inviting way, he doesn’t want to let go. His voice tumbles out small, “You’re so pretty, Shy.”
Your heart skips a beat in your chest. His eyes look so soft, a fond smile on his lips while his eyes glance at yours like he was going to kiss you, while he looks at you like he loves you, he does love you– it’s different. It looks different. Chest turning tight, stomach doing a flip, your arms uncurl from around his waist, you break away from him quickly like he burned you, the loss of warmth hits hard even if you were the one who enforced it. “You shouldn’t do that,” your tone comes out harsher than you wanted it to, voice slightly broken, stressed. Panicked.
Wooyoung’s brows furrow, “What? I- Shy.”
“It’s disrespectful,” you don’t know why you’re speaking, where this is coming from. Your throat is tight, heart pounding against your breastplate, you bring your hand up to lay where it’s bursting from your chest. “You can’t do things like that anymore, Woo,” you’re avoiding his eye, head shaking rapidly, voice panicked and wary beyond control, “not anymore.”
“I made her hate me because I couldn’t control myself.”
Wooyoung is pacing around San’s room, shirtless, his hair sticking out in every which way atop his head, oily after work, even more so from how many times he’s ran his hands through it. San, on his bed, also shirtless, briefs loose on his hips, wears furrowed brows and a solemn downcurve of his lips after hearing the story Wooyoung frantically woke him up to tell him.
The younger man ripped his hoodie and his tee off his upper half upon entering the room, crawling onto San’s bed, shaking him awake. Eyes barely closed, he’d just fallen asleep, blinked awake upon the first shake of his shoulders, “Woo? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I think Shy hates me,” his face was red even in San’s dark room, brows furrowed and voice panicked in a way he hadn't heard in a long time.
San sits up halfway, turning over to face Wooyoung, “What? No she doesn’t, what happened?”
“We were at the studio, we danced, I called her pretty and she freaked out,” Wooyoung sits back, his breaths quick and uneven between his words, he toys with his fingers in his lap, eyes wide, blinking rapidly. “She called me disrespectful, Sannie, she said I can’t do that anymore, I don’t know what happened San, I–”
“Baby,” San reaches to put a hand on his cheek, taking note of how hot he felt, “calm down, breathe. Don’t say anything, breathe with me for a few and then we can talk, okay?”
Wooyoung’s first breath is shaky, panicked, like he couldn’t suck down air fast enough, couldn’t get it deep enough. San sits up fully, pressing a hand onto his diaphragm, keeping the other soft on his cheek, “Breathe, baby.”
A few counted breaths until he sounded even, one singular hot tear rolling down his cheek onto San’s palm, the older man leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips. “No matter what, she doesn’t hate you, okay? Tell me what happened.”
Wooyoung takes another two breaths before speaking, telling him the story from the start. How you looked at him like you were offended, like he’d just done the worst thing in the world, how you didn’t speak to him the entire subway ride home. How when you walked inside the apartment you barely greeted Sweetie, instead you silently gave him a treat from the counter before bringing him to your room, closing the door behind you. You didn’t even look at him, like he wasn’t beside you the whole time.
Mid-story he’d jumped off the bed, began pacing back and forth on San’s carpeted bedroom floor, speaking a mile a minute, each word edged with panic like he’d done something despicable.
“She hates me,” he finally stood in the middle of the room, voice cracking, “I made her hate me because I couldn’t control myself.”
“No, Woo,” San shakes his head, voice soft and comforting, “knowing her, she thinks our dynamic changed. To her, we’re off-limits now, we can’t act the way we always have, can’t flirt and touch and do all the things that make us, us.”
He starts pacing again, hands running through his hair, tugging at his roots. San can barely see more than his shadow in his dark room, but he doesn’t need to see to know what look is on Wooyoung’s face, how his brows tie together, how he tucks his lips together, face splotched red.
“I don’t want that!” Wooyoung keeps his voice a low cry, “I don’t want us to change. This isn’t what I wanted to happen, I want her to want us, I want her.”
“Come here,” San keeps his voice calm, steady. Wooyoung walks over, standing between San’s legs, one of his hands still in his hair. San leans forward, plants his palms on Wooyoung’s hips, “She has no idea how we feel about her, Woo. She’s trying to be fair, to keep her distance so she doesn’t hurt either of us. You know how her head works, baby.”
“What if she doesn’t forgive me?” The way his voice breaks is like a shot through San’s heart. But San knows you better, he knows your mind, knows your soul, he’s known you since you gained consciousness, he’s watched them form, learned you as you grew.
“There’s nothing to forgive you for, baby,” San whispers, tugging the younger man towards him, forcing his knees onto the bed, to bracket around his hips. He brings a hand up, petting his hair, sliding down to cup Wooyoung’s cheek, bringing him closer, “Everything is okay.”
Wooyoung presses his lips into San’s, hands landing on his broad shoulders, his body melting into San’s touch, finding comfort in his hard, broad body, his own sinking into him. Wooyoung’s hands travel to find his neck, his cheeks, deepening the kiss, his tongue poking out to slide into San’s mouth, still light, steady.
Until San’s length twitches under Wooyoung, making the younger man smile into his mouth, “Yeah? Hard already?”
“Don’t tease me,” San is breathless, their lips still touching, “I’m supposed to be making you feel better.”
“Ah,” Wooyoung’s tone is still teasing, his grin spreading into a smirk, “I know how you can make me feel better.”
San snorts, head tipping back until he falls back onto the bed, letting Wooyoung crawl on top of him, his head tilting as Wooyoung leans his head down, pressing a kiss to one of San’s pecs, soft hands roaming his torso. Body shivering, San keeps his voice light, “Did you freak out just to fuck me? A ploy, huh?”
San can make the outline of Wooyoung’s scowl as he stares up at him, making San chuckle, Wooyoung bites down on his skin and he hisses. “I was stressed,” Wooyoung’s voice is sharp, “I still am stressed, but now I’m kinda horny and it’s your fault.”
San laughs again, hands coming up to tangle in Wooyoung’s hair, pulling him upward, “I’m sorry baby, I'll fix it for you, yeah?”
Thirty minutes rolling around in the sheets, keeping their voices quiet, their movements slow but not any less tantalizing, Wooyoung is filled, sated, skin sticky against San’s as he lays on the older man’s chest, dozing off to the sound of his heartbeat.
Despite being woken up by Wooyoung, it’s harder for San to find sleep now, mind muddled with thoughts about you. Analyzing Wooyoung’s story, the details, how you looked at him– he wondered if there was a small chance you felt the same way towards them.
While you were still in college, you and San had moments where lines blurred, he can still remember the nights where you brought someone home just to barely touch them. So wrapped up in each other, lost in pleasure, you almost forgot there was a third person there to play with. It didn’t just happen once, not even twice, it happened enough times to where you had to stop after the third person left angry and unsatisfied, an unsettling feeling floating around the room that neither of you had the balls to address.
Always light, always casual, you explored pleasure together, different positions, different kinks, different dynamics for so long– he blamed those days on you two being young, horny, rabid animals, looking for a good fuck, a new skill to add to your arsenal. It was around the time you two met Wooyoung, San thinks, when that night happened, the last time you touched each other sexually. Still to this day, unspoken, swept beneath the rug.
San sometimes wonders if the lines blurred sooner, he’s loved you since you were young, in high school even, it’s petrified him since he was a teenager to tell you how he feels. What if you don’t feel the same way? What if he told you, and your friendship ended? He couldn’t bear a life without you, he doesn’t know a life without you.
Maybe he figured one day his feelings would dissipate into thin air, that he didn’t need you to love him back, that as long as he never told you, you’d still be friends. But then you fucked. And then you fucked again. And you kept fucking until San realized he’d never be satisfied with anyone else, that he needed you, he needed you to love him back, he needed to treat you how you deserved.
When you stared at him with wide eyes, crawled off the bed with shaky legs, retreating back to your room without a word, San almost laughed at himself. At his feelings. Because why would you ever love him back? He's watched you grow up, each phase, your best and your worst, that’s friend zone material, at least in his younger, twenty-something year old mind.
But you never grew apart. And after the fucking stopped, the makeouts, the lazy hookups, the people you both thought were sexy and sought out together, it seemed to have added yet another layer of strength to your relationship. Vulnerability. A closeness you should never, ever have with a friend as close as you two are, it never ends well.
Years later, still in the same boat. He still loves you the same. He still wants you the same. Somehow he got comfortable without the intimacy— or without the sexual aspect, he should say, because your relationship was full of intimacy. It never really bothered him, he never really yearned for more, until it was three in the morning and he had his fist wrapped around his cock with only you in his mind.
Then he had Wooyoung, the sole person he’s entrusted with his feelings, sputtering words between Wooyoung’s tongue pushing between his lips, so obviously confessing feelings that he’s kept trapped inside for over a decade, just to find out Wooyoung feels the same way. That he’s also wanted you since he laid eyes on you.
It was confusing, the lack of possession, of jealousy in his gut. He already knew he wanted Wooyoung, living with the younger man only made him love him more, their friendship was already blurring lines the day they met. For awhile San thought maybe you felt it too, that maybe you saw how Wooyoung looked at you, maybe you realized San had never started treating you differently. That he loved you, that Wooyoung loved you, and it wasn’t all platonic.
He wonders if you love them back. If there’s even a small, microscopic part of you that wants them, more than friendship, more than sex, even. Not that he’d decline you if you proposed sleeping together. For a week now, your spark’s been gone, the twinkle in your big, doe eyes you wear like an accessory was replaced with something dull, something sad. You blamed it on the date with Yunho— but was that really the truth? You barely told them any details, you kept it vague, you even blamed that on not wanting to think about it, talk about it.
As he settles into the mattress beneath Wooyoung, one arm curled up to hold his head close to his chest, he wonders if you’re asleep in the other room, dreaming of more, too.
“It’s fine,” you smile weakly at Wooyoung whose head is burrowing into your chest like he’d crawl inside and make a home there if you let him. “I’m sorry I gave you the silent treatment, I just freaked out a little.”
His voice is muffled by your hoodie, your chest that his head was buried in, “Don’t apologize, please don’t apologize to me, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Woo,” you forced out a chuckle, flexing your body on the old, brown leather couch that he was forcing you deeper into, “look at me.”
He picks his head up, his pretty, bronzy, bare face is littered by splotches of cherry. You ruffle his hair, smelling your shampoo, a blend of grapefruit and vanilla, “I’m not mad, it’s fine. Let’s just be done with it, put it past us, okay?”
Wooyoung pouts, but he nods, then lays back on your chest all over again. You groan, shifting your body to get comfortable under his weight, wondering how the fuck they were hooking up on this thing when you have to fight for your life to get comfortable on it.
“Sannie,” you shout into the open, living room air, “come get your boyfriend off of me!”
Wooyoung gasps, picking his head up to shout towards the hallway, “Don’t! I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Your head tips back in a laugh, knees bent up on either side of his body that’s dead weight on top of you, arms caging you in against the couch. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“You’re warm, let me stay,” he nuzzles his head into your hoodie further, his voice a sated mumble.
You smack your teeth, eyeing the pink princess blanket between your bodies, “You’re laying on top of the blanket and you don’t have clothes on.”
Shirtless, briefs on his legs, he snickers, guilty as charged. “You’re the only heat I need, baby.”
“Woo.”
“Too soon?” He picks his head up, brows lifted and eyes apologetic, “I’m sorry.”
San comes out of the hallway, fresh out of the shower, droplets of water sinking down his temples, onto his bare shoulders, his chest from his still-soaked hair. It makes your breath stutter in your chest the way it always does, he’s so effortlessly perfect it makes you miss touching him, feeling his soft skin beneath your fingers, sinking your nails into his strong, hard muscles. He smiles when he sees you, dimples prominent, he says nothing as he crosses the room with bare feet, nothing on his body but gray sweats on his legs.
“Don’t you dare,” you warn, seeing the twinkle of mischief in his eye, how his grin turns from soft to playful.
He ignores you by crawling onto the couch, shoving you into the back of it so he can take up the side, the couch just big enough to squeeze the three of you, only if San’s strength is on the outside to keep you boxed in.
You yelp as your body sinks into the couch, “San! I was comfortable.”
“You’re only comfortable on the L part,” San quips, body nuzzling into yours, Wooyoung giggling from below you.
“The chaise?” You snort, eyes flickering up to his that stare right back, “we’ve had two sectionals since we got this apartment, and you don’t know it’s called a chaise?”
He giggles, “I don’t care what it’s called, I just know that you like it.”
“And you only sit in the corner,” Wooyoung adds, his head sinking down to lay on your stomach. Your ankles cross over his back as his arms curl under yours, more comfortable now that you’re tangled, his arms taking pressure off your lower back.
“Let’s stay like this forever,” San doesn’t give you time to answer, squeezing in closer, pushing you and Wooyoung further to the back of the couch. He smells like his bodywash, sweet and soft, you would stay forever if you could.
Your voice comes out strangled under the pressure of his body, “We’re gonna have to, because soon I’ll be dead. You’re gonna kill me if you keep pushing me into the couch, Sannie.”
“I just want to keep you here,” he pouts, squishing his face closer until his nose presses against your cheek, “if I let you go, you’ll run away.”
His wet hair bleeds into the pillow, quickly spreading to where your head lays, it brushes against the side of your head the closer he gets, it’s cold. You squirm, “Your hair is freezing, Sannie, holy shit, there’s too much happening right now.”
San whines, but he rolls off the couch, landing on one steady foot, standing up. You suck in a breath, but your pillow’s already soiled, you frown. He grins.
“I’m going to the studio,” he says swiftly, “come with me, I have a few things to do before the day starts.”
You groan, lip lifting in protest, “I don’t have a rehearsal ‘til six.”
“Lucky,” Wooyoung mumbles, “Mine’s at four.”
“I know when yours is,” you mumble back, “I was gonna enjoy my alone time.”
“Freak,” San teases, a smile playing on his lips, amused at what he insinuated.
Wooyoung’s laugh is loud, piercing through the room, “That was a good one.”
Your brows raise, deadpanning, “And what if you’re right, hm? What then?”
They both turn to look at you, faces serious, both silently asking really?
It’s your turn to laugh, head tipping back into the pillow, and they both groan, San walking away, Wooyoung pushing off of you. It makes you laugh harder, talking through it, “Come on, that was a good one, you should have seen your faces.”
“Are you seriously not gonna come?” San, brows raised, asks from the entry to the hallway. “We can stop for food on the way, the three of us can hangout before everyone else shows up.”
You make a show of shaking your head back and forth, “I have shit to do here before work.”
Wooyoung smacks his teeth, “Like what? Laundry?”
You flatten your lips, “Have you seen the mountain of clothes in my room?”
San snorts, disappearing into the hallway, and Wooyoung finally climbs off the couch, “Fine, do your laundry, but I know you’ll miss us.”
“I’ll miss you so bad,” you’re wearing a smile now, watching him with lazy eyes as he follows behind San into the hallway, disappearing into the shadow of the walls.
Your smile falters, settling, before a frown takes its place. Soon enough, probably sooner than you think, you’re sure you won’t be able to do this anymore– spend so much time with them, cuddle with them, live with them, eventually they’ll grow sick of you, they’ll only want each other.
There’s already no room for you in their relationship, and with time, you’re sure the space they’ve carved out for you will dwindle to nothing. Looking across the room, you find Sweetie sunbathing beneath the window, his head politely tucked over his paws, the sun casting a shiny glow over his black coat, the sight makes you smile. You call him over and immediately he’s jumping onto the couch, laying on you where Wooyoung had just been, replacing the warmth he’d ripped away.
“At least I have you,” you whisper, smiling, fingers scratching under his ears.
“Yunho!” Wooyoung all but whispers, his loud voice carrying down the aisle, perking his tall friends’ ears. The older man whips his head around in confusion, smiling when he sees Wooyoung and San, giving them a small wave before walking down the aisle to greet them properly.
Stopping in a mid-sized corner store, the halfway point between the studio and home, San made good on his promise to pick up food on the way into work; Wooyoung was already giddy before seeing Yunho, this corner store was his favorite, it sold his favorite energy drink.
“Whatsup?” Yunho’s grin is wide as he clasps the hand of both men, pulling them both into a hug, landing a smack on their backs. “You guys going to Steer on Friday? I heard it’s got a weird industrial, mechanical vibe to it, I don’t know. Joong seems pretty hype about it.”
San and Wooyoung both nod, but it’s San who answers, “Yeah, yeah, we wouldn’t miss it.”
“Sounds weird, though,” Wooyoung adds, “do you know if the drinks are cheap?”
“Three bucks a beer,” Yunho’s tongue pokes out from between his teeth, nodding, and the three men erupt into what can only be described as men-turned-pelicans finding an endless pit of fish to feed on.
They’re all smiles and laughter until Yunho asks if you’re going, which sparks the two men’s memory, Wooyoung and San’s backs standing a little straighter, entering Shy-defense-mode.
“I…” San begins, then turns to Wooyoung.
Wooyoung, already staring at him, blinks, then turns to Yunho, “Maybe?” He gives it a second, then blurts, “Can I just ask what happened between you two?”
San’s lips tighten, head falling until his chin tucks into his chest. They shouldn’t have asked, Wooyoung shouldn’t have asked, but he can’t help his curiosity– he wants to know, too. They haven’t gotten anything besides vague answers from you.
Yunho’s eyes widened, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. It makes San curious, too curious for his own good, he adds, “We won’t say anything, she just won’t tell us anything, and we’re worried about her, y’know?”
Yunho’s chin tilts in defense, brows flattening, “I didn’t– it was just–”
“We’re not accusing you of anything bad,” Wooyoung waves his hands out in front of him, eyes wide, chucking nervously. “Shy said you were really great to her, it just didn’t work out, or something. She cried for like an entire day after and wouldn’t tell us any more details.”
San frowns with remembrance, how you shut yourself away and wouldn’t let them in, figuratively and literally. When Wooyoung’s hand falls to his side, San grabs it, giving him an encouraging squeeze, the two meeting eyes with small, fond smiles painted on their cheeks. Yunho’s eyes lock on the action, on their smiles, confusion morphing his features, everything scrunching together at once.
“What?” San asks, “Was everything okay? You’re both being so ominous about it.”
“Us?” San asks, surprised, eyes wide and brows high.
San and Wooyoung share a look, then reluctantly, they nod. Wooyoung smiles, “Yeah, we’re together.”
“Like, just the two of you?” Yunho has a finger pointed, dancing between the two of them.
San’s head turns in question, “Yes?”
Yunho’s jaw drops, nodding slowly, then with a pitched, disbelieving tone, he mumbles, “No shit.”
“I know,” San nods with a knowing smile, thinking he’s got all of Yunho’s thoughts figured out. “Long time coming, though.”
“It’s been like, a little over a week of us being together officially,” Wooyoung adds, his grin proud and wide, “but it’s been good so far. We’re happy.”
“Does she know?” Yunho asks, his face quickly settling back into confusion.
Wooyoung’s lips purse, “Yeah, she knows. Why?”
Yunho nods slowly again like he’s thinking, then shakes his head quickly when Wooyoung’s question settles. “No reason, just wondering. Anyways, I’ve really gotta run, I’ve got this thing that I’m already late to and… art, and you know, yeah. Bye.”
“Wait, you didn’t–”
“Sorry guys, see you Friday though, yeah?” Yunho gives them a brief smile, then scurries down the aisle like Wooyoung and San were about to put the plague in his palms.
Wooyoung and San stand there for a second, brows furrowed, heads tilted, before they look at each other utterly dumbfounded. Wooyoung points down the aisle, “Was that homophobic?”
San, still confused, responds, “Perhaps.”
“Hm,” Wooyoung’s eyes thin, “could’ve sworn him and Mingi fucked before.”
“I thought so too,” San squeezes his hand again, “who cares? We can snitch on him Friday.”
Wooyoung’s grin returns, laughing loud enough for the whole bodega to hear, “Imagine Hongjoong’s face.”
“Hongjoong would beat the shit out of him with one hand, Naoya style.”
The more San thinks about it, the more he thinks Yunho might not actually be homophobic at all.
“Don’t call me schizophrenic.”
Wooyoung snorts, “Are you about to say something that will make me think you’re schizophrenic?”
“Maybe,” San responds, lips scrunched. Sitting at the receptionist desk at the front of the studio, the final piece of San’s thought process clicked into place when you brushed past them into your studio for rehearsal. “I think Shy might love us back.”
Wooyoung, sitting fully on the desk beside San, wears a white tank on his upper half, exposing the tattoo on his forearm, black sweats on his lower, hiding each inch of bronzy, toned muscle. He’s housing a granola bar, his knees spread, back hunched, brows raised as he watches San think.
“That interaction with Yunho was kinda weird,” San begins, leaning back into the rolling computer chair, hands lazily thrown at the center of his spread thighs. In all black, his clothes look painted on, tee clinging to his chest, his arms, his torso, sweats exposing the breadth of his thighs.
“We knew this already,” Wooyoung nods, sticking out his free hand in a rolling motion, “let’s skip to the Shy part.”
“What if she was crying the whole day after her date with Yunho because of us?” His eyes flicker up to look at Wooyoung, who only raises a brow. “What if she didn’t work out with Yunho because she wants us, and she told Yunho all about it?”
“Why would she even go on the date then?”
San deadpans, “Did she want to even go on that date?”
Wooyoung slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening, “Oh my god, she definitely did not want to go on that date. What if she didn’t work out with Yunho because she wants us, and she told Yunho all about it?”
San rolls his eyes, and then literally rolls the chair away from Wooyoung who tips his head back in laughter. “I’m sorry, come back,” he says through his laughter, “please? I’ll stop, I’m sorry. It just sounds like we’re grasping for straws here.”
“Why else would Yunho be so weird about us being together?” San continues, rolling the chair until he’s between Wooyoung’s spread legs, he lays both palms on his knees. “And when he asked ‘just the two of you’? Come on, he basically told us the whole damn story.”
Wooyoung holds onto his granola bar with two hands, eyes closing as he terribly sings, “Just the two of us… We can make it if we try, just the two of us…”
“Listen to me, Wooyoung. I’m being serious.”
It seems to lock him back in, Wooyoung meeting San’s eye, his back straightening a little. San’s lips perk upward, his groin opening an eye at the easy display of submission– not the time.
“Okay, fine. But I do think you’re a little insane and grasping for straws.”
San smacks his teeth, “I’ll prove it to you, then.”
“Yeah?” Wooyoung cracks a smile, “How are you gonna do that? That night in the studio set us back, like, five years.”
“You don’t know her like I know her,” San sits back in the computer chair again, smirk crawling its way onto his cheeks, his arms crossing over his chest.
Wooyoung scowls, “Are you flexing on me right now?”
“No!” San shakes his head, “I’m just saying, I think I could get her to crack if she does want us back.”
“And why would you do it any better than I could?” Wooyoung’s voice is sharper, “I wanted her to begin with, you know.”
“And I was fucking her before you ever laid eyes on her,” San responds in the same tone, “don’t get cocky with me, not when it comes to this.”
Wooyoung’s brows raise, back arching ever so slightly at the tone of San’s voice. There’s amusement playing in his words as he says, “Wow, never thought I’d see the day you get possessive.”
“With you, there’s no reason to, it’s not a competition,” San shrugs, “besides right now. You struck a nerve.”
Wooyoung smiles, hopping down from the desk to place a fat kiss on San’s lips, “You love me.”
San’s dimples are on display in a smile as he lifts his arms to grab Wooyoung by his cheeks, leaning up off the chair to kiss the younger man again, “That I do.”
“You’re really gonna try?” Wooyoung asks again, leaning against the counter, his legs crossed between San’s as he takes another bite of his granola bar. “Even after my studio debacle with her?”
San nods, “I’m optimistic about it, I know, but I really do think I’m right.”
San learned to enjoy cooking before he learned to enjoy being in the gym. Him and his mother in the kitchen, teaching him recipes she’s carried through her years learned from her own mother, to recipes he’s learned from cookbooks and the internet that fall within the strict guidelines of his diet.
It turned from sustainability to passion— cooking became a love language before he knew it, and the main reason is because he’s always loved cooking for you most. More so since the two of you moved in together, even more so when Wooyoung moved in, too. Cooking for the three of you, to eat at the kitchen table, on the couch, even if he was dropping off plates to you in your bedrooms… San loved it. Adored it.
For you to enjoy something he made for you warmed his blood until it sizzled with affection, to know he was making a good, hearty, healthy meal to nourish you, he never thought cooking, of all things, would make him realize how deeply he’s in love.
It’s a constant reminder every time his bare feet touch the tiled floor of the kitchen that he loves you, that he loves Wooyoung. Tonight it feels stronger, but maybe that’s the two glasses of wine and his pink cheeks talking. The way you’re dancing about the kitchen, twirling in nothing but a big tee, singing along to the song playing from the speaker you keep in the kitchen— the confession is laying right below his skin, on the tip of his tongue, begging to be set free. After his realization, a bubble of hope so big you could pop it with a fingernail, he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep it in.
You’re laughing at something he said, his tipsy mind doesn’t even know what it was, but your laugh is so loud and so involuntary it squeezes the life out of his lungs. He wants to pick you up and put you on the counter, his hands on your perfect thighs as your ankles hook around his back, he wants to kiss you. He wants to feel you laugh into his mouth. He misses you.
“I don’t want to talk about me at eighteen,” you shake your head, still giggling. Your hair is in a bun atop your head, messy, pieces hanging out like you tied it without looking in the mirror. Barefaced, no pants, no bra, this is his favorite version of you, the one that doesn’t care, the one that’s perfectly comfortable being in your own skin.
“Why not? I loved you at eighteen, too,” San turns back around before his cock begins stirring in his pants— he stirs the pot on the stove, instead.
You come up behind him, on your tippy toes to place your chin on his shoulder. Still smiling, teeth stained with a faint, deep red, “Yeah? You loved me, huh?”
San knows it’s the wine talking, you’d never be so bold otherwise. He doesn’t even think you’re being serious. But, being himself, his brows dance above his eyes as he says, “Of course I did, I still love you.”
You roll your eyes, smile faltering for just a second before it returns with vengeance, “I thought you meant you loved me, you goof.”
Should he just say it? Should he? His back straightens a little. Uneasy, voice a little shaky, he tries, “I did, I had a– a huge crush on you when we were eighteen.”
Your eyes blow wide, spinning around next to him to press your back up against the counter, palms folding around the edge. Surprised, but a little disbelieving, your jaw drops, “No way.”
“I’m serious!” I still have it to this day. “When you dated that one guy— fuck, what was his name?”
“Mark.”
“Mark, that’s it. When you dated him senior year, I was so mad, I can remember being at graduation and being so fucking jealous that you were kissing him for pictures.”
You gasped out a laugh, mortified, shocked, stomach dropping with what you could have had, “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What was I supposed to say?” San steps to the side, half of his body taking up all of yours. He pretends like he doesn’t notice how small you are beneath his body. “‘Hey Shy, I know we’ve known each other all our lives, but in the past few years I’ve actually formed a gigantic huge crush on you. Sorry if it ruins the friendship.’”
“Exactly that, yes,” you’re laughing again, nodding, head tilting to the side as you look up at him with those fucking eyes. He loves them, so big and full of knowledge, experience, maturity and grace that is only expressed in the most you way. In a quieter voice, like you’re afraid to say it, you mumble, “I guess that explains college then, huh?”
There’s a pit in his stomach, one full of gasoline, and you just dropped a lit match down his throat without even realizing it.
“There’s a lot that could explain college,” San smirks, one dimple arriving at the scene, moving so he’s fully standing in front of you, caging you in between himself and the counter. He presses his hands into the ledge, voice teasing, light and airy, “Like how we wanted each other, and were using a third person as an excuse?”
Your smile falters, eyes widening. You swallow, San watches as your throat bobs, breath turning shallow, chest rising and falling beneath your tee. He can’t help the way his smirk grows, liquid confidence and too much optimism making his arm raise to brush a thumb over your cheek, reveling in how you twitch under his touch, eyelids fluttering. He remembers this body like it was his own, how you react to him, what gets your panties wet, what makes your toes fucking curl. He wants to show you how much he remembers you.
“Are you guys talking about college again?”
You gasp loudly, jumping, body slithering out of San’s clutch and into the open floorplan of the kitchen, all in a few quick, panic-driven movements. With a hand clutched over your heart, you’re out of breath, “Fuck, Woo, you scared me.”
“I could feel the jealousy simmering in my bones, I knew you had to be talking about college,” he’s leaning against the archway, playful smirk on his lips, golden skin gleaming beneath the warm light of the kitchen. Shirtless, body on display, an ankle crossed over the other with a pair of baggy basketball shorts on… fuck Wooyoung for interrupting him, but fuck, San might actually get hard with the both of you half-dressed.
You roll your eyes, taking two steps before you press your back against the other side of the counter, using your palms to lift you up over the edge. Exactly how San wants you, how he imagined you, his breath catches in his throat. He turns back around instead of dwelling on it.
“Shut up, Woo,” he hears you mumble, “those days have long ended. Should’ve met us earlier.”
Wooyoung whines, uncurling his arms from his chest to walk further into the kitchen, stopping in front of you with his palms pressed to your knees, “What, you don’t miss it, Shybaby? Not even a little?”
San turns the knob on the stove until the flame lowers to a small flicker, stirring the roux in the pot. He turns his head halfway, side-eyeing Wooyoung whose back is slightly arched as he stares up into you, hands now planted against the edge of the counter on either side of your thighs, so confident, not a shred of insecurity in him. San wonders how he’s managed a complete one-eighty from the night he woke him up to freak out. Maybe he’s really making this a competition.
You stiffen, eyes widening. Tipsy, but not drunk enough to admit something like that. A nervous laugh stutters from your lips, “I— What? Like I said, that ship has sailed. Those days are over. The baton has been passed to you, Woo.”
You use one hand on Wooyoung’s bare shoulder and the other pressed to the countertop to haul yourself off of it, landing swiftly on bare feet. Scrambling out of the kitchen towards the living room, you call over your shoulder, “Let me know when dinner’s ready, I’m gonna lay down, the wine went straight to my head, I think.”
Wooyoung waits a moment before he turns to stare at San, eyebrows flat. San tightens his lips, an insult in his eyes, whispering, “Why did you interrupt?”
Wooyoung crosses the kitchen, his voice a sharp whisper, “I thought you already did it. Do you know how it looked from over there?”
Leaving the roux, he leans up against the counter, arms crossing, “We would have been making out by now if you didn’t interrupt.”
“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung whines, “it’s fine, just try again.”
San covers his face with his hands, “You know what?” His hands lay on his boyfriend’s shoulders, “What I just did will hit its mark, maybe if you try next, we can get the point across without having to actually say it. Then she will come to us.”
“If I try then she won’t have to come to us,” a cocky grin spreads across the younger man’s face, “it’ll be game-point. You’ll come home to find us fucking.”
San’s lips thin, but he doesn’t respond. At this point he doesn’t care how it happens, as long as it happens.
You thought the wine had left your system hours ago, after the meal Sannie made you, especially after a movie on the couch. The wine is the only explanation for your insides feeling warm and gooey— not the fact that across the hall, you could hear the squeaking of the mattress, the bedframe hitting the wall repeatedly, strangled moans leaving two men’s lips that you could tell they were trying to keep inside.
Sweetie slept on his bed on your floor, head buried in the gray plush, waking up every few minutes or so from an especially loud moan or a shrill bang of wood against wall. Even your fucking dog was losing sleep.
You’ve never heard them before, not once. Not once. Why tonight, after having both of their hands on you, their eyes staring into you, after the question Wooyoung asked? Do you miss it? The fear that zapped up on your spine was so intense you needed to lay down and close your fucking eyes.
Confusing as much as it was scary, Wooyoung speaks of jealousy, but asks you if you miss fucking his boyfriend? Was it a kink to them? Is that why they’re fucking now?
They get off on other people wanting them… Wanting each other… That had to be it. The jealousy aspect, of reclaiming one another, and they used you to do it of all people?! It’s worse than mean, it’s worse than rude, it’s cruel. Cruel to dangle their relationship in front of your face after flirting with you— even if flirting with you is all they’ve ever done.
You can remember meeting Wooyoung for the first time, sitting with him in a smoke circle, laughing your heart out when only three or four words had left his mouth. You ended up in tears, cheeks aching, lungs empty and dry, by the time everyone up and left and it was only the two of you left, he’d come onto you. Your first time meeting, even if he said he took notice of you far earlier, around that same smoke circle.
You can’t remember why you’d said no, how you rejected him. You had a feeling, maybe, that your relationship with him would grow far deeper than one night spent together in a cloud of hazy lust. Still to this day you remember that ache, laughing so hard you nearly gagged, eyes locked in on him, waiting for the next hilarious thing to leave his lips. It became routine, the next time you saw him out, the time Sannie introduced you to him when you already knew each other, when your name fell from his lips for the first time, Wooyoung has always, always looked at you with a certain look in his eye— like he was waiting for the smile to kiss your cheeks, for the laugh to fall from your lips.
You don’t remember exactly when your duo with San had turned to three. Wooyoung only moved in two years ago, but you’ve been close for years now, since that night around the smoke circle, passing three joints amongst nine people.
Maybe you were meant to become friends with him so he could end up with San, so the two of them could knock their headboard against your fucking wall and remind you that you’d never be on the inside.
It felt sour.
Yet for some reason, the hurt laying low in your tummy swam with the heat, the desire, curling into a pit of fire-hot pressure you couldn’t ignore. You’d already pushed the sheets off your body, already tugged your shirt up, desperate for air. You tried a pillow over your head, squeezing cotton against your ears. You went on your phone, scrolled Twitter, watched a few TikToks, tried your favorite ASMRtist.
Laying low in the background was them. Endless. San’s low grunts, Wooyoung’s pitched whines, they poured through the thin wall separating your rooms, surrounding you like wildfire. They were everywhere, in the air, on your skin, in your sheets, but the ache curled low, settling into nothingness because you could hear the pleasure but were feeling none of it.
You gasped as you heard it— one singular line gritted through San’s teeth, “Yeah? Gonna be good for me?”
You bent your knees up, head tipping back into the sheets, eyes squeezing shut. Your fingertips tapped against the bed, pushing a heavy sigh through pursed lips. That voice, his tone, the actions that accompany it, your memories are your personal hell. You could see them, Sannie bending Wooyoung in half, a foot planted on the bed as he drilled into him.
Then Wooyoung whimpered, “Yes, please. So good for you— I’ll be good, please, fuck me Sannie—”
Your lips parted, a shaky breath slipping through. Your body was steaming, ears straining to listen to every last fucking detail even if you didn’t want to hear any of it. Even if it hurt, you needed it like water, like air, so badly you wanted to get up out of bed and walk in there.
“That’s it,” San grunted, you could see the sweat beading between his pecs, “stay down, don’t fucking move.”
You bit your lip as your hands traveled to your thighs. Nails scraping against your skin, your nipples pebbled against the open air of your room, shame and embarrassment twisting with the rest of everything curling in your gut. Arousal, jealousy, rage, nostalgia, shame, hurt— you needed your panties off. It felt unethical, you should put on headphones, you should leave, you should do anything but dip two fingers into your panties.
You moaned as your fingers made contact with your clit. Immediately you clamped a hand over your mouth, back arching into your own touch, ignoring the flame of shame completely as your eyes fluttered closed. You eased yourself into the pleasure, breath picking up as Wooyoung’s moans grew louder, the smack of San’s hips landing harder.
Your other hand sank down to toy with a nipple while your fingers circled your clit in tight, rhythmic movements, eyelids twitching as their pleasure became your own. Timing your movements with theirs, lips parting when a moan sank through drywall, you let your mind drift, placing yourself in the fantasy.
Laying up against Sannie’s chest, Wooyoung between your thighs. On top of Wooyoung, hips circling his as Sannie pushed up against your back, hands on your chest, one sinking down to rub circles on your clit. Sitting on Sannie’s lap just like Wooyoung had the night you caught him, chests pressed together, hands in hair, hips mindlessly rutting together, Wooyoung on your back as if you really were between them that night.
The movie played in color in your mind, so vivid, like it was happening— with noise melting walls, it felt real. Lost in the pleasure, in the fantasy, you didn’t realize their volume had lowered, that their movements slowed.
“Sannie, stop, stop,” Wooyoung splayed a hand behind him, head perked up, face still twisted in pleasure, but his lips stayed parted like he couldn’t believe his ears.
“What?” Concerned, San had two palms on Wooyoung’s hips, pausing immediately, “Are you okay? What's wrong?”
“Listen,” Wooyoung whispered, like if he spoke too loud, you’d hear him. That you’d stop.
San’s brows furrowed, lips parting to question, but then he heard it. Small, faint whimpers, and then a moan— a genuine, raw, unbridled fucking moan, yours. He recognized it, he knows it, he’s forced it out of your lips, his hips grind into Wooyoung’s warmth out of instinct.
Wooyoung’s head dropped, arm bending until his elbow hit the mattress, a low moan spilling from his lips as his arm slipped between his thighs, tugging on his length. His voice comes out low, ragged, “I can’t believe this.”
“Fuck,” San cursed low, long, hips picking up again, slow but steady, quiet enough to hear your sounds float through the wall. “She– I–, Woo.”
“Yes,” Wooyoung whispered, moaned, hips fucking back onto San’s length in a nasty, slow grind, “wish she was in here, sh- it, want her hands on me.”
San’s fingertips squeezed into the plush of Wooyoung’s ass, face scrunching together in pleasure, a silent moan leaving his slacked jaw. The shock, the debrief would have to come later.
“You— you wanna fuck her while I fuck you? Hm?”
Wooyoung arched deeper, fisting his length faster, picking up speed all over again, drowning out your noise. San wasn’t faring much better, hips stuttering into Wooyoung, one hand sliding up to claw fingers into his boyfriend’s back.
San’s eyes stayed locked onto where the two met, watching how Wooyoung’s ass rippled with each harsh thrust of his cock, the end approaching too fucking fast.
A few more thrusts until he was hunched over, drooling onto Wooyoung’s back as he filled him up, Wooyoung’s release spilling all over the comforter beneath them. They didn’t even get as far as undoing the sheets.
Dinner, a few glasses of wine, a movie with too much touching, Wooyoung was already dirty talking San before they opened up the bedroom door. Cocky smirk on his pretty lips, head tilted, eyes sparkling, teasing him about you— oh, he was begging to get fucked. San’s been overly careful of your presence for awhile now, never too loud, keeping Wooyoung’s mouth on a tight leash when you’re home.
But Wooyoung pushed each and every button tonight, all concerning you. How he’d fuck you better, how you’d crack when he tried, how he’d treat you better than San, San put one hand around his throat and the rest unfolded in a mess of teeth, tongue and lube. To hear you through the wall, getting off to them, was the cherry on top. They needed to do something, now.
San ripped the comforter off the bed and crawled beneath the sheet, not caring if Wooyoung spilled into them as he settled over San’s chest, their breath still heavy, hearts still pounding.
“You seriously think she was getting off to us?” San asked Wooyoung, brows raised in innocence, in fear of what he thought to be true, being false. He kept his voice low, a small whisper.
Wooyoung, fully out of breath, chest still heaving and soaked in sweat, laughed. A hearty chuckle, he ran a hand through his hair, smile lingering, “Yes, baby. Bet she’s in there nervous as hell that we heard her.”
You sat up in your bed, chest heaving, eyes wide, right hand still shaky. Fuck. There’s no way they heard you, right? Too wrapped up in each other, they were loud, there’s no way they heard you over the sound of themselves. You looked over to Sweetie in panic, only easing when you saw his head still tucked into his half-torn bed, eyes closed, breathing even.
If Sweetie wasn’t bothered, then they definitely didn’t hear you.
You lay flat against your bed, mind whirling, so fucking confused because that was so hot but it wasn’t right. Masturbating to the sound of your two roommates, two best friends who were in a relationship fucking, it wasn’t morally correct, that you knew before your fingers slipped into your panties. Post-nut clarity seeping in, you’re met with regret, guilt, and the urge to give up.
Reminding yourself was painful– they don’t want you, they want each other. There’s no room for you in their relationship.
Maybe you’ll go with them to that fuckass bar tomorrow. Maybe Yunho will be there. Nothing could be worse than living with this.
San and Wooyoung had enough.
The morning after the multi-room sex debacle, you pretended like nothing happened. They supposed that to you, nothing did happen, you had no idea they heard you, and they weren’t going to say anything, either. You’d die of embarrassment if they brought it up, and they’ve come to the conclusion that it wouldn't be the best start of a blooming relationship. They at least thought you would question it, question them. But you didn’t.
Their patience was running thin.
The bar was loud, pop music floating through the space, a newer bar with an industrial look to it that left everything open. The ceilings showed the pipes, the walls looked to be something like steel, the decor had a very factory-mechanical vibe to it that they couldn’t quite explain– but the drinks were cheap and the music was good. With all of your friends here, they didn’t care much, anyhow, their main focus was that you wanted to be here, you wanted to blow off steam, let loose and let go after a hectic week.
They wondered how much of that excuse had to do with them.
You stood at the bar, one foot propped up on the exposed pipe lying at the base, tapping Wooyoung’s credit card against the bar. San leaned into him, their shoulders touching, both of their eyes locked in on you, watching like they always did. God forbid they took their eyes off of you.
“You guys are gonna go cross-eyed if you keep staring,” Seonghwa muttered from across the circular table, settled in the booth beside his boyfriend, Hongjoong.
“How could we not stare?” Wooyoung was quick to answer. “Have you seen her?”
“I thought you guys were together now,” Hongjoong’s brows furrowed, eyes bouncing between Wooyoung and San, fingers tapping against his glass, his draft beer halfway gone by now.
“We are,” San shrugged, “just trying to get her with us, too.”
Wooyoung snorted, “That’s one way to put it.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jongho interrupted, leaning forward between Mingi and Yeosang, separating the couple. “You’re trying to be in… what, a throuple?”
“Yeah,” San and Wooyoung answered at the same time, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Actually, I’m not even going to question it,” Yeosang shook his head, bringing the straw in his fruity cocktail up to his lips. “San’s always had a thing for her.”
Mingi leans forward, a smile on his pink lips, agreeing with his boyfriend immediately, “Right? I thought you guys would end up together, or really, I kinda thought you were secretly together this whole time.”
San’s cheeks, already pink, must have turned four shades darker. He didn’t have time to answer though, Hongjoong cutting in immediately, “Sounds messy. Does she know you want her?”
Wooyoung’s lips tighten as he shakes his head, “Don’t know, maybe.”
“Didn’t she just go on a date with Yunho?” Jongho asks, one of his brows popped.
San sighs, “That was before we knew she was interested in us, if she is.”
“She is interested in you?” Mingi looks completely confused.
“See?” Hongjoong shakes his head. “Messy.”
Wooyoung nudges San with his elbow, speak of the fucking devil, grabbing his boyfriend’s attention to watch Yunho approaching you at the bar, a pitstop on his way back from the bathroom. Immediately there’s a fire in his gut, jealousy spreading like wildfire to each nerve ending in his body, it doesn’t help that Yunho looks hot tonight. Baggy cargos on his legs, tight tee on his torso, oversized button down hanging loose off his shoulders, fuck him. Why is he approaching you like the two of you are friendly or something?
Last they heard, you didn’t want him, you wanted them. So why is Yunho talking to you like he’s hitting on you? Why is your hand on his forearm? What could he possibly be saying that makes your head tip back in laughter? Yunho isn’t even that funny.
There’s discomfort lining San’s eyebrows as he watches you lean into Yunho, seeming almost instinctive. He knows that look in your eye, the exact grin on your cheeks, what you’re insinuating even if he can’t hear a word falling from your glossy lips. He takes a slow breath, calming his heart rate before his mind warps what he sees into something completely different.
Yunho’s his friend. If his hypothesis is correct, he knows how you feel about them, how they feel about you, wait– did they even tell Yunho how they feel about you? San’s eyes widen in panic as he turns to Wooyoung who already looks like he’s settled in his decision, jealousy in the hinge of his clenched jaw, his fingers mindlessly swirling the straw in his drink.
San thinks they’re speaking around him, he can’t hear, he chooses not to listen. He watches as you lean forward, whispering something in Yunho’s ear. His chest feels heavy as Yunho looks down at the floor like he’s hiding flushed cheeks, an easy smile on his lips, body leaning closer to you as if San and Wooyoung weren’t sitting ten feet away.
They’ve had enough.
You were already smiling as Yunho approached you, having watched him make the few last steps to where you stood. “Hey stranger.”
“Hey,” he leans against the bar, “getting another drink?”
You flashed Wooyoung’s black card, a smirk on your cheeks, “Getting as many as I can stomach tonight.”
Yunho smacks his teeth, “Rough week?”
“You have no idea,” you say through an exhausted breath, “and you? Drinking tonight? I’m sure Woo won’t notice if I add another beer to his tab.”
Yunho’s eyes dance from the table back to you, “Oh, he’ll notice.”
“Trust me,” your lips scrunch together, disappointment on your face, “he won’t. He’s too focused on San.”
“They’re together?” Yunho lifts a brow, “like, together together?”
“Mhm,” you nod, tongue poking your cheek. “New development in the saga, I guess. Not a good one.”
“I’m sorry,” Yunho frowns, “I did not expect that.”
You’re still nodding until a sigh is pulled from your lungs, “It does leave me single, though, like super single…” Your eyes flicker up to him, blinking through heavy lashes.
Yunho snorts, “Yeah? Were you not super single before?”
You laugh, a breathy little thing, leaning closer to him, a hand mindlessly landing on his forearm. “I was, but there was hope before. Now there’s nothing, like super confirmed, nothing.”
“Super,” Yunho nods, laughter still playing on his lips like he was fighting it back. It leaves you both giggling like kids, a hand covering your mouth as your head tips back.
He looks pretty tonight, you realize. Undone, casual, like he didn’t put in too much effort. Baggy clothes on his body, hair a little disheveled, he looked comfortable. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol in your system or the last bit of sanity you were clinging on to, but he looked… Different. Good, really good.
“Are you still super single?” The question slips from your lips before you can think about it.
Yunho’s brows raise, surprised, they quirk immediately after, confused. His eyes fly to the table, landing there for a moment before sliding back to you, “Oh,” he blinks, “oh. Yes, yeah, I’m still single.”
“Good,” you nod, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling the heat you were so desperately missing the night you went out on your date. You needed something, a good fuck, a drunk hookup, something to distract you from how fucking miserable you felt. Hopeless was the better word, after coming to the sound of them fucking you’d never felt more pathetic in your life, you needed change, something, anything.
“Do… you have plans after this?” Yunho’s face looked innocent, of all things. Like he wasn’t sure if he should be asking the question, the implication behind it, even though he seemed to see straight through you, what you needed.
The smirk that crawled onto your cheeks was anything but innocent. “Nope, completely free.”
“Good,” Yunho nodded, his smile a little more confident now. “Fuck the black card, let me buy you a drink.”
Your brows raised, a laugh falling past your lips as both your hands shoot up in defense, “Be my guest. You deserve a do-over.”
“No I do not,” he says through a laugh, “but you deserve to have some fun.”
You roll your eyes, snorting a laugh, “Please, we both know that date was not good.”
Yunho’s head turns back to the table again before taking your place leaning over the bar, ignoring your comment but definitely not denying it, “I’ll get us a round of shots.”
And he did– vodka, bitter and hot, it burnt your chest the entire way down. But it went down easy with the liquor already pooling in your gut, body warm enough to begin with.
He bought you something fruity afterward, rum and juice, it tasted like candy— easy to sip on, easy to chug if need be. You stuck around the bar instead of heading back to the table, eyeing the dance floor on the other side of the bar, in easy conversation with Yunho who seemed like he had no intentions of heading back to the table, either.
“Do you want to dance?” His eyes flicker to you, brows raised like he couldn’t quite gauge whether or not you’d say yes.
“You know I teach dance for a living, right?” Your lips quirk on one side, “Of course I want to dance.”
“I can’t say I’m a great dancer,” Yunho admits, lips tightened in a line. “I sell art, there’s nothing fluid about walking around a gallery all day.”
You laugh, grabbing him by the wrist, tugging him towards the music that gets louder with each step. “Follow my lead,” you say simply, mind finally feeling fucking free, “I’ll give you a free lesson.”
He trails behind you with a silly smile until you enter the crowd of people, it was busy over here, you realized. The bar wasn’t too crowded, the other side of the building consisted of booths and tables for those who… didn’t want to have a good time, you guessed. Talking, catching up, the first awkward half of a date, maybe.
You loved bars that had dance floors. Clubs, weddings, anywhere that there was a space dedicated to people letting loose, allowing their bodies to move as they pleased, to feel music in their blood. It was your favorite, even if you danced for a living, this was different– no choreography, no rules, there was nothing in your mind to keep you structured. You could let yourself feel, move the way your body allowed, you didn’t have to worry what anyone else thought.
With liquor in your system, that freedom is amplified by a thousand. Dancing before Yunho, you quickly realize he lied about having two left feet, his smile is just as careless as yours as his body moves to the beat of the song, matching your rhythm perfectly. Hips swaying in tandem, arms flowing in the space around you, you’re giggling before you know it, a smile branded onto your cheeks.
Until you turn your head and see that Wooyoung and San have joined you.
San’s arms over Wooyoung’s shoulders, they danced close, hips touching, swaying together as one. They were smiling at you– or pretending to be, the first thing you noticed was how their grins didn’t reach their ears. An alarm bell sounds in your head, confused, concerned, you want to ask what’s wrong, your body stops moving as the thoughts pile in.
Wooyoung, unaffected by your lack of movement, wiggles free from San’s grip. “Let’s switch!” He’s smiling, yelling over the music, “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
Your brows furrow as Wooyoung shimmies between you and Yunho, his arms gliding swiftly over Yunho’s shoulders shamelessly, dark hair glowing under the pink, neon light, shaking with each sway of his body.
You turn your head to San who seems like he’s taking a moment to process, then he pulls you into him by your wrist, other hand landing on your hip, your back to his chest. You start moving out of instinct, hips swaying, but your brows stay furrowed.
Turning your head halfway, you ask, “What’s going on?”
San presses his lips into your cheek, dimples out to play with the smile he gives you. This one seems more real, it eases the panic in your chest ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I–” Your head turns back to Wooyoung, who has his cheek pressed to Yunho’s, saying something into his ear. “Are you guys okay?”
“Of course,” San’s palms hug your hips, pulling you flush to him, the feeling of him behind you sends heat up your spine. Immediately you’re brought back to the other night, the sounds leaving his lips, the mental picture you came up with, your hand between your legs. With his voice dripped in honey, he asks, “Are you okay, Shygirl?”
You’re nodding, body sinking into him, heat pulsing through your core, up your spine. His body feels so strong behind you, muscular arms on your hips, rocking you so sensually it throws your head for a spin. This movement brings back memories, ones that haunt you, ones you miss so fucking much.
You nod weakly, your voice a small squeak, “Yup, ‘m fine.”
He chuckles, cheeks pink, burying his head into your neck. You’re so close you could be considered one, it’s too close, it’s disrespectful, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. Yunho is right in front of you, expecting a night with you, he knows how you feel about San, about Wooyoung, and here you are falling into a haze, repeating old mistakes.
A third hand to one side of your waist, a fourth to the other. When you look up, Yunho is gone. Wooyoung stands before you with a cocky, lopsided smile on his lips, hips pressing into your front, falling into rhythm with you and San easily. He looks so pretty with pink cast onto his face, so bronzy even under neon light, his dark clothes sinking into the shadows.
“Where’s Yunho?” You ask, hands finding Wooyoung’s shoulders like it was instinct.
He takes the opportunity to come closer, the three of you molding together, the smell of both of them in your nose, the strength of them boxing you in. It feels so fucking good, it feels wrong, you don’t want them to let go, you want to stay here, dancing with them all night.
“Bathroom,” Wooyoung shrugs, thumbs caressing your sides. “Who cares?”
“Woo,” you whine, making a show of pouting, but it isn’t real. You don’t care.
“What?” His grin spreads wider, voice light and playful like he was proving his innocence, “The only thing that matters is you and us, right here. Nothing else.”
You couldn’t argue with him, not that you ever do. There’s nothing left inside you to make a rebuttal, anyway, there’s so you curl your fingers into the nape of his neck, spread your legs to allow one of theirs to slot through, and sway your hips like you were born to do it. Head falling back onto San’s shoulder, a lazy grin makes its way to your cheeks as you move with them, staring at Wooyoung over your nose, he looks at you like he’d do anything to drink you in.
He’s always looked at you this way, but there was something different about the longing glint in his eye, how his tongue slowly swipes over his lips like he’s hungry. Maybe it was knowing your own feelings playing a part, if it was anyone else you’d think they wanted to fuck you, but it’s Wooyoung. You can feel San at your back, the dirty grind of his hips against your ass, it’s been so long since you’ve been with them like this– dancing, liquor involved, too close for comfort, questioning if your relationship was as platonic as you thought it was.
Years. You haven’t touched San in years. You think back to Wooyoung asking if you missed it– you know you do, you miss it so fucking much, but was there a chance that Wooyoung wanted you to miss it? That he wanted to repeat history, this time with him involved, like all the times you’ve dreamt about? You almost groan, head tipping forward, heat spreading through your body at the thought of them wanting you like you want them.
“What are you thinking about, baby?” Wooyoung asks, his voice low, loud enough for you to hear. His face is so close you could feel his breath on your face; minty, like he was drinking a mojito, or took a shot of Rumplemintz. His smile is feline, eyes knowing as if your skull was transparent, like he just wanted to hear the words from your lips.
“I,” you take a breath, the admission sits on your tongue. “I’m not thinking.”
You can’t do it. To make yourself so vulnerable, so susceptible to rejection, you couldn’t do it.
Wooyoung leans in, soft, warm cheek pressed to yours, lips ghosting your ear, “You’re lying.”
San is on your other side, keeping himself close, his nose dancing along the shell of your ear, making you shiver. He keeps his voice just as low, sounding like an aphrodisiac, “Tell us, baby, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hm?”
Your heartbeat quickens, pressure below your skin, they’re too close, boxing you in, there’s a pit in your core like an itch you can’t fucking scratch and they’re dangling relief in front of your eyes, out of reach. Your jaw clenches, words fighting to push through, your fingers tangle into Wooyoung’s hair at the nape of his neck, nails grazing against skin– he hisses into your ear, fingers tightening around your waist like it’s all he could do to stop himself from pressing into you.
“Fuck, Woo,” you mutter under your breath, marvelling at the sound, how it makes your stomach do a flip. The floor feels charged, tension spreading from your ankles to your spine, your words spill out before you can think twice about them, “did you like that?”
You can feel electricity prickling your scalp at your own question, but he answers it with a quick-spreading smirk brushing over your ear, “Is it okay if I did?” Your eyes widen as he pulls away from you, keeping your faces so close your noses are almost touching. His eyes stay locked on yours and you can see the desperation changing the shape of his face. He asks again, “What if I asked you to do it again?”
It’s so wrong. They’re together, they’re a couple, there’s no fucking room for you. But what if there’s a chance that there is?
Yet your fingers tighten in his hair, gripping at his roots harder than before and his head falls back, strong jaw on display, the curvature of his nose, jugular beckoning your lips forward. The music disappears as a tight sound leaves his lips, the rest of the bar fades away as his hips buck into yours, you’re left in awe, dumbfounded, the heat in your core unbearable.
“He likes it a little rough,” San whispers into your ear, voice rough, edged with dominance. His teeth dragging over your earlobe, tongue following, “You’re gonna make him hard, baby.”
“S-shit,” you manage to get out, body twitching, sinking into San behind you whose hands slide under the hem of your top at your hips, palms hot and callused against your skin. Involuntarily your hips push forward, into Wooyoung, your mind so fuzzy and confused but you’re so fucking horny all you can ask is, “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Wooyoung asks, voice playful again, his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb sliding over your skin, searing the trail he leaves behind. “You’re smart, use that big brain.”
“Kiss him,” San whispers in your ear, then plants a kiss right below it, using his tongue to seal the spot. You shiver, a whimper leaving your lips, brows tying together. You’re confused, you don’t have time to be, you don’t want to question it anymore.
You want to kiss him, you’ve never kissed Wooyoung once in your life. You’ve longed to know what he tastes like, how he uses his pretty lips, if his tongue can do all the things you’ve imagined it to. Your eyes drop down as he wets his lips again, so glossy and inviting, you bite your lip as his curve into another smile.
“You want to,” San’s lips drop to your neck, talking against your skin, “I know you want to, don’t deprive yourself, baby.”
You do want to, it’s a dream, your biggest fantasy coming to life. Your hands slide from the nape of Wooyoung’s cheek to cradle his jaw, Wooyoung’s flared eyes give you the green light, you blink once, twice, ignoring everything in your mind that tells you no as you lean in and press your lips to his. His hands cup your cheeks immediately, lips moving with yours, exploratory and relieving all at once, his tongue slips into your mouth like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it, no time to waste. San keeps his hands on your waist, groaning into your skin as he watches you, attaching his lips to your neck, kissing, sucking, licking over the marks he leaves behind.
There’s a leg between yours, you think it’s Wooyoung’s, maybe San’s, but your hips grind against it with each lick of his tongue into your mouth. It feels like heaven, or worse, mind so dazed and confused and horny but so at peace with this being everything you’ve ever imagined and more, you can’t get enough. You kiss him faster, rougher, arms wrapping around his neck, tongue searching his mouth like you need to embed the taste of him into your bones, he tastes sweet. Minty like this breath, a bitter note of alcohol on his tongue, your hands fall from his cheeks to his chest, sliding down to the hem of his shirt to tuck your hands beneath it.
Oh, he’s warm, his body feels like it looks, harsh and unforgiving, delicious. Like he could throw you around if he wanted to, you hope he wants to, unless it’s San who does the throwing– San.
San.
You break away from Wooyoung with low lidded eyes and he’s staring at you like you hung the stars in the fucking sky. Eyes glossy, lips swollen, you pull away and immediately he’s following, searching for more.
You turn your head and San’s already waiting for it, palm splaying over your cheek to pull you into him hastily, lips molding against yours like nostalgia was a sentiment created by the two of you. Like coming home, his tongue slots between your lips, teeth clamping over your bottom lip, tugging on it, you whine into his mouth, back arching into his chest. You needed more.
“Do you want us?” He asks into your mouth, breathless. You nod, and he clicks his tongue, “Words, Shy. Tell me you want it.”
“I want it, I’ve wanted it for so long,” you’re quick to admit, breathless yourself, voice raw, honest. “So, so fucking long, Sannie.”
Wooyoung grabs your face by your cheeks, stealing your attention, forcing you to face him so he can explore your mouth again, San breaking away from your back. You barely notice the loss of heat, melting into Wooyoung, chest pressed into his, hands in his hair, meeting his intentions with your own. He breaks away to peck you once, out of breath, pupils dilated, “We’ve wanted you for even longer.”
Your breath stutters, weak in the knees, you can’t process his words, you’d put it on a checklist for later. Voice cracking, wrecked before you’d even begun, you muttered, “Let’s go home.”
You felt bad for the driver with the way you sat on San’s lap the whole drive home, switching between him and Wooyoung like you were trying to figure out who was the better kisser. Truth was, you just couldn’t get enough of them, San’s kiss was a part of your being, his touch was instilled in you, familiar to the point of not wanting to ever let go. Wooyoung was new, fresh, but an itch to a scratch, a relief you’ve ached for far too long, he was addicting, like you couldn’t stop if you tried.
Sweetie is jumping at you when you walk through the threshold and the three of you bend down to pet him like you’ve never seen a dog before, like they weren’t just ready to strip you in the backseat of a minivan. Liquor still coursing through you, you’re all talking in high pitched voices, making his tail wag, he couldn’t choose which of you to give his attention to. After treats you’re in your room, tying your hair up, and naturally, the two men follow you.
San makes himself at home on your bed, still in his jeans, jacket still thrown over his shoulders, he leans back on his elbows, eyeing you over the tip of his nose as you meander about your bedroom, maybe stalling, maybe thinking. Maybe you just made all of that up. Maybe you didn't even kiss in the club and you should be diagnosed with schizophrenia.
“Shy.”
Wooyoung stands in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.
You look between them, jacket halfway off, heart picking up speed all over again, “What?”
“Oh my god, I love you,” Wooyoung’s smiling as he unfolds his arms, crossing the room, meeting you at your back. He pulls the jacket from your shoulders carefully, pressing his lips to your temple, “We want you, baby.”
Your eyes find San’s on your bed, he sits in a cloud of arousal, still sporting the tent in his jeans. Wooyoung presses his lips to your neck, hands landing on your hips, sliding up your waist, over your chest, your breath catches in your throat, head tilting to let him explore, back leaning into his hold to let him do as he pleases.
“I know it’s been two years,” San stands from the bed, walking towards you in three long steps, slipping his fingers through the belt loops on your jeans. He tugs your hips into him, arching you off of Wooyoung, making your breath catch. The grin that spreads across his cheeks is all arrogance, “But did you really think you weren’t getting fucked the moment we walked through the door?”
Your body ignites in a way you haven’t felt in years. You whisper, “I did, I– I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to fuck you?” He presses his forehead against yours, voice soft like velvet, invading your space again with his fingers uncurling from your belt loops to play with the hem of your jeans, two fingers pinching the button of your fly.
Wooyoung moves to your ear, biting the shell of it, not soft enough to hurt, but enough to make you suck in a harsh breath. He plays with your top, sliding it upward, knuckles cold against your skin, “Do you want me to fuck you?”
You whine, sinking into Wooyoung, reaching for San’s shirt. You want them to fuck you, god, you want them both, you’ll take anything they give you. You can barely get out a small, broken, “Yes.”
Accomplishment is bright on San’s face as he unbuttons your jeans with ease, Wooyoung pulls away to flip your shirt over your head, the two moving in such quick motions you begin thinking they’ve been waiting for this, too. San helps you step out of your jeans before attaching your lips and it’s more than hungry, he’s starving with the way he tries to devour you, swallow you whole as he turns you both around, unclasping your bra as he walks you to your bed.
You fall flat against your mattress with a squeak, feeling bare before them like this, standing above you like vultures. You’ve been here before with San, it feels like seeing an old friend again; but with Wooyoung, there’s a spark of unfamiliarity, it’s been years since you’ve opened up to someone new.
“Holy shit,” Wooyoung groans, dark hair messy around his face, deepening the shadows of his structured face. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Shy.”
You burn, heat spreading through you, knees closing, “You’ve seen me before, Woo.”
He catches your knees, spreading them as San kneels onto the bed beside you, watching Wooyoung as his eyes sink between your legs. “Not like this, do you even know how fucking wet you are?”
Your hips twitch with the way he holds you open, already searching for more. Wooyoung continues, eyes glossed over, stuck at your center like it was treasure, “Fuck, baby, you’re soakin’ through your panties.”
“For you,” you breathe out, “taste it.”
His eyes snap up to yours, smile tugging at the corner of his lips, amused. “Yeah? That what you want?”
You nod, “Yes, Woo, wanna feel your mouth, wanted it for so long.”
His eyes slide to San’s with a smirk and the older man meets his stare with a short, cocky, “Told you.”
Wooyoung’s hands curl under your knees, pulling your ass to the edge of the bed before he pulls your panties down your legs, throwing them somewhere on the floor, “Didn’t tell me she was impatient.”
“I am,” you’re quick to admit, shameless and desperate, “I’ve been.”
He smiles again, lifting one leg and pressing his lips to your ankle, keeping his eyes on yours as he sinks down to his knees. Slow kisses up your calf, your inner thigh, his tongue leaves a trail, your breath hitches in your throat as he breaks away just to tug his shirt over his head by the collar.
“Nostalgic, hm?” San mumbles, close to your ear, laying down with one elbow propped up to watch, “We’ve been in this position before.”
You gasp as Wooyoung’s teeth graze your other thigh, at the sensitive part on the inside, eyes flickering up to yours to see your reaction. Through gritted teeth, one arm reaching out for San, you whisper, “Mm, missed it.”
“He’s good with his mouth, y’know,” San leans in closer, pressing his lips to your cheek then your jaw as Wooyoung finally leans forward, his nose meeting your folds before his lips make contact. A strangled moan escapes you, hips immediately bucking into him, other hand flying between your legs to take root in his hair.
As his tongue swipes through your folds your back arches, your moan exposing every feeling of relief, of how much you wanted this, needed this. His name drips off your tongue and he groans at the sound, “You sound so pretty, Shybaby.”
“Prettier when she’s louder,” you can feel San smirk into your skin, “you have no idea how shameless she can get. Suck on her clit, Woo.”
As his lips wrap around your clit your moan heightens in pitch, louder than before, fingers tugging harshly at his scalp as your hips buck into his mouth, “Holy shit, Wooyoung.”
He groans into you, fingers curling into your thighs, soothing over your clit with his tongue, “Taste so good, pussy so pretty, can’t believe I haven’t done this sooner.”
Your face grows hot as his tongue flattens over your folds, flicking at your clit with precision, no haste to his actions, he’s exploring you. Seeing what you like, what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes your stomach clench in pleasure.
His nose glides over your clit and you buck into him again, his tongue circling your entrance, drinking up every ounce of your arousal. San’s fingers find your hair, “Mm, she liked that, Woo.”
“You like my nose?” His eyes flicker up to you and you nod shamelessly, humming your agreement. He repeats the movement and your back arches as he moves into a rhythm, tongue fucking into you while his nose glides over your clit, his movements timed perfectly with each jerk of your hips.
“Wanna see you ride it,” San whispers into your ear and you gasp out, one hand curling into the sheets beneath you. “Next time.”
“Yes, fuck,” you mumble through gritted teeth, “want it, need it.”
“Wanna watch you cum,” San’s fingers find your chest, the pads of them running over your hardened nipples, pinching at your sensitive skin. Louder now, your moans slurring together, your stomach curls in pleasure, pressure building in your hips.
“Don’t stop, Woo,” you whisper, a broken sound, using your fingers in his hair to rock your hips against his face, “so good, just like that.”
He grunts in response, letting you use him, adding more pressure and you’re locking up around him, whimpering as San’s fingers pinch harder at your chest, it’s enough to pull you right to the edge.
“There you go,” San encourages, lips buried in your hair, “use him, let me see you cum against his face, make yourself cum for me, c’mon.”
“Gonna–” there’s panic in your voice like you couldn’t believe you were reaching your peak so easily, but as his fingers tighten into your thighs harder, tongue lolled out for you to ride, the slight sting in your skin combined with the stimulation to your clit throws you over with a loud cry, pleasure washing over you in waves, body trembling beneath their touch, your skin on fire.
“Yes, so good for us,” San whispers, voice coated in praise, “such a good girl, Shy. Missed watching you cum, wanna feel you do it around my cock.”
You whimper, eyes cresting open to see him above you, dimples showing as he speaks. Dark hair messily sprawled across his forehead, cheeks pink, eyes soft and warm, gaze filled with so much love it makes you dizzy. Your hand lifts from Wooyoung’s hair to cradle San’s cheek, pulling him down into a messy kiss, tongue slotting into his mouth softly as Wooyoung presses soft kisses to the tip of your mound, between your hipbones, up your stomach.
Your back arches as his lips wrap around one of your nipples, tongue swiping over them, soothing where San had pinched, it makes you whimper, one hand falling from San’s cheek to dig into Wooyoung’s hair again, softer this time. Nails grazing his scalp, ankles crossing over his back, everything felt slow, filled with purpose, like each one of their movements were solely for your pleasure.
You needed more. You needed them to treat you like they’d treated each other a few nights ago, you needed the bed to hit the wall, to hear Wooyoung whimpering, San’s domineering voice. Your other hand finds San’s hair, gripping at the spiral of his crown, making him grunt into your mouth, “Shit.”
“Need more,” you’re panting into his mouth, “need you to fuck me, I need it.”
Wooyoung’s arms scoop under your back to pull you up as San leans back to groan, you meet his lips hastily, already seated on his thighs, your legs bracket his hips, your bare chest pressed to his. Denim below you, you curse at the feeling of texture, sturdy, rough fabric, “Get these off.”
“Impatient,” he smirks into your lips, “you needy? Desperate to fuck us?”
Skin alight with wildfire, your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck, tugging as you sit upward, following his face as you pull it backward by his hair, “Gonna make me say it again?”
A smile breaks out across his face, one full of excitement, “Holy shit, Shy–”
“Who are you talking to like that, huh?” San’s at your back, chest pressed to your shoulderblades, feeling so big it’s menacing, “You should be thanking him for letting you cum on his face.”
Staring down at Wooyoung, his grin had gone cocky again, one brow raising with your hands still rooted in his hair. Your fingers tighten again and his brows furrow in pleasure, a small moan croaking from his lips, it’s satisfactory enough. You mumble, “Thank you.”
San hums in contentment behind you, “Good girl.”
Wooyou watches in awe as San lifts you off his lap, turning you to face him with ease, standing on his knees he wraps a hand around your jaw, kissing you with more force than he had all night. Tongue pushing past your lips, teeth clashing, you melt beneath him, hands finding his bare pecs to hold onto as he devours your lips, your taste, your pleasure.
“You want me to treat you like a doll?” He asks into your mouth, voice harsh, edged like a blade.
“Want you to treat me how you treat Woo,” you whimper, the admission falling from your lips without a second thought, until you feel him smirk. Hazy from a minute of his mouth on yours, the heat of shame couldn’t find you.
“Knew you were listening,” Wooyoung is at your shoulders, hands on your waist, traveling to your front to grab two handfuls of your chest. “Fuckin’ pervert, listening to us fuck.”
Your back arches, fingertips digging into San’s skin, voice coming out tight, “Hard not to hear when the bed frame is hitting the wall.”
San stares at you like he’s debating fucking the cockiness out of you, “Almost forgot how much of a brat you can be.” Your grin is shameless, daring almost, and he doesn’t like it one bit. “Gonna look at me like that when I’m fucking you within an inch of your life?”
Your brows knit together, lips parting at his words, core clenching around nothing. “Please,” you whimper, hands sliding to his shoulders to pull him forward, “please.”
He doesn’t move, a stone wall before you. Instead he asks, “Did you touch yourself?” Left in the briefs glued to his lower half, your eyes sink to the outline of his length obvious in the polyester clinging to every inch of his skin. His face is lined by confidence, “Made that pretty pussy cum thinking about me fucking you, too?”
Softly, you moan, “Yes.”
“Should have come in the room,” Wooyoung’s lips find your neck, pulling you back into him as his palms knead into your chest. ”Woulda made you cum so hard.”
You whine, sinking into his hot skin, chiseled abdomen searing your back. With your knees spread, your eyes are glossy as you stare up at San who grips his length over his briefs, mouth watering with his sculpted body on display, he’s changed so much over the years. This body is bigger, bulkier, stronger, he’s a completely different San than the one you knew back then. The things he could do to you now cross your mind, sinking straight down to the pit in your belly, your core clenching around nothing.
“Wanna touch?” He asks, still sporting his cocky grin. You nod against Wooyoung’s chest, writhing beneath his palms, his touches only edging you further. He dips his chin down to his length, “C’mere, baby.”
You crawl forward on your palms until you’re standing on your knees before him, pressing your palms up to his shoulders, feeling the curves of his muscles before sliding down to his toned chest, palms laying flat, feeling his heartbeat beneath his skin. They slide down to his abdomen, so sculpted like he’s made of stone, your head tips forward, tongue lolling out of your mouth to glide across the dips and peaks, moaning at the taste of his skin, sweaty, salty, San. He pushes out a heavy breath as your head dips lower, fingers sinking into his waistband, tugging his briefs down.
“Wanna taste,” you mutter mindlessly, mind whirling, craving his cock, missing it. It springs out of his briefs, slapping up between his hipbones, thick and red and leaking, your mouth waters. You blow cool air from your lips and he hisses, cock twitching, making you smile. Your eyes flicker upward, “Want my mouth?”
His heavy brows are furrowed, hips tilted forward, his hands come forward to cup your cheeks. “Wanna fuck you, Shy.”
Your stomach fucking churns at the sound of his voice, whiny and desperate, you clench around nothing at the thought. You missed him so badly you ached for it, the feeling of him inside you, his cock so thick leaving you full enough it’s almost overwhelming to have him seated inside.
Before you have the chance to move you feel two heavy palms land on your hips, your head turns, back arching on command. Wooyoung knelt behind you, cock standing tall between his hipbones, the pretty pink tip leaking against his lower abdomen, so bronzy and veiny and strong. His eyes follow the trail of the base of your spine up to your eyes, “Let me have a turn first.”
You whimper, arching lower, knees spreading to allow him entrance, whining out a breathy, “Yes.”
San holds your cheeks steady, “Can you take it?”
You’re on fire, hips pushing back against Wooyoung with impatience, mouth filling with saliva. “Yes, yes, I can take it, use me– Please?”
A guttural moan spills from the two of them, San rips his briefs off his ankles as he sits back on his calves, one arm behind him holding up his weight. You feel Wooyoung slide two fingers up your spine, rippling over each vertebrae and then back down again, the other hand hooked on your hip squeezing as he grinds his cock against your folds, slippery and wet, he lets out a tangled whine at the feeling.
“You sure, Shy?” He asks, “Pussy’s begging to be fucked.”
“Need this,” you mumble, “need you, don’t hold back.”
“I won’t,” Wooyoung huffs, “don’t think I can, anyway.”
You turn to find San staring at you, his eyes so warm and inviting, lined with impatience he doesn’t dare verbalize. His jaw clenches as you lean down, tongue poking out to meet the leaking tip of his cock as Wooyoung lines himself up, letting his cock catch on your entrance with each slide up your folds. San’s other hand finds your hair as you lick up the underside of him, his head tipping backward as a moan tumbles out from his chest, abdomen already clenching at the pleasure.
“Fuck, that mouth,” San hisses as you let a mouthful of saliva drip onto his cock, using one hand to spread it along his length before you take the tip in your mouth fully, his grip tightens in your roots. “Missed those pretty lips, baby.”
You can’t answer, a strangled noise forcing itself out of you as the tip of Wooyoung’s cock prods your entrance. His hands find your hips, squeezing, “Breathe for me, baby.” His tone is absent, like he needed the reminder more than you did, laser-focused on how your entrance is already sucking him in.
You breathe through your nose, eyes screwing shut as he pushes in, filling you with his length inch by inch, slowly but steadily. A high whimper punches through your lips, mouth unwrapping from San’s cock to dip your head down, hips involuntarily pushing back onto Wooyoung, wanting to be full, fast.
“Patience,” Wooyoung squeezes your hips harder, more confidence in his voice, “this tight lil’ thing needs to be stretched out, take it easy, baby. We’ll give you everything, I promise.”
You haven’t felt this full in years. Even sopping wet you could feel him carving into you, making space for himself where you haven’t been properly filled in so long– the pleasure was tantalizing, slight sting of the stretch mixing into a cocktail of euphoria, your eyes fluttered back into your head, hand tightening around the base of San’s cock.
“Breathe, Shygirl,” San encourages, “let him in.”
Your eyes open, flickering up to San who watches Wooyoung over your head, your body the bridge connecting the two men. The sight of him, flushed, chest patched with a rosy hue, your tongue slides out of your mouth to lick up the underside of him again, taking the tip of him into your mouth.
His hips buck upward, surprised at your warmth wrapped around him, he pushes his cock deeper into your throat and you gag involuntarily, other hand tightening into the sheets below you. You breathe through it, your nose pushing out air as you take him deeper, head bobbing along his length as Wooyoung fully sheathes himself inside you.
He waits there a moment, fingers gripping the plush of your ass, his voice utterly gone as he says, “She’s so fuckin’ tight, Sannie.”
San’s eyes flicker up to him, “Make her cum on your cock, wanna see.”
He pulls out all the way just to slam back inside and your throat constricts around San’s length, making you gag again, eyes watering, blurring your vision. Wooyoung whines, “Fuck, baby, holy shit, Sannie.”
Hearing him moan out San’s name while he fucks you etches stars into your vision. Your hips start pushing back, your hand leaving San’s length to take purchase in the sheets as your hips buck against Wooyoung’s length in the same rhythm that you bob your head along San’s cock. Both men moan, a pitiful sound, lewd and desperate, it makes you clench around Wooyoung, nose diving down to press into the tuft of hair at the base of San’s cock.
“There you go,” San huffs, voice strangled, you look up to see him sink his teeth into his bottom lip. “Fuck, so pretty, taking my cock so fucking well. Missed seeing you like this.”
You moan around him, core clenching and you can hear the whine caught in the back of Wooyoung’s throat, his fingers curling into the plush of your ass, squeezing so fucking hard it rips a tight noise from your chest, dying on San’s cock.
“Don’t know how long I’ll last, fuck,” Wooyoung chokes out, hands sliding up to your hipbones.
San does his best to make his smile appear cocky, “When’s the last time you fucked, huh?” He gasps the moment the words leave his lips, as you swallow around his length, he curses under his breath, tightening a hand in your roots.
Wooyoung speaks through gritted teeth, “Too fucking long, shit, she’s suckin’ me in–”
“Can’t wait to feel,” San grunts, hips twitching into your mouth, forcing you to take him deeper, “mouth just as dangerous, you’re a demon, Shy.”
You try to smile, he’s too wide in your mouth, in your throat, you settle for shooting him one with your eyes. You’re in rhythm now, head bobbing at the same pace as Wooyoung fucking into you, being so full, so manhandled by the two of them even if you were the one who put yourself here feels so good. Wooyoung’s cock is thinner than San’s, longer, you can feel how it curves along the front side of your walls, hitting every single spot you need it to.
It makes your knees wobble, your fingers twisting in the sheets, it feels too fucking good. It’s been a long while since you’ve breached an orgasm around someone’s cock, it’s muscle memory the way your arch comes back to you, the rhythm in which you fuck against him to get yourself off, the pressure building so different from when you do it yourself.
Wooyoung notices, landing a sharp smack to your ass, “Usin’ me? I can feel you fucking back.”
You pop off of San’s length to turn your head halfway, “Y’feel so good, Woo, can’t help it.”
His brows tie together, jaw falling slack, “Fuck, don’t stop, baby, don’t stop–”
“Inside, kay?” Between a moan and a whimper, “Don’t pull out.”
His palms push into the plush of your ass again as you take San’s cock into your mouth, stretching your lips wide to take him, using the slick you’d left behind to glide your tongue all the way down, choking yourself on him, bobbing your head in rhythm again.
Wooyoung’s hips stutter, he curses under his breath, one of his hands slides around to your front, between your legs, “Can’t– need you to cum first, baby, please.”
Two fingers to the bundle of nerves between your legs, your hips jerk, back arching impossibly deeper, a gargled moan vibrates San’s cock and he curses low, hands in your hair pulling, it’s overstimulating, how much is happening all at once.
Wooyoung’s fingers take all but three tight circles at your clit to send you freefalling over the edge, pressure blowing, pleasure spreading through your body like fireworks reaching each limb, every nerve ending. San tugs you off his cock by your hair, one hand fisting the base of him to stop his orgasm from hitting, and Wooyoung cries out as he barrels into you, hips finally stilling when he’s fully sheathed, filling you with warmth.
You’re gaping, staring at San wide-eyed, “Why?”
It takes a moment for you to process the warmth. Like sitting before a fire, it’s comforting, head dropping to let it sink in– nostalgic, you missed this.
“Wanna cum inside you,” he answers simply, “c’mere.”
Manhandling you all over again, he pulls you onto his lap, you can’t help but reach for Wooyoung behind you. San wastes no time, ignoring your heaving chest, the exhaustion in your eyes you’re hiding with adrenaline, with one hand on your hips he lines you up over his cock, easing you down onto his length, you hiss at the stretch, at the width of him.
“Big stretch,” his grin is taunting, “you can do it, baby, easy.”
“Fuck,” you whimper, arms stretching behind you, “Woo.” Searching for the man who just came inside you, he’s at your back, broad and steady, arms wrapping around you.
“I’m here,” he whispers into the curve of your neck, moving your hair away from your sticky neck to press his lips into you, and it’s the comfort you needed to start grinding your hips into San’s cock, moans spilling from your lips, small gasps and whines as he fills you up perfectly, walls molding to the shape of him like he’d never left.
“Fuck, Sannie,” you murmur, “‘s too much, missed your cock, but it’s too much.”
“You can do it,” he leans into you, groaning at the feeling of you around him, he searches for your lips. You pick your head up to meet him, pressing your lips to his, tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting every inch you can find. He grins into your lips, “Look at you, taking it like you did all those years ago. Still my fuckin’ slut, aren’t you?”
You gasp, hips twitching against him, clenching hard, and he curses under his breath like he wasn’t just taunting you. Lips still ghosting yours, he whispers, “Still like my mouth? All that nasty shit?”
You nod, nipples brushing against his chest with every bounce of your hips, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. All you can manage is, “More.”
“I know, baby,” his hips jerk up and you cry out, arching into Wooyoung behind you who reaches around your front, fingers pinching at your nipples, teeth at your ear. San, voice wrecked, grunts as he says, “Still need a little pain with the pleasure to get you off, huh?”
You can’t answer, eyelids fluttering, hazy at the feeling of Wooyoung’s release spilling out of you onto San’s thighs, the squelching sound of it coating his cock, making it easy for you to bounce yourself against him like a bitch in heat.
Wooyoung chuckles into your ear, low and velvety, it sends a shiver up your spine. “Never woulda guessed that from you, baby.”
It makes a lazy grin break out across your cheeks, head turning to kiss him, all teeth and tongue, messy and delicious. “Really?”
“My Shygirl,” his voice is filled with affection, lips pressed to the side of your head, parted and spilling spit onto your temple, your cheeks, it feels dirty– so fucking sexy you can’t control the way you hump San’s cock, slurring mindless babbles and strained noises you can barely comprehend.
“Our Shygirl,” San corrects him, eyeing Wooyoung over your shoulder, a severity to his tone that makes your eyes flick upward in question.
His brows tied with pleasure, sweat dripping down his brow, dark hair messy and tangled on his head, he looks like a fucking dream. He is a dream, this is a dream, harmonious with the two as if you’ve done this a thousand times, like it was always supposed to be this way, he can read the question on your tongue. He cups your cheek with a hand, sliding it to the back of your head to take root in your hair, tugging you towards him close enough for your lips to touch, “It’s different this time.”
You try to kiss him with your slacked jaw but it’s a trading of spit more than it is a kiss, “Different.”
“Mine,” he growls, a hand wrapping around your back, fingers digging into your skin, his words too coherent to be born of the heat of the moment. “Wanted this for too long, both of you, you’re both mine.”
“Yours,” you repeat, confirm with an airy head, echoed by Wooyoung as your hips stutter against San’s cock, head tipped against the younger man’s shoulder, “f-fuck me.”
“Sit,” it’s an order from San to Wooyoung that’s answered on command, he sits on his calves before uncurling his legs from below him, cock half-hard laying stiff between his hips.
San maneuvers you with two hands on your waist, you gasp as he tugs you off his cock effortlessly, laying you back on Wooyoung’s chest like it took no fucking strength at all. Strong arms wrap around you as your skin meets his, tilting your head to the side to see him, to kiss him, he smiles as he sees you, teeth on display.
“So fucking pretty,” Wooyoung looks at you the same way he always does, stars in his eyes, like he couldn’t smile without his whole face if he tried, like the look was solely for you. “You’re mine too, y’know.”
You reach up with one arm to pull his head down to yours, the kiss softer than those you’ve shared tonight, more controlled like you needed a moment to let his words sink in, your mind too fuzzy to process the weight of what that meant.
San’s fingers hook under your knees, pushing them backward until they leave you spread, lining himself up all over again, pushing inside in one quick motion.
A different feeling of full, Wooyoung holds your face against his as you whisper a cry into his mouth, your lips still touching as he grins, “Been waiting for this too, haven’t you? You wanna be ours?”
Body going limp in his hold, hand falling from his cheek mindlessly, your body feels like fucking jelly. You nod, breath quickening, short and tight at the feeling of San fucking into you, “Need to be, waited so long.”
San’s grip tightens under your knees, picking up speed, your head turns to see him and god you want to take a picture, want to frame it and hang it on the wall; brows furrowed, lips parted, eyes focused on your meeting below, his abdomen flexing as he rolls his hips into you, it makes your toes curl where they hang in the air.
Face scrunching up, you reach for him, pulling him down to you, “Need t’kiss you.”
Messy, sloppy, wet, you can feel him in your stomach as your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close. With the last peck to your lips he presses his forehead against yours, “I missed you, I love you— taking me s’fucking perfectly, like you always do—”
A strangled noise fights to leave your chest, heavy where it sits trapped, the words forcing the warmth in the pit of your belly to bloom, explode, shattering every wall you’d built up in the past few weeks.
“I love you,” it’s a broken whisper, an admission you can’t keep inside any longer. A little louder, a little firmer, “I love you.”
He smiles into the kiss he plants on your lips, “Yeah?”
“Hey,” Wooyoung interjects, hands cupping your cheeks to tilt you backward, “I love you, too.”
You’d smile if San didn’t pick up speed all over again, instead you’re babbling a mess of I love you, I love you too into Wooyoung’s mouth, lips barely touching enough to call it a kiss, so mindless and breathless and overwhelmed all you can do is feel.
Wooyoung’s hand leaves your cheek to sink between yours and San’s bodies, two fingers pressed to your clit, swirling tight circles on the bundles of nerves. Your body fights to jerk between them, trapped between sweat and muscle, head lolling backward on Wooyoung’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.
San switches his angle, strong arms tilting your hips upward to fuck into you harder, to angle his cock to hit the sweet spot inside you, building the pit of pressure of your stomach with purpose.
Your eyes blow wide, breath quickening, “San— Sannie—”
“C’mon,” he encourages, sitting backward to fuck into you faster, “Lemme feel it, want it.”
Incoherent babbles and the clenching of your cunt has your hands reaching for his forearms, fingernails pressing into his skin, all while Wooyoung keeps his pace on your clit, rhythm perfect, pressure nothing short of unbearable.
“Woo— Sannie—” you don’t know who to cry for, hips fighting to meet San’s thrusts, grinding into Wooyoung’s fingers, “I’m gonna cum.”
“Let go, baby,” Wooyoung’s voice is light and encouraging but he’s babbling as if San was fucking him, “let him feel it, he wants it so bad, he loves it, loves you.”
Breath caught in your chest, your jaw drops as your pleasure hits its peak, meeting San’s gaze as your orgasm washes over you like a fucking hurricane, utterly speechless as your legs shake in the open air, inescapable euphoria reaching every inch of skin.
“Fuck, Shy,” San groans, “you’re so fucking sexy, oh my god, oh my god—”
You don’t have time to respond before Wooyoung is kissing you again, tilting your head backward with one hand as San extends your orgasm with every thrust of his cock, Wooyoung’s fingers slowing on your clit, letting you ride it out until you’re a whining, twitching mess.
“Fuck,” you mutter harshly, letting Wooyoung guide the sloppy kiss as San’s hips stutter, rhythm quickening to something ruthless, chasing his own high, a selfish pace.
“Gonna fill this pussy up,” San’s babbling, “all mine, mine to fill,” his voice is somewhere far, deep in the moment, “I love it, love you, my Shygirl, shit—”
Erratic thrusts come to a hilt, stalling fully seated, you moan softly into Wooyoung’s mouth as heavy warmth fills you steadily, making you shiver.
You break away from Wooyoung to look at San, eyelids low but you couldn’t miss the way his skin glows, as if you poured water over a sculpture made of gold, you stare in awe at his heaving chest, how his abdomen still clenches, flexing each muscle.
“Pretty,” the word is mindless, said through a breath.
He leans down, pressing his palms to the bed on either side of you, attaching your lips in a slow, steady kiss. “That’s you,” he whispers, “my pretty girl.”
He picks his head up to Wooyoung behind you, pressing a kiss to his lips, too. “My pretty boy.”
Wooyoung holds him close, you feel him melt under San’s touch, his words. “I love you,” Wooyoung mumbles, half-heard to you because he says it into San’s mouth, “so much.”
“I love you too, baby,” San presses one more kiss to his lips before he plants one on your forehead, “and I love you, too.”
“Do you really?” The question is pure instinct, “Like, actually?”
“Baby,” he says it like it’s obvious, like it’s silly for you to even question it. “I’ve spent my whole life loving you.”
There's a heaviness to your chest, the same tightness you felt when he said it earlier, it travels to your throat, the heat under your eyes pushing water into your lash line.
“No,” he says softly, “don’t cry.”
You can’t help your smile, sniffling, giggling as two tears spill down your cheeks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Hold on,” his voice is still delicate, like glass, he sits back on his knees to carefully slip out of you, “come up here.”
You move with Wooyoung, the younger man half carrying you to the top of the bed, your heads falling into your pillows, their bodies on either side of you in your queen-sized bed like it was big enough to fit all three of you.
Your back is halfway pressed up against San, eyes hazy and low with Wooyoung in view, you ask him, “And you?”
His smile is soft but his face reads relief like he’s been sitting on this information for ages. “I’ve loved you probably since I moved in, but I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.”
“That I knew,” you sniff, giggling again, turning your head up to see San who’s staring at you like you’re his entire world, “why didn’t you guys tell me?”
“It’s not an easy thing to say,” there’s a small, apologetic smile on his lips.
Wooyoung adds, “When we started living together I just assumed we were friend-zoned forever. When San and I got together, like, half of our relationship was based on the fact that we both still loved you while loving each other.”
San’s arm wraps around your front, tucking you further into him, “When you’re best friends and roommates and a little too close for comfort, it’s hard to not fall in love.”
“Especially when all of those things are you,” Wooyoung adds, shuffling towards you like he couldn’t get close enough, “why didn’t you tell us how you felt?”
“Because you started fucking dating each other,” you answer like you’ve been waiting for the question, amusement overshadowing the truth to your words, “I didn’t think I was invited to the party.”
Wooyoung leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, he looks at you when he pulls away, so much love and honesty swirling in chocolate it makes you shiver, but because he’s Wooyoung, he starts singing, “I only threw this party for you, only threw this party for you, for you for you…”
You snort, giggling into San’s chest, and the older man continues, loud and proud, “You could watch me pull up on your body like it’s summer take my clothes off in the water—”
You join him, just as loud and maybe even prouder, “—splash around and get you blessed like holy water, I don’t know what you’ve been waitin’ for, you know that I’ve been waitin’ for you.”
Wooyoung laughs, turning on his back, you watch how his chest expands and falls with each loud, obnoxious cackle. He turns his head to face you, “If you think about it, that song is kinda us.”
“I think that song is Jay Gatsby,” you correct him, “I’m kinda Jay Gatsby and you guys are kinda Daisy Buchanan.”
“No, we’re Jay Gatsby and you’re Daisy Buchanan,” San says a little more confidently than you did, “we threw the party and you didn't come.”
“Oh we are not arguing about this,” you turn your head to furrow your brows at him, reiterating, “but let the records show that I was not invited to said party.”
Wooyoung is quick with his answer, “We only threw the damn party for you.”
It’s like nothing has changed.
Curled up on the chaise of the couch, you in the corner, Wooyoung’s head on your lap with his leg stretched one way, San’s head is between your legs with both of your bodies laid out the other way.
Dirty Dancing is playing on the flatscreen across the room, Sweetie cozy right beneath you, on the hardwood floor with his body pressed up against the deck of the couch, everything, everyone you love is in one room.
A month of being together, the only thing that’s changed in your relationship is where you sleep, and that you kiss— and fuck, entirely too much for a typical honeymoon phase, but as San says, you’re making up for lost time.
Waking up together, going to work together, sleeping together, you wonder after years of being attached at the hip how you don’t feel tired of them. You suppose you never could, the two men being fibers of your being, embedded into you like the essence of your own being, it’s more that you can’t live without them.
And the more you think about it, the more you wonder how you didn’t notice it sooner. So hyper focused on what you want, you couldn’t realize what you already had, there was a reason your relationship has always been too close for comfort.
But now you have them, and you love them, and they fucking love you— they are not afraid to show it, they’d scream it to the rooftops if you let them. Sometimes you almost do let them, just to let the feeling sink in a little further, to let their love overflow the gap in your chest that’s been full for a month now.
One hand in San’s hair, the other drawing shapes into Wooyoung’s chest, a thought dawns on you. You ask, “Hey, remember that night at Steer?” Their heads tilt toward, eyeing you over their eyebrows, nodding. “Whatever happened to Yunho?”
Wooyoung snorts, San shakes his head, it makes you giggle. Wooyoung answers, “I told him his work was done and that we could take it from there.”
“His work was done?” You question, “What work?”
“You told him you love us the night you went on the date with him, right?” San suddenly asks, looking over his forehead at you once more. You nod like this was common information and he laughs so loud it makes Sweetie sit up on his hind legs.
“I told you, you called me schizophrenic!” San shouts over the couch at Wooyoung, sitting up on an elbow, “I knew it, my Shy senses were tingling.”
“Shy senses?” You ask, a question ignored.
Wooyoung sits up too, eyes wide, “Wha—? Maybe you should be a detective, Sannie, I’m serious.”
“What are you talking about?” You ask a little louder, “Inform me right this second, please.”
“I know you so well it’s scary,” San lays back down, one hand lazily thrown over the side of the couch to scratch Sweetie’s head, calming him. “Like the back of my hand, baby.”
His words make you smile, settling back into the couch again. Wooyoung turns on his elbow to see you, “San knew that Yunho knew,” he shakes his head, “with literally no proof, just vibes. Scary.”
You run your hands through his hair, your smile completely teasing, “You’ll get there, baby. One more decade.”
Wooyoung’s top lip curls, “Not you, too. I know you just as well, if not better than San—”
San’s head picks up with a gasp, “You do not—!”
Your giggles cut through their bickering, “You’re both stupid, I love you.”
“We love you too,” they mumble, settling back into their positions on the couch, where your hands fell to their hair, scratching their scalps into silence. Your smile stays as your head lifts back to the movie across the room, not actually watching, too consumed with contentment and that lovesick feeling in your stomach.
Yours. Finally.
my masterlist | fic exchange masterlist
my love letter to plum, you are worth the world and more. deserving of everything you've ever wanted, i hope u loved this. ur my whole heart. i love u ᢉ𐭩
SYNOPSIS your psychology lecturer sucks, and nothing is helping so you seek help from a student who happened to take it last semester and scored a whopping 95 on the subject. Said student is also your cousin's highschool friend. What could possibly go wrong.
WARNINGS unprotected sex m&f (when have I ever written protected sex), he cums inside multiple sex positions, m and f oral receiving, fingering, san lives in a studio dorm I feel like that should be a warning, there's a scene where he pulls her to one edge of the bed and fucks her throat while fingering her which takes inspo from an enha fic but I forgot what it is I'll link when I find it (eventually). cnc if that counts cus she tries to push him off and says stop but he keeps going. san has a minor bulge kink. I have calc midterm why am I doing this NICKNAMES USED: dove I think he called her a slut or good girl I forgot
GENRE smut. minor fluff almost pwp
PAIRING san x fem bodied+presenting reader, reader is referred to as 'she'
WORD COUNT 6.7k (omg)
A/N wrote parts of this while my friends were playing repo on discord I'm so sad I couldn't join my laptop is mac uggghh. Anyway consider this my intro to working on more members of ateez I plan to write for each member once before disappearing again but don't take my word for it. Set in summer because I can and summer is a #stateofmind TECHNICALLY I am one foot in autumn but why should I conform with the rest of the world I'm the one writing this fic if I say it's summer it is summer. inspired from what im currently studying in psych rn everyone says it's ez af and I needed a wam booster cus im cooked. also idk for other countries but here in some student dorms are sometimes color or theme coded this takes inspo from a student dorm I used to live in I hate student dorms I lived in one for 6 months and I got depressed I tried my best describing it. ill stop fucking talking now enjoy this shitshow
one.
You decided to take a psychology subject this semester. Why not, right? It’s supposed to be a chill, easy elective. Light reading, maybe a little “how do you feel about that?” energy. That's what everyone told you. “You could pass this psych subject with both eyes closed and let God take the wheel!” Was what one of your friends said and you were like okay, bet.
Your lecturer is an asshole. Not just any asshole either, he’s the kind that makes you believe Sigmund Freud has risen from the grave just to personally ruin your GPA. You’re supposed to be critiquing Freud. Debunking him. Questioning his theories. Instead, this man stands there, reading off slides like they personally wronged him, and somehow manages to twist every single point into “and this is why Freud was actually right.”
The lecture hall is silent, not because people are learning.But because everyone is collectively thinking: why is he like this.
“He’s so fucking weird,” you rant, flopping dramatically onto Wooyoung’s bed like a Victorian woman with consumption. Wooyoung doesn’t even look up at first. He’s halfway through a juice box like a five-year-old, laptop balanced on his knee as he scrolls through his module.
“If it’s that bad,” he hums, finally glancing at you, “I’ve got a friend who took that psych subject last semester.” You narrow your eyes. “If you say you, I’m dropping out.” He ignores you, “High school friend. Got like… a 95 or something.”
You sit up immediately. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Remember San? The guy I introduced you to during orientation?” You do remember Choi San. Unfortunately. Because nothing about that man screams “psychology major.”
He looks like he invests in crypto for fun. Hoodies, varsity jackets, and now because it’s summer, collared polos that make him look like he’s about to discuss property investments over brunch at a country club. Add in the slightly slicked-back hair and those stupidly attractive “professor glasses” Wooyoung won’t shut up about? Yeah. If anything, he looks like the type to say “trust me, bro” before losing your life savings.
But annoyingly, he’s actually good at teaching.
Like, actually good. Patient. Clear. Explains things without making you feel like a complete idiot. Which is impressive, considering you have the attention span of a drunk raccoon in a nightclub.
two.
Every Thursday at 3pm, without fail, you show up at his student dorm. The sun is brutal, like “if I step outside any longer I might legally evaporate” levels of heat and the pavement looks one degree away from melting into soup. His building is… depressing. You take note of that the first time you visited, looking up from Google maps and thinking to yourself “is this a minimalist prison?”. A soulless, overpriced shoebox where the entire personality is “neutral tones” and “minimalist’s wet dream”
You text him and wait near the front entrance, he opens the door. You step inside. And then; awkward silence.
The elevator ride up is always quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just… weirdly formal. Like you’re both pretending this is a professional tutoring session and not whatever this is.
His room is small. Entryway, wardrobe on the left, bathroom on the right. Tiny kitchen with two stovetops that look like they’ve never experienced joy, a desk, a bed, and a window overlooking the university park. There's his things scattered around, which does help make it feel more alive, but that's about it.
You take the plush chair on his desk, and he takes the plastic one.
Week one.
You are the picture of academic validation; Notes. Questions. Engagement. You prepared, You revised beforehand so he wouldn’t think you’re dumb. You’re nodding like you understand everything. You’re saying things like “that’s interesting” unironically.
You are a liar, but at least you are a convincing one.
Week two?
Forty minutes in, your phone comes out, subtly. Like you think you’re slick.
San notices, of course he does. His friend (your cousin) has the same habit of finding whatever view is the nearest more interesting, tongue in cheek, before fiddling with his fingers whenever he finds something annoying or uninteresting. But you’re still answering everything correctly, so he just lets it go.
You’re also dressed for the heat, henley top, a few buttons undone, short skirt, because the weather decided to cosplay the sun. San, mid-explanation, pauses for half a second. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he looks away. Mouth agape for a second but shut the second he regained composure so you wouldn't think he's a creep.
Then he continues, like nothing happened. You pretend you didn’t notice, of course. But as it turns out.
You both pretend a lot of things.
Week three?
He realises something. You are, unfortunately, the same breed of menace as Wooyoung.
Which explains everything, actually. When he talks, you nod. Then slowly, your hand drifts to your phone. At first, he’s offended. You can tell. He pauses more, and his jaw tightens. But over time, he just exhales and resigned to continuing his ramble.
“...as long as you’re listening,” he mutters once while flipping through his notebook
You are listening, surprisingly. He is good at explaining.
You’re just also on TikTok, scrolling through videos. You are a multitasker, after all.
three.
“So, neutral stimulation essentially—” He stops mid-sentence for the first time, his jaw clenches before inhaling slowly like he’s trying very hard not to commit a crime.
You, completely oblivious, stretch in your chair. Arms up, back arching slightly.
Your shirt rides up just a bit, just enough to expose some of the skin of your stomach.
San immediately turns his head, and the window suddenly becomes the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. You drop your arms, glance at him, and smirk. “Lose your train of thought, professor?”
He doesn’t even look at you, murmuring as he flips through his notes from last semester “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh?” you tilt your head, sweet and insufferable. “But the glasses—”
“Continue reading page 42.”
“Wow,” you lean back, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately. “Authoritative.”
Silence.
“You’re failing this subject.”
You grin at him, the same grin that Wooyoung has. Physically it's different, but it radiated the same amount of mischief and playfulness.
“Not with you teaching me” you purr at him.
He mentally rolls his eyes at you.
Tonight he's on classical and operant conditioning. You know this because he said classical and operant conditioning twenty minutes ago and you said okay and opened TikTok.
"The unconditioned stimulus," San is saying, somewhere to your left, "produces an unconditioned response without any learning. So Pavlov's dogs salivated at food before any conditioning occurred. Are you following."
"Mhm," you say, to your phone
"So," San says, and something in his voice has shifted, just slightly, just enough that some animal part of your brain lifts its head “let's say you're crossing a road, you press on the pedestrian button. Do you think that counts as classical or operant conditioning?” He turns to you, your eyes are still glued to whatever interesting video your friends are sending you as you hum, “operant. You receive reward or feedback from an action.”
“That's correct,” San says, "if every single time you wear a short skirt," a beat, "and I get hard, is that a voluntary or involuntary response?”
You hum again, trying to think. But then your brain rewinds and tries to register his words, and your thumb stops scrolling.
You look up, and San is looking at you with an expression you have never seen on him before. His eyes that's usually warm, usually easy, the eyes of someone Wooyoung described once as annoyingly likeable, are sharp. Dark at the edges. His notes are still spread in front of him and his pen is still in his hand and his jaw is tight in a way that makes something in your stomach drop several floors
"Hold on," you say. "Wait."
"You've been teasing me," he says, simply. Not an accusation. Just a fact he's decided to present. "For three weeks."
"I haven't—"
His eyes drop to the skirt, comes back up.
You have been. You know you have been. You are not going to say that.
"San"
"Voluntary or involuntary" he says. "Answer the question."
Your mouth opens. Your psych knowledge, what little has survived three weeks of looking at him instead of his notes, scrambles for purchase. “Involuntary” you say, because the skirt was before the.. because the response would be… because…
"Good," he says, and the word lands differently than you expected, low and warm and doing something to your pulse that you would like to not examine right now "so if I talk to you like this" his voice drops, just slightly, just enough, "and you get wet"
Your face goes hot.
"That's an involuntary response," he continues, calm, clinical, San, who has been Wooyoung's friend since high school and is now looking at you like you're something he's been patient about "isn't it, dove." The dove goes directly into your sternum and stays there.
"That's—" you start "Unconditioned," he says. "Means you can't help it. Means it's not your fault." He tilts his head, just slightly. "You're already wet, aren't you."
You are not going to answer that.
The answer is yes, you are not going to say yes. You are better than a dog during mating season.
He nuzzles against you and something in him just snaps. Three weeks. Three weeks of short skirts and tiktok and that mouth and the way you tilt your head when you're actually listening which is always, annoyingly, always three weeks of being patient and good and sitting in the plastic chair out of courtesy while you get the comfortable one and explaining conditioning theory while you cross and uncross your legs like you're doing it on purpose.
Three weeks of blue balls in his own dorm room on a Thursday at 3pm like clockwork and he is done. “ your pupils dilated when I moved closer. That's not something you can fake, dove." San’s eyes are like laser beams staring into yours, and you have to pretend that you're not intimidated.
“I have no idea what you're talking about” you say, you try leaning backwards even more if that's even possible, because your back is already against his chair and it's getting suffocating. “You've been conditioning me too” San says gently “every Thursday you always wear these..short skirts and slightly unbuttoned henley tops” his eyes flickered down to your slightly exposed chest “did you think I wouldn't notice the pattern, dove?”
You decided to bring Wooyoung into the conversation as a last resort, somewhat of a ‘hail Mary'. “What will Wooyoung think about this?” Your voice comes out small and raw, your throat feels as dry as a desert and suddenly the afternoon sun shining through his window feels too much.
San actually pauses at this, he considers it.
"Wooyoung," San says, thoughtfully, "would say you've been asking for this for three weeks." A beat. "He knows you.". "Same mouth," San says, almost fond, sliding his hand up your thigh, "same deflection tactics. Doesn't work on me either.”
The position he's got you in is embarrassing.
He's kneeling in front of you, kneeling between your legs that are placed on top of his broad shoulders. His fingers are playing with the hem of your skirt, this is probably the most awkward and tense lead up to sex you've ever had if it wasn't for the pounding in your chest. He presses his face against your mound and breathes it in. "San I don't think this is appropriate—"
That voice, that voice that is all Wooyoung, sassy and deflecting and nervous underneath, and something behind his eyes makes a decision that his patience has been vetoing for twenty one days. His hands find your underwear and he pulls them down fast, none of the gentle peeling he'd planned, just off, gone, your ankles and then the floor and then he looks at you and exhales through his nose hard like a man who has been waiting a long time and is now very close and cannot be reasonable about it
He open mouth and kisses you hard, not soft, not polite, lips and tongue and heat all at once, messy and immediate, his hands pushing your thighs apart when they try to close and holding them there with a grip that means no, stay, and you gasp so loud it bounces off the walls of his small neutral-coloured dorm room.
San licks into you rough and thorough, not slowly, not academically; hungry, is the word, three weeks worth of hunger and his tongue working through you fast and deliberate and the sounds he's making are low and continuous and genuine and nothing like the patient tutor, nothing like country club polo shirt san, nothing like anything she's seen from him before surfaces. Chin soaked. Eyes absolutely wrecked. Jaw tight.
"I was right," he says, and his voice has dropped into something rough and frayed at the edges, "involuntary response." He pushes your thighs wider and looks at you and his chest is heaving slightly "you're wet." Thumb parting your labia, proving his point, watching your face twitch "you've been wet, haven't you."
"San—"
"How long," he says. Not asking gently. His grip on the meat of your thighs tightens. "How long have you been sitting in that chair like that"
"I don't know what you're—"
"Dove," he says, and the word comes out low and sharp and nothing like when he said it before, "I have your underwear on my floor. We are past the part where you pretend.”
"Three weeks," he says, and something in his jaw is doing the thing, the tight furious fond thing, "of that skirt and that mouth and you sitting in my chair crossing your legs every five minutes—" he ducks down and licks into you hard and fast and you cry out and your hand flies into his hair and grips and he groans against your cunt, as if saying yes, there, before he finally surfaces again immediately, breathing rough. "You've been doing this on purpose."
You open your mouth to say something.
"Don't," he says. His eyes are dark and his mouth is slick and he has never once in three weeks of Thursdays looked like this, the gentle hunk is somewhere else entirely, this is what was underneath the polo shirt the whole time "don't tell me you weren't." His hands shove your thighs wide and he goes back down and this time he doesn't surface, just stays, tongue working into her rough and relentless, no warmup no mercy no academic pace, just three weeks of patience cashing out all at once and the sounds coming out of you are embarrassingly immediate and loud and you’re grinding against his face before she means to and he groans like that's exactly what he wanted, like he's been wanting her to stop being polite about it. His fingers push in without warning. two, immediately, rough and deep and you gasp so hard you choke on it, your back arches clean off the chair and his tongue doesn't stop, won't stop, is working at your clit fast and relentless while his fingers curl and drive and find the thing that makes your thighs shake around his head. God, he loves it when you squeeze his head with your legs. He's always wanted those thighs wrapped around his face.
"San, San that's too—" He doesn't stop. His fingers pump into you rough slick and loud, the wet sounds obscene in the small room, and he makes a low hungry noise against your clit that vibrates through your entire body and the grip in his hair tightens. He surfaces one more time. Breathing wrecked. Hair destroyed from your hands. Eyes dark and satisfied and still sharp. "You want this," he says, rough, his fingers still moving inside you. watching your face fall apart, "say it."
"Three weeks, dove," his fingers curl, "say it."
"I want it " it comes out broken and small and honest and he smiles. "Good girl," he says, finally, warm underneath all the rough, and pulls you off the chair and onto the bed in one motion, "was that so hard?"
You don't give an answer because his fingers are still inside and your brain has stopped providing useful output and somewhere on the floor the psych notes and your underwear are keeping each other company and it's thursday at 5 pm. The sun is giving the dull room a golden glow.
Wooyoung is never finding out about this.
He's got one hand on your waist, guiding your head towards the edge of his bed. Your head is almost tipping back off the mattress until the world inverts and you're looking at the wall upside down, the ceiling and the underside of his desk, and San who's still got that slight flush on his cheek. Everything is making you slightly dizzy and warm in a way that's wrong in the absolute best way.
Your clothes are still half on, skirt shoved up, shirt slightly pushed down so San could see your bra. He considers taking the entire thing off but hormones said no and he'll take what he can get. You're a mess, general evidence of someone who got relocated mid sex, you make a noise of protest about the position but San places a hand on your sternum gently as a warning. From this angle he's just a shape above you. Dark eyes looking down at her inverted face, jaw tight, hair slightly messed from your hands, and he looks big, from here, the perspective doing something to the gentle hunk image that makes your stomach swoop hard
You hear his zipper.
"Three weeks," he says, conversationally, from above you, "of sitting in my chair." You feel him, the blunt warm press of him against your lips, and your mouth opens automatically, conditioned response, you think deliriously, unconditioned response, whatever, you don't care.
"open wider, dove." He taps on your lower lips. You open wider.
He pushes in slow from above and gravity does the rest and the angle is.. the angle is everything, the stretch of your throat, the depth he reaches without trying, and you gag immediately and he makes a low sound that is definitely not an apology
"There she is," he says, fond and rough simultaneously, his hand coming to rest on your throat, not pressing, just feeling, feeling himself there, and the intimacy of that makes your eyes prick "been wanting to see this for weeks." His hips start to move. Shallow at first, just enough to feel the flutter of your throat around him, and simultaneously his other hand finds you still slightly wet and pushes in two fingers, immediate, curling and the sound you make around him is muffled and desperate and your hips jolt up as an involuntary response. "Stay still," he says, and he sounds wrecked already, voice low and tight, "you're going to take both."
You try. You cannot stay still. His fingers are working into your gummy walls rough and deep and his hips are rolling forward. You're upside down and dizzy and full from both ends and the blood is rushing to your head and everything feels static and warmth.
"So good," he breathes above and you can hear it in his voice, the crack in it, the three weeks worth of wanting underneath the composed psych tutor "you're so good, look at you" his fingers curl and you gag around him, he hisses sharply "taking it like you were made for it". Yout hands find his thighs from below, the only anchor you have. “Mean girl," he says, low and fond and rough, hips pushing deeper, fingers pumping fast and slick "three weeks of that skirt" you gag. "and that mouth" his fingers curl. "and now look at you." You can't look at anything. The room is sideways and warm and his hand on your throat feels every sound you try to make before it gets past his cock and your eyes are streaming from the position and the fullness and the fingers working into you without mercy
"Involuntary response," he says, somewhere above you, strained and quiet and almost gentle "see. Your body always knew." His thumb finds your clit and presses, your muffled cry vibrates around him and his rhythm stutters. "Gonna be good for me from now on," he breathes, and it lands somewhere soft and permanent, fond underneath all the rough "aren't you, dove."
You squeeze his thighs. He takes it as the yes it is.
He finishes with his head tipped back and his hand braced on the mattress edge and a sound that isn't a word, just air leaving him rough and involuntary, his hips pressed forward and his fingers buried and your throat working around him milking every last bit of it down. He stays there for a moment, catching himself. The room is loud with both of you breathing, then he pulls out slow and you cough immediately, turning your head, gasping, the sudden absence of him leaving your throat raw and your lungs grateful and your whole upside down world spinning. he gets his hands under your head before it can drop, careful now, guiding you back up to horizontal and then sitting you upright on the edge of the mattress and crouching in front of you, hands on your knees, watching your face with those sharp warm eyes gone soft at the edges.
"Look at me," he says, quietly. Tutor San is back, checking for feedback. You look at him. Streaming eyes, wrecked throat, hair absolutely destroyed, and you meet his gaze and don't tap, don't pull back, just breathe and blink and hold his eyes, and he reads you the way he reads everything, thoroughly, and something in his shoulders drops half an inch.
Then his eyes go down.
His fingers are still slick. His hand, the one that had been inside you, and the bedsheets beneath where you'd been are wet. he goes very still for a moment looking at the evidence of what you did somewhere between the third finger and the ceiling, while you were crying and muffled and shaking. He groans. Low and genuine and a little devastated about it.
"You came," he says. Not an accusation. Just awe, slightly. Like you've done something to him personally. Your face goes hot. You say nothing.
"All over my fingers," he continues, and his voice has done the thing again, the rough fond thing, and his jaw shifts "and my sheets." He looks up at you. "Dove."
"I didn't mean to." You say, sounding somewhat normal for someone who just got their throat destroyed. He pushes you back toward the headboard.Not roughly but with the particular energy of someone who has just been handed new information and intends to do something with it immediately, guiding you up the mattress until your back meets the headboard and you're against it and he's kneeling over you and his hands find your legs. One goes up. One stays down. The split is immediate and exposing and your whole body protests the stretch and you grab his shoulder
"San, wait. I'm still—"
"I know," he says, and lines himself up, and you can feel the thick blunt head of him and you're shaking, you've been shaking for ten minutes, your thighs are trembling and your throat is raw and you are not prepared. He pushes in whole. One go. Slow but complete and entirely without mercy, seating himself fully while you're still adjusting to the split of your own legs, and the scream that comes out of you is immediate and loud and his hand claps over your mouth fast, dorm building, is the distant thought, neighbors. The scream goes into his palm and he feels it and his jaw does the tight thing and his eyes close briefly like he needs a second.
You're full. Impossibly, completely full, the stretch of him in the split position deeper than anything, kissing parts of you that have never been introduced to anyone, and it hurts, the good kind, the kind that lives right next door to more and shares a wall. He opens his eyes and looks at you. Hand still over your mouth. Your eyes are streaming again, fresh tears, and you're shaking underneath him and gripping his arm hard enough to leave marks
"Oops," he says.
You stare at him.
"Should've been more gentle," San says, and his voice is wrecked and his jaw is tight and he is buried to the hilt inside you and he is smiling, just slightly, just the corner of his mouth, the gentle hunk smile, the country club smile, worn by a man who is currently doing the opposite of gentle and is not sorry about it in any capacity.
You bite his palm.
He tips his hips forward just slightly and you make a muffled sound against his hand and stop biting. "There," he says, soft, fond, wrecked, his forehead dropping toward yours, "there she is." His free hand finds your hip and grips. "Hold on." He starts to move, your breath is knocked out of your lungs.
four.
The view outside his window has always been your favourite. Overlooking a park near University and slightly covered by a tree, right now the view is indifferent to whatever just happened as the sunlight seeps through. San’s sun-kissed skin looks more golden as he's thrusting on top of you, courtesy of the warm ball of fire thousands of kilometres away. He starts slow. That's almost kind of him. Deep and rolling, the split position is already devastating on its own, and you're trying to breathe through it, trying to find the rhythm, your hands in the sheets and your eyes at the ceiling and your whole body doing the recalibration it needs to do when someone is that deep. Then he makes a sound. Low and involuntary. And stops being slow.
"Fuck—"
He shifts. One fluid motion, hoisting himself upright from braced over you to sitting, changing the entire geometry of it, your leg still up, perpendicular, his hands finding purchase, and the new angle makes the world tilt and you make a sound that isn't a word because he's deeper, somehow deeper than before, deeper than you thought the position allowed. He looks down at your stomach.
Goes very still for exactly one second.
"San—"
He presses his right hand flat against your lower abdomen. Palm down. Feeling. And then his hips pull back and drive forward and his hand feels it and his jaw drops open slightly and he makes the most wrecked sound you have heard from him all afternoon
"Oh," he says, soft and devastated, "oh that's—"
His hips snap forward again and he watches his own hand, watches the slight shift beneath it, and his expression does something that has no business being as attractive as it is, dark eyes wide and jaw loose and chest heaving and he looks like someone who has just made a discovery he wasn't prepared for and intends to repeat the experiment indefinitely. The tears come back immediately. Different this time, not from the throat, not from the fingers, just from the sheer overwhelming fullness of him at this angle, kissing your cervix on every stroke, his right hand pressing down and feeling himself move inside you and his left hand finding your face. Not covering your mouth this time. Just cupping your cheek. Tilting your face up toward his. Catching the tears with his thumb while his hips work into you rough and relentless and his right hand stays pressed flat on your stomach watching.
You cry into his palm and he lets you.
"Look at that," he breathes, eyes still down, hips snapping forward, you feel the bulge shift under his hand and sob "look at—" another thrust, "you're taking all of me—" his voice cracks on it "feel that?" You feel it. You feel it everywhere. You feel it in your spine and behind your eyes and in the specific place where coherent thought used to live. "San, San it's too much!"
"It's not," he says, and his left thumb wipes your cheek gently while his right hand presses down firmly on the next thrust and you cry out and your back arches and your hands scrabble for something to hold onto and find his knee, grip it hard and he looks at your hand on his knee and then back at your face and something in his expression cracks clean open Fond. Devastatingly, helplessly fond. Underneath all the rough and the jaw and the right hand monitoring the bulge like a researcher who has found his life's work. just fond. "Doing so well," he says, quiet, almost to himself, hips rolling forward deep and slow for just a moment, giving you a breath, his left hand stroking your cheek while his right hand just rests, warm and present "taking it so well, dove."
You make a sound against his palm that has no dignity left in it whatsoever. "Yeah," San says softly, and his hips snap back to rough, and his right hand presses down, and he watches with those dark wrecked eyes as the evidence of him moves beneath his palm and his head tips back for just a second, jaw tight, the sight of it doing something to him that three weeks of thursdays have clearly been building to. "Mine," he says, at the ceiling, rough and quiet and certain, his right hand pressing down and his left hand cradling your face while you cry and take it.
The university park is outside the window. The psych notes are on the floor. Your underwear is somewhere near the desk. and you are never going to be able to sit in that plush chair again without thinking about how your psychology tutor rearranged your guts on this very date.
"No more," you're saying, and you mean it, you think you mean it, "please San, I can't no more" He tips you into missionary like he's rearranging pillows. One hand on your hip, one on your thigh, and you go over easy because your body has stopped taking instructions from your mouth, which he knows, which is maybe why he doesn't answer you just settles between your thighs and looks down at you, wrecked and tear-streaked and shaking, and his chest is heaving and his hair is destroyed and his polo shirt is somewhere on the floor and he looks unhinged, is the thing, the composed patient tutor has left the building entirely and what's left is this jaw tight, eyes dark, breathing rough, a man who has completely lost the plot and is not looking for it.
"San please I'm serious" your whines fall deaf on his ears. He pushes back in. The sound you make rolls up from somewhere deep and involuntary and your eyes go wide and your hands fly to his chest and he catches your wrists, pins them above your head in one hand, and bottoms out and stays there, fully seated, looking down at your stomach. He goes very still.
His free hand moves to your lower abdomen. Presses flat. Slow. Deliberate. Feeling.
He pulls back slightly and pushes in and watches his hand and the sound he makes is not sane. "Shit" low and wrecked and wondering, "shit, I'm—" he thrusts again and his hand feels it and his jaw drops "I'm in so deep, baby"
You're drooling. You realize this distantly. The position and the crying and the overwhelming fullness and his hand on your stomach has shorted something out and your mouth is just open, tears and spit, every refined thing about you completely dissolved, you are drooling on your own chin and your eyes are doing the thing where they're not focusing on anything in particular and you can't bring them back.
He looks at your face and laughs. Not a mean laugh, or not only a mean laugh. It's genuine, delighted, slightly unhinged, the laugh of a man who got a 95 in psychology and spent three weeks being patient and is now watching his carefully maintained study partner drool on herself on his mattress and finding it the funniest most devastating thing he's ever seen.
"Look at you," he breathes, still laughing, jaw tight and eyes crinkling and nothing about this is composed anymore "look at your face" he thrusts rough and watches your eyes roll and laughs again, softer, rougher, the laugh turning into something else at the edges. "where'd your mouth go, dove, hm?" Another thrust. "All that attitude" thrust "three weeks of that smart mouth". His hand presses down on the bulge. You drool more. Your eyes go completely. "Pathetic," he says, and he sounds fond about it, devastatingly fond, like pathetic is the best thing he's ever seen, his hand covers your mouth now, palm flat, catching the drool and the muffled broken sounds you're making and he feels you against his palm, every sob, every whine, every attempt at please and no more that has no real weight behind it.
He presses down on your stomach with his other hand and thrusts hard and watches the bulge move under his palm and his laugh dies into something low and reverent and barely human. "Fuck," he breathes, "fuck, that's—" pressing down, thrusting in, watching his jaw is working like he's biting down on something, teeth catching his lower lip, the expression of a man doing long division to stay functional. "so deep inside you baby, you feel that?"
You feel it. Your eyes are somewhere in the back of your head. You are drooling into his palm and making sounds that would embarrass you if embarrassment was something you still had access to.
"Ruined," he says, rough and laughing and wrecked, his hips snapping forward and his hand pressing down, watching your stomach, watching your face, watching your rolled eyes and your open mouth and the complete and total wreckage of the girl who showed up at his door with her short skirt, tiktok videos and her smart mouth every thursday.
"I ruined you." Not a question. Just awed. Delighted. Then he laughs again, quieter now, the mad fond laugh of someone who didn't expect this to happen and cannot believe it has. "three weeks and I completely ruined you" He presses down hard on the bulge and holds and drives in and your muffled scream goes into his palm and he watches your eyes roll back with the expression of a man who has won something and intends to collect. "Smart girl," he murmurs, soft, his thumb stroking your cheek even now, even through all of it, the gentleness underneath the rough that has always been there "my smart girl, where'd she go, hm?"
You’re gone. completely gone. drooling into his hand on a Thursday afternoon with psych notes on the floor and definitely not coming back for a while. San laughs again, low and quiet and completely mad about it. "There she is," he says. Another laughter rip from his chest, cold and unforgiving but still has the undertones of the sweet and patient San you know.
You have a feeling that this will go on till the golden hour passes and the evening hues taken on the room, and you’re proven correct as San turns you over. You let out a yelp of disagreement, but it is quickly muffled by a pillow. You could feel his looming presence behind you as he prepares himself again.
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x f!reader & tutor!hongjoong x f!reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, pet play, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 7.2k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. this is my first time uploading my work to tumblr so please be kind to me i'm nervous... i hope you all enjoy <33
You've always measured yourself by your intelligence.
Never once by your likability or the depth of your social circle—those things were subjective, wholly dependent on how someone else happened to feel that day. Intelligence, on the other hand, was empirical. When you needed proof that you were worth taking seriously, it was the only thing you could point to with absolute confidence.
All of it was very familiar to you: the streak of perfect grades, the neat marginalia of encouraging comments in neat handwriting, the way a teacher would pause for a fraction of a second longer when handing back your paper, meeting your eyes with a small, silent nod that meant you did well. You learned early on in life that being smart was undoubtedly safer than being soft, and that independence was far more reliable than reassurance. If you performed well enough, if your output was flawless, no one would look too closely at what you didn’t know how to say.
That was how you ended up here.
An International Relations major made perfect sense on paper. It combined global policy, diplomacy, and language acquisition, all of which you're supposed to be good at. And you are good at them, theoretically. You had even mapped out your schedule carefully, beginning with the familiar Mandarin. You had taken it before. You understood the logic of the tones and the way the grammar clicked into place like a well-oiled machine. It was a comfortable language, a place where you could build competence before anyone noticed you were even trying.
But the Mandarin class had filled within minutes.
You remember staring at that registration screen until the white light burned your retinas, refreshing it once, twice, twenty times as though a spot would magically open up. When it didn’t, you scrolled.
Korean 101 was still open.
You had hesitated, the cursor hovering—you didn’t even know the first thing about Hangul. You had no background, no foundation, no safety net. But you told yourself it would be fine. It was an introductory class, after all. Everyone starts at the beginning, right?
...Right.
Now, you’re sitting in that very classroom, the faint scent of stale coffee and printer ink that usually makes you feel grounded now causing your stomach to twist so tightly it's nauseating. It feels like you’ve regressed, suddenly shoved back into the skin of your middle school self: that paralyzing moment of raising your hand only to have the thoughts evaporate the second every eye in the room turned toward you.
The whiteboard is covered in clean, intimidatingly confident handwriting. You sit in the second row, your notebook open and your pen poised, squinting at the sharp angles of the Hangul. You’re trying to find a pattern, or a logic, or some way back to your empirical self, but your professor snaps the cap onto a marker, the sharp click pulling you abruptly out of your daze.
“자, 그러면,” Professor Choi's voice cuts cleanly through the quiet room as he taps a marker against the board. “자기소개.”
You feel a hollow weight settle in your gut. Self-introduction.
You know this. You’ve written the same basic script so many times that the notebook pages are worn thin under the pressure of your pen, annotations crowding the margins. You’ve spent hours fixing the particles you mess up nearly every time, agonizing over the placement of a single syllable. You understand the structure the way you understand a formula: topic particle, subject marker, verb ending.
Your problem has never been comprehension. Your problem is what happens when the knowledge has to leave the safety of your mind and pass through your mouth.
“윤호씨,” Professor Choi calls, his eyes flicking down to the roster. “이름이 뭐에요?”
Next to you, Yunho straightens immediately, like he’s been impatiently waiting for his chance to show his advanced skills. It’s infuriating, the way your best friend sits there: relaxed, friendly, and entirely at ease. He's constantly smiling, as though he thinks learning a new language is something that's supposed to be enjoyed rather than a trial to be survived.
He clears his throat. “안녕하세요. 제 이름은 윤호예요. 반갑습니다.”
He doesn't overthink it. He speaks simply, without any hint of hesitation. The syllables roll off his tongue with a natural lilt, his intonation just right without sounding forced. You keep your eyes fixed on the board, refusing to look at him, but you can feel the comparison settling heavily in your chest anyway.
“아주 좋아요,” Professor Choi smiles, the warmth in his smile confirming what you already know: Yunho is his star student.
Then his eyes move. You know what’s coming before it happens, like the quiet before a storm. Professor Choi Jongho is one of the best—and in your opinion, most terrifying—professors on campus. Behind his glasses, his eyes are sharp. Unfortunately for you, he has a supernatural ability to pinpoint the exact student whose internal foundation is currently crumbling.
“___씨.”
Your heart drops straight into your shoes. A prickling heat creeps up your neck, a contrast to the way your hands go ice-cold over the wooden desk. Your thoughts, usually so orderly and clinical, stop lining up. Instead, they pile on top of one another, a frantic, disorganized heap of grammar rules all screaming for attention at once.
“네,” you answer automatically, your voice a little too quick.
“이름이 뭐에요?”
Your name. It's a simple task, really. And Yunho just handed you the blueprint, the perfect example. You inhale slowly, the way you were taught to before high-stakes exams, trying to convince your nervous system that this is no different.
“안녕… 안녕하세요,” you begin slowly, already hating the pause, hearing how unsure you sound. “제 이름은…”
And then it happens. It's not silence. It's much worse: it's a flood. Every variation of the sentence you’ve meticulously practiced crashes into your consciousness at once. Is it 이에요 or 입니다? Should you maintain the rigid formal or the polite standard? Does the name precede the particle, or is there a nuance you're forgetting? You know the answers to all of these. You could pass a written test on them in your sleep. But knowing is useless when the bridge between your brain and your tongue has collapsed.
You swallow, forcing the words out. “___이에요.”
Technically, you’re correct. But the hesitation has already bled the confidence out of the sentence. The silence that follows is deafening. Your face feels like it’s on fire, so you drop your gaze to the edge of your notebook, staring at the perfect handwriting that proves you are smarter than the girl who just struggled to say her own name.
Professor Choi studies you, his expression thoughtful. You can almost see him weighing his options: whether to push you until you find your footing, or to grant you a merciful exit.
Before he can decide, Yunho’s voice cuts in.
“선생님,” he says gently, lifting his hand halfway. “She might be overthinking the formal endings. I know they always trip me up, too. Maybe we could add those to the review session? Before the quiz?”
You stiffen. It’s a blatant lie, and you're sure the rest of the class has acknowledged it. Yunho’s Korean is effortless; he isn't at all confused. He’s just throwing himself on the grenade to save you from further humiliation.
Professor Choi considers this, his gaze lingering on Yunho before he turns back to the board. “네,” he says simply. “I'll take note of that. 감사합니다, 윤호씨.” He pauses, then looks back at you. His voice isn't mean, but it's dangerously direct. “_____씨, your grammar is good. Your confidence is what needs work.”
You can feel your cheeks burning as you nod, pressing your lips together, absorbing the critique like a bruise you know will only darken and get more painful as the day goes on.
Class moves on. Mercifully, the spotlight shifts elsewhere, seeking out other victims.
You spend the remaining forty minutes furiously scribbling: filling your notebook with annotations you don’t need and sentences you’ve already mastered. You ignore Yunho beside you. He's leaned back, lazily playing a game on his phone behind his textbook. On paper, you're the picture-perfect student, the gold standard of diligence, while your best friend looks like he's one step away from academic probation.
You wish, not for the first time, that speaking worked the same way. That the hard work mattered more, that you could edit your voice, that you could erase each stumble, that you could polish your tone before it ever hit the air.
When class finally ends, you swear you can hear the room exhale.
The silence is shattered by chairs scraping against the floor, zippers unzipping and rezipping, and conversations lowly rekindling. You snap your notebook shut with more force than necessary, already half-standing and ready to bolt to the door.
If you leave quickly, you can avoid eye contact with everyone in the room. You can disappear into the crowded hallway before anyone remembers how your voice sounded when you spoke.
“___씨.”
Of course.
Your muscles lock mid-motion, caught in an awkward half-crouch. For one ridiculous second, you consider pretending you didn’t hear him. But the habit of being a "good student" is too deeply ingrained in you. You sigh quietly and straighten, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you turn back toward the front of the room.
“네,” you call out, your voice sounding small in the emptying space.
“Will you speak with me for a moment?” Professor Choi asks politely, though your stomach immediately drops through the floor.
In the aisle, Yunho pauses, hesitating. When you glance at him, he offers a look that is purely apologetic: a soft, encouraging tilt of his head meant to cushion the blow of being singled out.
I’ll wait, he mouths, giving you a soft smile.
You nod once, wide-eyed and tethered to the spot, starting to feel more like a defendant than a student.
Professor Choi gestures toward the front of the room. You follow, acutely aware of the vast space growing behind you as the rest of the class filters out. Soon, the room is empty, leaving only the two of you and the persistent, artificial hum of the lights overhead.
He closes his notebook and sets it aside. Then, slowly, he removes his glasses and places them on the surface of his desk.
Your professor looks at you for a long moment before speaking, as if arranging his thoughts with the same clinical precision he expects from his students.
"You are one of the strongest students in this class academically," he says finally. His voice is flat and even, devoid of flattery. "Your written work is excellent. Your comprehension is well above average."
The words land the same way praise usually does for you. Normally, this would be the moment you’d relax. This is the exact proof you could hold onto. But instead, your jaw tightens. You nod once, the movement stiff, not trusting your voice to remain steady.
"But language," he continues, folding his hands loosely on the desk, "is not merely knowledge. It is a tool. It requires comfort under pressure." He watches your face as he speaks, his gaze unblinking. “And Korean was not your first choice, was it?"
The question isn't unkind, but the implication is a jagged edge. Something in your chest contracts as you slowly shake your head.
"That puts you at a disadvantage," he says shortly.
You flinch before you can stop yourself.
"That is not criticism," he says immediately, anticipating your reaction. "It is context. Many students in this room entered with exposure through family, media, or prior study. You did not. You entered with a blank slate. That is a significant deficit to overcome."
You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, forcing yourself to listen even as the heat of embarrassment prickles under your skin. You hate how easily he’s naming the very thing you’ve been trying to outrun. You’ve never once been a "deficit" student, yet here you are, scrambling to catch up to everyone else from miles behind.
"Which is why," he continues, "peer tutoring will be a vital resource for you."
The words sting. You release a slow, shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
"I know peer tutoring is required for the course," you say, struggling to keep your voice level and professional. "I already signed up."
You have the confirmation email saved. You’d done it the same night the syllabus was released, because that’s what you do—you prepare, and you stay three steps ahead so you never have to feel like you're falling.
"Yes," he says, a small nod acknowledging your diligence. "But I am emphasizing this to you specifically."
Ouch.
"I want you to take this seriously."
Something sharper flickers in your chest then. Defensiveness, maybe? Or wounded pride?
"I am taking it seriously," you say, quicker than you intended. "I just…" You hesitate, the truth pressing uncomfortably against the back of your teeth. "I’ve never needed a... tutor before."
The word quite literally feels like a slur. To you, "tutor" is a label of failure, an admission that you’ve slipped from the category of naturally capable and tumbled into the ranks of the struggling. It's a crack in the foundation of your entire identity, and a line you never would've imagined yourself crossing.
Professor Choi doesn’t respond right away. He studies you with an unsettling intensity, reading the shame written in the lines of your posture.
"That," he says at last, "may be exactly why you do."
His logic is a wall you can’t climb over. You know he’s right.
You look down at the desk—at the neat stack of handouts, at his glasses resting carefully on the wood beside them—and you feel an unfamiliar, sickening twist in your gut. It's not shame, not exactly... It's the terrifying realization that for the first time in your life, your intelligence might not be enough to succeed.
You don’t say much on the walk back to the dorms.
The late afternoon has settled into that stagnant, in-between state the campus wears so well—the sky dimming but not yet dark, lampposts flickering to life one by one, the stone paths beneath your feet still radiating warmth from the midday sun. Students move around you in loose, energetic clusters, their laughter and complaints a blurred noise. They're already mentally somewhere else—the library, the dining hall, this weekend's parties. You’re aware of it all in the distant way you’re aware of background static, your thoughts turned inward and looping over and over.
Yunho walks beside you, seemingly content to let the silence sit. He doesn’t ask what Professor Choi said, and he doesn’t offer advice that would only make the situation feel more condescending than it already does. He just matches your pace, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He understands that whatever’s stuck in your throat needs time to settle before it can be spoken.
That, you think absently, is why he’s your best friend, no longer just the irritatingly competent guy who sat next to you on the first day of class, answering every question like the language itself had been waiting for him to speak it.
"You’re not bad, ___," he says eventually, as you cut across the quad. His voice is casual, and you can tell he's being careful not to press. "You’re just not confident."
You huff a short, humorless laugh. "That’s worse," you groan, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of your face. "Being 'bad' is a technical problem. I could fix that. But I know the material. That’s what makes it humiliating."
You don’t look at him, but you feel his shrug in the shift of his shadow against the pavement.
"You’re allowed to struggle. I know this is apparently a foreign concept to you, but everyone does in their own way," he offers.
You frown slightly, craning your neck to look your six-foot-one friend in the eye. "Says the guy who’s basically fluent."
Yunho raises an eyebrow, a flicker of that lopsided amusement crossing his face. "I lived in Korea for a year," he says simply, because he's already reminded you of it several times. "You didn’t. We're bound to learn at a different pace, and no amount of late-night cramming is going to magically give you twelve months of immersion."
You hate how reasonable he is. You hate that he provides a logic you can’t argue with without sounding petty or defensive. You roll your eyes, lightly bumping your shoulder against his as you reach your dorm and scan your keycard with a sharp beep.
He holds the heavy door open for you, ruffling your hair with a brotherly lack of grace as you step into the lobby.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he says gently, trying to quiet your frantic thoughts. "I know you don’t want to hear it, but you’re insanely impressive for someone who came in with zero experience. Don’t forget that."
He flashes you a quick thumbs-up before letting the door swing shut behind him. You stand there for a moment, watching his silhouette disappear back across the quad, fighting the urge to smile even as the weight of Professor Choi’s words continues to linger in your chest.
Later that night, after the dorm has settled into a restless quiet and your desk lamp is the only carving a path through the dark of your tiny bedroom, the dreaded notification finally illuminates your screen.
Peer Tutoring — Korean 101
Sent to: KRN101 All Students
Your stomach tightens before you even click on it.
The message from Professor Choi is impersonal, stripped of any warmth or preamble. There are no names in the greeting, only a brief, rigid reminder of the department’s expectations and a link to the assigned pairings. Halfway down the page, under the heading Required Assignments, the reality of your situation sits in black and white.
Your name is the first one listed.
You stare at it, irritation prickling under your skin. You know, logically, that you aren't being singled out. Everyone in the class is on this list; everyone is subject to the same syllabus. This isn’t a public indictment of your skills. Yet still, that sensation lingers: the old, deep-seated academic fear of being quietly sorted into a different category than the one you’re used to occupying.
You click on the tutoring link, more out of obligation than choice.
____ ____. Tutor: Kim Hongjoong.
The name is a dead end.
There is no photo attached, no biography, and no context—just a name and a university email address. It’s a blank slate, a stranger who is now tasked with witnessing the very thing you try hardest to hide. You read his name again, the syllables feeling foreign in your mind, but you don't let yourself dwell on the mystery of who he might be.
To you, he isn't a person yet. He's just a witness to your deficit.
With a sharp exhale, you close the tab and reach for your phone, the light reflecting in your eyes as you immediately pull up your messages with Yunho.
_____: Who did you get?
His reply bubbles up almost immediately.
Yunho: Some guy named Woosung.
Yunho: You?
You hesitate, the cursor blinking like a taunt, before typing:
_____: Ever heard of Kim Hongjoong?
There’s a pause this time. A long, weighted silence that makes you start to regret asking before the bubbles even reappear.
Yunho: I’ve heard the name. He’s in our year. Music major, I think?
Yunho: Or maybe it was art.
Yunho: Actually, I think it might be design.
Yunho: Anyway. International student from Korea, I think. Not sure. Never met him.
You stare at the screen and let out an exhausted sigh.
You had assumed your tutor would be fluent—that much had been obvious—but knowing he was born and raised in the language adds a new layer of dread you hadn’t prepared for. It feels like a different kind of failure, one that reaches beyond GPA and academic standing. Every time you walk into that classroom, you already feel like you’re doing a disservice to the entire nation of South Korea by your inability to coax a simple sentence out of your mouth. Now, you’re going to have to sit across from someone who lives and breathes the very syllables you’re currently strangling.
The scheduling link loads, and your heart rate spikes enough to make your pulse thrum against your fingertips.
Why am I so nervous? you think, dragging a hand through your hair hard enough to tug at the roots. This is ridiculous. It’s just tutoring. Once a week. Not even an hour.
You scroll through the calendar, scanning the empty blocks as if they might bite.
Thursday at five. The earliest available slot.
Your thumb taps the screen before you can let your fear talk you out of it. You’ve learned that hesitation is more dangerous than the fear itself; dragging things out only gives the anxiety time to grow teeth.
After a minute, the confirmation page loads, and you immediately snap the laptop shut. You lean back in your chair and stare up at the ceiling, your jaw tight, a frown carved deep between your brows.
“Why did the Mandarin class have to be full?” you groan to the empty room.
Last week’s Korean homework is still sitting on your desk, covered in corrections in red ink. You grab the paper, crumpling it into a ball, and hurl it toward the trash can in the corner of your room with more force than necessary. It misses, skidding across the floor and coming to rest against the cold wall.
Figures.
A knock suddenly sounds at your door. You jolt, shoulders jumping, feeling like you’ve been caught mid-breakdown.
"Hey," a familiar voice calls through the wood. "Are you alive in there?"
You don’t have to look to know it’s San.
You dejectedly push yourself out of your chair and swing the door open. Your roommate is filling the doorway, a mountain of broad shoulders and thick arms, a gym bag slung casually over one shoulder. Anyone who didn’t know San would probably assume he’s intimidating. They would be dead wrong.
The second he sees your face, the easy, post-workout smile he’s wearing doesn't just slip—it melts into concern.
“Rough day?” he asks.
You don’t answer verbally. You don’t have to. Your face is a map of every frustration you’ve been circling for the last hour, and San has always been good at reading the terrain.
He doesn't wait for permission to enter, toeing the door shut behind him with the familiar grace of someone who truly lives in your space. You share an apartment-style dorm—separate bedrooms branching off a common area, with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom you're constantly nagging at him to clean. It’s the best setup you could’ve asked for, and somehow, you’d landed the best roommate on campus as well.
He drops his bag by your bed and simply opens his arms.
You don’t even hesitate, walking straight into him, burying your forehead against his chest. He wraps you up instantly, arms solid and steady around you, warm in a way that feels like a physical sedative for your panic.
"There we go," he murmurs with a small grin, patting your head teasingly. "It's all gonna be okay."
You exhale, tension leaking out of you like air from a punctured balloon.
“Korean,” you mumble into the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
He chuckles, the vibration buzzing through your forehead as he repeats, "Korean."
You stifle a tiny, tired giggle. "It's not funny. It's terrible, San."
"Peer tutoring?" he guesses.
You pull back just enough to look at him, blinking in surprise. "How did you—"
"Come on," he says, a playful, dimpled grin tugging at his lips. "I remember how much you complained about signing up for it back in September. I’ve been waiting for the day that email hits your inbox."
You snort despite yourself, the bitterness starting to lift.
San guides you over to the couch in the common area, spotting your crumpled homework on the floor and picking it up on the way. He sets it down on the coffee table, plopping down beside you, sinking into the cushions until your shoulders are pressed together.
"So," he says. "Talk to me. Who's the lucky tutor that gets to deal with you?"
You punch his arm—a weak, frustrated thud against his solid muscle—and tip your head back against the cushions. "It's not even just that. My professor asked me to stay after class today, just to give me a 'special emphasis' rant on how much I need to take tutoring seriously."
"Damn," San winces sympathetically, shifting so he's more focused on you.
"And my tutor is an international student," you add, the words feeling heavy. "Like, actually from Korea."
San tilts his head, not understanding the issue. "Okay. And?"
"And I feel like an idiot!" The words come tumbling out now that the seal's broken. "I'm wasting this poor guy's time. I shouldn't even be in this class. I should've been in Mandarin. I know Mandarin! I'm an A+ student in Mandarin! But no—it was full, so now I'm stuck here, humiliating myself with a language that I didn't even want to learn! That I still don't want to learn!"
San listens, his gaze unblinking and earnest, absorbing your frantic energy without letting it agitate him. When you finally run out of breath, he reaches out and bumps his knee against yours.
"Hey," he says steadily, "You're allowed to be bad at something new. Your tutor is not going to call up the Korean government and tell them to ban you from ever traveling there because you messed up a few words."
"You don't know that," you object stubbornly. One look at his face is enough to make you sigh weakly, giving up the fight. "I just don't want to be bad, San."
"You’re learning," he corrects. "There’s a difference."
You huff, looking away. "It's not that easy to just suddenly... be the one who needs help."
He smiles, and for a second, he looks older, more intuitive. "I know it’s not. That’s why doing it anyway is actually cool. Most people in that class are just coasting on what they already know from their families or whatever. You’re the only one in there actually doing the hard work from zero."
You glance at him, a weak, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. "You’re only saying that because you want me to feel better."
"Is it working?" he asks, his grin widening until his eyes are full of mischief.
You shake your head, unable to hold back the giggle that finally breaks through your defenses. "This Thursday at five," you say, forcing a pivot before he can get too smug. "That's the first session."
"Perfect," he nods, exhaling a long breath and sinking further into the cushions. "Mark it down. I'll make dinner that night. Whatever you want. You'll go, realize you were seriously overreacting and that your tutor probably expects you to be even worse than you are, and then you'll come back and complain to me about it anyway."
You let out a real laugh this time, choosing to ignore the last part of his sentence.
“San, when was the last time you cooked without setting off the smoke alarm?"
"Hey!" He points an accusing finger at you. "I'm trying to do something nice! Be grateful!"
You laugh, the sound finally reaching your eyes and washing away the last of the afternoon’s bitterness. You drop your head to rest on his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'm grateful, I guess," you mumble against his shirt.
He beams, pleased with himself, and reaches for the remote on the coffee table. Powering on the TV, he grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tosses it over your legs. “I know you are,” he says simply, voice dropping into that quieter tone that means everything is all figured out.
For the first time since class this morning, the knot in your chest doesn’t quite disappear, but it loosens, just enough to let you finally breathe.
The Language Center sits at the far edge of campus, tucked behind a row of older, ivy-choked academic buildings like it’s trying not to draw attention to itself.
You recognize it immediately.
The stone details, the arched windows darkening as evening settles in, the way the front steps rise just high enough that you have to slow your pace without meaning to: the building itself is beautiful yet intimidating, the kind of place that makes you instinctively straighten your posture and check the state of your hair before you're allowed to enter.
Thursday. Five o'clock. The deadline has finally arrived.
As you push through the heavy oak doors, the air changes. It smells faintly of old, bound paper and the sharp, clinical sting of lemon-scented floor wax. Your footsteps, usually a background noise you never notice, now echo against the marble floor. Every beat of your heart seems to sync with the sound, thrumming uncomfortably loud in your ears.
You tell yourself you’re being ridiculous. You’ve given presentations to lecture halls of three hundred people. You’ve defended papers in front of professors who built their entire careers tearing other people’s logic apart.
This is literally just tutoring.
The lobby is bathed in amber lighting that makes it feel like a library. The front desk is tucked into a corner of polished dark wood, where a woman with kind eyes and a soft smile looks up as you approach. Her fingers hover over a keyboard, the clicking sound pausing as she waits for you to speak.
"Hi there," she says warmly, cutting through the sterile quiet of the lobby. "Checking in for a session?"
You take a breath, trying to summon the typical version of yourself that doesn't struggle with things. "I—um. Yes," you say, cursing at yourself for sounding so nervous.
"Language?" she asks, her voice echoing softly.
"Korean."
"And your tutor’s name?"
You swallow. "Kim Hongjoong."
Her fingers dance across the keys with efficiency. "Got it. And your name?"
You provide your name, and she offers a smile that is far too perceptive—the look people give when they recognize a specific brand of first-day nerves but are kind enough not to call it out.
"He’s just down the hall," she says, standing up. "I’ll show you the way."
The walk feels like a slow-motion trek through deep water. Your palms are damp, so you pull the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands, rubbing your thumbs together. You repeat your mantra: This is not a performance. No one is grading you. This man is literally being paid to help you.
But the closer you get to the study area, the more those words feel like a lie.
The woman stops in front of a small, secluded table near the tall arched windows. The evening light filters through the glass in dusty, golden shafts.
"There you are," she says cheerfully, gesturing forward.
And then, she steps aside. Your tutor looks up.
For a terrifying half a second, you're certain your brain has ceased to function.
He has dark, silky hair that's a little too long, falling into his eyes. His glasses—slightly crooked, perched on a sharp, elegant nose—immediately send a swarm of butterflies into a riot inside your chest. He’s dressed simply, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a laptop open and surrounded by a scattered, organized chaos of notebooks. He looks like he's been preparing for this. For you.
You feel physically incapable of looking away.
He stands up, and the movement is sudden, slightly jerky, but you're not sure why.
"Hi," he says. It’s a simple word, but his voice has a soft and melodic quality to it. He gives a small, tentative wave, and the butterflies in your stomach transition from a riot to a full-blown war.
The woman smiles between the two of you. "You’re all set. Take as much time as you need."
And then, mercifully, she leaves.
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. You're alone with him.
"Hi," you reply. The word feels stupid and small. You clutch the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the floor. "I’m—um—I’m ____."
"I know," he says quickly, then winces immediately. "I mean—I saw it on the schedule. Sorry. I’m Hongjoong." He nods awkwardly to the chair across from him. "You can... yeah. Please, sit."
You sit.
Up close, it’s worse. No—it’s better. It’s both. The light from the window catches the edge of his glasses, and you notice his hands move in small gestures when he speaks, like he's physically arranging his thoughts in the air before he lets them go.
You realize with a sudden, cold flash of panic that this is, without question, the most attractive man you have ever seen in your life. And now, you have to open your mouth and humiliate yourself in front of him.
"I just want to say," you blurt out, the words tripping over each other in their haste to escape, "that I’m really bad at Korean."
Hongjoong blinks, his pen hovering mid-air above his notebook. "Oh," he says softly, his voice tilting up with a hint of amusement. "Okay."
"No—I mean, really bad," you double down, the heat in your cheeks shifting from a simmer to a burn. "I had zero experience before this class. None. I’m actually a Mandarin student—or, at least, I was supposed to be. But the department was full, and the registrar bumped me, and—sorry, I’m rambling."
He doesn't laugh at you. Instead, he offers a smile that is unexpectedly disarming.
"It’s okay," he says, leaning forward a bit, his glasses sliding a fraction of a millimeter down the bridge of his nose. "You don’t have to apologize."
You nod too quickly, your fingers twisting the strap of your bag. "I just... don’t want you to think I’m stupid."
"I would never," he says immediately, and the word never carries so much weight that you actually somewhat believe him. "And for the record, everyone says that."
"Everyone says they’re bad?"
"Everyone," he repeats. "But specifically the ones who actually care."
That doesn’t help much. It only makes your chest feel tighter.
He flips open a sleek, black folder. "So. Every week, I’ll give you a small assignment based on the current module. Nothing scary, just some low-stakes practice to get your muscle memory going."
"Okay," you murmur. You hesitate, your curiosity getting the better of your dread. "And… have you done this for a long time? The tutoring?"
"This is my first semester," he admits, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But I've tutored a few people from your class already this week. Mingi was just here before you."
Your stomach drops at the mention of his name.
"Oh," you say weakly. "Mingi. He's really good."
Hongjoong tilts his head, surprised. "You guys are close?"
"No, but he sits in front of me," you say, staring down at the wood grain of the table. "He lived in Korea for a few years. He’s practically fluent."
Hongjoong watches you for a beat longer, his expression shifting into something more observant. "You know this isn't a competition, right?"
You open your mouth to defend your right to be competitive, then close it again, feeling the absurdity of the situation.
"Sorry," you mutter. "I just—like I said—I’m really bad."
Hongjoong doesn’t offer a platitude this time. Instead, he smiles again, but this time, it's more of a smirk. "Then let’s see."
You have to fight to keep yourself from blushing.
He slides a printed page across the polished table. It stops right in front of your hands, the black ink of the Hangul characters already morphing together into something illegible.
“Read the first three lines for me," he says, resting his chin in his hand, his gaze steady on your face. "It’s just a simple dialogue. You’re introducing yourself as a character. No pressure. And do me a favor: try not to think about Mingi.”
Your fingers tremble as you pick up the paper. You recognize every word. You’ve drilled these phrases into your brain until three in the morning, staring at flashcards until the lines blurred. But now, with Hongjoong watching you, your mouth does not feel like cooperating with your mind.
“안녕하세요…” Your voice wobbles. You wince at the sound, the syllables feeling like stones in your mouth, but you keep going. You stumble over particles, the transitions between words often catching in your throat. You pause too long, and you frantically correct yourself mid-sentence, cheeks burning.
When you finally reach the end of the third line, you don't look up. You can't. You keep your eyes locked on the paper, wishing you could disappear.
"I told you," you say quietly, forcing a hint of laughter into your voice as your fingers twist together in your lap, hidden from his sight. "That was really bad."
A beat of silence follows.
"That," Hongjoong finally says carefully, "wasn’t bad. At all." You hear the scrape of his chair as he shifts. "Actually," he continues, and you finally risk a glance up. "That was ... yeah. That was actually really good."
You stare at him, disbelief written in every line of your face. You’re looking for the lie. The polite, pitying smile of a tutor who’s just trying to earn his paycheck. But his expression is different. It’s softer now, more restrained, and there’s something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes, maybe a spark of surprise that he’s trying to keep under control.
"You’re sure you had no prior experience?" he asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one hand. "You didn't even know the alphabet a few weeks ago?"
You shake your head, your throat feeling tight.
He opens his mouth, clearly about to say more, then catches himself, thinking better of it, and swallows the thought. Instead, he turns back to his bag, rummaging through the depths of it for a moment before pulling out a different stack of papers—hand-annotated and slightly worn at the edges—and sets them down between you with a quiet click of his rings against the table.
"Okay," he says, clearing his throat to find his professional footing again. "So. The main assignment. The weekly recording." He begins flipping through the pages as he explains. "It’s recorded and submitted to your professor so he can evaluate your progress over time. You can use your phone if that’s more comfortable for you. Today’s prompt is just a baseline. A way to get you used to the sound of your own voice on camera. I have it here."
He walks you through the script: greeting, an exchange of names, a polite closing. You've practiced all of this a million times. It should be easy.
You nod, your pulse rapidly speeding up. "Okay. Ready."
He goes first.
"안녕하세요. 제 이름은 홍중이에요," he says.
The transformation is instantaneous. In English, his voice is soft and lyrical, but in Korean, it gains more rhythm. The syllables are even smoother than when Professor Choi speaks, flowing together with a natural confidence that makes your brain short-circuit. You completely miss your cue, finding yourself caught on the simple, dangerous realization of how attractive his voice sounds in his own language.
He waits, his head tilting just a fraction as the silence stretches.
“…안녕하세요?” you finally manage, blinking hard. Your thoughts have turned to static.
You somehow stumble through the rest of the script, your voice feeling thin and brittle compared to his. The second the recording ends, you snatch your phone off the table. You replay just the first line—and after hearing your own hesitant, shaky greeting, you immediately delete it.
"I’m sorry," you say, mortified, knowing every second of that hesitation is now preserved on camera. "Can we redo that?"
"Of course," he says casually, though his eyes dance with something deeper. "As many times as you need."
You do it again. Your tongue trips over a vowel. Delete.
Then again. You paused too long after his name, staring at the way his glasses caught the light instead of looking at the lens. Delete.
Then once more. You corrected yourself mid-word, muttering a curse under your breath that you’d rather die than let a professor hear. Delete.
Finally, after five grueling takes, you let out a shaky breath and hit 'Save.' The file name sits there on your screen: Peer Tutoring, Assignment 1. It's done.
He smiles when you finally tell him you’re satisfied. "I thought it was fine four takes ago," he admits, "but I’m glad we got one you like."
Heat creeps up your neck. "I just want it to be perfect."
"That’s probably your problem," he says with a light chuckle, sliding the papers back into his bag. "You’re still a beginner. It’s not going to be perfect right away." He looks at you, sincere. “But today, you did well. Really well. I’m… yeah. I’m impressed."
Determined to look anywhere but his eyes, your gaze flicks to the wall clock.
Twenty minutes left.
The panic that rises in your throat has absolutely nothing to do with grammar particles and everything to do with the fact that the air in this corner of the library has become impossibly thin. Your composure has become so fragile, waiting to be shattered by what he might say next.
"So," you say too quickly. "Do I... um... do I need to stay? The whole forty-five minutes? Do you still get paid if I leave early?"
He blinks, a little surprised. "Only if you have more questions. And don't worry about the money; the university handles the log. My time is technically yours until the forty-five minutes are up."
You don’t have any questions. Not the kind you can ask out loud. How do you make the language sound so magnetic? Why is the crookedness of your glasses so attractive?
"No," you say instead, already standing up and grabbing your bag from the floor. "I’m good. I have... research. For Econ. That I need to do tonight. Thank you, Hongjoong. It was… nice meeting you."
He gets up as well, mirroring your movement with just as little grace as you had. "Yeah. You too. I'll—um—see you next week, then? Same time?"
"Same time," you agree, already backing away.
You turn and leave before your legs can reconsider. The hallway of the Language Center is cooler now, the shadows of the arched windows stretching long and blue across the marble floor. You don’t stop moving until you’ve pushed through the heavy oak doors and felt the bite of the evening air against your face like a reset button.
Your heart is still thudding frantically, a drumbeat of adrenaline and mortification. You tell yourself once again that this is just tutoring. Yet, of course, you just had to be assigned the most attractive man on campus to witness your humiliation.
It's fine, you think, starting the walk back to your dorm. Now that the shock is over, I can be professional. I’ll be prepared for the distraction next time. Next week will be easier.
You walk back across the quad, repeating it like a mantra—just tutoring, just tutoring, just tutoring—all while failing to notice that you’re already rehearsing your "안녕하세요" for next week, making sure the vowels are exactly the way Hongjoong said them.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize San was right. You’re definitely going to have something to complain about when you get home.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2025. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
he posted this pic on his story and i dropped my pants in preparation
bsf!seonghwa x f!reader
content: teaching you how to ride, slow and wet, eye contact, choking
wc: 2.3k
thinking about seonghwa...
“never?” he murmurs, nibbling on his inner cheek as he gives you a once-over. not in disbelief, but something else. something dangerous.
you shake your head. “nope.” you shrug and pick up your phone again and start to scroll through your settings apps. “but it’s not a big deal, really, it’s just another thing to cross off the bucket list.”
seonghwa snorts and peeks over to snoop at your phone, to which you angle it away from him with an annoyed scowl. “i think it may be a little more serious than that.”
you type gibberish into the search bar. "why does it have to be serious, hwa? it's just sex."
its seonghwa's turn to scoff this time, and he pinches the skin of your calf, you swat at him with your free hand. but he does it again, and you bite out an irritated "quit it" as he starts to speak again.
"thats a bad mindset to have, y'know that right?" he lowers his voice to that annoying, mothering tone he uses with you when he thinks you're being stupid. "it should never be "just sex."
"okay yeah, but you can't be so picky and choosy all the time. i'm sure ill get with some guy and when he figures it out, he'll work with me or whatever. teach me or something." you speak of it fleetingly, like it was nothing more than a pesky errand.
seonghwa snatches your phone from you and shoves it into the couch cushions, and you sigh loudly.
"some guy?" he questions with a raise of his eyebrow. you move to fish your phone out of the couch, but he reaches out and gently grabs your wrist, encasing it in his slender fingers and rubbing his thumb over your thrumming pulse point.
"why not me?" he speaks lowly, and you snap your eyes up to his. he stares back at you with an intensity that settles low in your gut. his thumb stroked over your inner wrist slowly, and his other hand twitched at his side on the couch.
the air went thick, the quiet of his living room felt encased in a bubble, and the warmth of his skin suddenly burned.
he sees it. your thighs clenching beneath your body, the conflict flashing over your eyes, your free hand digging its nails into the cushion.
when you don't respond, he lets his eyes fall to where his hand held your wrist, watching with illustrated intent as he traces patterns against the fragile skin.
"i could show you, i've always been told i'm a good teacher." seonghwa tickles the skin of your palm with gentle scratches of his nails.
"thats what friends are for, yeah?" he lifts his pretty eyes back up to you, and something else has shadowed over them, and you feel something inside of you crack. you're aware of the way veins in his hands flow prettily under his skin.
the way his collarbones peak through the thin fabric of his shirt. the slick shine on his bottom lip where he licked to wet it. his tongue poked against his inner cheek and his eyebrows raised again to urge an answer out of you.
"c'mon pretty, don't leave me hanging." his voice is softer than usual, a new tone lacing it you've never heard from your best friend, something heated, something needy.
if deciding to have your best friend teach you how to ride dick was a bad idea, then you could mull on it later. because it wasn't long until he was sitting under you on the couch, legs spread nice and wide, his hands pressing into your hips where he held your body above him.
you straddled him, your thighs resting on either side of his, your knees pressed into the rough fabric of the couch cushions. your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the flesh of the blades.
he looks up at you through his lashes, as if you were a gift from god himself, his eyebrows knit together so prettily. "its fun up there, huh?" he smiles, dragging his warm hands up your thighs, holding you like you might melt and slip through his fingers.
you could barely keep yourself together; he was so deep inside of you. your thighs shook around him, his tip nudging against that spot so sweet and so dirty. his fingers kneaded the flesh of your hips, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth with a quiet moan when he felt your cunt clench around him.
"it helps that you're, ah… so wet…" his voice cracks lightly, his cock twitching inside of you and sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.
you shiver and grip his shoulders a little harder, and you begin to lift your hips, but his grip on them tightens, and he pushes you right back down until your ass hits his thighs again, and you groan nice and low as he fills you all the way up again.
"no-no-no-no-no, baby, stop. don't lift." he presses his lips to your collarbone and kisses you there softly, running his tongue over the skin warmly. one hand leaves your hip and runs over your waist before he presses his palm flat against your lower back and pushes until you arch a little.
just enough that he somehow slips deeper into you, and you let out a weak whine when his fat tip presses ever harder against that spot.
"grind." he instructs in a gravelly, soft moan. "rock your hips, back and forth. it'll help me hit that spot for you."
you shake and whimper under your breath, but you obey. you gently move your hips forward, and the feeling is immediate, his cock drags against your soft walls just enough that it feels like pure heaven.
you move your hands and card them through the hair at the back of his head, cradling his skull in your arms as you hide your face in the crook of his neck, moaning softly against his skin as you rock your hips, nice and slow.
it helps that he's so big, each roll of your lower body has him slipping in and out of you just enough to stimulate you, but not enough to where you can consider him fucking you. his tip dragging against that spot like a constant button, your legs shaking uncontrollaby and your whine brushing past his ear like a song.
your clit lightly brushes against his abs, where his shirt has ridden up over his lower stomach. he keeps his hand on your lower back, keeping you arched all the while his other hand stays glued to your hips, pushing and pulling on your lower body, helping you grind his cock into your body.
"there, how's that feel, baby? good?" he whispers in your ear, kissing just below your earlobe as he helps you rock your body around his cock.
you nod against his neck, gripping his soft, dark hair harder and choking out a moan when he teases you with a heavy lift of his hips. then you feel as he encases your hips with both his hands again, and gently he lifts your body ever so slightly.
you squeeze his head even harder, seonghwa's soft moans shaking in his throat as he lifts and pushes your cunt back down on his cock in slow, deep intervals. "don't stop rocking those hips, keep fucking me like you want. grind, deep, slow…"
he guides you perfectly, each time he lifts your hips himself it makes you clench around him harder. you start to feel a little desperate, and your hips start to move a little faster, rocking with a little more rhythm, but seonghwa didn't like that.
one hand finds the back of your neck and grabs it firmly, pulling your head away from his shoulder and pressing your forehead to his. suddenly all you can see is his eyes, and it overwhelms you to the point of tears. you whine pathetically when he thrusts his cock up into your pussy so sharply that a drop of drool falls from your lips onto his chest.
"easy…" he grumbles against your lips, his breath fanning over your face in low, heavy pants. "slow down pretty, no need to rush." his nails dig into the back of your neck, and you shiver when he starts to grind his own hips up into you, so deep it has your stomach caving.
"if i wanted you pounded into the floor i would've put you on your back, but i'm teaching you sweetness. listen to me." his eyes fall low-lidded as you resume your slow grinding, and his mouth falls open in a pretty moan when you tighten around him, the sound of your slickness loud in your ears.
"it's your dick right now, baby, use it. do what feels good, but don't lose your head." he keeps up the torturous movement of his hips, a choreographed grind that makes his stomach roll prettily.
he doesn't let you look away, forcing you to lock in on his needy gaze while he keeps you filled up with him, nudging every deep spot, every nook and cranny of your pussy. there wasn't a single space inside of you that remained untouched.
"s, t-too, mm-" you tried to talk, try to tell him how good you were feeling but it came out in slurred babbles, and he laughed at you. his warm breath shudders over your parted lip,s and he nudges his head up, melding his soft lips with yours and kissing you deep and nasty.
his tongue fills your mouth with a purr, curling and essentially fucking your mouth with it. "it's a lot i know…" he whispers into your mouth, interrupting the kiss with a low moan when you clench so hard around him it makes his entire body fuzzy.
he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, letting go with a wet pop and pressing your hips down so hard onto his cock you thought if you looked down you'd see his tip poking through the flesh of your stomach.
"wouldn't have felt like this with anyone else, baby." seonghwa nips at the corner of your mouth, dropping his head to run his warm tongue flat up the front of your throat. "feel how wet you are? no other man will be able to make you feel this good."
his eyes lift as he sucks marks of possession into the skin of your neck, and when he sees a tear slipping down your cheek, he growls low in his throat and jerks his cock up into you rough and deep, and you yelp as the bliss shoots through you.
"oh no, don't cry. it makes me wanna be mean to you, makes me wanna fuck you til it feels wrong when i'm not inside you."
now he wraps his hands around your throat, pressing his thumbs against those soft spots that melt your brain, his eyes darting all over your pretty little blissed out face, his lips brushing against your in a ghost of a kiss.
"now lift, drop, and roll. fuck me, bunny. its yours, use this cock until you're satisfied. make yourself cum for me."
you coudln't disobey if you tried, working your body and focusing on that rapidly tightening knot in your stomach as you fuck yourself on seonghwa's dick, every delicious drag inside of you forcing your eyes to roll to the back of your head.
he doesn't bother to chastise you for breaking eye contact; he knows you're too lost in it to control yourself. he squeezes your throat tighter, your moans coming choked and broken. seonghwa helps push you over that edge, groaning and purring prettily for you, lifting his hips to match your desperate movements.
"i feel you baby, pussy feels so good around me. so warm, so tight." he lifts his head to press his lips to the shell of your hot ears, moaning and sighing as you ride him to high heaven. your head feels fuzzy with the lack of air, seonghwa making sure that the only thing you could think about was his dick working you out.
“cum as much as you need,” he coos in your ear his voice low and breathless, sinking his teeth into the soft lobe. “ride me, bunny, ride me.”
you absolutely lose it, slamming your hips down onto his dick and shattering, dribbling drool in rivers as you cum. he squeezed your throat in pulsing intervals, giving you air, then snatching it from you, rolling his hips up into your cunt and dragging every drop of your orgasm out of your body.
"oh god…fuck." he grumbles in his throat, overwhelmed by how pretty you looked on top of him, blissed out over your warm, gummy pussy squeezing him so tight he almost came inside of you. "such a quick learner, baby."
he drags his hands away from your throat, cradling your head, smearing your drool all over your cheeks with his thumbs, your face hazy and drunk while he rocks his hips into you in painfully slow, high off the way you shake and whimper, your slick sticking to his thighs and his lower stomach, a messy proof of his effect on you.
"did so good beautiful, yes you did." he praises, and yet his hips never stop moving. rolling, grinding, upwards strokes that make you feel helpless, regardless of the fact that he was beneath you.
"think you can give me another one? lesson's not over yet." he bites out, grabbing your arms and dragging your body down so your forehead rests over his shoulder. then he grips your hips, lifts your body up, and shimmies his hips down just enough so he can plant his feet flat on the floor, before he starts to fuck.
hard, deep, powerful thrusts up into your overstimulated cunt that has your moans coming out in staccato chokes.
"you did your w-work, now let me use this pussy." he groans through gritted teeth, and you feel your body erupt into flames the more he moves. making you feel every inch of him, each thrust touching your brain. making you feel so good.
“Tell me again. Tell me you want another man’s hands on you after what we did.”
Three months ago, you and your best friend called it a mistake and buried it under silence. Tonight, one stranger gets too close and Mingi finally says the part you’ve both been choking on. Now the only question is whether you can survive the version of Mingi that’s done waiting.
Genre: smut with plot, angst-ish(?)
Trigger Warnings: (spoilers ahead) alcohol use, arguments, anger, manipulation, guilt-tripping, explicit language, jealousy and possessiveness, physical violence, sexual explicit content (mdni) , rough/nasty sex, hard/mean dom! mingi, degradation, humiliation, name-calling (slut), breath play, hand on throat (not fully choking), biting, marking, hair pulling, semi-public sex/risk of being caught (car, taxi, elevator), unsafe sex, manhandling, big dick mingi, p in v, oral sex (m! receiving), throat fucking, a lot of cum (everywhere), cream pie, cum eating, multiple orgasms, dacryphilia, face slapping, spanking, breasts play, breeding kink-ish, masturbation, squirting
WC: 19.6k
Mon’s Note: for my darling @minkieater!! thank you for trusting me with this request and for pushing me to write mingi in a way i don’t usually do. i must say it was a challenge but nonetheless i enjoyed it a lot! hopefully it turned out the way you imagined, sweetheart 🫶🏻 have fun with it!!
The bass rattled through your molars, a rhythmic thud that drowned out the pulse in your own neck. The air in the middle of the floor was a soup of expensive cologne, salt-slicked skin, and the heavy scent of smoke. Behind you, the guy you’d been grinding against for the last three songs shifted his weight, his palms damp where they gripped the curve of your waist. He was a good dancer but the friction was starting to feel less like a release and more like a chore. You peeled his hands away with a practiced, apologetic tilt of your head, the neon blue light catching the sweat on your collarbone. He said something, but the words were swallowed by a remix of a track you didn’t recognise. You just pointed toward the booths, offering a non-committal wave before weaving through the thicket of bodies.
Mingi was exactly where you’d left him, though the rest of the group had long since scattered into the chaos. He was leaning against the high mahogany table. The new blonde of his hair was tucked haphazardly behind his ears, the strands glowing every time the strobe swept past. He wasn’t looking at the crowd. He wasn’t looking at his phone.
He was looking at you.
His chocolate eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris, tracking your progress across the floor with a heavy, unblinking focus. He didn’t look like he was having fun. He looked like he was vibrating at a frequency that might shatter the glass in his hand.
“You look like you’re at a funeral,” you hiked your voice to reach him, sliding into the narrow gap between his body and the table. The heat radiating off him was different from the dance floor—dryer, more concentrated. Mingi didn’t move back to give you space. He stayed still, his height forcing you to crane your neck, his shadow swallowing you whole.
“Do I?” His voice was a low rumble that you felt in your chest more than you heard in your ears. He didn’t smile. He just watched the way your chest rose and fell with your heavy breathing.
“Yeah. Serious. Grumpy.” You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold, condensation-slicked glass of the beer bottle he was white-knuckling. “You’re bringing the vibe down, Min. You need to get laid or get drunk. Preferably both.” You didn’t wait for an invitation. You wrapped your hand over his—your skin stinging at the contact of his frozen knuckles—and tilted the beer bottle toward your mouth. You took a long, stinging swallow, the bitter amber liquid cutting through the coat of sugar on your tongue from the cocktails earlier. When you pulled away, a stray drop of foam lingered on your lower lip. You didn’t miss the way Mingi’s gaze dropped to it, his jaw muscle jumping as he ground his teeth together.
“That’s mine,” he muttered.
“Everything of yours is mine,” you countered, leaning your hip into his thigh to steady yourself as a group of drunks stumbled past. “Since when do we care about germs? We’ve shared everything.”
Mingi let out a sharp, jagged breath through his nose. He took the bottle back, but he didn’t drink. He just held it, his thumb stroking the neck of the glass in a rhythmic motion. “The guy,” Mingi said, his voice dropping an octave, rasping against the music. “He had his hands all over you.”
“That’s usually how dancing works,” you teased, reaching up to flick a stray blonde hair away from his forehead. Your fingers lingered for a second too long against his skin—he was burning up, a stark contrast to the ice-cold beer. “He was fine. Boring, but fine.”
Mingi leaned down, his face inches from yours. The smell of him suddenly outweighed the scent of the club. His eyes searched yours, intense and frantic. “You’re sweat-soaked,” he noted, his free hand came up, not to touch you, but to hover just an inch from your waist, the heat of his palm seeping through your clothes. “You should sit down. Get some air.”
“I don’t want air,” you said, feeling a strange, tight coil of tension pull in your gut. You reached out, grabbing the material of his shirt to pull him a fraction closer. “I want you to stop acting like a bodyguard and start acting like my best friend. Drink. Dance. Find a girl. I’ll even vet her for you.”
Mingi’s hand finally closed the distance, his fingers splaying wide over the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The movement was sudden, knocking the breath right out of your lungs. “I don’t want a girl,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he lowered his head.
You leaned back just enough to catch the dark, honeyed shift of his eyes, the sticky heat of the club rushing into the inch of space between your chests. You let out a huff of a laugh, your hand still at his shoulder for balance while the floor tilted slightly under your shoes. “You better change your mind then,” you teased, your voice bright and irreverent over the thumping music. You didn’t lower your volume; the crudeness felt natural between you, a byproduct of years of shared secrets and unfiltered bullshit. “Your dick needs a good sucking, Min. You’re wound so tight I can practically hear your gears grinding from here. Go find a victim.” You flashed him a grin—the one that usually got him to stop brooding—and reached for the beer again, taking another long, unhurried swallow. The cold liquid slid down your throat, a sharp contrast to the humid air pressing against your skin.
Mingi didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a self-deprecating smirk. Instead, his fingers, still splayed across the small of your back, twitched. The fabric of your dress bunched under his palm as his grip tightened, drawing you a fraction closer until your thighs brushed his. He was tracking the way your throat moved as you swallowed, his jaw locked in a hard, protruding line. “Is that what you think?”
“I know it is,” you patted his chest, the muscle beneath his shirt felt like carved stone. “I’ve seen you when you’re stressed. You’re a menace. Go. I’ll be fine. I might even go find that guy again—he had a nice rhythm.”
Mingi’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the faint click of his teeth over the sub-bass. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. He just stared at you, then, without a word, he tilted his head back. You watched the column of his throat work as he downed the rest of the beer in several heavy, aggressive gulps. The glass rattled against his teeth. When he pulled the bottle away, a single trail of amber liquid escaped the corner of his mouth, glistening in the strobe light before he wiped it away with the back of a shaking hand.
“Okay,” he said. The word was clipped, stripped of any warmth. It wasn’t the voice of the best friend; it was the voice of a man who had reached a very specific, very dangerous limit. He set the empty bottle on the table with a sharp clack and turned away. He didn’t look back. Not once. He didn’t check to see if you were following, didn’t offer a “see you later,” didn’t even spare you a final glance. He simply melted into the shifting sea of limbs on the dance floor, his blonde head bobbing through the neon haze like a signal fire being swallowed by the dark.
You blinked, the sudden absence of his heat leaving a strange, chilly vacuum against your front. “Well,” you muttered to yourself, the word lost to a sudden surge in the music’s volume. “Ask and you shall receive, I guess.” You shifted your weight, the floor sticky beneath your boots. You’d gotten what you wanted—Mingi was finally out there, hopefully looking for someone to help him sweat out that foul mood—but the air felt thinner without him hovering over you. You shook the feeling off, rolling your shoulders to loosen the tension that had settled there.
Time to find Mr. Rhythm.
You scanned the crowd, squinting against the blinding flashes of violet and white. The club was a kaleidoscope of blurred faces and grinding hips. You spotted the VIP section, where a group was spraying champagne, the fine mist catching the light like diamonds. You looked toward the bar, then back toward the floor where you’d been earlier. There. About twenty feet away, near the speakers, you caught the back of a familiar head—the guy from before. He was already back at it, his hands on the hips of a girl in a red dress, moving with that same fluid, easy confidence.
You felt a sharp, unexpected prick of annoyance in your chest. That was fast.
You turned your head, searching for Mingi instead. You found him almost instantly. He wasn’t hard to miss. He was standing near the edge of the floor, and he wasn’t alone. A girl with long, dark hair had already gravitated toward him, her hand resting brazenly on his bicep as she shouted something into his ear. Mingi was leaning down, his ear inches from her lips, his expression unreadable. From this distance, he looked like a different person.
You stood there for a moment, glued to the edge of the mahogany table, your fingers tracing the ring of condensation Mingi had left behind.
You couldn’t take your eyes off him. His hair was catching every flicker of the neon lights. The girl with the dark hair was closer now, her fingers hooked into the belt loop of his jeans, pulling herself into the narrow orbit of his space. Mingi didn’t push her away. He didn’t lean in, either. He just stood there, tall and terrifyingly still, his head tilted back as he looked down at her with an expression that was cold, and entirely unrecognisable. It felt like watching a stranger wear your best friend’s skin. The knot in your stomach tightened, a dull ache that had nothing to do with the alcohol you had.
“You look like you’re waiting for a crash.” The voice was slick, cutting through the electronic roar of the track. You turned your head, blinking against a sudden burst of violet light. A man was standing beside you, leaning one elbow on the table. He was older than the guy you’d been dancing with, wearing a crisp black button-down and a heavy silver signet ring on his pinky. He held two glasses—crystal tumblers filled with an amber liquid and a single, oversized cube of ice.
“I’m just watching the show,” you said, your voice raspy from the smoke and the shouting.
“That tall, blonde guy?” The stranger followed your gaze, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t wait for an answer before sliding one of the tumblers across the wood toward you. “He looks like he’s trying to set the room on fire. You look like you’re wondering if you should call the fire department.”
You looked at the drink. “I don’t take drinks from people I don’t know,” you said, though your hand moved toward the glass of its own accord. Your throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.
“I’m Seongmin,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that didn’t need to strain against the music. He took a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “Now you know me. Drink it. It’s better than that bottom-shelf lager the blonde guy was chugging.”
You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the glass. The condensation was biting, a shock of cold against your palm. You took a sip—it was a peaty, expensive Scotch that burned all the way down, lighting a small fire in your belly.
“Better?” he asked, stepping a fraction closer. He smelled of peppermint gum and expensive leather.
“Stronger,” you countered.
Seongmin leaned in, “Strong is what you look like you need,” he reached out, his movements fluid and deliberate, and tucked a damp lock of hair behind your ear. His fingertips were warm—dry and steady—lingering against the sensitive skin of your temple. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed,” you lied.
“Your shoulders are up to your ears.” He let his hand slide down, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before his palm settled heavily on the nape of your neck. It was a grounding weight, firm enough to make you still. “There. Better.”
Across the room, the violet strobe cut through the dark, illuminating Mingi. He wasn’t paying attention to the girl grinding on him anymore. He was looking straight at you. Even from twenty feet away, the intensity of his stare felt like a physical shove.
Seongmin noticed. He didn’t turn around to look, but his eyes narrowed as they tracked yours. A slow, predatory smile pulled at his mouth. “He’s very protective, isn’t he? Your... friend.”
“He’s just moody,” you snapped, turning your back on the dance floor to face Seongmin fully. The movement brought you deep into his space, the scent of leather and peppermint thickening. “He needs to mind his own business.”
“I agree.” Seongmin’s hand shifted from your neck to your waist, pulling you an inch closer. “You’re much too vibrant to be watched over like a child.” He took the glass from your hand, setting it behind him without breaking eye contact. Then, he took your wrist. He didn’t ask. He simply guided your hand up until your palm was flat against his chest, right over the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart. The silk of his black shirt was cool, but the body beneath it was searing. “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a question, your legs were already moving as he backed away, leading you by the wrist toward a darker corner of the floor, away from the main crush but directly into Mingi’s line of sight.
The music shifted—the aggressive EDM fading into a R&B track with a bass line that felt like velvet. Seongmin didn’t waste time with distance. He stepped into you, his thighs slotting between yours, his hands sliding down to rest low on your hips. He moved with a slow, grinding confidence that made the previous guy look like an amateur. He surged forward, forcing you to take a half-step back until your spine hit the padded velvet of a pillar. He followed, pinning you there with the weight of his body. His hands didn’t stay still; they wandered, one sliding up to bunch the fabric at your waist, the other reaching up to cup your face, his thumb pressing firmly into your lower lip.
“You have a very loud mouth,” he said, his voice a dark, amused rumble. “I wonder if it tastes as sharp as it sounds.”
You felt the heat of him everywhere. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the collar of his black shirt, intending to pull him closer. He tilted his head, his lips grazing the corner of yours—a dry, searing contact that sent a jolt of static electricity straight to your toes. You felt the heavy silver of his ring press into the soft skin behind your ear, a cold touch as he began to claim the space you’d so carelessly offered. His tongue flicked out, a ghost of a touch against the seam of your lips, tasting the salt and the lingering amber of the drink he’d given you.
Seongmin’s thumb didn’t just rest on your lip; it hooked into the corner of your mouth, dragging the sensitive skin downward to expose the damp gleam of your teeth. The bass of the R&B track vibrated through the velvet-padded pillar behind you, rattling your ribcage and syncing with the heavy, insistent thud of his heart against your palm.
He shifted his weight, his thigh high and hard between yours, pressing upward with a slow, agonizing deliberation. The friction of his suit trousers against your thinner fabric was a dry heat that made your breath hitch, hitching again when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles.
“Not so loud now,” he murmured. He leaned in, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. He didn't close the distance to your lips. Instead, he tilted his head, his nose grazing yours, trailing down to the sensitive dip of your cupid’s bow. He inhaled sharply, a ragged sound that vibrated in his chest.
“Your friend is burning a hole in the back of your head,” Seongmin whispered, his breath ghosting over your damp lips, tasting of the same amber liquor. “Do you care? Or are you too busy feeling me?”
His hand at your waist tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hip bone, pulling you flush against the rigid line of his belt. He began to move—a slow, rhythmic grind that was less about the music and more about the friction. Each roll of his hips was a calculated invasion, forcing you to arch your back against the pillar, your fingers twitching where they were trapped between your chests.
You tried to pull him closer by the collar, the silk bunching in your fist, but he resisted, holding his head just an inch back. He wanted you reaching. He wanted you strained. His tongue flicked out again, tracing the very edge of your upper lip, a teasing, wet velvet that left you shivering.
“Answer me,” he commanded, the ‘s’ lingering into a hiss. He punctuated the demand with a sudden, sharper surge of his hips.
The air in the corner was thick, stripped of oxygen and replaced by the scent of him and the heat of the crowd a few feet away. You could hear the muffled clink of glasses and the roar of the party, but here, pinned under his shadow, the only thing that mattered was the way his thumb was now sliding inside your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, claiming the silence you’d finally fallen into.
He watched your eyes blow wide, his own dark and heavy-lidded, tracking the way your throat worked as you swallowed around him.
Then, a shadow fell over both of you.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” Mingi looked feral, his blonde hair damp and sticking to his temples, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. “She’s done.”
Seongmin didn’t let go. He didn’t even flinch. He just tilted his head, his thumb still depressing your bottom lip, exposing the pink dampness of the inside. “She looks like she’s just starting, actually. Maybe you should take the hint, kid. You’re the only one here who’s uncomfortable.”
Mingi stepped forward, his hand lashing out to grip Seongmin’s wrist. He didn’t just pull it away; he twisted, a low growl vibrating in his throat that was purely animal. “I said,” Mingi rasped, his face inches from Seongmin’s, his knuckles white where he held the older man’s wrist, “she’s done”. He didn’t look at you—he couldn’t. If he looked at you, he’d see the flush on your neck and the way your mouth was still parted from Seongmin’s touch, and he knew he’d lose the last thread of his sanity.
“I’m not finished,” you managed to get out, your voice sounding thin and breathy even to your own ears. The adrenaline was pulsing in your blood, caught between the slick, practiced heat of Seongmin and the raw, bleeding energy radiating off Mingi.
Mingi’s other hand found your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with a bruising force that made you gasp. He yanked you toward him, stumbling you out from between Seongmin and the pillar, tucking you firmly under the line of his shoulder. He was shaking—hard enough that you could feel the tremors through his clothes.
“Mingi, stop,” you hissed, grabbing his forearm. “You’re making a scene.”
“We’re leaving,” Mingi stated. “Now.”
Seongmin stepped forward again, ignoring Mingi’s posturing. He reached out, his fingers skimming down the line of your arm, just inches away from where Mingi was holding you. “If you want to finish,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours, ignoring the blonde man entirely, “I’ll be at the bar. Don’t let the noise hold you back.” He winked and turned on his heel, disappearing into the neon haze with a grace that made the rest of the club look clumsy.
The silence between you and Mingi was a living thing, more deafening than the music screaming from the rafters. He didn’t let go of you. He started walking, his pace aggressive, dragging you through the thicket of bodies. He didn’t care if he bumped into people; his shoulders were set in a hard, uncompromising line.
Mingi’s hand didn’t just stay on your wrist; he hiked it up, forcing your arm between your chests as he crowded you back against the mahogany bar. The wood bit into the small of your back. Around you, the club blurred into a frantic smear of neon, but Mingi was the only thing in high-definition—the sweat beading on his upper lip, the raw, dilated heat of his pupils.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, his voice jagged and loud enough to pierce the music. “Folding for some suit who looks like he’s scouting for a second wife? Are you actually that dense?”
You didn’t shrink away. You stepped into the suffocating radius of his space, poking a finger hard into his chest, right over his thundering heart. “I was just having fun until you decided to play the caveman!”
Mingi let out a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh that had no humour in it. He leaned down, his face so close you could see the frantic, rhythmic pulse in his temple. “Oh, I’m the caveman? You’re the one standing here wagging your tail for any guy with a silver ring and a line of bullshit.” He sneered, his eyes raking over you with a disdain that stung worse than any insult. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that? You told me to go get laid, telling me I’m ‘wound too tight’—but look at you.” He reached out, his hand moving too fast to track, his fingers hooking into the hair at the nape of your neck and tugging, just enough to force your chin up. His touch was electric and furious. “Look at you,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration that bypassed your ears and settled deep in your gut. “You’re practically begging for it. You’re flushed, you’re panting, and you’ve got his damn thumb-prints all over your face. Is that what you wanted? To see how long it would take for me to lose it?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you hissed, your breath hitching as his thumb swiped across your lower lip—hard, as if he were trying to scrub Seongmin’s touch right off your skin. “You don’t get to act like this.”
“I get to act however the fuck I want when I’m watching you throw yourself at a predator,” he growled. He stepped even closer, his thigh forcing its way between yours, pinning you firmly against the table. The friction of his denim against your skin was a shock. “You think he wanted to talk? You think he wanted to hear your ‘witty banter’? He wanted to see how easy it would be to get you into a car. And you were making it real damn easy for him.”
“He was a better dancer than you’ve been all night,” you taunted, the words slipping out before you could filter them, fuelled by the sting of his grip.
Mingi’s expression shifted—the anger didn’t fade, but it sharpened into something dark and concentrated. He didn’t yell this time. He leaned in until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, his chest heaving against yours. “A better dancer? Is that what this is? You want to be handled? You want someone to stop being ‘nice’ and just take what they want?”
His hand slid from your neck down to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft skin there, pulling you so flush against him. He wasn’t acting like a bodyguard anymore. He was acting like a man who had finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to break you.
“Tell me,” he rasped, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Do you want me to be like him? Do you want me to stop being your ‘best friend’ and start being the guy who puts his hands wherever he wants? Because I can be that guy, Y/N.” The neon light overhead flickered, casting a sickly violet strobing across Mingi’s face, turning his features into a series of jagged, angry shadows. He looked like he was vibrating, the sheer force of his irritation radiating off his skin in waves of dry heat.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that! You don’t own me!” you snarled, the words tasting like the peat and fire of cocktails and Scotch. Your pulse was a frantic hammer against your ribs. “You’ve been acting like this all night—like you have some kind of divine right to be pissed off just because I’m breathing the same air as other men.”
“I have every right!” Mingi barked, the sound cutting through the synth-heavy beat of the music. He didn’t flinch as a group of clubbers squeezed past, his world narrowed down to the few inches of charged air between your faces. His blonde hair was a ruined mess, damp strands clinging to his forehead, and his eyes were wild—blown wide and dark, searching yours for a shred of the loyalty he thought he possessed.
“Based on what?” you challenged, stepping into him until your chest heaved against the solid, unyielding plane of his. “Based on a decade of friendship? Friends don’t act like this! Friends don’t suffocate each other! They don’t play the jealous watchdog every time someone looks my way!”
Mingi’s laugh was a jagged, ugly sound that started deep in his throat and ended in a sneer. He let go of you, but any hope of space vanished as he slammed both palms onto the mahogany table behind you. The wood groaned under the impact. He leaned in, his large frame creating a cage of heat and muscle, effectively pinning you against the bar.
“Friends?” the word dripped with a bitter, metallic irony that made your stomach flip. “Is that what we’re sticking with? Is that what we were three months ago?” He lowered his head, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and smelling of the beer he’d used to try and drown his temper. His eyes dropped to your mouth, tracking the frantic movement of your breathing with a terrifying, singular focus. “Was I just a ‘friend’ when you spent three hours screaming my name in my apartment because you couldn’t get enough of me? When you had your nails buried in my back, begging me not to stop?”
The air left your lungs in a silent rush. The memory hit you—the smell of rain on his skin that night, the way the floorboards had groaned under the weight of the two of you, the desperate, fumbling heat of a “mistake” you’d both agreed to bury under a mountain of “it was just the drinks” and “we’re fine.”
“Oh, you’re going to bring that up now?” you breathed, your hands coming up to his chest to push him back, but your fingers only curled into the damp fabric of his shirt. “We agreed, Mingi! We sat on your living room floor and promised it was a mistake! We shook on it! You don’t get to keep that in your back pocket like a fucking weapon just because you’re having a bad night! So shut the fuck up!”
“I won’t,” he growled, his hand moving from the table to catch your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into the hinge of your bone. It wasn’t a gentle touch. “You don’t get to go back to ‘friends’ because it’s convenient! You think I can just watch that suit touch you and not want to rip his hands off?” His grip on your jaw tightened just a fraction, his eyes dark with a desperate, starving hunger.
“We said that didn’t count! We agreed. It was a one-time thing. It was a slip-up!”
“You call the way you clutched at my back a ‘slip-up’? The way you begged me not to stop? That’s a hell of a lot of effort for a ‘slip-up,’ baby.”
“Don’t call me that!” You hissed, your vision blurring with a mix of heat and pure, unadulterated rage. “You’re just pissed because you can’t control me. You’re acting like I’m some prize you won three months ago and now you’re mad someone else is looking at the trophy.”
Mingi’s hand slammed against the table next to your hip, the wood groaning under the impact. The sound was a gunshot in the dark. “I don’t want a fucking trophy! It’s not the first time I call you ‘baby’, and you damn well know it wasn’t just a ‘slip-up’ for me.” Mingi roared, his composure finally snapping. “It’s been three months of me watching you pretend it never happened! Three months of me watching you smile at other guys while I can still feel the way your skin felt under my hands.” He was shaking now, his hands white-knuckled against the mahogany. The subtext was gone; the ugly, beautiful truth was laid bare between you, more neon and loud than anything in the club.
“You want me to go get laid?” he barked, his voice a jagged, ugly thing. “Fine. Give me a name, Y/N. Who should I go fuck tonight to make you feel better about being a coward? Should I find some random bitch at the bar who doesn’t mind being seen in public with me? Someone who isn’t busy playing ‘best friend’ while she’s still got the ghost of my hand on her thigh?”
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his eyes bloodshot and burning with a terrifying, charcoal-dark intensity.
“Because that’s what this is, right? A game?” He let out a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh. “You have the fucking audacity to tell me to go find another girl. Like I can just turn it off. Like I haven’t spent every goddamn night remembering exactly how you taste.”
“Mingi, stop—”
“Stop what? Telling the truth?” He slammed his hand against the table next to your hip, the wood groaning. “You’re pathetic. You’re so scared of what we are that you’d rather see me balls-deep in some stranger than admit you belong to me. Is that it? Does it make you feel ‘safe’ to think of me with someone else?”
He grabbed the edge of the bar, pinning you in, his breath hot and smelling of bitter resentment.
“Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll go back down there, find the loudest girl in the club, and fuck the memory of you right out of my head. I’ll tell her to scream your name so I don’t forget who I’m trying to replace. Would you like that? Should I give you a play-by-play tomorrow morning while we’re having our ‘friendly’ coffee? Should I tell you if she’s tighter than you were?”
The words were a physical assault, a cruel, calculated attempt to draw blood. He was weaponising the intimacy you’d shared, dragging it through the dirt just to see you flinch.
“You’re a fucking liar,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, venomous crawl. “You’re a liar and a coward, and you’re so desperate to keep this ‘friendship’ alive that you’re willing to watch me bleed out right in front of you.”
The slap wasn’t a choice; it was an explosion.
Your palm connected with his cheek with a violent, stinging crack that seemed to suck the air out of the room. The force of it snapped his head to the side, his blonde hair falling over his eyes as he went deathly still.
Silence stretched between you, a taut, vibrating wire.
Slowly, Mingi turned his face back to you. The imprint of your fingers was blooming a dark, angry red against his pale skin. He didn’t look hurt. He looked unhinged. A dark, terrifying smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth—the look of a man who had finally stopped trying to be the “good friend.”
“I was wondering when you’d stop pretending to be ‘fine’.”
The air in the club was suddenly too thick to breathe, a humid soup of Mingi’s possessiveness and the ghost of a memory you’d both tried to bury under layers of “best friends” bullshit.
“Now, tell me again. Tell me to go find someone else. Look me in the eye and tell me you want another man’s hands on you after what we did.”
You shoved at his chest—hard—and this time he let you, his hands sliding off the mahogany with a jagged scrape. You didn’t say a word. You turned and bolted for the exit, the heavy bass chasing you like a heartbeat until the steel doors hissed shut behind you.
The parking lot was lit by the buzzing, sickly orange glow of lamps. The air was bitingly cold, snapping at the sweat on your skin, but it wasn’t enough to cool the furnace in your blood. You were halfway to the taxi zone when the heavy thud of the club doors swinging open again echoed off the asphalt.
“Don’t you fucking walk away from me!” Mingi’s voice cracked the silence of the night.
You spun around, your heels clicking sharply against the oil-stained ground. “Or what, Mingi? What the fuck are you going to do? Pin me against another table? Remind me again how I sounded three months ago?” Your voice rose, trembling with a mix of fury and the terrifying realisation that the walls you’d built were crumbling. “You don’t get to use that! That was—that was a mistake! We said it was a mistake!”
Mingi didn’t stop. He ate up the distance between you with rushed strides. He reached you in seconds, his hand lashing out to catch your upper arm, spinning you around so hard you stumbled into the side of a parked SUV. The metal was freezing against your shoulder blades.
“A mistake?” He threw the word back at you like a slur. He slammed his hand against the car next to your head, the thump of palm on metal loud enough to make you flinch. “Is that what you call it when I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you? Is it a ‘mistake’ that I can’t look at another woman without wishing she had your eyes?”
“Stop,” you breathed, but your hands weren’t pushing him away anymore.
“No,” he rasped, his face dropping until his nose was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath a searing brand against your skin. “You want me to act like I don’t give a shit who touches you? I can’t do it. I’m fucking done pretending.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were no longer chocolate; they were charcoal, burning with a hunger that made Seongmin’s interest look like a polite suggestion. “Tell me it was a mistake again,” he challenged, “Tell me you didn’t feel the way my hands were on you. Tell me you want that suit back here instead of me.” His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He didn’t wait for your answer. He leaned in, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from yours, the tension so thick it felt like it would shatter the glass in the windows around you. “Say it,” he whispered against your lips. “Lie to me.”
“You have no right to be this angry! You agreed to the silence! You looked me in the eye over coffee the next morning and said, ‘Let’s just be us again’ It’s you who lied!”
“I didn’t lie! I tried! I tried to be ‘us’ again. I tried to watch movies with you and not think about the way we kissed. I tried to listen to you talk about work and not remember the way you moaned when I was inside you!” He let out a harsh, guttural breath, his eyes wild and shimmering with a frustrated heat. “But then you walk into a club looking like that. You spend the whole night grinding against some strangers, looking back at me like you’re daring me to say something. And then you have the fucking nerve to tell me I need to get laid? Like I haven’t been starving for three months because I’m stuck in ‘best friend’ purgatory?”
“I didn’t ask you to wait!” your voice trembled with a mix of fury and a terrifying, rising ache in your chest. “If you wanted me, you should have said something! You should have stopped me from leaving that morning! But you just fucking sat there and let me walk out!”
“Because I was terrified! I was terrified that if I reached for you, I’d lose the only person who actually knows me. I thought I could handle being your friend. I thought I could watch you date and smile and be happy. But tonight? Seeing his hands on you?” He leaned down, his forehead thumping against yours with a dull, desperate thud. His breath was hot, smelling of malt and obsession. “It felt like someone was ripping my ribs out of my chest,” he whispered, the anger turning into something far more dangerous—honesty. “I’m done, baby. I’m done pretending. I’m a fucking wreck. Are you happy now? Is this the ‘fun’ you wanted me to have?”
You felt the heat of him radiating through your clothes, the violent rhythm of his heart drumming against your own ribs. Your hands, which had been balled into fists against his chest, slowly unfurled, your fingers clutching at the damp fabric of his shirt.
The silence of the parking lot was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the club and the ragged hitch of Mingi’s breath against your mouth. The cold air nipped at your damp skin, but where your bodies pressed together, the heat was suffocating.
“I’m not happy,” you whispered, your voice cracking as the last of your defensive anger dissolved into a jagged, aching vulnerability. “I'm exhausted, Mingi. I’ve been waiting for you to say something. Anything.”
Mingi’s hands, which had been bruising your hips, suddenly shifted. One slid up the curve of your spine, his palm flat and searing, while the other tangled deep into the hair at the base of your skull, tilting your head back until you were forced to meet the raw, unmasked hunger in his eyes. He didn’t look like your best friend anymore.
“You want me to say it?” he rasped, his lips brushing yours with every word, a torture of near-contact. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the second I woke up that morning and saw you curled by my side. I wanted to pull you closer and never let the sun come up.” He leaned in, his nose sliding against yours, his grip tightening until you were fused to the cold metal of the SUV. “I don’t want to be your ‘friend’ tonight, I don’t want to be the guy who vets your dates or buys you a beer while you dance with someone else. I want to be the reason you can’t walk tomorrow. I want to be the only name you can remember.”
He paused, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch heavy and possessive. “Tell me to stop. Right now. Tell me you want the ‘best friend’ back, and I’ll walk away. I’ll go find that girl. I’ll do exactly what you told me to do.”
You looked at him—at the damp platinum hair, the red mark of your palm still burning on his cheek, the intensity of his stare—and felt the last of your resolve shatter. You couldn’t tell him to stop.
Instead, you arched your back, pulling his hips flush against yours, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. “Don’t go.”
Mingi didn’t give you a chance to change your mind. He crashed his mouth against yours, the contact violent and desperate, a collision of three months of starved silence. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a reclamation. His tongue demanding entry as he groaned deep in his throat—a sound of pure relief.
His hands were everywhere—clutching your waist, hiking up the hem of your dress, his skin a brand against yours. He backed you harder into the car, the suspension creaking under the weight of his aggression. He kissed you like he was trying to breathe you in, like he was trying to erase the ghost of every other hand that had touched you. It was messy, teeth clashing, the salt of your sweat mixing as he tilted your head back at a sharp angle to get deeper, hungrier. You didn’t fight him. You were kissing him back with the same pent-up rage. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in those blonde, sweat-damp strands, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a molecule of air left between your bodies.
“Min—” you whimpered into his mouth, the name broken and small.
His large hand slid down from your face, his fingers pug your dress higher, knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your tight. He broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breath scalding your skin. He bit—not a nip, but a sharp, possessive mark, making you arch your back and cry out into the empty parking lot. His hands were everywhere now, frantic and heavy, mapping the curves he’d spent days trying to forget.
“Mine,” he muttered against your skin, his voice a dark, fractured thing. “You’re mine.”
The metal of the SUV groaned as Mingi surged forward, his body crushing you into the side of the car. He didn’t just hold your leg; he hiked it higher, his forearm hooking under the crook of your knee to pull you flush against the hard, frantic line of his hips. The friction of his denim against your bare inner thigh was a jolt of pure electricity, a rough, grounding contrast to the slick, desperate heat of his mouth. Mingi’s grip on your thighs tightened until his knuckles went white, his fingers sinking into your skin with a bruising, territorial force that made you let out a sharp, jagged gasp. He didn’t care about the bruises he was leaving; he wanted you to feel every ounce of hunger he’d been choking back.
“Say it,” he growled, his voice vibrating against the sensitive cord of your neck. He didn’t wait for you to speak, his teeth grazing the skin he’d just bitten, soothing and then stinging again. “Tell me you’re mine before I lose my fucking mind.” His free hand, the one not holding your leg, didn’t stay still. It slid upward, the tips of his fingers dragging over the silk of your dress, bunching the fabric until he found the damp, heated skin of your waist. He didn’t stop there. He pushed the material higher, his palm sliding over your ribs with a possessive, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch in a series of broken stammers. He moved his hand from your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of his own jeans with a frantic, clumsy desperation. He broke away from your neck, his face flushed, his eyes dark and blown out with a hunger that was terrifyingly beautiful.
“Say it,” he growled again, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register as he ground his hips into yours. You felt the hard, insistent length of his cock through his clothes. The friction was a white-hot spark against your core, the heavy, rigid length of him pressing through the thin silk of your dress with an uncompromising demand. “I want to hear you admit what a fucking liar you’ve been. Tell me you’re mine before I fuck the memory of that other prick out of your head right here on the street.”
Your head thrashed back against the cold glass of the car window, a low, desperate whine vibrating in your throat. “Min… Please… It’s you. I promise it’s you.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he hissed, his mouth crashing onto the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his pupils so dilated they swallowed the gold of his irises. “I don’t want ‘it’s you.’ I want you to say the words. Tell me you’re my slut. Tell me you’ve been sitting across from me for months dreaming about me pinning you down like this.”
He didn’t wait for your answer. He let go of one of your legs, his hand diving between your bodies to finish what he’d started with his jeans. You heard the harsh, metallic zip of his fly—a sound that felt like a death knell for your dignity. He didn’t think about a condom; he didn’t even slow down. He grabbed his own length, his other hand bluntly and impatiently pulling the lace of your panties to the side.
Mingi guided himself to the soaking, frantic heat of your entrance. The feel of him—thick, hot, and uncompromisingly hard—pressing against your opening made your vision spark. He wasn’t entering you yet, but he was right there, the blunt head of him sliding through the slickness you’d made for him, teasing the very edge of the abyss.
“Look at you,” he taunted, his breath hitching as he felt how ready you were. “Leaking like a fucking sink for me while you were telling yourself we were ‘just friends’ ten minutes ago. You’re so desperate for me you don’t even care who sees.” He hiked your leg higher, his forearm pressing into the glass behind your head to steady himself. He leaned in until his nose was brushing yours. “I’m going to stretch you out so wide you won’t be able to walk back into that club,” he promised, his hips twitching in a slow, shallow thrust that tested your limits. “I’m going to fill you with so much of me that you’ll smell like me for a week. Now, tell me who you belong to before I take it.”
“Min, someone... someone might—”
“Let them fucking look,” he rasped, his voice a jagged edge. He didn’t care about the yellow wash of the street lamps or the muffled, rhythmic thump of the club doors.
“Min… stop,” you gasped, your fingers trembling as you shoved against the hard wall of his chest, trying to find a single inch of air. “Not here. Take me… take me home. Please.”
He didn’t let go. If anything, he pressed closer. “Take you home?” he leaned in until his lips were grazing yours, his teeth bared in a jagged sneer. “What, you worried that suit might walk out and see you getting exactly what you’ve been begging for? You want to be a lady now?”
"No, I just— Not here,” you gasped, “Mingi, please... not on the street. Take me home. Just—get me home.” You were breathless, your voice a ragged thread of sound that broke against his lips. You didn’t pull away; instead, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the salt, the expensive cologne, and the raw, terrifying heat of him. You bit down on the corded tendon of his shoulder, a sharp, desperate nip that was less about pain and more a wordless, frantic plea.
Mingi let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, his forehead thumping against the car window with a dull thud as he fought the urge to just sink into you right there. He stayed pinned against you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving in sync with yours.
The silence of the alleyway seemed to roar in his ears.
Slowly, the haze in his eyes cleared just enough for him to see the way you were shaking in his arms—not just from the cold, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of him. With a sharp, frustrated exhale, he snapped. He pulled back abruptly, his hands leaving your skin so suddenly you nearly stumbled. “Home,” he nodded slowly, the word sounding like a vow.
He didn’t drop you gently. He slid you down the side of the car, his hands never leaving your waist, his thumbs digging into your hip bones to keep you steady as your heels hit the pavement. His eyes were dark, almost black in the orange glow of the streetlamp, tracking the way your chest rose and fell. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he jerked your dress back down, smoothing the fabric over your thighs with a possessive, territorial rough-handedness.
“Don’t move,” he stepped back just far enough to fumble with his zipper, his movements jagged and impatient. He didn’t look toward the club; he looked toward the street, his arm shooting up the second he spotted the yellow glow of a taxi rounding the corner two blocks away.
He didn’t wait for it to reach you. He started walking toward the edge of the curb, his hand locked around your wrist, pulling you behind him with a singular, focused gravity. He was a different person—harder, faster, his shoulders set in a line that warned the world to stay the hell away. The taxi screeched to a halt, the driver barely having time to put it in park before Mingi yanked the back door open. He practically folded you into the seat, his body following yours so closely that you were pinned against the far door before he’d even slammed the car shut.
“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Mingi gave his address, his voice dropping an octave, his hand already finding your thigh under the cover of the shadows. He didn’t care about the driver. He didn’t care about the neon lights of the city blurring past the window. He leaned over you, his hand sliding up your leg to bunch the fabric of your dress back toward your hips, his eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying, beautiful promise.
The interior of the taxi was a cramped, vinyl-scented capsule, the orange glow of the street lamps strobing across Mingi’s face in rhythmic, violent flashes. The driver hummed some mindless radio tune, oblivious to the fact that the air in the backseat was thick enough to choke on.
Mingi didn’t waste a second. He shifted, pinning you against the far door, his thigh slotting between yours to keep them spread. He looked out the window, his jaw set in a hard, protruding line of feigned indifference for the driver’s benefit, but his hand was doing something entirely different. His fingers hooked into the hem of your dress, the fabric sliding up your skin with a dry, rasping sound. He didn’t stop until his knuckles bumped against the damp lace of your underwear. You let out a soft, broken hitch of a breath, your head falling back against the window as the cool glass met your burning skin.
“Mingi,” you breathed, a warning and a plea rolled into one.
“Shh,” he rasped, finally turning his head to look at you. “You wanted to go home. We’re going. But I’m not stopping.”
He slid his hand beneath the lace, his palm cupping you with a sudden, bruising heat. You buckled against him, your fingers digging into the denim of his thighs. The taxi hit a pothole, jouncing the cabin, and Mingi used the momentum to drive his palm harder against you. He didn’t just slide his fingers in; he paused at the threshold, the tips of his fingers merely fluttering against the soaked silk of your underwear. He began to stroke you—just a feather-light touch at first, a torturous promise—before his fingers dipped lower, finding the slick, aching heat you’d been hiding all night. Your head hit the headrest, a choked-back moan dying in your throat. You could feel the vibration of the car’s engine beneath you, but it was nothing compared to the violent thrumming of Mingi’s heart against your shoulder.
“Look at this,” he whispered, his voice thick with a terrifying sort of triumph. He shifted his hand, bringing his damp fingers up between your faces so you could see the shimmer of yourself on his skin in the passing glow of a streetlamp. “All that talk about being ‘friends’ and ‘slip-ups,’ and you’re leaking for me in the back of a fucking taxi.” He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his scent—sharp, masculine, and intoxicating—filling your head. He slid one finger in, just past the first knuckle, hooking it upward. You let out a strangled, high-pitched whimper, your hips jerking upward in a desperate search for friction. “You wanted me to put these hands on a stranger? To make her feel like this?” He pulled his finger back out until he was barely there. He did it again. And again. A rhythmic, shallow teasing that was ten times worse than the frantic grinding in the parking lot. He was reclaiming you, inch by agonising inch.
“You like that?” he rasped, his thumb catching your clit and pinning it with a heavy, steady pressure that made your vision go white at the edges. “I bet that suit didn’t even get close enough to know how sensitive you are right here. He didn’t know that if I press just like this, you start shaking, did he?” He began to move in a slow, torturous rhythm—not fast enough to bring you to the edge, but deep enough to keep the ache in your lower belly twisting into a tight knot. Every time you tried to buck against him to speed him up, he’d still his hand, or pull back entirely until you were whimpering for him to continue.
“Please,” you sobbed into his neck, your fingers digging so hard into his shoulders you were sure you’d leave marks.
“Please what, baby? Please stop?” He nipped at the skin of your throat, his fingers stretching you open as he added a second digit, sliding it in alongside the first with a deliberate, slow friction. “Or please don’t stop because you’ve been thinking about this as much as I have? Tell me the truth. While you were dancing with him, were you wondering if he’d touch you like this? Were you wondering if he knew how to make you fall apart?” He increased the pace just a fraction, his knuckles rubbing against your inner thigh, the heavy silver of his rings a cold, hard contrast to the blistering heat of your body.
You were melting, your breath coming in shallow, frantic hitches as the pressure built, centring right where his thumb was grinding.
“You aren’t finishing in the back of a Prius. You’re going to wait until we’re home. You’re going to wait until I can hear you moaning my name,” he looked out the window as the taxi pulled up to the curb of his apartment building. He didn’t move his hand until the car came to a full stop. Then, with one final, deep thrust that drew a sob from your throat, he withdrew, the sudden loss of heat and pressure making you feel dizzy. He wiped his fingers on the seat beside him—or perhaps your dress, you couldn’t tell—payed the driver, and leaned over to open the door, his eyes burning with a promise that made the taxi ride feel like a mere appetiser.
“Out,” he ordered, his eyes dark with a promise that made your knees feel like water. “I’m done teasing.”
The lobby was a blur of marble and hushed silence, a stark contrast to the war zone in the back of the taxi. Mingi didn’t let go of your wrist, his stride long and jagged as he hauled you toward the elevators. His knuckles were still damp, the scent of you clinging to his skin, and he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze devoured the curve of your throat.
The chime of the elevator felt like a starter pistol. The doors slid shut with a heavy, mechanical sigh, sealing the two of you into a mirrored box of brushed steel. Mingi slammed his palm against the button for the 12th floor and then immediately pivoted, his arm lashing out to pin you against the handrail. The elevator jolted upward, the sudden gravity pulling your stomach into your throat, but Mingi’s weight was the only thing keeping you upright.
“Twelve floors,” he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating growl that echoed off the metal walls. “You have exactly twelve floors before I have you behind a locked door.”
His hand slid up from your waist, his palm flat and heavy against your ribs. His fingers splayed wide as he reached the underside of your breast. He squeezed—not a gentle caress, but a firm, possessive claim that made you gasp, your head thumping back against the mirrored wall. He leaned down, his teeth nipping at the sensitive junction where your neck met your shoulder, his tongue licking the sting away a second later.
His other hand dived low, his fingers hooking into the hem of your dress and yanking it up to your hips. He didn’t care about the security camera in the corner. He shoved his knee between your thighs, forcing them apart, his hand sliding over the silk of your underwear to find the heat he’d left behind in the taxi. He began to rub, a slow, heavy friction that made your knees buckle. “Look at yourself,” he commanded, nodding toward the mirrors.
You looked and saw the wreckage of your hair, the flush climbing up your chest, and Mingi—towering over you, his blonde hair a mess, his large hand disappearing between your legs.
“Floor six,” he whispered against your ear, his breath scalding. His thumb find your nipple through the dress and pinched, a sharp bolt of pleasure-pain that made you cry out. He caught the sound in his own mouth, kissing you with a bruising, desperate hunger that tasted of beer and obsession. His hands were a frantic map, sliding from the swell of your breasts down to the soft meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin.
“Floor nine,” he groaned into the hollow of your throat, his hand sliding back down to grip your thigh, hitching it up around his waist so he could grind his dressed hardness against your core. The friction was a slow-motion torture that had you sobbing his name into the quiet hum of the elevator.
The chime for the 12th floor was the loudest sound you’d ever heard. The doors slid open. Mingi didn’t let you down. He kept your leg hooked around his hip, his arm a steel band around your waist as he practically carried you down the hall, his keys already out and jingling with a frantic, metallic rhythm.
He fumbled with the keys, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches that rattled in his chest. The lock clicked and he kicked the door open, dragging you inside into the pitch-black entryway. He didn’t turn on the lights and slammed the door shut behind you, the boom echoing through the empty apartment, and in the same motion, he shoved you back against it. The wood was solid and unforgiving against your spine, a cold shock that lasted only a second before Mingi’s heat incinerated it. He dropped his weight into you, his forearms slamming against the door on either side of your head, pinning you in the narrow dark. The only light came from the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, casting his silhouette in a jagged, silver outline. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. He reached down, his hands catching the hem of your dress and yanking it up past your hips, the fabric bunching around your waist in a frantic, messy pile. His palms were scorching, his skin a brand against your thighs as he hiked your legs up, his strong arms hooking under your knees to lift you off the floor.
You let out a broken gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the material of his shirt for balance. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels locking behind his back, pulling him flush against the aching, empty core. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. He didn’t kiss you; he claimed you.
“I’ve spent three months staring at this door, remembering the way you looked when you walked through it the last time. I’m not letting you go until I’ve had every fucking inch of you.”
He shifted his grip, one hand staying under your thigh while the other moved to his jeans, the metallic rasp of his zipper sounding like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. He was shaking—you could feel the tremors in his muscles, the raw, unhinged desperation of a man who had reached his absolute limit. When he adjusted his grip on your thighs and surged forward, the air didn’t just leave your lungs—it was stolen.
His cock was massive. A blunt, heavy intrusion that felt like he was rearranging the very architecture of your body. The initial stretch was a sharp, searing sting, a fire that made your eyes snap wide and your breath hitch into a tight, jagged sob. It was too much; it was the physical manifestation of ninety days of starved silence suddenly demanding entry all at once.
“Mingi—wait,” you wheezed, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, your knuckles white as you tried to find your bearings.
“No,” he growled, the word a dark, guttural vibration against the sensitive cord of your throat. He didn’t pull back. He stayed buried deep to the absolute hilt, his forehead thumping against the door next to your ear as he fought the urge to just cum right then. His muscles were coiling like overwound springs, his skin radiator-hot against yours. “Don’t you dare tell me to wait,” his teeth grazed your earlobe with a threatening pressure. “You’ve made me wait for three fucking months. So now, you’re going to take every bit of this.”
He didn’t ease you into it. He began to move—a shallow, punishing rhythm that forced your head back against the wood. Every strike was a blunt-force, pleasure and pain, the sting began to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache, a fullness that radiated from your core to your toes.
You let out a long, shaky moan, your hips tilting instinctively to take more of him. Your hands, frantic and clumsy with adrenaline, fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, your fingernails grazing the damp, hard heat of his chest. You needed him closer. You needed the barrier of the fabric gone. As the shirt fell open, you pressed your palms against his bare skin, feeling the violent gallop of his heart.
“Take it off,” you whimpered into the hollow of his neck, your teeth catching on his skin. “Min, please.”
He let out a sound that was purely animal. He didn’t take the shirt off; he simply ripped it back, the buttons popping and skittering across the hardwood floor like hail. He caught your face in his hand, his thumb digging into your cheek as he kissed you—a messy, desperate collision of tongues and teeth that tasted of salt and obsession.
He hammered into you, his thrusts deep and punishing, pinning you against the door with a force that made the hinges groan. Every impact sent a shockwave through your frame, your head knocking back against the wood in time with his movements. The pain was gone, incinerated by a white-hot friction that made your vision blur into streaks.
Mingi pulled back just an inch, his eyes raking over the silk fabric of your dress. He didn’t reach for a zipper at the side. He didn’t look for a seam. He hooked his large fingers into the delicate neckline and pulled. The sound of the silk shredding was a sharp, violent protest in the quiet hallway. He hauled the fabric down, the material bunching around your waist and then falling to the floor in a ruined, expensive heap. He didn’t stop until you were completely exposed to the cool air of the apartment, your skin pale and shivering under the harsh focus of his gaze. He grabbed your waist again, his thumbs digging into your hip bones as he slammed you back against the door. Without the silk as a barrier, the contact was electric.
“You’re so tight,” he rasped, the words broken and guttural, hissed into the sensitive shell of your ear. “Fucking killing me... how much you want this.” His hand moved to your breast, his palm heavy and possessive, thumb catching your sensitive nipple and rolling it with a bruising pressure that made you cry out. Mingi couldn’t care less about the noise. He didn’t care about the neighbours or the world outside. He was focused entirely on the way you were breaking around him, the way your legs were locked around his waist, your heels drumming against the small of his back.
His pace became frantic, a blurring, heavy friction that pushed you toward a ledge you weren’t ready for. He was growling now, his breath coming in ragged, wet hitches, his mouth against your cheek as he felt the first tremors of your climax begin to ripple through you.
“Look at me.” You opened your eyes, your vision swimming with tears and pleasure. Even in the dark, his eyes were burning, fixed on yours with a terrifying, singular focus. “Tell me,” he gasped, his pace quickening, his chest heaving against yours until you could feel the frantic gallop of his heart. “Tell me who’s inside you. Say the name.”
“Mingi,” you sobbed, the name a shattered, breathless thing as you gripped his hair, pulling his face closer. You couldn’t even think; the sheer, thick volume of him was filling every corner of your consciousness, stretching you until you felt like you might split apart from the pleasure of it. “It’s you.”
He didn’t stop. His pace was a heavy, wet rhythm that echoed through the apartment. Each thrust was a blunt-force, pinning you so hard against the door that the wood vibrated against your shoulder blades. “Say it again,” he growled, his teeth bared, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose onto your cheek. “Tell me whose you are.”
“Yours,” you moaned, your hips buckling, chasing the friction as the pressure behind your navel tightened. “Mingi, I’m yours. Please—I’m close. I’m so close.”
His breath hitched, a jagged, guttural sound as his own control finally disintegrated. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his muscles corded like steel cables under your palms. He was trembling violently, his thrusts reaching a shallow speed that told you he was right on the precipice. “Where?” he rasped, the word barely a whisper, thick with a desperate urgency. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left white imprints on your skin. “Where do you want it? Tell me where, baby, before I lose it.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in as if you could pull him into your very soul. “Inside,” you choked out, your voice dropping to a raw, pleading whimper. “Inside me, give it all to me. Fill me up.”
The permission was the final blow. Mingi let out a low, primal roar that vibrated through your entire chest cavity. He surged forward one last time, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and stalled there. His entire body locked up, his head snapping back as he came, the sheer force of it pulsing through him in heavy, rhythmic waves. You felt the blistering heat of him flooding you—a thick, relentless spill that made your own walls contract in a violent, cascading climax. You cried out, your voice dying in your throat as your vision sparked with silver, your body sagging against him as the world tilted and dissolved.
For a long minute, the only sound in the entryway was the ragged, sobbing hitch of your combined breathing. Mingi stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against the door, his chest heaving as if he’d just survived a wreck. He didn’t move, holding you up as the mess of him began to trickle down your skin.
Slowly, he pulled his head back, his eyes searching yours in the dim silver light. He kissed you, his lips lingering as he let your legs slide down his body until your feet touched the floor.
Your legs were liquid, useless stalks of flax that buckled the moment your heels touched the hardwood. You would have crumpled right there in the entryway, amidst the ruins of your dress, his shirt and the lingering scent of sex. But Mingi didn’t let you fall. He caught you, his large hands clamping under your armpits with a strength that felt more like a crane than a caress.
He didn’t lead you. He hauled you up, his arm hooking under your knees and his other hand bracing your back. You were a dead weight against his bare, sweat-slicked chest, your head lolling against his shoulder as the hallway blurred past.
He reached the threshold of the bedroom and tossed you. You hit the mattress with a heavy whump, the air huffing out of your lungs as you bounced once, twice, before settling into the tangled, dark sheets. The bed smelled faintly of him but it was quickly being overwhelmed by the scent of the two of you, salt and sex.
Mingi didn’t join you immediately. He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette against the moonlight, his chest heaving as he stared down at you. He looked like a man who had just won a war and didn’t know what to do with the prisoner.
He kicked off his boots, the heavy thuds echoing like stones hitting a grave, and then his hands went to his jeans.
“You think that was it?” he stripped the rest of his clothes off with a violent, impatient efficiency, throwing them toward the corner without looking. “You think I’m just going to let you sleep after what you did tonight?”
He reached out, his hand wrapping around your ankle with a grip that felt like an iron shackle. He unbuckled the delicate straps of your heels and tossed them aside like they were trash. Then, he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping dangerously under his weight. He didn’t come at you from the side; he moved over you like a shadow, his knees pinning your thighs down, his hands catching your wrists and pinning them above your head.
He was still hard—viciously so—the evidence of his release in the hallway still glistening on his skin. He looked down at you, his blonde hair falling over his eyes, his expression stripped of every ounce of the “best friend” mask.
“I’m going to make you stay awake until you can’t even remember that prick’s name,” he hissed, his face dropping until his nose was an inch from yours. “I'm going to mark every inch of skin he even thought about looking at.”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties—the ones that were a soaked from your slick and his cum, a ripped mess from how he pushed them aside in the hallway with too much force. Mingi didn’t slide them down your legs. He buried his knuckles into your hip bones and ripped them. The sound of the lace tearing was a sharp, final punctuation. He shredded the fabric, pulling the scraps away and throwing them into the dark behind him.
He dived down, his mouth catching your breast with a hunger that was borderline painful, his tongue swirling around the peak while his other hand slid down, his fingers spreading your folds open with a rough focus. You were still sensitive, still pulsing, and the sudden, heavy contact made you cry out, your hips jerking upward in a frantic, uncoordinated search for release.
“Min, please—”
“I told you,” he growled, his voice vibrating against your skin. “Don’t fucking ‘Min’ me. You wanted this version of me? You wanted the guy who needs to ‘get laid’? You’ve got him. At the club you had a lot of advice for me, didn’t you? You told me I was ‘wound too tight.’ You told me exactly what I needed to fix my mood.”
He let out a low, dark chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes.
“What were the words, baby? ‘Your dick needs a good sucking’?” He threw the phrase back at you like a slur, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before hooking into your mouth, forcing your lips open. “You were so worried about my stress levels. So eager to find me a ‘victim’ to take care of it,” he hissed. “Well, the victim’s right here, and I’m still wound pretty fucking tight. So, since you’re such an expert on what I need, why don’t you show me? No more talk. Do exactly what you said I needed.”
He didn’t wait for you to move on your own. He grabbed your waist and hauled you off the bed, his movements jerky and impatient. “On your knees, use that fucking mouth for something other than lying to me,” he commanded, “I want to hear you choke on every word you said tonight.”
Mingi didn’t sit back to enjoy the view. He stood over you, his legs braced wide. His hand didn’t just rest on your head; it clamped into your hair, his knuckles scraping against your scalp as he forced your face forward. “Do it,” he hissed, the word a serrated edge in the quiet room. “Show me exactly how you’d take care of a stranger. Show me what you were going to offer that suit.”
When you finally took his cock into your mouth, the sheer, thick volume of him was shocking. Your jaw ached instantly, the muscles straining to accommodate the heavy, pulsing heat of him. You started slow, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt and the lingering, raw scent of the night, but Mingi wasn’t interested in a slow burn. He groaned—a low, guttural vibration that you felt in your teeth—and his grip in your hair tightened until your eyes watered. You leaned in further, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base of him, the scent of his skin—musk, sweat, and adrenaline—filling your lungs until you were lightheaded. You were drooling, the slick moisture running down your chin and dripping, but you didn’t pull away.
“Suck it,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a dark, demeaning rasp. “Like you’ve been starving for it.”
He didn’t wait for you to find a rhythm. He began to move his hips, a slow, rhythmic surge that forced you to swallow him deeper. Every time you tried to pull back for air, his hand at the back of your head became a vice, slamming you back forward. He was fucking your throat, his thrusts reaching a shallow speed that triggered your gag reflex, making your chest heave against his thighs. You were choking, a muffled, wet sound dying in your throat, but Mingi didn’t ease up. He liked the sound. He liked the way your eyes were wide and shimmering with tears, fixed on his as he looked down at you with a cold, predatory triumph.
“That’s it,” he growled, his breath coming in ragged, animalistic hitches. “Choke on it, baby. Let me feel how much you hate that you love this. Tell me again how I’m just your ‘best friend’ while you’re down there on your knees like a fucking dog.”
He increased the pace, his hands moving from your hair to your shoulders, pinning you down so you couldn’t move an inch. He was relentless, his cock sliding past the point of comfort, hitting the back of your throat with a blunt, rhythmic force.
“You’re so pathetic,” he taunted, his thumb reaching down to rub a drop of moisture from your lip before smearing it on your cheek. “Acting all high and mighty at the bar, and now you’re desperate. You’re shaking.” He wasn’t close to being done. He was using you to vent every ounce of the ninety days of silence, every second of the jealousy that had been eating him alive. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at him as he continued to drive into your mouth. “Is this ‘fun’ enough for you?” he groaned, his voice breaking with the effort of his control. “Is this what you wanted to see? The version of me that doesn’t give a fuck about your feelings?”
Mingi hauled you back up by the roots of your hair, your head snapping back as he forced you to sit on your heels. You were a wreck—makeup smudged into dark halos around your eyes, your lips swollen and slick, a string of saliva trailing down to the curve of your collarbone. You looked exactly how he’d imagined you, and the sight of it seemed to strip the last of the humanity from his expression.
Mingi’s hand was a heavy at the base of your skull, his fingers deep in your hair as he set a rhythm that was purely for his own satisfaction. Every time he drove deep, the world blurred into a haze of white noise and the suffocating scent of him, your throat working desperately around the thick, relentless intrusion of his length. You were drowning in him, your senses overloaded by the friction and the raw, guttural sounds he was making above you.
Unable to stay still, your hand drifted downward, your fingers seeking the slick, aching heat between your thighs. The moment you touched yourself, the sensation was a violent electric shock; you were so sensitive, so over-sensitised by the rough treatment and the crushing fullness in your throat, that the slightest pressure felt like an explosion. You were a drenched, pulsing mess, your fingers sliding through the excessive wetness you’d made for him as you began to work yourself in sync with his thrusts.
The sight of it—the way you were frantically helping yourself while he used your mouth—sent Mingi straight to the edge. He watched your eyes roll back, your hips twitching in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm, and he felt the frantic, wet heat of your throat tightening around him in response.
“Fuck, you’re so close,” he choked out, his voice a fractured wreck. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, a searing, white-hot tension that told him he was seconds away from losing control completely. “Three months of acting like you were too good for this. Three months of playing the ‘best friend’ while you were probably dreaming about being exactly where you are right now.”
He didn’t want to finish in your mouth; he wanted to see the mess he’d made. Mingi didn’t let go of your hair as he pulled out, the sudden rush of air into your lungs making you let out a broken, wheezing sob. He watched your hand move frantically between your legs. You were too far gone to stop; the friction of his throat-fucking had left you on a razor’s edge, and the sight of him—hard, twitching, and lethal—was the final shove you needed.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a jagged, guttural snap. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Watch what you’re doing to yourself for me.”
You obeyed, your eyes wide and glazed with a terrifying level of pleasure as you worked your fingers against your swollen core. You were drenched, the sound of the wet friction loud in the quiet room. Mingi’s hand moved to his own length, his grip blunt and punishing as he matched your frantic pace. He was snarling now, his teeth bared, his eyes fixed on the way your hips were jerking, the way your inner thighs were trembling.
“That's it,” he rasped, his own rhythm turning into a blur of motion. “Come for me, you slut. Show me how much you want it.”
The world fractured. You hit your peak with a high, shattered scream that echoed off the walls, your body arching off the floor as your muscles convulsed in a violent, rhythmic release. Right as you shattered, Mingi let out a low, animalistic roar, his own body locking up as he finally let go. The first splash of his cum hit your cheek, a searing, thick contrast to the cool air of the room. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut for a second before you forced them open, watching him as he came. It was a heavy, relentless release, painting your skin—the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, your other cheek. Mingi didn’t stop until he was spent, his breath coming in sobbing, jagged bursts. You were still twitching from your own orgasm, your breath coming in sobbing hitches, when the final, hot spray landed against your forehead.
He looked down at the wreckage of your face with a mix of hunger and a terrifying, dazed possessiveness. “You’re nothing but a little cum slut, aren’t you?” He whispered, his voice a broken thread of sound. “Now you look right. Now you look like you belong to me.”
Slowly, your fingers traced the heavy, warm smear on your cheek, dragging the heat toward the corner of your mouth. When your tongue flicked out, catching the stray, salt-sharp drop from your lip, the sound that left Mingi’s throat wasn’t human. It was a low groan—a guttural vibration that started deep in his chest and broke against his teeth.
“Fuck,” he rasped, leaning closer, his shadow swallowing you as he watched you swallow him.
You tasted the raw, metallic tang of him. You didn’t just take it; you looked him dead in the eye, your tongue tracing the seam of your lips to make sure you didn’t miss a single drop. You were a mess—covered in his cum, your face flushed and ruined—and you were offering it back to him as a final, absolute surrender.
“You like it, don’t you?” his thumb slid into your mouth, dragging across your tongue. He let out another fractured, breathless groan. “You’re sitting here, looking like a fucking angel with my mess on your face, and you’re asking for more.” He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into your skin with a territorial, bruising intensity that made your breath hitch. He wasn’t just satisfied; he was re-ignited. The sight of your total lack of shame—the way you were devouring the evidence of his claim—was the final match in the powder keg of his restraint.
You reached up, your fingers trembling as you gripped his wrist, pulling his hand just far enough from your lips so you could speak. You were trembling, your chest heaving with a desperate, frantic need that hadn’t been satisfied yet. “Say it again,” you whimpered, the words sliding out in a high, desperate whine. “Please... Call me that again.”
Mingi froze, his muscles locking up under your touch. “Say what?”
“What you called me,” you sobbed, the desperation finally breaking through. You looked up at him, your eyes blown out and shimmering with tears, the salt of his release still stinging your cheeks. “Call me that again. Call me your slut. I want to hear it while you’re looking at me. I want to know that’s all I am to you tonight.”
A dark, visceral shudder ran through Mingi’s entire frame. He let out a sound that was half-choke, half-growl, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep in your hair to force your head back. He leaned down until his lips were a hair’s breadth from yours, his breath searing. “You want to hear it?” he hissed, his voice dropping into that terrifying, guttural frequency that made your insides turn to liquid. “You want me to remind you how pathetic you are? How you’re sitting here on the floor, covered in my cum?”
“Yes,” you breathed, your hips reflexively hitching toward him. “Please, tell me.”
“You’re a slut,” he didn’t say it with kindness; he said it with the raw, territorial hunger of a man who had finally claimed his prize. “You’re my little slut. My lying, beautiful, desperate slut who’s finally exactly where she belongs.”
He watched the way the words made you shatter, the way your eyes rolled back and a high, broken moan tore from your throat. “You’re pathetic,” he rasped, his hand coming down to catch your jaw again. “A mess. Look at you, begging for it.”
“I am,” a small, broken sound. You leaned your face into his palm, your skin stinging where the stubble on his thumb caught. “I want... I want you to make me feel it. Slap me, Min. Do it.”
Mingi’s hand stilled against your jaw, his fingers curling into your hair as he stared at you with an expression that was both horrified and hungry. “What did you say?”
“I want... I want you to make me feel it,” you whispered, your voice a broken, jagged thread of sound. “I want you to make me understand. Slap me. Do it. Show me exactly what you think of me.”
A dark, visceral shudder ran through his frame. He didn’t hesitate. The sound of his palm connecting with your cheek was a sharp, heavy crack that echoed through the empty apartment. Your head snapped to the side, the force of it making your vision spark white for a split second. The sting was immediate—a white-hot, throbbing heat that radiated from your cheek down to your throat, making you moan.
Mingi didn’t let you pull away. He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into the bone to force your face back toward his. He was shaking, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a mile, his nostrils flared. “Is that what you want?” he hissed, his voice a jagged edge of pure, unadulterated menace. “You want me to treat you like a toy? You want me to leave marks so everyone knows what you’ve been doing behind closed doors?”
“Yes,” you sobbed, the word breaking against his lips. “Yes, please.”
He hit you again—shorter, sharper this time, the sound punctuated by the desperate, high-pitched whine that tore from your throat. He grabbed the back of your head, forcing you to look up at him. “You want me to treat you like you’re nothing? Like you’re just a place for me to put my dick in?”
He hadn’t even fully come down from the first two rounds before the sight of you, messy and pleading on your knees, had his dick surging back to life. “All fours. Now. I want your ass up and your head down.” His hand moved from your head to your shoulder, pulling you up only to shove you toward the mattress.
You scrambled to obey, your limbs heavy and uncoordinated, your knees dragging against the sheets. You pushed yourself up, your back arching as you lowered your chest to the pillows, leaving your hips elevated and exposed. The cool air hit your damp skin, making you shiver. Behind you, Mingi grabbed your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a bruising intensity that marked his territory. He positioned himself at your entrance.
“Don’t you dare move,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat against your spine. He surged forward, a deep, uncompromising thrust that felt like it reached all the way to your ribs. You let out a loud, echoing moan, your forehead thumping into the pillow as the sheer, thick volume of him filled you to the absolute limit, your walls contracting in a desperate welcome.He wasn’t being careful. He immediately started hammering into you, the sound of skin hitting skin a rhythmic, wet slapping that filled the room. He reached forward, his hand finding your hair again and pulling, forcing your head up so you had to see your own reflection in the mirrored closet doors across the room.
“Look at yourself,” he hissed, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. “Look at what a mess you are for me. Tell me you’re my slut. Say it while I’m fucking the life out of you.”
“I’m yours,” you sobbed, your voice breaking as he hit that one spot deep inside, over and over, with a relentless, territorial precision. “I’m your slut, Mingi... please, don’t ever stop.”
He let out a low, primal roar, his thrusts becoming shallow and frantic as he reached the precipice. Mingi’s palm slammed into the soft meat of your ass with a stinging, heavy crack that echoed louder than your own frantic breathing. The impact made your spine whip into a sharp arch, your chest pressing so hard into the pillows that the air was forced out of your lungs in a jagged, high-pitched sob.
He reached forward, his hand sliding under your jaw and clamping around your throat. He didn’t cut off your air, but the weight of his palm was a heavy, suffocating collar that forced your head back at a punishing angle.
He leaned over your back, his bare chest a wall of heat against your spine. He didn’t kiss you; he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, a sharp, jagged bite that drew a muffled, pained cry from your throat. He held it there, his teeth grinding into your skin until you felt the sting turn into a white-hot, throbbing ache that radiated down to your toes.
He let go of your neck only to grab both of your wrists, pinning them into the small of your back with one massive hand while his other hand found your ass again, spanking it with a territorial, bruising intensity. “Is it too much for you? Is the ‘best friend’ being too mean? Tell me to stop, slut.”
“No,” you sobbed, the word a broken, pathetic whine that was lost to the rhythmic, wet slapping of his hips against yours. You were a mess—your skin slick with sweat and the evidence of his earlier release, your vision sparking with every deep, uncompromising strike. “Mingi... please... don’t stop. I’m yours. Only yours.”
“Good,” he growled, the vibration of the word traveling through your body. He increased the pace, his thrusts reaching brutal speed that made the bed frame rattle against the wall. He was hammering into you, his knuckles rubbing against your inner thigh, his thumb finding that one specific spot he remembered and grinding into it with a relentless, heavy pressure.
You were breaking. The walls you’d built over the last three months weren’t just crumbling; they were on fire. You were a moaning, begging, sobbing wreck under him, your hips stuttering in a frantic, uncoordinated dance as you tried to keep up with his aggression. Every time you tried to pull away from the intensity, he’d yank your hair or tighten, forcing you to take every inch of him.
“Look at yourself,” he shoved his fingers into your mouth, tasting the salt of your tears as he forced you to choke on them. “Ninety days I sat across from you and acted like I didn’t want to do exactly this. Ninety days of you pretending you didn’t need this. And now look at you. You’re pathetic. You’re shaking for me.”
He suddenly released your wrists, but before you could even bring your hands forward to brace yourself, he grabbed your waist and hauled your hips upward, his fingers hooking into the front of your hip bones and pulling you back so hard you thought you might snap. He dived deep, his cock hitting the back of you with a blunt-force that made your vision go black for a split second.
“Mine,” he roared, the word a primal, guttural sound that tore from his throat. He was close—you could feel the tremors in his muscles, the way his breath was coming in ragged, wet hitches that rattled in his chest.
“I’m coming,” he hissed, his voice a fractured thread of sound. “And I’m going to fill you so full you won’t be able to think about another man for the rest of your fucking life.”
He surged forward one last time, his entire body locking up as he came. He let out a low groan, his forehead thumping against your back as he flooded you with a thick, relentless heat.
Mingi didn’t move, he stayed buried inside you, his heavy weight pinning you into the sheets, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. The silence that followed his release was suffocating, broken only by the ragged, wet sound of Mingi’s lungs fighting for air against your spine. He was a dead weight, his chest heaving, his skin slick and sticking to yours as the heat of him pooled inside you. But for you, the world hadn’t stopped. The friction, the bites, and the deep, territorial hammering had wound you into a tight, screaming knot of nerves that was now vibrating with fire.
You tried to shift, to grind your hips back against him in a desperate search for the friction he’d just stolen away, but he was too heavy. You were pinned, your face buried in the damp pillow, the salt of your tears stinging the raw skin of your cheeks.
“Mingi,” you whimpered, the name coming out as a broken, high-pitched sob. “Mingi, please... I can’t—I need to cum.”
He let out a low, vibrating grunt against your shoulder blade, his fingers still curled loosely into the hair at the base of your skull. The lack of response made the ache in your lower belly sharpen into a physical pain. You began to thrash weakly, your knees scraping against the sheets as you tried to find the ledge he’d just pushed you off.
“Please!” you cried out, your voice cracking, raw and whiny. “It hurts, Min. I’ve been so fucking good... I did everything. I let you... I let you do everything.”
The memory of the hallway, the cold door, the floor, and the taste of him flooded back, making your pulse hammer in your throat. You were a mess—covered in him, marked by him, and utterly unraveled.
“I need it,” you sobbed into the pillow, your hips bucking in a pathetic, uncoordinated jerk. “Please, don’t leave me like this. I was so good for you. Call me whatever you want, just—please, Mingi, make me cum.”
You felt him shift then. It wasn’t a gentle movement. He let out a dark, weary chuckle that sounded more like a growl, his head lifting from your back. He didn’t pull out; instead, he gripped your waist again, his fingers sinking into the bruises he’d already made.
“You’re still talking?” he rasped, his voice a jagged, exhausted thread. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath searing. “You’re still demanding things?”
“I have to,” you wailed, your hands clawing at the headboard, your knuckles white. “I’m going to die if you don’t... please, Min... I was your slut, wasn’t I? Take care of your slut.”
The word seemed to spark the last of the embers in him. He didn’t rise back up to his feet, but he shifted his weight, reaching one large hand down between your bodies. When he found the slick, swollen clit—drenched in the evidence of his own release—you let out a scream that was muffled by the bedding.
“You were good,” he muttered, his thumb finding that sensitive peak and pinning it with a brutal, heavy pressure. He began to move, a slow, torturous circle that made your vision go white. “So fucking good.”
He increased the pressure, his other hand coming around to catch your throat again, holding you still as you began to shatter.
The moment his thumb ground into that hyper-sensitive peak, the tension that had been coiling in your gut for didn’t just snap—it exploded. Your back arched so violently your spine felt like it might crack, a sharp, broken scream tearing from your throat as the first wave hit. It wasn’t a quiet release; it was a violent one. You felt the sudden, hot deluge as you squirted, the fluid drenching his hand and splashing against the sheets and his own thighs in a frantic, uncontrollable flood.
“Fuck!” you wailed, your head thrashing against the pillow, your vision blurring into white static.
Mingi let out a dark, guttural sound—half-laugh, half-growl—as he felt the heat of you soaking the bed beneath him. He didn’t pull back. He didn’t give you a second to breathe or let your heart rate settle. Instead, the sight of you finally breaking, drowning in your own pleasure and his mess, seemed to snap the last of his restraint.
“Look at this,” he watched the fluid soak into the dark fabric of the sheets. “Look at what a fucking mess I made of you. You’re soaking my bed, baby. You’re practically drowning in it.”
He didn’t wait for the tremors in your thighs to stop. He gripped your hips again, and surged forward. He was still semi-soft from his release, but the sheer, friction-heavy contact of your contractions squeezing him, combined with the sight of your total undoing, had him hardening inside you again with a terrifying, rapid gravity.
“We’re not done,” he hissed, his teeth grazing the back of your neck. “You wanted to be my slut? You wanted to stay on your knees? Then stay there. I’m going to make sure you’re still twitching when the sun comes up.”
He grabbed your waist, his strength uncompromising as he forced you to shift. He hauled you around until you were flat on your back, your hair fanned out against the cushions. The transition was jarring, the cool air hitting your drenched skin and making your nipples peak instantly.
Mingi loomed over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his chest heaving. From this angle, he looked even more massive, his shadow swallowing you whole. He reached down, grabbing your ankles and shoving your knees back toward your chest, pinning you wide open in a position that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
The sight of you—flushed, trembling, and still glistening from your own climax—sent a fresh wave of heat through him. He looked down at your face, seeing the red mark on your cheek and the dazed, broken look in your eyes, and his jaw tightened.
“I want to see your face when I do this,” his hand slid down to guide his rigid, pulsing length back to your entrance. He was already heavy and leaking again. “I want to see your eyes roll back when you realise you’re never going to be empty again.”
He leaned forward, his weight crushing you into the bed, and began to sink back in. It was a slow deep stretch, his eyes locked onto yours as he watched the exact moment the air left your lungs.
He began to move again, but the rhythm was different now—slower, heavier, and even more punishing. Every thrust was a wet, sliding impact, the sound of skin hitting skin loud and rhythmic in the quiet room. Because of how wet you were, he was sliding deep, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made you sob, your hands clutching the sheets as you tried to keep your balance.
Mingi watched your face with a predatory stillness, his eyes tracking every flicker of sensation that crossed your features. He didn’t move fast. He didn’t give you the frantic pace. Instead, he began a slow, deep grind, his hips rotating in a way that forced you to feel every single ridge, every throb of his pulse against your internal walls.
“Does that hurt?” he whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate inside your very bones. “Or does it just ache? Tell me how it feels to have me taking up every inch of you while you’re still coming down.”
He pulled back so slowly it was a torture of its own, the slick friction of his withdrawal making your breath hitch in a series of broken, stuttering hitches. Just as you thought he was going to leave you empty, he surged back in, a heavy, deliberate thrust that bottomed out with a wet, visceral thud.
“I can’t... Min, I can’t,” the words dissolved into a series of broken moans. You were a sobbing, twitching, mess under him, your body no longer your own, entirely at his mercy.
Mingi reached down, his hand clamping around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to hold you still, his thumb pressing firmly into the hinge of your jaw to force your mouth open.
“You’re clenching around me so tight,” he groaned, his forehead thumping against yours. “It’s like your body is trying to trap me inside. Is that what you want? To keep me here until the sun comes up?”
He moved again—a torturous, dragging slide that hit your G-spot with a precision that made your toes curl and your fingers dig into his forearms. Your hips reflexively tried to chase the rhythm he was denying you. Every time you tried to buck upward to meet him, he used his hands to pin you back further, keeping you wide, and exposed.
“Don’t rush me,” he hissed, his teeth grazing your jaw. “You’re going to feel every single second of this.”
He leaned down, his tongue catching a stray tear on your cheek before his mouth hovered over yours.
The slowness was stripping your nerves bare. Every time he dragged himself out, you felt a hollow, frantic grief, and every time he pushed back in with that heavy, unhurried deliberation, your vision swam with a desperate need. You were reaching for a peak that he was moving further away with every torturous rotation of his hips.
“Please... please,” your fingers were clawing at his biceps, trying to pull him down, trying to force a friction that would finally break you. “Not like this. Don’t... don’t be slow. I can’t take it.”
“You want me to stop being gentle?” he gripped your hair, tilting your head back until your throat was exposed and your eyes were locked on his. “You want me to treat you like the slut you are? To drive you into the bed until you can’t remember your own name?”
“Yes!” the word was a shattered, frantic plea.
“Damn right.”
He didn’t ease into it. He surged forward with a sudden, violent velocity that knocked the air out of your lungs in a sharp ungh. He began to drive into you with a rhythmic, bruising ferocity, his hips hitting yours with a sound like a physical assault. He leaned down, his chest crushing yours, his mouth on yours in a kiss that tasted of salt, desperation, and total victory. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them beside your head, his fingers interlacing with yours in a grip that felt like a permanent brand. Every thrust was deeper than the last, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, heavy sound that filled the room. He was watching you—watching the way your lips parted, the way your eyes rolled back, the way you were completely, utterly coming apart under him. He liked the mess. He liked that he was the one who had reduced you to a whimpering, begging slut.
“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he muttered against your lips, his breathing coming in jagged, animalistic bursts. “Broken. Messy. Mine.”
He shifted his grip, one hand leaving your wrist to slide down, his thumb finding your hyper-sensitive clit again, grinding into it even as he hammered into you. The dual assault was too much. You felt the scream building in your throat, your entire body coiling into a tight wire.
“I’m—I’m going to—Fuuuck—”
“Go then,” he roared, his own pace reaching a blurring, frantic speed. “I want to feel every bit of it.”
As you shattered, your walls clamping around him in a violent rhythm, Mingi let out a low moan. He drove into you one last time, his entire body locking as he flooded you again, his forehead thumping against yours.
Mingi collapsed on top of you, his full weight crushing you into the bed, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he sobbed for air. He was shaking—truly shaking—the adrenaline finally leaving his system and leaving him hollowed out and spent.
The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the wet, rhythmic hitch of your combined breathing. Mingi didn’t pull away; he stayed buried deep, his forehead pressed against yours, his skin slick and fused to yours by a layer of salt and heat.
The bedroom felt different now—thicker, charged with the heaviness of the storm that had finally spent itself. The ‘best friend’ facade hadn’t just been cracked; it had been ground into the floorboards along with the buttons of his shirt.
Slowly, Mingi let out a long, shuddering breath that fanned across your neck. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes hooded and dark, searching your face in the dim silver light. He looked at the smear of himself on your face, the bruises blooming on your neck, and the way your lips were swollen and parted as you struggled for air.
He didn’t look sorry. He looked settled.
“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered, his voice still a fractured rasp. His hand moved from the pillow to your hair, his fingers gently—finally gently—tucking a damp strand behind your ear. “Don’t think about the morning. Don’t think about how you’re going to try to take this back tomorrow over coffee. It’s done.”
You let out a small, tired whimper, your fingers curling weakly into the muscles of his forearms. Your body felt like it had been hollowed out, replaced by a warm, heavy liquid. “I can’t take it back, Min. I don’t think I can even walk.”
A ghost of a smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth—the first glimpse of the Mingi you knew. “Good. You’re staying right here.”
As Mingi finally began to withdraw, the sensation was a slow, heavy drag that felt like he was peeling himself away from your very soul. The air in the room hit your raw skin, but the cold didn’t last long. Without the solid plug of him holding it back, the sheer, excessive volume of what he’d left inside you began to yield to gravity.
You felt a thick, warm rush—a heavy, creamy spill that leaked from your core and pooled in the dip of your thighs. It was a visceral, sliding heat, a pearly mess of his release mixed with your own frantic fluid, painting a stark, white map against the dark sheets.
Mingi stayed close, his knees still bracketed around you as he watched the evidence of his reclamation coat your skin. He reached down, his large hand following the path of the spill, his fingers dragging through the cream and smearing it across your hip in a slow circle. He wanted to see it; he wanted to see exactly how much of himself he had forced you to carry.
“I told you,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, satisfied hum as he watched the slow drip hit the mattress. “I told you I was going to fill you up. I told you I’d make sure you felt me for the next days.” He didn’t reach for a tissue. He didn’t try to clean you. Instead, he leaned down and licked a stray drop from your inner thigh, his tongue rough and hot, before looking back up at you with a predatory glint still simmering in his eyes. “That's exactly where it belongs,” he whispered. “Right inside you. Marking you so that every time you take a step tomorrow, you feel me sliding out of you and remember exactly what happened.”
The adrenaline was finally receding, leaving behind a heavy, aching lethargy. Mingi pulled you flush against his side, his skin still damp and radiator-hot against yours.
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. The harsh, territorial side of him had softened, though his eyes still held a dazed, singular focus. He reached out, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lower lip before he leaned down for a kiss. It wasn’t like the others. There was no bruising pressure, no desperation—just a slow, deep, and devastatingly passionate press of his mouth against yours. It tasted of salt and total surrender.
When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “I love you,” he whispered.
The words hit you harder than any of the impacts against the door. You froze, your heart skipping a beat before hammering against your ribs. Your eyes were wide, searching the sharp, damp angles of his face for a smirk, a sneer, or the dark, demeaning glint he’d worn all night. You were looking for the punchline—the part where he told you that you were just a convenient place to dump three months of frustration. But his gaze was steady.
“What?” you breathed, your voice a fractured wreck. “What are you talking about? Min… I thought…” You swallowed hard, a sudden, stinging heat rising behind your eyes. “I thought I was just… a good fuck. I thought this was you finally getting me out of your system so you could stop hating me.”
Mingi flinched, his expression crumbling into genuine, hurt surprise. He let out a dry, huffed laugh, his hand sliding from your jaw to tangle deeply in your hair. “A good fuck?” he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “You think I’d turn into a fucking animal like that for just anyone? You think I’ve been sitting across from you for three months, dying a little bit, because I wanted a fuck?” He shook his head, his eyes burning with a raw honesty that made your throat tight. “I’ve loved you since we were eighteen, you idiot,” he rasped, his thumb brushing a fresh tear from your cheek. “Every thing I did, every time I stayed over to watch movies, every time I walked you home... it was because I couldn’t stand being away from you. Tonight wasn’t just about sex. It was because I was terrified I was actually losing you.”
The air left your lungs in a long, shaky sob. All the walls you’d kept up, the “friendship” you’d tried to protect while your own heart was breaking, finally shattered for good. You surged upward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
“I love you too,” you choked out, your voice muffled by his skin. “I’ve loved you forever, Min. I just thought... I thought you only saw me as one of the guys. I thought tonight was just... yet another mistake you’d regret in the morning.”
Mingi let out a long, shuddering breath, his arms tightening around you until you were practically a part of him. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him so your heart was beating directly against his. “Never a mistake,” he promised, his voice dipping into that protective, low hum. “And you’re never going back to being ‘just a friend.’ You’re mine now. I’m not letting you go again.”
He began to stroke your back, his large hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles that chased away the lingering tremors in your muscles. He leaned up, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before hovering over your lips. “I love you, you beautiful, stubborn girl. But don’t think for a second that means I’m going to be any less greedy with you.”
Mingi let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind that sounded like a man who had finally laid down a hundred-pound weight he’d been carrying for years. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the wreckage of your dress near the door and the literal state of his floor, and he let out a dry, breathy chuckle.
“Well,” he rasped, his voice still a bit wrecked. “I’m definitely going to need to hire a professional cleaning crew. And you’re definitely getting a bill for my dignity.”
You let out a weak, tired laugh, burying your face back into the crook of his neck. “Your dignity? You’re the one who turned into a feral animal because I wore a dress with a slit, Song Mingi.”
“A slit that went to your armpit,” he corrected, his hand sliding down to give your hip a playful, much gentler squeeze. “And don't act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’ve been a brat for years, Y/N. I was just finally fulfilling my civic duty to shut you up.”
“My legs are actually jelly,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his. “I hope you’re prepared to carry me everywhere for the next business week.”
“A business week? Please. With the way you were begging? You’re lucky if I let you walk by next Christmas,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with that familiar, mischievous glint you’d loved since you were teenagers. “And for the record, you were always a terrible ‘just a friend.’ You’re much better as a ‘terrifyingly loud girlfriend.’”
“I wasn’t that loud,” you defended, though your face flushed a deep crimson.
“The neighbours three floors down would disagree, but sure,” he kissed your forehead with a gentleness that felt like a secret, followed by a soft, lingering kiss to your nose. “We need to shower. But if you think I’m washing your hair without making fun of your taste in men—specifically that suit-wearing prick—you’ve got another thing coming.”
You rolled your eyes, “I love you, you idiot.”
The corner of his mouth twitched into a real, soft smile—the one he only ever saved for you. “I love you too, baby. Now let’s get in the shower before I decide I’m not actually as tired as I thought I was.”
pairing: Strangers Mingi x reader (sorry this is so vague but you guys are literal strangers lol)
synopsis: your train ride home gets interesting when the man next to you catches you staring at his hands.
tw: exhibitionism, public sex, minor fwb wooyoung, smoking, size kink, age gap, your age isn’t specified, daddy kink, hand kink, mingi basically finger fucks you on the train.
The train ride home is long and boring. You use most of the time to catch up on reading, though now you decided to watch netflix on your laptop, using the time to make your way through the better part of a season of a new anime. It's never exciting, not really, except that this time, your thoughts have been everywhere but the subtitles on the screen in front of you.
It's all Wooyoung's fault. The two of you had been sprawled out on Wooyoung's bed, the window open to the chilly late fall air so that the smoke from Wooyoung's cigarette puffed up and out through the gap. Wooyoung had been talking, absently, about his day, about getting up at 4 a.m. to be at the coffee shop by 5 for set up and how he hated working Saturday shifts, not because he was tired but because, "There's always drunk people on the bus finding their way home, and they can't keep their goddamn hands to their fucking selves.
As he'd said it, he'd gestured what he meant, his hand sliding over your thigh suggestively. And at the time, you had laughed him off, pushed him back and stolen his cigarette to take a tiny drag for yourself, coughing a little at the bitter taste of menthol. You've never been a big smoker.
Wooyoung had helpfully shotgunned the rest into your mouth, meeting you in the middle for a kiss, but your mind had been elsewhere, on the heat of Wooyoung's hand lingering on your thigh and the thought of being on the bus with him, Wooyoung gripping your thigh and spreading your legs open and—
You shiver now despite the warmth of the train.
It's cold outside, the snow beginning to pile in soft hills along either side of the tracks, but the train is always warm, and your coat is off and tucked between yourself and the arm rest. And resting on that arm rest is your neighbor's arm, leading down to a broad, long-fingered hand.
You had your headphones in for most of the ride, but that didn't matter. You'd heard the man's voice when he sat down, asking you politely if you minded like he didn't have a ticket with his seat number printed on it. He has the deepest voice you have ever heard, low and thick, and even with your headphones in, even with the pitchy melodramatic voices of anime protagonists talking in your ear, you can't get it out of your head.
You aren't sure how old he is. He'd been smiling when he asked you, large and toothy, his eyes curving into crescents, and you would have guessed mid-to-late twenties. But now that he's sitting, the smile softened into a more neutral expression, you're pretty sure he's at least in his mid-thirties, well over a decade older than yourself at the very least.
And maybe you're weak, but you've always had a bit of a thing for certain types of men: older, bigger, stronger. Men who can overpower you. You're not the strongest, and most of your friends would describe you as meek. But you're also tiny, and there's something about that difference that makes your mouth go dry and your head spin.
And yes, okay, sure, you love Wooyoung to death, but you're not exclusive, and Wooyoung isn't exactly the type of guy that frequently features in your private fantasies.
Well, sometimes, but... not for this.
For this, the type of guy that features is, God, basically the exact person sitting next to you right now, and you may have surreptitiously pinched yourself once or twice. But you're definitely awake, and you can't focus, eyes flickering to the man's hand and back a few times. You completely lost track of the anime plot at this point.
You try in vain to scroll back to something you recognize, but you don't know what any of it is, and you wonder how long you've been this distracted. You drag the cursor back to the beginning of the episode, chewing on your lip as you do, and in the sudden silence of nothing happening in your headphones you hear the faint rustle of fabric on fabric.
You look down, bewildered, and see the man trying to pull something out of his pocket, his wrist-and the neat button-down he's wearing-scrap lightly against the material of your coat where it's bunching up, spilling slightly over the gap beneath the armrests.
You make a short sound, what kind you're not even sure, and pull the jacket out of the way, your cheeks heating up. "Sorry," you say, voice a little louder than you think you mean to, and you tug out one earbud to monitor your volume a little better. "I didn't realize it was like that. Sorry."
"You're fine," the man says, smiling again, less big now though no less genuine. It doesn't transform his face quite as much, doesn't squint his eyes into crescents, and his gaze makes you feel suddenly very conscious of yourself.
You squirm a little straighter, shifting your laptop in your lap as you push the jacket between yourself and the wall instead. "I mean, I shouldn't have been taking up your seat."
"I think it's only fair," the man says, a laugh on his lips. "I'm monopolizing the armrest a little. You should be free to use the space under it."
"You have longer arms," you respond, before you can think it through, and then you get tongue-tied because what do you say after that? "And... uh, nevermind..."
"And?" the man prompts, and there's amusement in his voice but it doesn't seem mocking, just vaguely pleased.
Your cheeks flush, and you fumble to put your earbud back in just to escape the situation, but the man reaches out and catches your wrist gently, and you squeak. You clear your throat quickly, face feeling hot to the touch, and the man lets go, his fingers dragging slowly off of your skin, and you hate yourself for the gasp that catches in your throat, the way your eyes dart to the man's hand and back up.
The man's lips quirk playfully. "And?"
It feels more like a demand than a prompt, and you shiver. You're silent for a moment, just a moment, and then the man leans back somewhen had he gotten so close? — and the tension leeches out of the air. You let out a noisy breath.
"You're... you're just bigger than me. I figured you needed more space."
"Is that all?" the man asks, more mild, more curious.
You bite back a whine. "That's.. that's all?" It comes out a question.
"Maybe you're just small," the man says, and then, like a complete non-sequitur, "My name is Mingi. What's yours?"
"Y/N." It falls off of your tongue almost like you're eager. "It's Y/N."
"How old are you, Y/N?" Mingi asks. His voice around your name makes you feel like you're drowning.
You tell him your age.
You don't know what you expect the response to be. Maybe for Mingi to pull away in surprise. Maybe to get a comment about how young you look. Maybe nothing at all. It doesn't matter.
You're not entirely prepared when Mingi says,"I'm thirty-eight. Does that bother you?"
It's not judgemental, just an honest question, and you reel for a second. You know exactly what Mingi is saying. How can you not? But a part of you, small and insecure and unsure of yourself in a way that makes you question your own knowledge makes your mouth form, "Why... why would it bother me?"
"That's a good question, I guess," Mingi says, and then closes his hand in a slow, overly elaborate way, one finger at a time. You stare, fixated. "Unless I'm reading this wrong? You've been looking at me the whole time. At my hand...”
You suck in a short, quick breath. You can't imagine having the bravery to do what Mingi is doing now. You would be so terrified of being wrong. But Mingi isn't wrong, and you....
You nod jerkily. "I... yeah."
"Yeah, what?" Mingi prompts. "Tell me?"
It's a question, but it doesn't feel like one, and you couldn't refuse if you wanted to. You don't want to.
"Yeah, l've... I've been looking at you. Them.
Your... yeah."
Mingi laughs, low and melodic and sweet. "Do you want to tell me why?"
He keeps asking, like a question, like you have a choice. And you don't, but it doesn't feel like you should. You don't want to say no. Or... or you do, and you want Mingi to push, but you have a feeling that you're both not there yet, that if you say no, Mingi will take it for one. It's the right thing to do, and you're a little comforted by that feeling, but you're a lot frustrated by it too, and you turn your own answers over on your tongue for a minute before you whisper, "They're nice hands. They're... big."
"And you're small," Mingi answers, and he's smiling, but his voice is intent.
You nod, swallowing.
"Small enough for...?" Mingi stops, an open ended question.
You can't. You can't answer that as easily. It's too much. Too heavy. You shake your head slowly, licking your lips in a quick, nervous motion. You see Mingi's eyes dart to it for a moment and that's a rush, but it doesn't bring you any closer to an answer.
Mingi frowns. "Y/n....
"I...I can't,” you whisper. "I don't..."
Mingi looks at you for a long time. "Can't what?" he asks finally. "Can't do this? Or can't say?"
"Say," you said in relief. An easy question, an easy answer. "I want...
You trail off, but that's enough. Mingi smiles, leaning in closer, and you feel his fingers curl under your chin, tipping your head up. You close your eyes, breath catching, almost trembling. You anticipate a kiss, but Mingi only smooths a thumb over your bottom lip, slow enough to tease.
You gasp, just a little, and Mingi slips his finger up a little, pressing just the tip of his thumb into the space between your parted lips. You stall, just for a moment and then let your mouth open further.
It's all you can do, as much bravery as you have, and when Mingi's finger disappears, your eyes fly open, almost betrayed. But Mingi only slides his first two fingers into your mouth instead, short and easy. You give a breathless noise of anticipation and suck.
The noise Mingi lets out is low and pleased, and he presses his fingers down slightly, pushing the pads of his fingers onto your tongue and stroking slowly, gently, making you suck in a tight breath, visibly trembling.
Mingi pulls his hand away and you let out a whine of protest. Mingi smiles at you and then turns forward, just in time for someone to walk past you, barely even glancing over.
Your breath leaves you all in a rush. "Oh," you whisper. Your hands are shaking. You close the laptop, pushing it down into the bag tucked between your legs and under your seat, and lean your head forward onto the seat in front of you, taking a moment to find your breath again, the swooping heat of almost being caught like that leaves your head foggy and your chest tight.
You feel a warmth, a pressure, Mingi's palm sliding heavy onto your thigh, immediately teasing at the inner seam of your pants. You make a quiet, barely audible noise. Mingi must hear it though, because his hand tightens subtly, and he leans in, his voice low in your ear. "Is this what you wanted?"
You shudder visibly, jerkily, and Mingi's hand brushes higher, higher. There's a rush in your ears, in your head, and you can't help the way your hips move involuntarily. Your panties stick to your core so uncomfortably wet and damp. You spread your legs on instinct, opening up, and Mingi... stops.
He squeezes your thigh again hard, and leaves it there, a warm taunting heat that makes you feel dazed. You don't know what to ask for. Your mouth is dry and your tongue is tied and you want Mingi's fingers back in your mouth except that you don't want the touch on your leg to go away.
You whine quietly. "I.."
“What do you want?" Mingi asks, almost kindly, and it doesn't fit with the way he squeezes your thigh. Someone walks past, maybe the same person going in the opposite direction, and your face burns with heat. You squirm, reaching down for Mingi's arm. Your hand is so small, barely wrapping around his wrist.
You don't pull at it, just hold it there, like a lifeline, and Mingi smiles before turning his hand a little, bringing it an inch higher, and then his hand is pulling on your zipper, tugging your jeans down over your hips for more access. He pulls your panties to the side, humming at the sticky residue that breaks off as his thumb makes contact with your clit, he presses down and moves his thumb in a circular motion. You gasp and push your hips against it instinctively, unthinking.
Mingi makes a soft noise, and his voice is a whisper, but it feels so loud, it feels like anyone else on earth might be able to hear when he says,
"Are you that needy, you're going to let a stranger get you off in the middle of a train?"
You don't manage to bite back your whimper, only bringing your hand up to muttle it, clapping it over your mouth. Your hips spasm into Mingi's grip on your thigh, and he removes his thumb, raising his hand up to hover over your middle like a question that you never get the chance to answer before he tugs down your jeans a bit more, your panties included, and spreads your thighs placing his hand in between them.
It's not subtle anymore. If anyone passes, just a glance and they'll see Mingi with his hand in between your legs, you spread them open willingly for him like a whore. You rut against the finger he teases around your entrance, pressing it in slowly before he pulls it back out. Never fully pushing inside. It leaves you desperate and wanton, shaking under his touch.
"Please," you whimper into your hand, just barely muffled. It just slips out, your face is burning, but Mingi only does it again, mouth curving up slowly when another whimper falls from your lips when he pushes his finger in a bit further, your walls welcoming him in, only to pull it away before you can even clench down. You arch up off the seat, breathing hard and fast into your palm.
"Please what?" Mingi asks.
You shake your head. Your mouth is dry and your mind is foggy and your pussy leaks, dripping, on the seat below and making your inner thighs stick to it. Mingi's finger looks drenched from where it sits prodding at your hole.
You know exactly what comes after that "please" but you're shaking apart, crumpling helplessly against Mingi's side as he finally relents and pushes his finger in. Your mouth opens in a pant, gummy walls fluttering around his thick finger.
Finally happy to have something to cling onto.
Mingi's voice somehow, impossibly, deepens as he growls, "Please what?"
"Please daddy," You pant.
"Fuck," Mingi groans low in your ear. He crooks his finger and you whine. You try to spread your legs wider on instinct but there isn't enough room. "You're shameless little girl," he murmurs cruelly, he pushes in another finger making you cry out against your palm. "Anyone could walk down this aisle right now and see how much of a slut you are, letting a random man stick his fingers up your cunt."
You struggle to respond, torn between wanting to defend yourself, and just lying back and taking the torment. Words are hard to come by right now. All you can hear, over the sound of your heavy breathing, are the embarrassing noises your pussy makes with every single thrust of Mingi's fingers. It sounds much louder to you than it probably is, but all you can focus on is the wet squelch each time he pulls his fingers back only to fill you up again. Mingi's fingers fill you completely. They stroke deep, like he's searching for something-reaching places even Wooyoung has never found.
You feel that familiar burn begin to stir in your lower stomach. The one that signals that you're about to let go at any moment.
"Fuckin pussy is gripping my fingers so tight, shit," Mingi curses. His thumb presses down onto your bud massaging it, his fingers don't slow once. Your mouth falls open, drool spilling from the corner of your mouth from the sensation. "Little hole needs training," Mingi grunts, his knuckles curve against the side of your walls repeatedly making you jolt. "Gonna have to break this pussy in."
That does it.
You manage to find enough clarity to keep your hand over your mouth, covering the moan that escapes as you finally come undone, making a mess of Mingi's hand. Your eyes roll back as he continues to work you through it. "Shit," he groans low in your ear, twisting his wrist. "Good girl. Come for daddy"
You gasp, your hips stuttering. It's disgusting-you feel filthy. Wetness drips down the seat and onto the floor, and all you can do is let your hand fall from your mouth as small whimpers slip past your lips. Mingi's hand continues to move inside you, slow and overwhelming. You let out a hiccupping breath, choking out, "D-daddy..."
"Good girl," Mingi says again, making your heart jump. He pulls his hand free, looking at it for a moment, and then raises an eyebrow at you."How far down does your coat cover when it's on?"
You're panting, breathless, but you manage,"My... almost my knees."
"Good, Mingi says, and slides his come-sticky hand back onto your upper thigh, grabbing possessively. You shudder again. You lean against him for a while longer, and Mingi takes to rubbing little circles on the outside of your thigh. After a while he hums. "When's your return ticket?"
You blink up at him, still in a bit of a daze. "I... the.. the 2nd? I think? At 7.'
Mingi hums. "I hadn't booked mine yet. What seat are you in?"
And it's another of those choices. All you have to do is lie. Or say you don't know. Instead you breathe, "E1, Daddy"
Mingi smiles at you and squeezes his hand tight over your thigh, and suddenly all you can think of is how long you have to wait until the trip back.
A/n:Let’s ignore how I completely forgot to write in y/n fixing her jeans. there won’t be a part two so don’t ask. If you decide to follow me after reading this, please for the love of God read my pinned. besides that thank you for reading <3
