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.
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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
summary: when you get stood up and cancelled on one too many times, your friend takes it upon herself to get you to enjoy a night out. but you’re faced immediately with the source of your woes pressed up to another and a bartender who catches on quickly. the latter offers to dance with you; will you say yes?
a/n: have been getting a lot of feels for mingi lately .. i blacked out n wrote this aft watching the recent ateez whodunnit because jesus christ that man looked FINE acting as a bartender.
word count: 6.1k
warnings: MINORS DNI!!!! bartender!mingi, softdom!mingi, sub!reader, reader's (ex) bf is a loser, reader lowkey traumatised from her (ex) bf, mingi is very understanding, consumption of alcohol (however, they’re not drunk during the deed, just a little tipsy), grinding in a public space (a club lol), lots of teasing, oral (f! receiving) / cunnilingus, fingering, praise, use of pet names (baby, honey, doll), bit of fluff in the middle, clit stimulation, unprotected p -> v sex (pls wrap it up irl), creampie, slight aftercare, mingi is so soft and patient with reader .. ❤️
No matter how much you knew this wasn’t your fault, you still can’t help but find fault with yourself — looks, personality, fashion. You passed it off the first time as something akin to a mistake, a miscalculation with the overtime your boyfriend, Hyunjae, had to do because of his recent promotion.
With mumbled apologies into your hair and fairly enjoyable sex, you thought everything between you both was going to be okay. It was just one dinner date, plus, he made it up to you with a fancy trip over the weekend and several, impressive gifts.
But you think you should’ve known better, because it happened a second time not even a month later, and the cycle repeats itself: sin, repent, and fall back into temptation all over again.
The only mistake you were making was thinking too highly of Hyunjae, assuming temptation was reports and hard work for extra cash, and not having a fucking affair with another woman in the printing room.
By the time the third incident came around, your friend was quick to propose a night out the next day despite your protests, but you know it came from a place of love. With the way she comforted you with memes and funny reels and words of advice, you realised it was the first time you’ve laughed since the supposed dinner at seven.
Ignoring the sinking dread settling in your heart the next afternoon, you shoot a simple ill be out late tonight to Hyunjae before dragging your body out of bed. You moved on autopilot, then, choosing not to acknowledge that he didn’t even return last night, preoccupying yourself instead with picking out your outfit.
And it was easy enough with a clear vision in your head; you weren’t afraid to dress up even after getting together with Hyunjae. This time it wasn’t any different — miniskirt, a cute fitted top and boots — that you already felt a bit better upon arriving at a bar for some pregame. The alcohol felt good, the company was better, and the both of you were already giggling and tipsy when you entered the club.
“Isn’t this way better than crying over that dumbass?” Yunjin nudges you gently before offering you a small smile.
You sigh, “I guess. I just don’t want it to be a recurring thing and make you responsible every time.”
“At least you know your limit now,” She loops an arm around you to keep you close as you two walk deeper into the club. “Still, as much as I love you, it was difficult trying to get you out of the club because you’d only be talking in counts of 8.”
Ever the teasing friend, you nudge her back before breaking into laughter together, heading right to the bar for a lighter drink. It’s buzzing with orders left and right with the (possibly) poor newcomer trying his best to work the counter with all its confusing buttons. But he’s saved by another, a taller, more experienced bartender who was definitely carved by gods.
You try not to gawk, though, feeling guilty even when he shoots the two of you a small customer-service smile. “Give us a minute, alright? We’ll get to ya soon.” The moment he’s turned around, Yunjin shakes your arm excitedly.
“What? What?”
“Don’t ‘what?’ me! Tell me you didn’t see the way he was looking at you.”
“Yunjin…” You sigh. “You know Hyunjae and I aren’t broken up—”
“Yet.” She interrupts with that single word and you shoot her a half playful, half serious glare.
“Okay, but, I have no business looking at other people just ’cause I’ve been stood up thrice.” The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, recognising that it really didn’t sound good out loud.
“Yeah, but don’t you think those are enough times to call things off?” She faces you completely now with both hands on your arms, trying to look you in the eye while you shrink, flustered and a bit embarrassed at how easily you seem to crawl back to Hyunjae.
Because you felt that if you let this go, you’d never feel this way ever again, having someone else walking out your life again like clockwork.
Your fingers tense subconsciously; clenching, unclenching. You settle for taut hands to your friend’s, removing them with the little fight left in you. “Yunjin, can— can we please drop this for now? I came out to forget my boyfriend for a bit, and then I’ll go back home and everything will be f—”
But the universe has other plans for you, conversation cut short from the handsome bartender asking about your orders now.
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies. What will you two be having?” In the midst of wiping his hands on the towel, he leans over the counter just as Yunjin gives her order, but you swear over the booming music, the bass reverberating, the screamed lyrics, you hear familiarity.
It’s funny how habitual you can become with someone; hearing that same laugh in your skin on slow mornings and during reruns of B99 that you can’t help but search the dancefloor frantically.
You weren’t even sure why you did it, but you think you were chasing that familiarity and safety of having someone even though they were shit at showing up.
But along the desperate scans you do with your eyes, you register that you were simply accustomed to having Hyunjae in your life, accustomed to coming back again to an empty house. Yet, you can’t even remember the last time you said I love you to him.
And always trust your gut, because that sinking feeling from earlier comes back tenfold when your eyes lock onto two people on the floor with bodies leaving no space.
Hyunjae has no qualms about getting caught, his hands roaming all over her body and practically grinding from behind that you feel your knees buckle a little.
“Yunjin…” The lights were too blinding, the music now too loud, but you don’t have to say anything to know she’s already helping you onto a bar stool. When she turns to where you were looking, her jaw tightens and wordlessly places a hand on your lower back.
You go through emotions, fast — denial, and then anger and then a hint of sadness. But what you’re mainly feeling is a thirst for revenge knowing he thinks you’re a coward, a girl desperate for love.
Maybe you are, and there’s nothing wrong with mourning what you had. Though, being cancelled on three times within two months and spewing lies about overtime, ignites your resolve easily.
All the while, the bartender watches the interaction carefully, skilled hands still able to fulfill people’s orders, but he’s got you and your boyfriend all figured out. Not that he meant to eavesdrop, though, exchanging a glance with your friend until you raise your head with unshed tears.
“Thought I lost you there for a moment. That your boyfriend?” He nodded in the general direction and had probably used that line countless times, but you give credit where credit’s due; he was attractive and didn’t choose to comment on your glossy eyes.
With semi-long hair, pretty moles and plump lips, you want to enjoy this seat a bit longer, proposing a silly idea as you nod.
“Ex-, now. Do you have any chance to get them both kicked out?” You smile, small and unsure, but he replies with an even sweeter smile laced with sympathy that makes your heart skip just a little.
“No can do. If he’s not causing trouble, our bouncers have no reason to throw him out. Sorry, ladies.” For a moment, he’s back to being professional and tries not to steal glances at you as you blink away tears and attempt to appear unaffected.
He serves the drinks he’s already made, helps the counter boy again with orders until he hears your friend beg again when he comes ’round to your side.
“Oh please, Mr Bartender!” He raises an eyebrow, eyes trained on the both of you while capping his shaker before shaking. You purse your lips teasingly despite your blurred vision and the heat on your cheeks, “She can be pretty persuasive.” God, you didn’t even know what you were feeling at the moment.
He shrugs. “Well, tell you what — I get off my shift in about fifteen, and you’re looking for some retribution. Why don’t we do a little dance of our own?”
With a sigh, you ponder over your cards — Hyunjae might be pleasantly surprised and you’d end up with a hot bartender in your arms to boot. But if this is only going to leave a hole in your heart after everything, what really was the point?
“It’s your call, doll. If you’re still holding this,” He holds up a slim piece of metal that matches the club’s colours with its letters engraved in stark white, “by the time I come back, I’m taking you onto the floor for a dance. Deal?”
It’s dropped into your palm before you flip it over, running a thumb over the debossed name.
“Mingi.”
“You got it.” Mingi gives you a dazzling grin and a wink while you stifle a smile.
You spend the next ten minutes debating your options that you can’t count the amount of times Yunjin had to get your attention back on her. Revenge sounded delicious before.
Now? Now you’re waddling deep in doubt, worried about the aftertaste; all you wanted was to go home and sleep this whole thing off. Even the name tag was weighing heavy in your hand.
But the late nights cooking dinner, sitting alone at restaurants and the sheer indifference Hyunjae’s currently dancing with, did you in.
If you were chickening out only so someone this terrible stays, then you might regret this single night with someone else who already has shown you more respect than Hyunjae ever did.
The music is a bit clearer to you, now, and less suffocating as you call out to the bartender with five minutes left until his shift ends. You play with the pin at the back, unfastening and popping it back into place repeatedly.
“I’ll take a Lemon Drop.” A knowing smile, a swipe of your card, sugar sweet on your lips. It hits great, and with a bit of liquid courage in you, you wait.
Mingi is quick to show up by your side a few minutes later, but he manages to take your breath away all over again with a more casual look.
Jewellery, messy hair and unbuttoned shirt down to his pecs that gives you a glimpse of a pretty little pendant resting nicely on his chest and rings adorning his fingers.
“Care for a dance?” His deep voice up close already has your stomach turning, opening your hand to show how you still had his name tag and he grins. “Keep it for now.”
You barely hear the whisper into your ear, but without any second thought you place your hand in his, the metal of his rings sending shivers right up your arm and down your spine. A faint cheer from Yunjin encourages you on, already feeling the addicting beats of the music playing.
Mingi is considerate above all else, looking back to see if you were still there, clearing a path for the both of you until you’re a few bodies away from Hyunjae. But standing out here now brings another wave of panic and embarrassment.
You were really about to do this, but—
What if he doesn’t like the way you danced? What if he’s a clean freak and would rather not have his hands over your already sweaty sides? What if Hyunjae creates a scene?
The thoughts are never-ending, swirling in your mind until you can feel Mingi’s hand enclose around your other hand, halting you from adjusting your outfit, from scratching at your skin.
It’s hot, too crowded for a dance floor and he knows that you’re nervous again with the increased proximity to your boyfriend.
Without words, Mingi brings your hands to rest on his shoulders. “Is this okay?”
You nod. Bodies beside you cause you to inch closer to him and his hair is so soft. Your tongue tingles from the lemon’s sourness and you want nothing more than to balance it out with his mouth that smells of rum.
“Hey, I realise I haven’t gotten your name just yet.” The smile he has isn’t teasing, cocky, and you manage a small one back. He leans down to get your answer.
“It’s (Y/N).”
“Pretty. Follow my lead.”
And slowly but surely, you get out of your shell as you both lose all formality with the ear-splitting songs. The cocktail makes your hands wander, trailing over his nape, over his broad shoulders. He still hovers.
You don’t know whether it’s Mingi, the dim lighting or the song but you don’t hesitate to force his hands to your sides and he takes it as a sign.
He’s pulling you close until you’re pressed to his front, head immediately going for your exposed neck, and the laugh that escapes feels so different from Hyunjae, so free that you giggle with him.
It turns from wanting to Hyunjae to see you could do so much better to genuinely enjoying your time with the bartender that you don’t register the shock forming on Hyunjae’s face when he spots you just a few people over. Mingi doesn’t miss it, squeezing your waist softly to bring it to your attention.
“B-babe? What’re you doing here?” He acts like he doesn’t even know the girl dancing with him, yanking her off of him as he tries to preserve his dignity. But you knew better — you’ve seen her face at company dinners, on his Instagram story.
“Why are you here?” He sputters out an answer, not expecting you to fight back. Hyunjae’s smaller than ever now.
The bartender resists the urge to scoff at his lack of explanation, about to tell him to piss off when you push at Hyunjae with a finger. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. Witnessing you and the girl you told me not to worry about. Talking crap about overtime just to fuck her in your workplace.”
“W-What? That’s bullshit, where’d you even get that from?!”
Thank God for Mingi’s Lemon Drop, because you shove Hyunjae harder than before, angering the people behind him who push him back towards you.
“Guess you’ll never find out how. Get your shit out of my apartment and leave before tomorrow morning or else I’ll be telling your boss about inappropriate workplace conduct.”
Hyunjae rolls his eyes and waves you off, “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I hope the job market’s ready for someone who promised overtime hours only to soil the printing room. Keep checking your emails babe.” You purposefully drag out the pet name he likes to use on you, which now sounds cheap and tacky. Mingi can’t help a cackle from escaping, tugging you closer as if you’re his.
And you might just be by the end of this night.
Hyunjae doesn’t bother to one-up the bartender one bit, only throwing Mingi a scowl before elbowing himself through the crowd. Unknowingly, your body relaxes, melting into the other’s arms easily and wanting nothing more than to turn off your brain for the night. It makes Mingi smile.
You’re bolder when the night deepens. It starts with running your hands down his chest and grasping softly at his waist. There’s whispered lyrics into your skin, letting him trail kisses down your jawline to your sternum and you feel like you’re on top of the world.
His body’s flush against yours, tensing and breathing hard. The heat’s suffocating and the kisses sweet, hovering over just where you both need each other desperately.
“Heard you’re a dancer,” Mingi mumbles, sneaky hands going past your hips to your ass and kneads. You laugh.
“You heard whatever Yunjin said? It was one time,” You reminisce about the time you went out for her birthday before getting shit-faced drunk and talking to her only in counts, “and she was struggling to understand what I was saying.”
It takes a beat for you to take the leap. “Want me to show you?”
A pretty laugh leaves his lips, “Your dancing or your innate ability to only talk in eights?”
Fuck, he’s handsome and funny.
“Har-har, very funny.” The moment’s playful but charged with underlying tension that only increases once the song changes. With a hand, you lift his head from your neck, taking advantage of his surprise to turn around.
Pushing up against him, you make sure he’s feeling every part of your ass on him, swaying your hips until you get a small groan from him. Tempted, Mingi places his hands along your waist, helping you grind down on him while arousal pools in your panties.
He’s enamoured with how well you fit against him, even more so when you lace your fingers with his, tugging one up to rest on your chest.
He takes the bait with how you turn your head, boasting your pretty lips with eyes closed. But you’re not letting him get what he wants that easily, finger pressed against his lips.
“Did the Lemon Drop do this, hm?” He’s back on your neck like it’s his home, slurring his words in that deep, deep voice of his that you want nothing more than to hear that for the rest of your life (and hopefully in your bed tonight).
“Maybe.” You can’t help but chuckle triumphantly, but it’s cut short when he suddenly yanks you back to his front; shit, you can feel his hard-on — he’s big.
You subconsciously gulp and pull him closer (not without a mildly surprised “oh”), overwhelmed with the feeling of his chest against yours, of his hips moving in tandem with yours, of his breath on your lips.
“I’m full of surprises, too.”
“That was so corny.” Biting your lip, you try to stifle a smile but it bleeds out past your lips, “You’re lucky I still want to fuck you.”
“Aw, only fuck?” He feigns sadness as he bats his eyelashes at you. That question probably would’ve made you think twice, but with Mingi’s little pout, the vodka in your system and Rihanna in the background, you throw all complicated feelings out the window.
“Shut up, Mingi.”
That elicits a low chuckle. “Gladly.”
He collides with you immediately, lips moulding into yours like two parts of a whole that you stumble a bit from the force. But you waste no time in reciprocating with neediness of your own, tugging him down to you with hands tangled in his black hair.
You could care less about your ex, about Yunjin excitedly texting you from the bar, nor the people around you.
Not when Mingi’s slipping his tongue into your mouth and your pussy’s just desperate for relief that you moan softly into his mouth.
“God, you sound pretty,” He pulls away for air, but he’s already hooked onto your taste, leaving pecks on your lips again and again. His hands rest comfortably on your sides, caressing, squeezing. “Need to hear that in my sheets.”
You mutter a soft fuck before licking your lips, “Your place?”
Mingi hums into your lips, “You have my name tag, baby. It’s up to you,” and grins when he sees you jolt. The pet name affects you. He knows.
Fuck it. You need this man now.
With a quick text to Yunjin, everything that happens on the way to Mingi’s doesn’t exist. The ride was both a torment and a blur when his hand trails so closely to where you need him and his hips adjust uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. You’re so horny that you’re sure you’ve sobered up already.
You lunge forward once the front door’s closed, eagerness undermining both your abilities to remove your shoes, too preoccupied with devouring the other.
Mingi tastes like sage and citrus, a flavour you’ll keep locked away forever; he breaks the kiss reluctantly, and that taste travels down your body, taking his time.
Mingi’s anything but composed, though, larger hands wrapped around your middle while he takes in your scent and sweat, nose pressed against your heaving stomach.
Just a mere bartender, a one-night stand acting like a lover when he fully goes onto his knees and zips open your boots. Torturously, agonisingly slow, and removes them even slower.
By the time the second shoe’s off, your hand has already messed up his hair. You push him to you, he pulls back.
“It’s my time to tease, doll. Patience.” You whine softly in disagreement, letting him plant soft kisses along your ankle, up to your shin and knees and finally your inner thighs that threaten to tighten in his hold.
“Mingi…” You don’t mean to sound so desperate off the bat, but your cunt’s pulsing and the AC’s sending goosebumps all over your skin and possibly the hottest man alive is on his knees in front of you.
“Fuck, baby, I can smell you from here.” Like a gentleman, he helps you to shimmy out of your miniskirt and underwear before tossing it somewhere and you’re suddenly self conscious about being all exposed.
But Mingi simply doesn’t care about decorum as he lifts your leg, prompting you to place it on his shoulder. He marvels at your arousal illuminated by the doorway lighting, stifling a moan.
“Look at you.” Sighing, he plays with your folds, trailing a finger up and down and smirking when he feels you shiver under his touch. “So perfect. All this for me?”
“Y-Yeah, just for you,” Your words are muffled from your hand, trying to hold back your sounds but Mingi isn’t having any of that. He thinks your ex-boyfriend may have something to do with it.
“Let me hear you, alright, honey?” Mingi takes your hand and interlocks it together with his, a promise that you’ll be the star tonight. “We’re safe here, there’s no need to hold back.”
You nod just as he blows into your cunt, making you clench around nothing and he smiles. “For now, let me eat my meal.”
And Mingi eats, convincing yourself that you’ve definitely driven a hole through his shoebox cabinet with how hard you were leaning against it. Your hips buck against his face, tongue flicking over your clit as you relish in the pleasure.
“Oh my G-God, Mingi…” You can barely hold eye contact with him as he latches onto your pussy like a vice, addicted to your taste, your sounds and how you drip endlessly all over his tongue.
“That’s it, doll, tell me how good you feel.” Mingi continues to inch closer on his knees, trapping himself under your thighs as his tongue works wonders.
With an experimental finger, he circles your pulsing hole and pushes in ever so slightly, making you almost keel over from the overwhelming feeling.
“Fuck, Mingi, that feels so—!” Your moans fill his house together with the lewd sounds of your pussy, feeling the vibrations of his hums on your sensitive clit. His thumb plays with it as he comes up for air, adding a second finger easily before starting to pump them with determination.
“That feel good?” He’s brutal in his thrusting, but it’s not even a minute when he returns with his merciless tongue again, swearing that you were seeing stars from this alone.
If Mingi was this pussy drunk, who knows how you’d feel when he’s in you? You tremble at the thought, fingers pulling at his hair until it stings.
But Mingi loves it, loves seeing your eyes flutter close and your toes curl in sheer pleasure as the prettiest mewls fall from your lips. You’re full on grinding into his face now, holding onto his hand like a lifeline, while there’s the audible slick sounds of your juices.
It’s hotter than it was on the dance floor, and fully knowing you’d be buckling to the ground if it wasn’t for Mingi’s secure hold on you. Because you can feel yourself getting weaker and weaker the more the coil in your stomach turns, clamping down hard on his fingers.
“I-I’m close, baby—” Your words slip, every part of your body tingles and he pants out a plea.
“Call me that again for me, doll.” He’s ravishing you, ruining you for any other person and you wouldn’t have it any other way. His rings feel so cold on your cunt, while his mouth’s hot and he’s dizzy off of you.
“Gonna cum, baby,” If your friend couldn’t understand you while drunk, Mingi’s chest puffs with pride making you babble nonsensical things while you’re both tipsy with his name being the only coherent thing, “Mingi, Mingi, Mingiiii.”
The name becomes a chant together with needy whines that’s drowned out by your soaking pussy. Mingi lets the force of his palm stimulate your clit instead, and the visual of seeing him on his knees with this tongue out—
“F-fuck…” Your orgasm hits you in sudden waves, sending you jerking against his hold even when his fingers don’t slow down, “Feels s’good, Mingi—”
“There we go, baby, keep cumming… Taste just like honey.” Mingi groans and drives his tongue along your folds for a taste, but now he takes and takes, savouring whatever you have to give. Sweeter than his Lemon Drop, you taste so heavenly that he wants seconds.
But you have other plans, trying your best to regain your balance and simultaneously drag him up by the biceps. Mingi traps you in between the cabinet, and you trap him with a passionate kiss. Moaning into his mouth at your taste while he soothes your aching thighs with his gentle touch.
“Bed. Now.” Your cheeks warm as he laughs against your lips at your request.
“You got it, doll.” With a hand outstretched, you grab hold and let him lead you just like the club. Along the way, you slip on your underwear just so you won’t be butt ass naked and he throws you a small smile. Except this time, you’re not performing for anyone, not for Hyunjae, not for yourself, and hopefully not for Mingi.
Though, if riding Mingi’s tongue had you thrashing left and right, you think you’d be safe, knowing he’ll take care of you.
His room feels strangely familiar — posters and records plastered up everywhere with a portable closet and pretty lights. There’s a few guitars in cases with one displayed proudly while his desk is littered with cute trinkets and a gaming set-up. It’s a lived-in bedroom, worn down from years of tape on walls and accidents from silly dance moves.
“Hard to believe I’m an adult with this room, huh?”
You smile at him, finding it endearing he’s still kept his hobbies and favourite things close to him. “No no, it’s charming. I like it.”
You continued, “I don’t think having a ‘serious’ job like bartending immediately eliminates your other hobbies.”
Mingi shoots you that boyish grin again, “You think my job’s ‘serious’?” and mimics your air quotes.
“Well, you are handling alcohol — it seems pretty serious, don’t you think?” There’s no choice but to giggle when Mingi’s expression turns from all-knowing to pondering. “And— And there’s always the usual brooding persons that come in to vent their problems to you.”
Mingi bursts out laughing at that with an attractive rasp to it, plopping on his Queen size. “You’re not wrong about that. I guess I’m sort of like a therapist too.”
Like a magnet, you feel the pull into his arms just as he whispers a c’mere, finally able to see his face properly when you stand in between his legs.
The glistening juices on the bottom half of his face make you flush just a bit, but up close, Mingi feels so familiar. Not the way Hyunjae was — that was habit disguised as familiarity.
But despite your unconfirmed fate and the possibility of never seeing Mingi again, he enchants like no other. Fuck, you were talking crazy.
The other seems to see your dilemma, reaching for your hands. “We don’t have to do anything, you know?”
His touch is so tender, it makes your heart ache, “I know we only danced to scare off your boyfriend but I genuinely did want to know you. And… I know you feel it too, but I don’t wanna pressure you after seeing such a shitty thing in the club.”
“You’re… not wrong, Mingi. It has been only a few hours and you’ve already made me feel more worth than he ever did but, I’ll need time to process my feelings too.”
Slowly, you remove your hands from his but only to straddle him in the next second, whining softly when he tugs you closer if that was even possible.
“But tonight, I want you to fuck all the feelings out of me. I don’t wanna think, I don’t wanna—” You heave a heavy sigh, swallowing when you think back to Hyunjae and his colleague.
Mingi applies light pressure to your side to ground you. “(Y/N), hey, it’s no problem. Your wish is my command, tonight.”
“And after—”
“We’ll talk about the after later, don’t worry your pretty little head ’bout it.” You don’t even realise he’s flipped you over but he takes his time to remove his pants and boxers, ego stroked just a little when he sees your wide eyes at his size.
“You’re…”
“I know, baby. We’ll take it slow, alright?” Mingi is steady even as he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him.
“Wanna feel all of you.” He swears his heart bursts at your cute pout. “I’m clean and on the pill, that okay?”
“More than okay. I’m clean too. You sure you’re okay?” He asks as he tugs your panties to the side, interrupted briefly from your impatient hum.
“Yes, Mingi. Please just fuck me already.” Your voice is less bratty, more pleading, but it strikes a chord within him. He obeys immediately.
“Okay, okay!” His deep laugh elicits one out of you, too. At least you don’t stop him from taking the lube — he spurts a good amount and strokes himself with a soft grunt, mixing in with his pre-cum. Relief. “It’s gonna hurt. Need you to breathe and relax, okay?”
Mingi’s already much thicker than your ex, and you hiss slightly at the stretch once he inches his cock in. But it’s nothing you can take, eyes trained on how he’s pushing through slowly.
“F-Fuck, baby, you gotta stop clenching. So tight—” You whimper at the sight, but Mingi uses his body to push you down, distracting you with deep kisses that subconsciously relaxes your body. His intoxicating smell and presence does the rest of the job.
“Taking me so well, good girl.” He mumbles into your skin as you become obsessed with the way his body engulfs yours, towering but certain.
His pendant’s movements are messy, colliding with your chin over and over but Mingi is just so deep it doesn’t register in your head. “Just a little more, honey, you got it.”
In the next minute, Mingi’s loud groan fills your ears, bottoming out in your walls that feel so warm that he never wants to pull out.
His furrowed eyebrows with sweat lined along it paired with his beautiful parted lips is enough to make your cunt pulse and heart full — making a pretty man like him lose his mind over you, desperation and profanity spilling over.
“M-Move, baby, please—” With a slow thrust of his hips, he has to drop his head to yours because you just feel too fucking good wrapped around his aching length. Both your shaky breaths mingle as he sets a comfortable pace that allows you both to feel every part of the other.
And his languid movements have never felt slower and more intense, the obscene noises of your soaking pussy stuffed full reverberating off the walls. It surrounds you like a cloud, making the feeling, the sensations rise to an all time high.
It’s worse when Mingi folds your legs to your chest, the image of his shaft disappearing into your pretty little pussy searing itself into his brain.
Mingi keeps his promise to you, taking your one-worded pleas and turning them into repeated “ah’s” with no room for any word or any doubt left in your mind. By now, he’s pistoning in and out of you, your release from earlier merging with the lube until both you and Mingi are filthy and soaking, juices flowing down your thighs and right into his sheets.
“You’re so wet, holy f-fuck—” His eyes are the ones struggling to stay open now, drunk off of everything you that he can’t even move his hips properly, stuttering every now and then.
There’s the delicious squelches every time his skin meets yours, the dizzying pap! pap! pap! that hypnotises you. “Listen to how wet your sweet pussy is, baby.”
You’re past words, only babbling incoherence as Mingi grunts above you, continuing to fill you up with his cock. His thrusts start to turn erratic, so lost in the feeling that the grip on your legs loses its hold. You take the chance to wrap them around his waist, barely catching his pendant and yanking him towards you.
“Kiss me stupid, Mingi.” The long, drawn out moan against your lips sends heat bubbling up from inside you. And the kiss he lands on you leaves fire along your skin, burning indefinitely until a particular thrust has your eyes rolling back.
“Cumming— f-fuck—!” It comes out in broken sobs as you see white, cumming so hard on his pulsating length that your juices spray everywhere and your legs shake uncontrollably. The slight sheen along his cock starts to form a ring of white and he whines at your warmth.
Everything — the craving for you, your tight cunt, how you leak all over him — makes him cum right after. “I-I’m gonna pump you full, baby— shit…”
Your eyes can’t help but roll back again at the sensation of Mingi painting your insides white, cum spurting so deep in you that you can feel it flow out. It’s so warm that you squirm as he holds your hips down, making sure your hole gets every last drop.
Without pulling out, he admires your sweaty top that’s been pushed past your tits, your heaving chest and the remnants of your trembling thighs with a lip bite accompanied by a smile.
Silently, he caresses your outer thighs, slowly bringing your feet down to rest on his soaked sheets. You whimper when you feel him pull out, the salacious sight of cum leaking out from your pussy comes out in blobs; it takes everything in Mingi to compose himself.
Because you were utterly fucked out, eyes constantly blinking with a light-headed expression that tells him he might’ve fucked you dumb. Your little sounds are just adorable that he rubs his cum just one last time over your folds, claiming you.
“Okay okay, baby, I got you.” With a peck to your forehead, Mingi promises to come back with a wet rag and some water and the last thing you remember is sage and citrus wafting through the air as he plants a sweet kiss to your lips. “And then tomorrow, we’ll figure everything out, okay honey?”
You drift off easily, but you’ll find that for now and possibly forever, Mingi always keeps his promises.
A dream — you think, when you wake up, but you recognise that the bedroom is not yours and the ache in your body persists. But to your dismay, Mingi is nowhere to be found. Not until you hear faint humming coming from the kitchen and smell the lovely aroma of pancakes.
“Morning, baby.” Mingi says like you’ve always been in his life, like you’ve lived here for many years, like you’re familiar to him.
“Y-Yeah, good morning, Mingi.” Awkwardly, you take a seat at his island, but as you watch his broad back cooking breakfast for his one-night stand, you relax for a bit.
Mingi piles a few pancakes for you effortlessly, sliding the plate to you, followed by the butter and then holds up maple syrup in his left hand and honey in the other. The question is unsaid, but you nod towards his right with a small smile that’s returned.
“Eat.” With a plate in his hand as well, he plops down beside you as if one-night stands don’t complicate feelings and makes things messy.
But Mingi, the bartender, with a pure heart and even lovelier soul (you have yet to discover this), eats a meal beside you like you’re tied together by fate (maybe).
(You are).
Now, his deep voice sounds small, but sure. “And then we’ll talk feelings after. And we can talk about the ‘after’ after.”
A deep breath for good measure and luck. “And also maybe about the date I’d wanna bring you on.”
by. janus, from me to you ♡ also major thank you to this video which made me lose my mind n inspired this...
Warning: basically porn without plot, there is more sex than talking tbh, mingi is a horny freak, use of sex toys, phone sex, clothed sex (mingi is whipped for what reader is wearing), oral both giving and receiving (he’s so mean 🥀), SPIT, unprotected sex (stay safe yall), doggy (it’s not mingi coded when he doesn’t take it from the back😈), lemme know if I missed something
-🩷🩷🩷-
Ahh it’s finally time 🤩 thank you @everyonewooeverywhere for this opportunity I had so much fun!!
Note: I was struggling a bit on what to write for you @sangis-puppy . A dream of mine may or may not have inspired me to write this. (We don’t talk about which part of the fic😔) anyways I looked up what your favorite tropes are but since mingi and reader are already dating, I put some sprinkle of enemies type shit in it, I mean he fucks her like he hates her tho…(no boy is whipped he loves her so much) so I hope you have fun reading it Ri 🩷 please let me know what you think 🤩
The soft glow of your phone screen painted your face in hues of blue and white. The apartment, usually vibrant with Mingi’s booming laughter or the beats of the music he’s working on, felt empty tonight. Only the distant sound of the city was heard through the closed windows. Mingi’s face, sharp and handsome as always even through the poor connection, filled the screen of your phone. He leaned against the pillows of the bed in his hotel room. He looked tired.
"Just finished up some things with the members for the show tomorrow," he murmured tiredly. "My ears are still ringing." You pulled the straps of your nightgown higher on your shoulders, the fabric cool against your warm skin. "Rough day?" you asked, your voice soft compared to his deeper tones. You looked to your right. His side of the bed was wide and empty. It felt colder than usual. You missed him so much.
A sigh escaped his lips. "Long day. But seeing you makes it all worth it." His gaze on you felt like a physical touch, warm and familiar. "What about you? Did you manage to survive without me?" A playful smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Barely," you shot back, a smile forming on your face. "The fridge is still stocked, so I haven't starved yet. And the plants are alive, surprisingly." You shifted, pulling the blanket up to your chest.
He chuckled. "Good to know my plants are in good hands." His eyes dropped, tracing the line of your collarbone visible above the silk. "You look… comfy." A sudden ring of the doorbell cut through the quiet intimacy of your conversation. Your brows furrowed. "Who could that be?" You glanced at the clock on your bedside table.
Past eleven.
"Whoa, hold on," Mingi said clearly concerned. "Don't just open it. Check the peephole first."
You pushed yourself up, the nightgown clinging to your curves as you moved. "It's probably just a package delivery. I ordered those new books I told you about." You swung your legs over the side of the bed, your bare feet padding softly on the cool wooden floor. The phone, still displaying Mingi's anxious face, remained clutched in your hand.
"At this time? Still, be careful," he insisted, his voice a little sharper now.
You walked towards the front door, the light from the hallway spilling into the living room. As you neared the door, you held the phone up, angling it so Mingi could see. You peered through the peephole. "It's just the neighbor," you reported, relief washing over you. "He's returning the baking dish I lent him last week."
After a quick exchange of pleasantries, you closed the door, locking it securely. Turning, you walked back towards the bedroom, the soft fabric of your nightgown swaying with each step. The thin silk clung to your hips, emphasizing the curve of your ass. Mingi’s eyes, which had been fixed on your retreating figure, were now wide, a mischievous glint sparkling in them. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, replacing his earlier concern.
He leaned back against his pillows, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering on the way the silk draped and clung to your body.
"Well, well, well," he purred, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "Look what I missed." You felt your cheeks flush even hotter, a warmth spreading through your entire body. You climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up, but his eyes still seemed to pierce through the fabric.
"What are you talking about?" you asked, feigning innocence, though you knew exactly what he meant. The way his eyes devoured you, the sudden shift in his demeanor, it was all too familiar. Oh he wants to play.
"That little show you just put on," he clarified. "Walking away like that, in that… thing." He paused, his eyes gleaming. "You know how much I love seeing you in my shirts, but that little piece of silk… that’s a whole different kind of torture."
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. His words felt incredibly intimate, wrapping around you like a physical touch.
“It’s just my nightgown, Mingi," you managed, your voice barely a whisper. "Just your nightgown?" He scoffed with a shit eating grin. "Don't play coy baby. You know what you do to me. You know what I'm thinking right now." His gaze was intense, the grin gone now, making your skin tingle with anticipation. "I'm thinking about fucking you in it. I'm thinking about the taste of your skin, the taste of your sweet sweet cunt, the way your body responds to my touch."
A shiver ran through your body, your pussy throbbed at his words. "Mingi," you breathed followed by a small whimper. He ignored your protest, his voice becoming more insistent. "I wish I was there right now yn. I wish I could reach through this screen and pull you into my bed. I'd have you screaming my name baby, until all you can feel is me and only me."
His hand disappeared from view, and you heard a faint rustling sound, a soft groan escaping his lips. You knew what he was doing and your breath hitched. "I want you so bad, I can almost taste you," he continued, his voice a low growl. "And it's killing me, being so far away from you. But that doesn't mean we can't still play, does it?" His eyes dark and knowing, locked with yours.
"Go get it."
You frowned confused. "Get what?" He chuckled. "Don't tell me you forgot, baby. The little present I sent you last week. The one that's supposed to keep you company while I'm gone." His gaze dropped, a suggestive glint in his eyes. "The one that's a perfect replica."
Your mind raced, a sudden jolt of recognition. The package that arrived two days ago, tucked away in the back of your bedside drawer. You hadn't even opened it yet. A blush spread across your entire body. "Mingi, no," you whispered, though a thrill of excitement coursed through you.
"Mingi, yes," he countered, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "Go on. Get it. I want to see you with it."
Hesitantly, you reached for the drawer, your fingers fumbling with the knob. You pulled it open, revealing the small package nestled amongst your lingerie. Your heart hammered against your chest. You pulled it out, a sleek black box, surprisingly heavy. "Open it," he commanded. "Show me what's inside."
Your fingers trembled as you tore at the packaging, revealing a red velvet box. Inside lays a perfectly sculpted silicone dildo. It was long, thick, and undeniably realistic. Your eyes widened. It was exactly as he described, a perfect copy. The same girth, the same length, even the subtle curve you knew so well.
Well?" he prompted, his eyes filled with anticipation. "Is it everything you remembered?"
You lifted it from the box, the smooth, firm silicone cool against your fingertips. It felt so real. Your cheeks burned. "It's… it's big," you managed, your voice barely audible.
He let out a pleased groan. "Just like the real thing, isn't it, baby? Now, I want you to do something for me." His voice dropped to a low, seductive whisper that made your insides clench. "Go to the bathroom. Get the lube. And bring that mirror from the hall."
Your eyes widened. "Mingi, what are you—"
"No questions," he interrupted, his voice firm. "Just do it. I want to watch you."
You gulped. You knew there was no arguing with him when he got like this. He loved to push your boundaries, to explore the depths of your desires.
And you loved it.
You rose from the bed, the dildo clutched in one hand, your phone in the other. You walked into the bathroom and grabbed the lube from the cabinet. You made your way towards the hall to pick up the full length mirror, dragging it back into the bedroom, positioning it carefully against the wall opposite your bed.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the replica resting on your lap. Mingi's eyes, wide and hungry, watched your every move from the phone screen.
"Good girl," he purred. "Now, I want you to sit on the floor, right in front of that mirror. And put the toy right between your legs."
Your breath hitched. This was it. The real show. You slid off the bed, kneeling on the floor. The mirror offered a full view of yourself. Your nightgown was hiked up around your thighs, leaving your bare ass exposed to the cool air and more importantly to Mingi's gaze. You placed the silicone dildo on the floor between your spread knees.
"Now, the lube, baby," he instructed, his voice thick with anticipation. "I want you to really get it good and wet. Make sure it's slick, ready for you."
Your fingers fumbled with the lube cap, your heart pounding against your ribs. You squeezed a generous amount onto your fingertips. You began to spread it over the shaft of the replica, coating it thoroughly.
"That's it," Mingi breathed, a low groan escaping his lips. "Get it nice and wet. Don't be shy. I want it dripping." You continued, working the lube into every curve and crevice of the silicone, making it shimmer. Your clit, already throbbing with anticipation, pulsed against your panties.
"Now, I want you to slowly, very slowly, lower yourself onto it," he commanded, his voice like a hypnotic whisper. "I want you to feel every inch of it sliding inside you. I want you to watch yourself in that mirror, baby. Watch how good it feels."
Your gaze flickered to your reflection in the mirror. Your wide eyes met your own. You took a deep, shaky breath as you began to lower yourself, inch by agonizing inch. The head of the replica pressed against your wet pussy lips, a blunt, insistent pressure. A gasp escaped your lips as it began to slide inside, the slick silicone gliding against your walls. It was overwhelming.
"Oh, god," you whimpered, your body trembling.
"You like that, baby?" Mingi's voice was rough. "You like how it feels? Just like me, isn't it?"
You pushed down further, feeling the thick shaft fill you completely. A moan, long and drawn out, escaped your throat. “F-fuck yes feels like yours”, you whined.
Your pussy gripped the silicone, like it does when Mingi is inside you. It was so deep. "That's it," he urged deeply. "Now, I want you to move. Slowly at first. Just a gentle rock. Show me how much you want it."
You began to rock your hips, a hesitant, circular motion. The friction of the silicone against your sensitive walls sent shivers of pleasure through you. You watched your reflection, your face flushed, your eyes half closed and your mouth open. "Faster, baby," he demanded, his voice growing more urgent. "I want to see you working it. I want to see you riding it like you ride me."
You picked up the pace, your hips moving with more confidence. A soft slick sound filled the room as the silicone slid in and out of your pussy. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps. Your hands instinctively went to your hips, pressing down, urging yourself deeper onto the toy.
"Oh, fuck, yes," Mingi groaned. You took a look at him. He watched you intensely while biting his lip. "Look at you, baby. You're so wet for me. So hungry." You heard a distinct, wet slap coming from his end. he was stroking his own cock with vigorous intent. "I can almost feel you around me. Tight and hot."
You closed your eyes for a moment, imagining his hands on your hips, guiding your movements, his cock buried deep inside you. The fantasy intensified the sensation, making your climax feel closer. "I want you to tell me what you feel, baby," he commanded, the sounds of him touching himself getting louder. "Tell me how good it feels to have me inside you."
"It's… it's so good, Mingi," you gasped, your voice thick with pleasure. "So full… so hard." You rocked your hips harder, faster, the slicking sound growing louder, more insistent.
"Good," he breathed, a low, satisfied growl. "I want you to push down. Feel me stretching you. Feel me filling you up." His voice was hoarse, strained with his own building climax. You could hear his heavy breathing, the frantic pace of him stroking his cock growing faster.
You pushed down, grinding your hips against the silicone, feeling it deeper than before inside you. A wave of intense pleasure washed over you, making your entire body tense. Your pussy pulsed around the toy, clenching and releasing, drawing it deeper, not wanting to let go of it. "Oh, god, Mingi," you cried out, your voice raw. "I'm so close."
"Let it go, baby," he urged lowly. “Let it all out for me. Come for me baby." You pushed your hips down, riding the toy with desperate urgency. It takes one last thrust and a wave of pure pleasure crashed over you, making your body arch, your back bowing. Your toes curled at the sensation and a long drawn out moan left your lips. You collapsed onto the floor with the toy still inside you. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm. Your legs felt like jelly, your pussy throbbing, spent but wanting more.
Mingi’s face on the screen was flushed, his hair disheveled, his eyes heavy lidded. He let out a long, shuddering breath, a faint groan escaping his lips. "Fuck, baby," he whispered, his voice rough. "You are incredible. Absolutely incredible."
You slowly pulled yourself off the replica, letting it clatter softly to the floor. You lay there for a moment, catching your breath, the lingering tremors of your orgasm still rippling through your body. "I wish you’re here," you whispered.
He chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "Believe me, baby, so do I. But don't worry. This is just a little something of what is waiting for you." He leaned closer to the camera, his eyes dark and intense. "When I get home, yn, I'm going to ruin you, using that mouth and pretty pussy of yours. I'm going to make sure you can't walk for a week. You hear me?"
A shiver ran through you. "I hear you," you whispered, a soft smile gracing your lips.
"Good," he said, the shit eating grin from before now back on his face again. "Now, get some sleep. You're going to need your rest." He gave you a final, lingering look. "I'll call you tomorrow."
And with that, the screen went black, leaving you in the quiet aftermath, the scent of sex and lube lingering in the air.
You got up on wobbly legs and dragged your tired body back to your bed, thinking about cleaning up the mess you made tomorrow. Closing your eyes with a satisfied smile on your face you drifted slowly to sleep.
Today was finally the day.
Every ticking second felt like a year. You’d spent the last hour pacing around the living room, pulling at the fabric of your nightgown in nervousness. It was the same one, the one you’d worn that night he called, rememberig his low promising voice through the phone.
The lock clicked. A sharp sound that sliced through the quietness, made you stop in your tracks. Your breath hitched and the door swung open.
Mingi.
His hair, a little longer now, framing his handsome face. His eyes, usually so bright, held a deep, hungry glint. He was scanning you from head to toe. His heavy duffel bag slumped to the floor beside him, long forgotten. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. One long stride and he was in front of you. His hand found the curve of your waist, possessively pulling you flush against him. Your lips met, raw and full of need. You missed him so much.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, deepening the kiss. His warm hands slid down your back, pulling you closer to him. They dipped lower beneath the silk, finding the bare skin of your thigh. A low growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your own. "Missed you," he breathed, the words a whisper against your mouth, before his lips were on yours again, more desperate this time.
You arched into him. He groaned, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. You yelped in surprise when he grabbed your thighs to lift you up. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your arms tightening around his neck.
Without much effort he moved through the apartment, passing the living room and the kitchen, heading straight for the bedroom.
The bedroom door stood open when he entered the room. The city lights from outside illuminated the room in a faint glow. He lowered you slowly, not to the bed, but to your feet, his grip still firm on your waist. His intense eyes raked over you. He smiled knowingly at you.
"Still wearing it, I see." His thumb traced the delicate lace trim of your nightgown, just above your breast. "Two weeks ago, you called me in this. Do you still remember what I told you baby? All the things I want to do to you?” A flush spread across your cheeks. You remembered that phone call, the desperate whispers, the promise in his voice when he told you what he is going to do once he’s back home.
"Yes, I remember,” you whispered back, your voice a little breathless. His gaze sharpened. "Good." He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "On your knees. Now." His fingers tightened on your waist, one hand moved, pushing gently on your shoulder. You stumbled back a step, then another before you landed on the floor with a soft thud, a surprised gasp escaping your lips.
You looked up at him in anticipation. He stood in front of you, broad chest, wide shoulders and thick thighs. You bit your tongue, stopping yourself from making any humiliating sounds you might regret later. He pulled his shirt over his head, ignoring the pleading look in your eyes.
„My sweet sweet baby,“ he murmured to himself while opening the button of his pants. He pulled the zipper down, revealing his hard cock. No underwear. Full on commando.
Fuck.
„What’s with that look baby? Did you forget? I told you, I’m going to use that pretty mouth of yours“, he whispered. With that he pushed his pants all the way down before stepping out of them. „And you’re going to love every fucking second of it.“
His thick cock pulsed with a life of its own, rock hard in front of your face, begging to be touched.
You looked up, your gaze drawn to the thick head of his cock, glistening with pre cum. You see the familiar thick vein down the shaft, making your mouth water. He reached down, his finger curling around your jaw, tilting your head back. His thumb pressed into your cheek, digging in slightly.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his dark eyes boring into yours. “You know what comes next.”
You nodded. Your tongue darted out, wetting your lips. He saw it, a dark smirk on his lips.
“Pretty girl,“ he drawled, his grip on your jaw tightening. He kneeled down, nearly being face to face with you when he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “Open your mouth. Tongue out.“
You did as he told you embarrassingly fast. He chuckled at your eagerness. He pressed the tip of his thumb against your tongue, playing with the saliva on it before spitting directly on your tongue. You closed your eyes at the feeling and just as you wanted to close your mouth to swallow, the sharp tone of his voice stopped you.
“Don’t.“
You whined and opened your eyes, your gaze glassy with need. He grinned knowingly while standing back up to his full height. “Open wider baby,” he commanded, his voice returning to that low rumble from before. He released your jaw but his eyes never left yours. You opened your mouth wider, your spit dribbling down your chin. He gripped his cock and pushed it slowly forward. The tip thick and heavy, brushing against your lower lip first then sliding past to press it against your tongue.
He was huge, filling your mouth almost instantly. You couldn’t stop the gag, your throat tightening, the fear of choking rising within you.
“No, no, no,” he whispered. He gripped the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. He pushed. “Deep. All the way.”
The head of his cock was already stretching your jaw, pressing against the back of your throat. Your eyes watered, your stomach churned. You tried to breath through your nose but it was hard, you felt like drowning in him. He pushed harder, the base of his cock pressed against your face. Your mouth stretched impossible wide. Every muscle in your face aching.
Your gag reflex fought him, you tried to get off him but his hand on your head was firm. He hold you there for a long tormenting moment, letting you feel the full, suffocating size of him. Your eyes wide and teary pleaded with him. „Good girl“, he purred, a cruel satisfaction in his voice, ignoring your pleading eyes for a short moment before he pulled back. Just an inch, giving you barley two seconds before pushing forward again. Slow, making you feel everything of it. You choked, a wet and desperate sound. Your hands reached up, gripping his thighs hard.
“Suck it,“ he ordered as he leaned down. “Show me how much you want it.” He began to move, a slow grinding rhythm. He pulled back, almost to the tip to plunge forward again, driving his fat cock deep down your throat. Each thrust was brutal, your jaw ached and your throat burned. A low moan escaped his lips as he continued his relentless pace. He gripped your head tighter, holding your head still, forcing you to take him deeper, faster.
You closed your eyes, focusing on the taste of him and the feeling of his cock filling your mouth completely. “Eyes open baby, don’t wanna miss anything,” he groaned. You tried keeping your eyes open, watching him with blurred vision. Mingi looked down at you, lower lip tucked between his teeth while he’s using your mouth to his own satisfaction. His pace slowed down for a bit when he pushed all of his length all the way down your throat for one last time.
He pulled out, a wet disgusting sound echoing in the room. You gasped, your throat is burning making you cough hard. Your jaw locked open for a bit before snapping shut. Your mouth hurt and you tried to clear your dry throat. He looked down at you, his chest heaving and his eyes were still dark but there was something else too. His cock was still hard, now dripping with your salvia and his pre cum. He reached out, his thumb wiping across your lower lip smearing the mixture of your spit and his pre cum down your chin before tilting your head up.
See?” He murmured, his voice softer now but you hear the underlying sound of mockery. “Told you, you will love it.” He was right. You loved everything of it. Unable to think straight anymore you crawled from your current position forward, pressing your cheek against his thigh and looking up at him. You ignored the insistent pulse between your legs, your attention was solely on him.
Mingi watched you, a predatory glint in his eyes as you were still trying to regulate your breath. He gently stroked your hair, murmuring praises before helping you back up. Your legs felt like jelly and if it wasn’t for his tight grip on your hips you would be on the floor again. He kissed your cheek lovingly before putting his hand on your throat. He pushed you down, making you lay on the bed and leaned closer, his pelvis directly pressed against your center.
His lips hovered over yours, the hand around your throat still there. He kissed the corner of your lips, avoiding a direct kiss and chuckling at your poor attempt of chasing his lips to kiss him properly. He leaned back again. “So so needy aren’t you?“
He looked at you with so much intensity you could only nod, the gaze of him alone made you unable to think properly.
“Of course you are”, he murmured before he leaned down, his lips trailing from your neck to your shoulder, sending goosebumps across your skin. He nipped gently at your collarbone, eliciting a soft moan from your throat. His hand, no longer around your throat, slid under your gown, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your inner thigh. You gasped, your hips arching instinctively towards his touch.
“Hmm?” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “You’ve been so good baby. Behave, I don’t want to be mean to you.”
Mingi,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Touch me please.” He chuckled, a sound so low, it vibrated through you. “Like that?“ Before you could register what he meant, he directed a harsh spank on your still clothed cunt. Your body twitched, a broken moan left your lips. You tried to close your legs because of the impact but Mingi stopped you from doing so.
He leaned closer again, his lips nipping at your earlobe. “You’re only getting what I’m giving you, so behave or I’ll make sure it will hurt some more”, he whispered before coming back up to see your reaction. “Understood?”, he asked when you only watched him with big eyes and pouting lips.
“Yes, I’ll behave”, you murmured, voice quiet and trembling. Mingi bit his lip in approval when he leaned down again, his lips on yours, a hungry demanding kiss that left you breathless. His hand continued its journey, sliding higher up your thigh, his fingers teasing the delicate lace of your panties.
Your body was screaming for his touch but you didn’t dare to move around too much. He made it clear not to disobey him. He pulled back, his eyes dark with want. You could see he tried his best to hold back and not to fuck you stupid immediately. “So so wet,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against the damp fabric.
“Fuck, I bet I could just slide in, hmm baby? Sliding in like the toy. Pretty pussy can take it, i know she can.” A flush spread across your cheeks, but you met his gaze, licking your lips before answering. “Yes, yes she can please. I promise she can take you.”
He grinned mischievously while biting his lip. With that he leaned down and pulled your panties to the side, spitting directly on your clit and watching it running down your hole. You gasped, fully caught off guard by his sudden act.
“Beautiful”, he whispered. His voice coated in lust and desire. He pressed his thumb down your opening and sliding it up to your clit, rubbing your bundle of nerves in slow motion. His thumb, wet from your arousal and his spit, makes it easier for him to rub your now puffy clit in a steady rhythm.
“Fuck mingi please”, you begged.
He only chuckled and murmured something about you being needy before he leaned down, his tongue flicking out, tracing your sensitive folds. A jolt of pleasure shot through you, your hips arching off the bed. You cried out, a strangled sound of pure bliss. He chuckled, a low satisfied sound, as he continued to plunge his tongue deeper, teasing your clit with expert precision.
You moaned, your fingers burying themselves in his dark hair. Desperate for more you pulled him closer. His mouth was hot, wet and so fucking nasty. He’s sucking and licking around your clit, making your legs tremble. Your body convulsing with each stroke of his tongue. “Mingi,” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your body arching violently against him. “Please… I can’t…”
He pulled back, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Not yet, yn. Not until I’m satisfied.” With that he dived back in. He licked around your hole, his nose nudging perfectly against your clit, making you grip his hair harder than before. „Please, wanna cum mingi“, you begged.
A sob left your lips when he gripped your thighs, closing his lips around your clit and sucking hard. Your eyes rolled back, you missed his mouth so much. „Oh god, oh god please f-fuck“, you pleaded when suddenly the band inside you snapped and your orgasm washed over.
Mingi hummed satisfied, licking your release off you while helping you to calm down. You stayed like this for a while, you caressing his head with him being busy kissing your inner thighs. You hummed satisfied, your head lolling back against the pillows of the bed, being on the verge of falling asleep.
Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping when he sucked your clit again. “I’m not done with you yet”, he cooed. He got up on his knees, gripping your thighs as he made himself more comfortable between your spread legs. The hot skin of his thighs brushed against your own and you spread your legs wider.
He didn't bother to take off your panties. He flipped the hem of your gown up and pushed your panties to the side like he did before. Mingis hand merely reached down, just a quick adjustment to guide his hard cock to your wet pussy.
A soft moan escaped your lips as the head of his cock nudged against your clit. You were still wet, that he just slid inside. No struggle or resistance, just a smooth thrust that took your breath away. The sudden fullness and the sheer size of him, sent a jolt through your entire body. Your back arched, a silent scream of pleasure trapped in your throat. He paused, letting you adjust to his size for a moment. He’s not that of an asshole after all.
"Feel that?" he murmured, his voice a low growl close to your ear. His hips began to move in a rhythm that drove him deeper for him to pull back, only to plunge again. Even deeper than before. Each stroke was meant to find its way to your mind and straight to your core. Your clit, still throbbing from the initial contact, was now caught in the delicious friction of his movements, a constant nerve wrecking pleasure.
"Yes," you managed, the word a breathless whisper. Your hands instinctively gripped his hair, your knuckles turning white but mingi didn’t care. You could only think of him, of his cock and how he makes sure to fill you full to the brim. He picked up the pace and his thrusts becoming more insistent, more demanding. The pressure intensified and you’re close to cumming.
"So easy," he scoffed, his voice laced with a cruel satisfaction. You heard him but you chose not to say anything. Your vision blurred and your pussy clenched around him, milking him and begging for more. One last, deep and powerful thrust and it was over for you. A shudder ripped through you as you clenched around his cock.
“Fuck… oh shit fuck,” you moaned. Your hips buckled uncontrollably and your legs trembled as your release gushed out from your pussy, soaking the both of you and the bed beneath you.
He pulled back slightly, watching you intensely. Your breathing was ragged and your eyes glazed with pleasure. "Pathetic," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He withdrew his cock completely, the sudden emptiness a stark contrast to the recent fullness. A whimper escaped your lips, a tiny sound of loss.
“No,” you whimpered. “Want you back inside.”
He didn't acknowledge it. He reached down, grasping your hips and with a swift motion he flipped you over. You landed on your stomach with a yelp, your face pressed into the soft pillow. He lifted your ass up, exposing you to the cool air.
This time he pulled your underwear down your knees before positioning himself behind you, his knees pressing into the backs of your thighs.
You felt his hot breath on your neck, sending goosebumps across your skin. "Ass up," he commanded harshly.
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips up, giving him a full view of you ass, high and inviting. Your pussy, still throbbing from your recent orgasm, pulsed with need. Clenching and unclenching around nothing, waiting to be filled up again.
He nudged your ass cheeks apart with his hands, exposing your swollen pussy. His fingers traced your folds, a light, teasing touch that made you squirm. You felt his cock press against your asshole, a short, startling pressure. He pressed down slightly before he angled himself, guiding his shaft down your wet hole once more. He tried to push in in one go like before but your pussy was resisting, not letting him in smoothly.
He could barely push the tip in so he grabbed you by the hips and slammed his entire length in one go inside of you. A gasp tore from your throat as he fully entered. A thrust so deep you felt him in your throat. Your body trembled feeling overwhelmed all of sudden. He began to move slowly again, massaging your sweet spot with every stroke. Your breath hitched in pleasure.
"You like that, don't you?" he murmured darkly in your ear. His hips faster now, driving him deeper inside of you. Your pussy gripped him hard, leaving no room to pull out anytime soon. The constant thrusts against your spot made your head spinning. "Yes," you whimpered, the word barely audible. Your mind was a swirling, your legs began to shake uncontrollably.
He leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you tighter against him, deepening the penetration.
"Tell me what you feel," he urged, his breath hot against your skin. His cock slammed against your depths, a relentless rhythm that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. You were a babbling mess, incoherent sounds escaping your lips, your body writhing under his powerful strokes.
"So good," you moaned, the words slurred, barely recognizable. "Oh, Mingi… so good." Your voice was thick with pleasure. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper and meaner. Your still sensitive clit was now being stimulated by the constant friction, sending shockwaves through your body.
"Tell me you're mine," he demanded, his voice a low growl that vibrated through your bones. He fucked you in deep, slow strokes. Gripping your body so tightly, giving you no chance than to take it all. You could feel the rising orgasm in your throat.
"I'm yours," you gasped, the words torn from your throat, a desperate plea. "All yours, Mingi. Please." Your hips bucked wildly, your ass meeting his powerful thrusts, begging for the release that was so close. He drove into you, a final push and your body shattered. Your muscles tensed, your back arched and hot come gushed from your pussy, soaking the both of you and the bed.
He continued to thrust for a few more moments, giving you one last hard thrust before spilling his release inside your warm cunt. A groan left his mouth when he pressed his body down on yours, careful not to hurt you. He was still inside you, trying to regulate his breathing while caressing the soft skin on your hips.
Mingi kissed and sucked lightly at the skin of your cheek, making you giggle. “Feeling good baby?”, he whispered between kisses. You hummed in agreement. “Yeah, so good. You really did keep your promise. All that just because of a piece of clothing, huh?”, you murmured tiredly.
He laughed while moving the both of you carefully to the side, pulling you closer to his chest, still being inside you. “What can I say, I’m a simple man.”
Summary: You're just trying your best to get through college and stay on track; all of that gets ruined when you meet your new lab partner, Mingi, who has more than a couple skeletons in his closet.
Pairing: fwb!mingi x female!reader
Genre: angst | non-idol au | college au | smut | fluff
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 17.1k
Content Warnings: cursing, nicknames (princess, good girl), pinv, unsafe sex (don't do dat), oral sex f!receiving, fingering, panty sniffing (?), sensitive!mingi, mingi is v vocal and big yapper, mingi whimpering, hairpulling, shower sex, praise (lowkey), degradation (very lowkey), bigdick!mingi, marking, overstim, lmk if i forgot anything
Previous part; Masterlist
Author's note: As always I'm late asf and I owe someone my unborn children but thank you all for interacting w/ me sm and pushing me to write. Trauma dump time: as some may know, me and bf of 6 years broke up not too long ago so it's kinda hard to write about romance when you're questioning your own experiences with it, yk? That aside, school is sm, mcat is terrible, I hate med school, I hate the us med school application, but on a positive note, i love yall. Keep messaging me, everyone's keeping me sane rn! <3 hope yall like this part, I had sm fun writing it so pls enjoy and forgive me for being late but I'd rather put out something that I think is good as opposed to just anything. Tell me if it sucks tho lol, be so fr. Keep supporting this series and me thank you love you!! <3
Recap: After you worked up the courage to confess your feelings, you were rejected by a guy who got on his knees and begged you to hang out with him.
Up to this point in your life, there have only been two romantic relationships, both of which ended with someone telling you they don’t want you. You hate to say it, but it might be time to throw in the towel. After you brazenly told Mingi you wanted to be serious with him, and he flat-out said no, you went down a crazy spiral within the span of one hour. The second you got back to your apartment, you threw the jacket he gave you in the trash and blocked his number, email, and Instagram. The whole time, you were crying. You’re not sure if it was the alcohol or the sheer flood of emotions you were feeling, but you’ve never been so devastated. The internet was right: those 2–3-month-long situationships really do ruin your life. This hurt way more than your relationship breakup. Hysterical, you left without even thinking. Just grabbed your keys and drove home that night after pacing around your apartment for 15 minutes, overthinking every interaction you’ve ever had with him. While driving, you were crying so hard that you could barely see the road. Since you left your apartment without a second thought, all you have left to wear is your high school wardrobe. You do have the option to go back to your apartment since you live so close, but the thought of seeing him makes you wanna die. Not even trying to be dramatic, you have never been rejected like that. Obviously, you’ll recover, but, as with all things, this will take time.
For the first three days of your winter break, you’ve been locked in your room watching your comfort show, doom scrolling, and not showering. You didn’t have the heart to tell your friends what happened, but they eventually found out through the grapevine. They all dropped by one by one the next morning to try and make you feel better, but it was a pity party and left you feeling worse. You assured them that you were fine and this was just a slump that you’d be out of in no time. In actuality, you are so devastated that you cry for 20 minutes whenever someone brings him up. Today, while on your fifth hour of doom scrolling, you notice an Instagram ad for a new matcha café that opened up by your house. While rotting has been decently comfortable, you’re sick of wallowing in your self-pity and grossness. Today’s the day you’ll leave your room, with a matcha as your reward. You sit up in your bed and wipe all the crust off your face. You can’t stay sad and disgusting forever. So, you promptly rush to your bathroom to take an everything-shower and put on a cute outfit, in hopes that “look good, feel good” is real. Sentimentality isn’t your forte, but everything really does remind you of him, even the shower. You shed, maybe, three tears when washing your hair, thinking about that one time he washed your hair. When you’re doing your hair, you see hints and traces of him littered all over your chest and neck. The small hickeys and bruises fading away with every passing moment.
By the time you’re done with your hair, your body is mostly dry. You take out a pair of jeans and an old sweater, knowing you’re going to bulge at every seam. To your surprise, a pair of your favorite high school jeans still fit, but the sweater is a no-go. You take a second to check yourself out in the mirror. Your ass looks great, but even a fat ass isn’t making you feel better. To find a decent top, you have to rummage through your mom’s closet to find a normal-looking sweater. You settle for a black turtleneck with a hole at the back of the neck. Good enough.
Without texting any of your friends to come with, you leave your house, deciding it’s an alone day. Next semester is your last in college, and with the way you’ve been setting up your class schedule, it’s the lightest load you’ve had these past four years. You smile to yourself as you drive, thinking about all the free time you’ll have to do… something, probably. Well, at least now you’ll have time to actually develop a hobby. That’s something to look forward to.
The café was only an eight-minute drive away from your house. You don’t really have a preference between tea and coffee but you love a sweet drink. The café has a lovely, comfortable ambience with warm lighting, and a few seats, enough for people to study or hang out. There’s a relief in the thought that you’re in your hometown and won’t be seeing anyone from college. Every time you want to avoid Mingi you end up seeing him somewhere in public, so you’ve been very dodgy about going outside. You wait in line behind a group of teenagers as you scan through the menu online. This place is already very popular and they’ve only been open a week or so. All of a sudden, the group in front of you starts laughing and startles you. To give yourself some space you take a step back and step on the foot of the guy standing behind you. “Oh! I’m so sorry–” just as you turn around to apologize, you stumble over the stranger’s feet and suddenly fall backwards into him. Right when you muster up the courage to go outside, you go and embarrass yourself. “It’s fine, y/n.” The universe must be mocking you because while you were praying to avoid Mingi, you should’ve also prayed to avoid his best friend. The same guy who’s smiling because you fell on him. “Nice seeing you again.” You snatch yourself away from him and stand up straight.
“Hey Yunho…”
“Damn, okay. I didn’t think you’d be that upset to see me “
“Can you blame me?”
“I figured as much, that’s why I wasn’t going to bother you, but guess I got lucky.” The group of kids in front of you finishes ordering and moves out of the way. You turn around and walk up to the kiosk to select a drink. Just when you’re about to hit the checkout button, Yunho hits the “return to menu” button and scrolls through the options. You look over your shoulder to find him towering over you, his frame leaning against yours very comfortably. You’re guessing the kiss made him feel extra acquainted with you given how he’s so comfortable initiating physical contact right now. While a gorgeous guy touching you is definitely a good omen, you are freshly heartbroken.
“What are you doing?”
“Picking a drink.”
“There’s another kiosk.”
“Meh, this one’s fine.”
“Yunho, I don’t know what you’re doing–”
“Then, let me just get a drink.” You try to nudge him away from you, but he doesn’t budge, and you end up hurting your arm instead. He laughs watching you rub your bicep, “You really thought that would work? “
“Shut up.” He picks a drink and returns to the checkout page, you step up with your card, but he stands between you and the machine.
“It’s fine, consider it an exchange.“ You take a second to gawk at him and step maybe a foot away.
“An exchange for what?” He laughs again and quickly pays.
“Not the kind you’re thinking about. God, you and Mingi really are similar.” Before you can scold him for that comparison, he leads the way over to a free seating area. You take a seat beside him on an open couch, and he settles into his spot, crossing his arms. “Now, what happened with you and Mingi?”
“Ugh, I don’t wanna talk about–wait, he didn’t tell you?”
“He’s been refusing to speak to me, I wonder why.”
You gasp, “I can’t believe he’s victim-blaming.” You thought you whispered that but he chuckles. It doesn’t make any sense for him to punish Yunho for something you did.
“It’s fine. I’m not too worried about him. He’s always like that. After you guys fought, he came back and went straight to his room. I tried talking to him but he ignored me and left. I haven’t heard from him since, I was wondering if you knew–”
“I don’t.”
“Oh…” As he registers the news, they call your order number and he stands up to go get the drinks. It’s been four days and he still hasn’t told anyone? That’s really weird. Then again, what would he tell everyone? That he rejected you? Your fight caused a pretty big commotion. You’re sure a bunch of people heard everything you two said. You sigh thinking about how you’re just another crazy Mingi story now–“Well, don’t look too happy.”
“Oh, thanks.” You grab your drink out of his hands and place it on the coaster on the coffee table in front of you. “What are you doing here anyway? Isn’t your hometown a little bit farther?”
“Okay, stalker.”
“Shut up, Mingi told me.”
“Haha, yeah, makes sense. I just finished grading some papers for a class I TA for, so I’m heading home now. I saw this place as I was driving so I stopped in.”
“Really?”
“No y/n, I saw your car and did a stunt jump off a ramp on the freeway so I could meet you here. On my Spider-Man shit.”
“Aw, all that just to matcha and yap?” You take a sip of your drink, and your mood instantly improves. Yunho watches you light up and giggles to himself.
“Is it that good?” You warmly nod. He sips his drink while ruminating on something, “You seriously haven’t heard from him?”
“Do you think I’m keeping him captive in my basement or something?”
“I mean, it sounds like something he’d be into. “
“Who knows?”
“…you’d know, y/n.” You gently slap his arm.
“Shut up, that’s in the past now. Besides, I don’t think he’s worried about me, he rejected me.” You’re too busy having war flashbacks to notice the familiar look of sympathy on Yunho’s face. One way or another, you’ve somehow ended up complaining to Yunho about another man. He stares at you sipping your drink with a twinge of sadness plastered across your soft features. It makes his heart ache to see you go through one bad situation after another. Still looking away, thinking about that world-shattering rejection, you don’t register that Yunho is sitting closer to you.
“Hey, I’m not sure if this means anything to you, but he was really upset that night. I think he cried…” he places the gentle, consoling hand on your shoulder, but you swat him away.
“I don’t give a fuck! He literally told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship, word-for-word, when I asked him for something serious!” A few people seated around the two of you are now staring in your direction. If they were there, they’d get it. After Mingi made a fool of you and you made a fool of yourself, you poured your bleeding heart out to him just for him to tell you that the entire relationship, that he was so insistent on preserving, was a prank. The crushed hopes is one thing, but the public humiliation? That’s the worst part of this whole situation. You start to tear up thinking about it. These aren’t tears of sadness, but of anger. God, you really feel like a loser right now. It feels like you got used.
Yunho’s expression immediately drops once he sees you staring at the floor with fat droplets of tears building in your lower lash line. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was–” You sniffle and look to the side, he silently hands you a tissue that you take to rid yourself of the melancholy.
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” You sniffle again in hopes of sucking some tears back into your eyes, but that’s not how that works. “I know you’re worried about your friend, but I really wanna put all of this behind me. It’s already embarrassing enough.” He looks at you with a strained expression.
“Hey, I’m really sorry. I had no idea he said that…” That’s shocking. You assumed after the argument, he went back inside to tell everyone you were another psycho bitch and it just wasn’t working; or at least that’s the narrative you created in your head. “We all just kinda assumed you dumped him because–you know, you kissed me.” You look at your feet, avoiding his gaze and the shame. You forgot you forcefully kissed Yunho, and you’re sitting here venting to him about his best friend after you may have ruined their friendship. Jeez, you’re really on a terrible person streak. Since you’re already getting everything off your chest, it might be good to tackle that “shame” as well.
“Yunho, I’m really sorry about...kissing–”
“No, it’s fine. I didn’t–Mingi was actually more distraught than me.” You scoff.
“Distraught? What does he have to be distraught about? Rejecting me? Piece of shit.” The last few sentences come out as mumbles and grumbles.
He looks at you, all tenderhearted, you know he means well but this is starting to feel like another pity party. You look at him, “What?”
“Nothing. I don’t believe that he rejected you, y/n.”
“Welp, I don’t know what to tell you–”
“I mean, he really likes you.”
“So?”
“I don’t know, I’m just shocked.”
“Ugh, do you wanna talk about something else or you wanna keep going with this Mingi thing?”
“We can talk about something else but this is kinda juicy.”
“Okay, well, I’m done with all this. Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you on campus.” Sliding your keys and phone into the pocket of your beige winter coat, you stand up to leave. Seeing you get up so suddenly has Yunho rushing to block your way, “I’ll walk you to your car. For old time’s sake.” You smile, mildly amused by his strange actions and lead the way outside. As you’re walking, you think about how well-orchestrated this meeting between you and Yunho is. There’s also the fact that he tried to convince you to give Mingi another chance. You might be reaching, but why does this feel like an elaborate ploy? “You sure this is all just a coincidence? You running into me here?”
“No such thing as coincidences when you’re Spider-Man.” The words come out so casually from his mouth that you actually believe him for a second.
“What? What’re you talking about?” You laugh.
“Y/n chill, I just fuck with matcha.” You nod and then your acknowledgment turns into laughter.
“You’re so stupid.” You unlock your car, grab the handle, and pause before getting in. Turning around to look at Yunho one more time, you send him a sincere, genuine smile, “Thanks for hearing me out… as always.”
“Yeah, I got you. I love drama.”
“I’ll see you on campus?”
“Yeah, hopefully less drama then.” You giggle and enter your car. In addition to being tall and decently hot, you forgot that Yunho was also a good friend. Meeting Mingi has made you so lustful. You watch him walk to his car in the rearview mirror, then turn your car on and make your way home. While you are still sad about the whole Mingi problem, talking it out has definitely helped you see that you’re not missing out on anything. Maybe just a good fuck.
Later at night, you find yourself lying awake in bed, thinking about why you’re so upset when you barely even know the guy. It’s because Mingi brings out a different side of you. It’s a side of yourself you rarely explore, which is why he’s so addicting. He has you doing and saying things you would never even conjure a thought of. Being with him was exciting because you got to discover a new version of you, a very sexual one, but still new. It wasn’t just about the sex either, as much as you would’ve liked it to be. You also genuinely valued the connection you and Mingi had. He made you feel special—sexy, even. All the positive thoughts of Mingi fade when you realize you’re not the only girl who’s felt like this. From everything you’ve heard, he always makes girls feel special until he gets bored with them and moves on to the next one. Just a terrible cycle that only benefits him. When you think of it that way, it really puts into perspective that he’s not the person you thought he was. He’s actually the person he assured you he wasn’t. You’re mostly upset you gave him the benefit of the doubt. You won’t punish yourself for believing in the good of someone else, so while the hurt is still present, you must keep moving forward.
Not bringing any clothes is really the worst idea you’ve had in a while, either nothing fits or everything makes you look ten pounds heavier. Your friends are meeting up for your annual gift exchange, and you have nothing to wear. Your mom offered you some more of her cardigans; at this point, you have no choice. You’re all meeting today to build a gingerbread house so you’re gonna have to settle for your mom’s sweater and a pair of jeans that barely fit. This outfit has become your uniform ever since you came back.
Now that you don’t have to worry about school as much and there’s nothing to distract you from the shitty aspects of your life, all you can think about is Mingi. That might have been the one interesting thing in your life…jeez you really do need hobbies. You sigh as you walk up the steps to your friend’s porch. Ever since your fight with Mingi, whenever you think about him, you feel a dull heartache resonate through your body. You take a second before going inside to soothe your melancholy. As soon as you walk into your friend’s house, “Hey, I’m here,” it feels like the room goes silent. Everyone stops what they’re doing for a second and stares at you, not just a presence-acknowledging stare, but a lingering one. They already know what went on so why so awkward? “Guys… what’s up?” You awkwardly remove your jacket and scarf, placing them on the rack. They all send you sympathetic smiles and shaky “hi"s. “Oh my god! I know you guys know what happened. You guys are so bad at being subtle.” You slam yourself down on the couch, laughing but exacerbated. One of your friends brings the gingerbread house box to the coffee table and sits next to you. “Pookie, don’t be like that. We wanna make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” Your tone softens up because you realize that they’re trying to be sensitive to your feelings. She places a hand on your shoulder and you put yours over it, “Seriously, I’m good.” The way everyone is stepping on eggshells around you makes you more aware of the fact that a guy who was into you first rejected you. Another friend brings a tray of drinks to the table and everyone else follows behind her, gathering around you. You lean forward to check what kind of beverage it is, you snatch up a mug when you see hot chocolate. You’ve had enough alcohol during the semester, it’s time to give your liver a break.
“Girl, we know you’re fine, it’s just shitty of him to do that to you.”
“Yeah…it was really shitty but I’ll be fine, seriously.”
“Listen, you’re allowed to be upset. We’re not judging you.”
“I know you guys aren’t–”
“We’re just worried because we know how you are. Don’t blame yourself for this…” All of a sudden you have no more words to deny their pushing. This whole time you’ve just been thinking about how your friends were right and how you should’ve heeded everyone’s warnings. Even though you know they’d never judge you, it’s hard for you to admit they were right. You can’t help but tear up thinking about it, clenching your jaw. “I didn’t even like him that much. I only said that we should be serious because I thought…” You pause, feeling that heartache. “I-I just thought we had something–more between us, y’know–“Before you can even finish that sentence everyone hugs you.
“It’s not your fault for thinking that.”
” I know,” you sniffle and swipe away a tear or two, “I guess, it’s just hard to understand why because I didn’t think–things would end like that.” The pauses are necessary for you to maintain your composure and keep tears from spilling.
“Yeah, we understand.” One of the friends hugging you rubs your shoulder to comfort you. “I’m really not trying to bother you, y/n. I know how upset you are about this but not talking about it and saying ‘you’re fine’ will just make it worse.”
“Yeah, y/n, you’re not alone. We’ve all been through this. How many times have you had to hug us like this?” You look down as a tear runs down your cheek, quickly wiping it away. You nod, and a smile creeps onto your tear-stained face. Your friends take a couple more minutes taking turns to give you words of comfort, advice, and general support; all except one person. Everyone turns to look at the one friend, the one who accompanied you to the party, who’s been silently rubbing your knee this whole time.
“–Oh. Girl, fuck him and his goofy ass face. Let’s build this house.” Everyone laughs. While that may seem abrupt and insensitive to everyone else, it was what you needed to hear right now. You said this to yourself, Yunho, your friends, and basically anyone who knows about the situation, you’re ready to put all of this behind you. You don’t necessarily mean to elude your feelings; you barely got over your last heartbreak, only to fall into another. You wanna be free from someone else making you feel like shit. You need to find hobbies or some sort of distraction to get through this. Upon being handed a frosting tube, you begin laying down some foundation for the house.
You’re not sure why you forgot that building a gingerbread house sucks, but the second you started, you immediately remembered how much you hate doing it. The house fell apart multiple times until you gave up and started eating whatever frosting was left in your tube. “Y/n, I talked to that promoter I know and we’re leaving at 8 for New Year’s. So put that in your schedule or whatever.” You giggle because of how thoughtful she is. You begged her to finalize the New Year’s plans because you wanted to plan the day before and after.
“8? Isn’t that super early?”
“We need to pick up our wristbands. Don’t forget the dress, I want to take a picture of all of us with the skyline before it gets too crowded.” You slap your hand against your forehead because this is something you’re also not sure you forgot. The entire friend group decided to wear semi–matching dresses for New Year’s. You guys are going to some rooftop. One of your roommates, the one who knows every bartender, promoter, and bouncer ever, managed to get you guys into a New Year’s eve party. The theme is Y2K, but you all said fuck that and went with the classic sparkly black dresses. Yours is absolutely gorgeous, it’s the only midi dress of the group, but it has a very high slit going right up to the point where your panties would show.
Sidenote aside, now you have to go back to your apartment because you forgot your entire party outfit. You frown thinking about that stupid fucking mysterious force that constantly has you bumping into Mingi whenever you don’t want to see him. It’s fine, it’ll just be a quick in and out. Plus, you need clothes for your family’s Christmas dinner, since wearing your mom’s clothes is starting to run its course. Your friends have already made fun of you twice. While everyone’s busy snapping photos of the fully decorated gingerbread house, you’re still stuck on the couch, licking the frosting spoon, thinking about how you can avoid Mingi at all costs. There’s no way he’d be in town for any reason but you just have to make sure. You decide to text Yunho to subtly get the scoop on Mingi’s latest whereabouts.
-Heyy
Staring at that awkward text, you realize you should’ve put more thought into how you’d start a conversation with him. When you see him typing, you nearly throw your phone across the room, but manage to control your reaction.
-hey what’s up??
-matcha yap round two??
You quietly chuckle thinking about him using the word “yap” so casually.
-Oh lol no
-Maybe but I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Mingi around lately?
He starts typing, then stops, then starts again. A full minute passes of you, staring at your screen way too intently waiting for him to give you a response.
-yeahh we’re together right now
You’re about to shit your heart and stomach out. You could not have chosen a worse time to text Yunho. Before you can change the topic of the conversation, Yunho sends you a selfie of him and Mingi playing a video game, with Mingi sitting next to him focused on the game. This is the longest you’ve gone without seeing him and God, does he look so good. He’s wearing a plaid button-up with a pair of black glasses. He has so many accessories, mostly different glasses, rings, and necklaces. You have a very distinct memory of Mingi removing his rings before you did it. His hair is a little puffy, swept to the side with a slight wave to it, he might’ve showered not too long ago. His hair naturally dries like that. He likes to leave it sometimes because some days he likes the “natural vibes”, as he describes it. The glasses are nearing the tip of his nose, possibly sliding off due to the angle. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, a controller in his hands. The large, ring-clad hands fully engulf the controller, and you remember just how big they are. How they fully wrapped around yours. Shit. You’ve been staring at the photo for too long. You should say something.
-Glad to see that you two made up
-aw is that why you texted???
-Yes I’m very worried about your friendship
-no need to worry
-Thank god
-thought you wanted to move on miss independent??🤨🤨
Is he suddenly funny or are you deathly nervous because you’re laughing at every text he sends?
-Nooo I was planning on heading back to my apartment and I didn’t want to run into him
-you’re safe miss independent
-Thank you kind sir
Kind sir? You were trying to be funny, but isn’t that kind of cringe? No no you must remain positive, it was hilarious. At least now you know it’s safe to go back to your apartment without having to worry about running into the devil himself.
“Y/n, join the festivities or we’re kicking you out.” It’s way too cold outside for them to even be threatening something like that. With haste, you hop off the couch and head over to the kitchen island to stand with your friends. At the same time, they continue to vie for whoever captures the most Instagram–worthy picture. You suck at taking photos, so you’re letting them handle this.
“So… Who were you texting?”
“No one–”
“Yeah, y/n. You never told us about that guy you kissed. Mr. Physics?” Your eyes widen, and your movements still. You peered over to the friend that accompanied you to the party. She immediately avoids eye contact, you narrow your eyes at her, but she still doesn’t look your way.
“I say you should’ve fucked him.” You gasp as the room fills with laughter. Rolling your eyes, you lean your head on one of your friend’s shoulders, helping her adjust the camera angle to the best of your ability.
On the drive home, you think about how hanging out with your friends is so healing after your self–imposed isolation. All that wallowing really did a number on your mood, edging you ever so closer into a seasonal depression. After today, you’ve successfully avoided that terrible outcome, even though this is your worst breakup yet, if you can even call it that. Once home and in your bedroom, you fall back on your bed and stare up at the ceiling. This whole time you’ve been feeling like you’re the one who made the mistake but you’re not at fault. He genuinely had no reason to lead you on like that. A couple more days of overthinking Mingi’s behavior has made you realize that he really is the master manipulator everyone makes him out to be. It’s actually kind of impressive because he seems so dumb. When you actually think about it, anyone would fall for it and there’s some comfort in that knowledge.
Two days before Christmas, you’ve officially run out of clothes to wear; down to your last pair of underwear. You’re out of bras, in the lowest of lows, you even tried your bra from middle school which, of course, didn’t fit. It might be time to go back to your apartment. Truth be told, it’s not even about Mingi anymore, you’re just lazy. Your daily routine of waking up at noon, watching TV shows and movies all day, and then going to bed at 4am has been hitting the spot lately. Since you waited so long to get your clothes, you either have to do two huge loads of laundry or go to the apartment and pack a suitcase. Packing a suitcase seems like a lot less work so you grab your keys and head out of your house after dinner and maybe a movie or two.
The drive takes less than 15 minutes because it’s the middle of the night, hence, no traffic. You pull into the parking lot next to your building and notice how the town is basically empty. It really does feel like a ghost town around the holidays. Upon leaving your car, the cold winter wind rips through your body and you immediately regret not wearing more layers. A hoodie with nothing underneath will not suffice for these freezing temperatures. You rush over to your front door and it begins to snow. You really should’ve checked the Weather app before driving over. As you’re pulling your keys out, your phone starts to vibrate, it’s your downstairs neighbor calling. Sliding your finger across the screen you put the phone in the nook between your ear and shoulder as you bring the key to the lock. “Hey, what’s up!” It’s too dark to see the lock, so you shift your head to let the streetlight illuminate your door.
“Hey y/n, sorry to call so late, but I just saw you pulling in. I have some of your mail. I’m just getting back from a run so I can give it to you. I’m just around the corner. Be there soon.”
“Oh yeah, totally, no problem! Take your time.” You hear footsteps and turn around to him walking towards you from across the street. He’s a lovely older gentleman in his late 30s getting his PhD. You guys don’t really talk much but because his apartment is 1A and yours is 1B, so the mailman often gets mixed up. You grab your phone from your shoulder as you hear him drawing nearer, approaching you from behind. You turn around to say hi. “Hey–” You choke on your words.
“Y/n?” Your body freezes and you drop your phone. That’s not your neighbor. The figure draws closer into the light of your front steps, you turn back around and jam the key into the door. What the fuck are the odds? You go stiff, your heart sinks, and your stomach turns. As much as you hate to say it again, you’d fucking recognize that deep voice anywhere. You can hear him walking towards you, but don’t turn around. Instead, you opt to make your way into the building as soon as possible if you can get this shit to open. The front door has always had this problem: you have to jiggle the key a bit to get it to unlock. “Y/n.” There it is again, this time a bit closer. Holy fuck. You might just shit yourself right here. The sheer amount of shock you’re feeling right now could actually make you faint. Your breathing becomes erratic. Your head is spinning. You won’t turn around, you can’t, it’s too soon. You just started to heal–for fuck’s sake, why won’t the door open?! You keep jiggling the fucking key but luck is never on your side. “Hey, I just wanna talk. Please, hear me out.” He’s right behind you. You want to sink to the floor and disappear. You’d rather pluck out all of your lashes individually with a tweezer than talk to him right now. Seems like the gods finally heard you because your door opens allowing you to hastily make your way inside and slam the door shut behind you, but you’re not fast enough. Both of you put your full body weight on either side of the door. “Hey! Just listen–” You push even harder placing both hands on the door. You’ve never had to work this hard to open or close a door before. Obviously, you’re not as strong as him so he manages to overpower you and push the door open just enough so he can slip his way inside. As soon as he’s standing in the hallway in front of you, you turn around and make a dash for the stairs before even looking at him. Shout-out to epinephrine because your fight-or-flight is working today. He grabs your hand before you get too far away from him, “Y/n, please just give me a minute and I’ll leave. I promise.” You resist his grasp on you, still refusing to look at him. “Baby–” He attempts to pull you closer to him, but you snatch your hand away, or at least try to.
“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me!” You whip your head around, still struggling against him.
“I know you’re upset–”
“What are you even doing here? I mean–how did you even–are you stalking me!?” After failing to free yourself, you yield, leaving your arm in his grasp. There’s nothing you can do now. I mean, you could scream for help–
“I’ve been waiting outside your building for the past week hoping I’d catch you.”
“What?! That doesn’t even make sense–you don’t even–did Yunho tell you?” Stumbling over your words like a toddler, your frustration knows no bounds right now. There’s a million thoughts running through your mind and your brain is frying trying to pinpoint just one thing to be upset about. You even fucking planned to avoid him. Were you set up? What the actual fuck?
“He didn’t tell me…but I saw your name pop up on his phone and…I kinda went through it when he was in the bathroom.”
“What is the point of that, you psycho? You rejected me, remember?”
“Baby–y/n, I didn’t reject you—“
“Yeah? Then what does ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ mean?!”
“Y/n, as soon as you left I came after you but you left your apartment. I waited outside for a while because you blocked me on everything.”
“That’s not true. You didn’t ‘immediately’ come.”
“Okay, I took some time to process but I swear I came after you.” His gaze softens as he pleads for your attention, trying to make you face him. “At least look at me.” You feel all your anger starting to fizzle away when he looks at you like that, but you try your best to turn away again
and remember what he’s done to you.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I don’t care if you don’t wanna talk or see me. I’m not letting things end this way–I’m not letting things end at all.”
Once again, he tries to close the distance between you and him, you resist, but this time he overpowers you with his strength. You stand under his gaze, it feels like a spotlight, you don’t have the nerve to actually make eye contact. He nudges your phone towards you and you grab it, slipping it in your pocket. “About what I said that night. I just said I wasn’t ready because that’s what I always do. But when I saw you walking away–I don’t know, something just didn’t feel right.” His hand loosens up on your wrist and both of his hands slither their slimy way onto your hips as he draws you in. A gesture so disgustingly familiar that you forget to be mad and allow his touch to rest on you. “When I went back inside, I felt like shit and–I–I didn’t know why. I tried to call you, but you blocked me. And then, I got really mad and deleted your number, but I realized that was really fucking stupid. So I tried going to your apartment but there’s no numbers on those stupid ass bells so I kept ringing the wrong one. Your neighbor actually yelled at me, saying he was gonna call the cops–”
“Okay! Can you get to the point?”
“Yeah, sorry. What I mean to say is I thought a lot and I really can’t see myself happy without you. I want you to be my girlfriend–”
“No.”
“What?!” You pull your body away from his hands, he’s too shocked to pull you back in. “Why?”
“Genuinely, I don’t think you’re a good person. I don’t think you have it in you to be a good partner. Also, you’re a whore. All you care about is sex. You use every girl you meet and you bait all of them by being this nice, sweet guy, but then dump everyone once you get bored.” He just stares at you, you’re not sure how to decipher his expression. It’s a mix of surprise, anger, shock, fear. There’s some pride in staying strong and rejecting him. He just stands there, with that same expression. Truth is, no one’s ever said any of this to Mingi. He knows it’s partly true, but for some reason, it hurts that this is your perception of him.
“I’m literally in love with you–”
“No, you’re not.” You turn back to the stairs, hoping this is the rejection that sets him straight. You can only take one step before you are tugged back under that terrible spotlight once again. “There’s no way you changed your mind in one week. I know you still have feelings for me.”
“Of course I do, we had a very personal relationship. I’m not gonna be over you in just a couple days but I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s not healthy.”
“And you mean that?”
“Yes, now can you let me go? I have somewhere to be–”
“No. You’re wrong. It was never just about sex with you.”
“That’s your interpretation–”
“Y/n, I genuinely really love you.” That evil glare he always has on his face is suddenly absent, overtaken by this wide-eyed, desirous look. “That’s not just something I say. This is my first time saying it to someone–”
“Okay. Great. Let me go.” You manage to pull your arm away from his grasp and take another step towards the stairs, but he grabs you again.
“Y/n, I’m really not trying to bother you, but we really need to talk this out. We have something.”
“We’ve talked enough. Let me go or I’ll scream–”
“Scream. I don’t care. You can’t just let go of what we had–”
“I can do whatever I want. I literally asked you to be serious and you said no. Why do you think you can just show up at my apartment and I’ll drop to my knees because you think you love me or something? Now. Let. Me. Go.”
“No, I’m not letting you walk away from this.”
“Mingi–” You can feel the anger bubbling up in your stomach. “Why are you so persistent right now? You had no problem letting me walk away crying that night! You don’t get to do that to me, in public mind you, and walk in here like you own shit.” You shove him away with your other hand, his shoulder moves but his body stays in front of you. “Let go.”
“Fine, but–” He unhands you and you turn around to finally start walking up the stairs. “Y/n, can we please just talk about this?” You don’t respond and keep walking. When your silence is followed by his, you start to worry that he has given up. Just as a stroke of disappointment settles in your heart, he pulls you off the steps, forcing you to come crashing against him as you lose your balance. “Mingi, for fuck’s sake! I could’ve fallen down the stairs!”
“I’m sorry, y/n. Please, just give me another chance. I don’t wanna be away from you anymore.” He wraps his arms around you tightly, holding his face in the cranny of your neck. “Y/n, I’m sorry. Genuinely, I’m so sorry.” He removes a hand from your waist and grabs your face, your immediate reaction is to pry him off you.
“Let go–”
“Y/n, please.” His left arm stays around your lower back, pressing you back against the mailboxes. Your one hand claws at his, trying to force him to let go of your face and your other hand is placed against his throat, pushing him back. He attempts to put his lips on yours but your hand forces him away. Your hand remains on his lips, he kisses your palm, his tongue gently lips at the skin. A reddish hue overtakes his expression. Letting go of your face, he tenderly pushes your palm further against his lips and this time he places an open-mouth kiss against it. His tongue carefully licking a circle over the spot he just kissed. You know that move. “Baby…please,” his muffled words come out so desperate that you lower your hand from his face, entranced by him. Your hand fists the collar of his sweatshirt urging him away. Unphased by this, he hovers closer. Moving just slow enough to make sure you’re in agreement with his actions. His nose brushes against yours and his heat encompasses you. You take a deep breath through your nose, turning your face away when you exhale a trembling heave. Mingi doesn’t budge, remaining just as close. He patiently waits for you to move away or say something in retaliation, but nothing happens. The brief pause only makes the alarms going off in your head fifteen times worse. This drunken haze has your head spinning, you can’t think. As a last-minute attempt, you force your hand on his neck. His struggling gasps don’t move you as you keep applying pressure but he doesn’t back away. You lose all the strength in that arm when he looks at you like that, eyelids droopy, lips slightly parted. The hand on his collar even pulls him closer to you. His lips loom over yours, almost as if he’s waiting for your permission. The familiar smell of his cologne rushes into your senses as he wraps around you. Somehow he always knows what you want. Your eyes flutter shut and the hand resting on his chest wraps around his neck, tugging him nearer. You want him. He places his lips on yours causing you to immediately stop resisting him in every way. Letting go of his collar, your other hand slides up to his jaw to draw him in. The second your lips interlock with his, you immediately remember how much you missed this. It’s not desire; you can’t even find the words to describe what you’re feeling. His touch just feels right. The side of his face is dotted with melted snow; his skin is cold to the touch, but you feel like you’re on fire. You’re a little too eager to have both arms wrapped around his neck reaching up on your tippy toes as you slip your tongue into his mouth. When you calmly let your guard down, Mingi takes the opportunity to turn you around, now he has his back to the mailboxes as you stand in front of him, trying your best to reach his lips. His hands slide down your back, onto your ass. His right hand follows the curve of your body, his right hand runs down the side of your left thigh, lifting it up as he dips you back to keep kissing you. He slowly pulls back, biting at your lip, pulling it away with him. A motion so quick you forget to feel pain because of how scintillating the environment has suddenly become. Caught in a cycle of brief kisses and messy makeouts, you don’t even hear someone fiddling with the front door. He stands upright, and you follow his lead, back to the original position where you’re struggling to reach his plump lips. Your hands fall to his chest, tugging at the material. You whine, “You’re too far.” He giggles and his hands maneuver away from your ass to delicately push you off his body. Your eyebrows furrow. Whatever desire was building in your core is now dissipating into that familiar anger you were feeling. Before you can express your discontent, your front door swings open, and your eyes land on your neighbor. Upon spotting you, he waves and starts making his way over. You assume Mingi is just out of his sight behind a pillar as you turn your body towards him.
“Hey! Sorry, hope I didn’t have you waiting too long–” He makes it far enough to notice Mingi’s presence against the mailboxes and his expression immediately changes. “You! So you do know y/n.”
“Yeah, like I was telling you…” He sneers. You can hear the attitude in his deep voice and turn around to send a glare his way because his words are a bit harsh.
“Well, when you see a strange man lingering around a girl’s apartment it’s only right to be suspicious.” Your neighbor shoots back at him and you laugh at his remark. “Anyway, if you would just excuse me–” Mingi is standing against the wall of mailboxes with his arms crossed as your neighbor walks towards him with his key but stops in his tracks when Mingi doesn’t move. He looks around confused, wondering why this man is standing in front of him with a key. “Excuse me.” You grab the sleeve of Mingi’s shirt, pulling him towards you as your neighbor unlocks his compartment and starts rummaging through the stack of mail behind the tiny door. He pulls out two envelopes and hands them to you. “There we go.” He takes a second and looks between the two of you before saying, “Next time you want a girl’s attention, try throwing rocks at her window instead of ringing every bell.” Placing your hands over your lips to stop yourself from laughing at his blatant taunts, you look over at a seething Mingi, who’s clenching his jaw. That glare you sent him earlier was enough to make him grasp the message you were sending. So, instead of retorting, he fakes a smile and nods. After the older gentleman shuffles into his apartment, you turn to Mingi and give him a thumbs-up.
“I didn’t even hear him coming in.”
“I know.” A smug expression, that you are very acquainted with, creeps on his face. “Let’s talk.” He nudges his head towards the stairs, turning your body with his large hands and pushing you in the same direction. You angrily shove his hands away from you to walk up the stairs, “I’m going, don’t push!” He follows behind, smiling to himself. You really need to regain your composure and not let your needs get the better of you.
The apartment is empty, just like you knew it would be. You sit on the couch instead of walking to your room and Mingi is evidently confused by this change of routine. He’s never been in your living room longer than the two minutes it takes the two of you to say bye to each other. “No one’s home?” Shaking your head no, your hand pats the spot next to you. You mainly did this so you two can properly discuss everything. You also don’t want to be seduced by the thought of him fucking you because lord knows that’s the only thing on your mind since he spawned in front of you. He takes a seat a little too close to you so you scoot away.
“Seriously?”
“Say what you have to say.”
“Y/n, I love you.” You roll your eyes and let out a displeased sigh. “Don’t do that. You know I do…” You don’t say anything, all you do is cross your arms and turn away from him. “Y/n–” He scooches toward you and you stand up.
“Mingi, I don’t want this anymore.”
“What is ‘this’?”
“You. I don’t want you anymore.”
“Don’t say that. We just kissed, you’re saying you felt nothing?”
“That’s different. It’s a bodily reaction.”
“Baby, I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up, I swear. I seriously didn’t mean to upset you–”
“Well, you did. So, what now? Huh?” He stands up and walks toward you.
“Now, let me make it up to you.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“How does it work then? Because I’m here, and I mean it when I say that I will do anything.” Standing maybe four feet away from you, he looks like he’s ready to eat you whole. You don’t know whether to feel scared or overjoyed. Now you have to think about what to make him do. As you rake your mind for embarrassing ideas, he slowly closes the distance between you two until he’s only maybe nine inches away from your face.
“In public, you have to beg me to take you back. Loud enough for everyone to hear you. Then, maybe, I’ll consider–”
“Done.”
“You haven’t even finished listening to what I’m gonna say.”
“I don’t care as long as you consider letting me interact with you again.” Such corny words really should be more offputting than they are, you turn your face away to hide a spreading smile.
“Desperate ass.”
“Fuck yeah.”
He aggressively cups your face to kiss you. You reach up to push him away, but his lips are so soft and you’re too weak-willed to stop yourself. Instead, you wrap your arms around his waist and kiss him back. His lips place peck after peck all over your mouth. Everything feels so perfect. You missed him so much–but that doesn’t erase the last ten days of misery. The constant tug-of-war between your logic and your emotions is draining you. It’s tough for you to not be swayed by his words, especially when he knows exactly what you want to hear. You find some strength to push him away but he won’t let you, overwhelming you with the sheer amount of affection. “Mingi–stop,” you turn your face away, for a second he actually stops.
“Listen, I understand how you feel, but I’m just asking for a chance. Please.” Your eyes search his for any semblance of dishonesty, but you know he’s being sincere. That’s what scares you. The fact that you can choose to invest yourself into this again, and it could very easily rip you to pieces, again. Your face, still in his hands, flips through a series of expressions: confused, scared, anxious, hesitant, even happy. He can tell you’re putting a lot of thought into your following words, he wants to respect that. Instead of occupying your mouth, he turns his attention elsewhere. You moan (and stop thinking) when he bites your neck, “Take your time, princess. No pressure at all.” It’s been so long since you’ve had to put in effort to resist him that you physically can’t do it anymore. He knows every way to get you and your body to bend to his will. “What are you thinking about?” He licks a line to your ear from your neck and nibbles on your ear lobe. He starts walking backwards and sits on the couch, pulling you into his lap. Your plan failed. All you can think about is riding him as he sucks a hickey onto your neck. “Come on, baby, tell me.”
“Mingi, stop–” he immediately retracts himself from you and suddenly you’re freezing.
“I’m not gonna force you, you say the word and I’ll stop.” Pulling his hands back, away from your body, he waits for you to give him the go or the no; as you sit facing him on his lap.
“You’re not forcing me–”
You’re cut off by a moan when you feel his cold fingers under your hoodie, against your bare back. His hands start pulling up your hoodie. The cold air hitting your bare stomach brings you back to reality for a second. You tsk and slide off his lap to sit next to him but still facing him. You can’t make it this easy for him. He leaves his right hand on your left hip.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, breathless. His eyes scan your face, there’s no genuine anger. If anything, you look sad.
“I hope you’re not stupid enough to think you can make it up to me with—.”
“You think I’m that dumb?”
“Yes.” He giggles and tucks a strand a hair behind your ear.
“I am, but not that dumb. I have other plans. I’m just excited to see you again.”
“We’re not a thing, okay?”
“That’s fine.” He looks so pleased with himself. Ugh. This is all happening too fast.
“I’m gonna talk to other guys too.” His face drops. You’re not actually going to do that. You just wanna see how far he’s willing to go, which is definitely toxic but you have to be sure. He’s biting his lower lip, thinking, then lets out a sigh.
“That’s fine. I made a mistake. Just know that I wanna be with you. I don’t care about anything else.” While hearing those words has you over the moon, you can’t help but search for any signs of hesitance on his face. To your fortune/misfortune he looks genuinely sure of his words. A wave of relief washes over your body. All the tension and anxiety you were holding onto fades. As difficult as it is to admit, you are a forgiving girl. But he hurt you and you’ll be working hard to remember his crimes against you.
His thumb swipes across your cheek and you, naturally, turn your face into his palm. “I love you.” Those words finally settle in your mind, allowing you to acknowledge the truth of the situation. You freeze and pull back, feeling a little awkward but he doesn’t waver. Something about this feels way too good to be true.
“I don’t know, Mingi. I don’t trust you having this sudden realization–”
“It’s not sudden. I’ve been very into you, for like a while now. I send you ‘good morning’ and ‘goodnight’ texts for fuck’s sake. When you blocked me on everything, bro I tweaked out.”
“I mean, can you blame me?”
“No, I get it, baby.” He leans forward and pecks your cheek. “I’m sorry I put you through that, princess. Never again.”
“Ugh, shut up. You’re so confusing.” You push his face back and sit facing forward.
“What’s so confusing?” He chuckles, scooting his body towards you. His arm wraps around your shoulders but you shake him off.
“You don’t seem to realize that you’re asking a lot from me. I don’t trust you.”
“Okay, don’t trust me, don’t do anything. Just let me keep seeing you. I wanna show you how I feel about you. I’m not rushing you into anything.” That doesn’t seem like a bad deal on your end. Plus, how can you say no to him when he speaks so fondly?
Ugh, is it really that easy for him? Are you just easily manipulated?
“I don’t know. I have to think.” Trying to keep some mystery to your choices despite your emotions being fully plastered on your face
“Okay, think.”
“Shut up, Mingi.”
“I fucking love when you say that to me–” He tries to put is arm around you again to kiss your cheek but you stand up and walk towards your room. He snickers and follows you. When he walks into the room, he locks the door behind him. Upon hearing the “click” of the lock, you stop rummaging through your closet and turn around to a smug Mingi posted up on the door. You gesture for him to come over. You’re turned around, going through the drawers of your closet. He bites his lip and slinks over to you. “What’re you looking for?” He stands behind you, placing his hands on your hips and kisses the back of your neck, exposed by your updo. His lips reach around to the side of your neck as he continues placing small kisses. You don’t respond, looking up to the top shelf of your closet. On your tippy toes, you’re reaching for something that’s just out of sight. Mingi feels you struggling and reaches over you to grab the item. It’s your suitcase. “Are we running away together?” Carefully, maneuvering it so he doesn’t hit you, his firm chest presses against your back.
“No.” You grab the suitcase from his hands, push him back to make space for it on the ground, and zip it open. He stands in the same spot, confused about what you’re doing. You stand up again to pull some clothes out of the drawers and off hangers to hand them to him. When you notice he’s not moving, you look at him sternly and say, “Fold the clothes, Mingi.”
“Oh! Yeah, of course.” He sits on the floor in front of the open suitcase, behind you, carefully placing the folded clothes in the compartment. There’s a pile of clothes beside him, which you keep adding to. Once you’re done taking out all your clothes, you take a seat across from him on the other side of the suitcase, and begin folding the clothes from the pile as well.
“You need this many clothes?”
“Yeah, I didn’t take anything with me when I left.”
“Why? I would’ve assumed you packed a week before leaving.”
“Oh I don’t know, I was very…upset when I left.”
“Right…sorry.” There’s a brief silence as Mingi looks down, ashamed. You snicker, and he looks up, his expression changing. “Any plans for Christmas?”
“Just having dinner with my family.”
“Can I come see you when you’re done?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll take that.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“Okay, then you let me know.”
“What are you even trying to do?”
“Get you back–” You start to get angry. Gripping a shirt you just folded, you throw it at his face. “Hey! The fuck was that for?” You keep finding different articles of clothing to toss in his face. His hands block his face and occasionally catch a pair of pant or a shirt, attempting to shield himself. He reaches over the suitcase to grab your wrist. “Stop!” With one wrist apprehended, you calmly reach behind you and grab anything to toss at him. Unfortunately, it’s a pair of pink lacey underwear; even worse, it’s a pair that he knows very well. When the thin piece of fabric is thrown in his face, he lets go of your wrist to catch it. Embarrassed out of your mind you lunge at him, trying to take it back. He reaches his arm forward to keep you back, “now I’m keeping this.” You’re doing your very best to get it back from him, but you can’t beat his strength. He holds the underwear high up and back while simultaneously managing your flailing arms. You stand up on your knees to give yourself more balance, but he continues to push back on your sternum with his forearm, careful as to not use too much force. He turns to the side and brings the panties close to his face, taking a deep sniff. You scream at his obscene actions, “Ew! Mingi give it back!” He turns back to you with a long face and tosses them in your direction.
“Ugh, they’re clean. I can’t smell anything.” You shove his arm away.
“What’s wrong with you? Weirdo–” You start to crawl back to your original spot to continue your packing but Mingi grabs your ankle causing you to trip. Caught off guard, you fall on your side, then turn to your back as he slowly finds himself on top of you.
“If that’s gross, then you definitely won’t wanna know what I did when you weren’t talking to me.” You squint at him as he smiles down at you, you scoff and roll your eyes.
“Probably something deprived.” Waiting for a response from him, you turn away, but he stays silent. You face him to urge a response. “So?”
“You wanna know?”
“Ugh,” placing your hand on his shoulder, you push him away and sit up but he keeps you sitting in front of him before you move. He hovers closer but you avoid eye contact because you know he’s about to say something that will fry your brain.
“You know I have a pair of yours. From our first time.” You think back to that night a few months ago. You do recall him taking them but you were too caught up in the moment to question it. You think to yourself, what could he possibly do with that? “It hits the spot when I miss…” he slowly pushes you to your back but instead lying down you hold yourself up on your elbows, confused. He lowers himself until he’s suspended before your center and places a hand on the back of your thigh, pulling your legs apart, “certain parts of you.” He ends the sentence by placing a kiss on your clothed core. You know you should stop him, but… a girl has her needs. That small kiss was enough to get you soaking your underwear despite the guilt. He looks up at you from in between your legs and rests his head on your thigh. “You can tell me to stop.” Without daring to utter a word, you simply look away. Out of sight, off your conscience. He lingers there, waiting for you to say something to him but you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. You feel like you’re betraying yourself. Is all the anxiety he gives you worth feeling good for an hour?
He whines, gripping your thigh as he bites it. Something tells you this will be worth it. Yolo. You’ve already spent enough time trying to be a responsible, hardworking student. While you got the grades you wanted, a small part of you always regretted sacrificing a social life for it. You’re basically done with college, you’ve earned a few months of young stupidity. With a new mindset, you decide to end this ceaseless war between your mind and body by doing the easy thing: letting him take charge.
“Show me.”
He snaps his head up to find you staring down at him with a cute little smirk on your face. “Hm? Show you what?” He feigns confusion.
“That you missed me.” His smile widens as he bites his lip and immediately goes to remove your pants.
“Yes ma’am.” He sits up to make quick work of tossing your sweatpants and underwear aside. The cold air hitting your bare core causes you to snap your legs shut, but he pries you open again. “Stop that, let me see.” You can feel your arousal seeping out as Mingi stares down at you. His eyes are glued to your glistening center until they land on yours. You wish you could say that you shyly looked away, but you stare back at him and gesture towards where you need him with your eyes. He laughs, scrunching his nose. “You’re so needy–”
“And you’re on thin ice.” He bites his lip again, this time to hold in his reaction to your warning. Heeding your words, he drags two fingers through your folds gathering your slick. Your whole body shudders and you keep in a moan. You don’t want him to know just how desperate you are because you’re kinda enjoying this power trip. “Don’t worry baby, I’m workin’.” Those two fingers promptly enter you and you yelp, falling off your elbows. Now on your back, as he gently pumps his fingers in and out of you. A slight burn of desire surges through your nerves but you know this won’t be enough to satiate you. He watches your face as you go through fifteen emotions at once just to settle on dissatisfaction. As his fingers reach deeper and deeper inside you, you grow hungrier. The more his fingers bottom out, the louder the noises. Mingi’s thanking God that your eyes are clamped shut because he is so giddy watching you enjoy yourself. Your quiet gasps turn into whines, “Mingi~more.” He slides his fingers out causing you to convulse, losing the sensation. Your confused face turns to anger as you sit up and see Mingi pulling his hair back. Right as you’re about to question him, he grabs the hair tie on your wrist and ties his hair back. “Your hair has gotten so long.” You brush a couple strands back. He nods and grabs your face to kiss you but you pull away. “No.”
“What? Shut up–” he grabs your face again and tries to kiss you but you reject his advances once more.
“You gotta earn that.” You’re all smug as you sit in front of him, core fully exposed and Mingi is loving every second of it. This terrible attitude that you have today is so starkly different from your usual compliant behavior; although different, the change is definitely welcomed.
“I will.” He hooks your legs over his shoulders, causing you to almost fall back on the ground, but you manage to catch yourself with one hand behind you. He lies on his stomach on the floor of your bedroom, lowering himself to eye level with your opening. You don’t move an inch, allowing him to come to you, eyes trained on his figure. When you feel his calm breath over you, your head leans to the side in anticipation, but before making a move, he cranes his neck up and says, “Make sure you watch.” You look at him, shocked, but he just laughs. “I know you like watching.” Still holding your gaze, he latches his lips around your clit and gently sucks. His eyes narrow as they watch your expression. Immediately, your hand goes to fist his hair. One hand in his hair and the other propping you up behind you. Feet suspended in the air, over his shoulders. Toes curling as his lips unlatch and the tip of his tongue flicks over it. You cry out but stop out of habit, then you remember that no one’s home, so you can moan till your heart’s content. This might actually be the first time you and Mingi are alone and not in a car. He tears himself away from your addicting taste, “I fucking love you,” the words come out as rough and hoarse as ever. He kisses your thigh and spits on your cunt before diving back in. His hands wrap around your thighs and grab at your waist under your hoodie, dragging you flush against his face. He drags his tongue from your hole to your clit. Your hand pushes some strands of hair away from his face to get a better look at him. Feeling your eyes burning holes into the top of his head, he turns his face up to catch your gaze. His lips wrap around your sensitive bundle of nerves and smilingly sucks on it, playing with it. “Am I earning that kiss?” His dialogue, muffled by your skin.
You don’t say anything, only releasing a shaky, quiet moan then biting your lip. Your hand tugs at his hair, pushing his face towards your warmth. He laughs with his mouth still against you and groans in pleasure. He brings the expanse of his tongue against your entire core then kisses your clit while gently suckling at it. The continual lapping from his tongue is just about to push you over the edge but what really gets you is when he sinks two fingers deep into you. You cry out as your hips begin swaying back and forth. With every forward movement, his tongue sweeps against your clit while his thick fingers flow deeper into you. If you died in this moment, you’d die a happy, sexually content woman. You buck your hips toward his face while your hand drives him further against you by his hair. He grunts, feeling you fisting his hair. Your feet flex and your back arches as you feel a knot getting ready to unravel yet your hand stays stubbornly in his hair. You’re enjoying the anchorage it gives you. Every motion of yours is so in sync with his, it’s like he has a manual to your body. Your neck cranes to the side as you approach your release. The cold room is now suffocating you with the humidity.
The sounds are ungodly and deafening. Your eyes shut and you clench your jaw, you’re at your peak. Your mouth falls open. Slack jawed, you begin to babble a flurry of words. A mix of curses, his name, even proclamations of love but he can’t hear anything because your legs are shut around his head. You shake, pulling on his hair, you yell, “fuck!” As your release spills out of you, your arm gives out and you fall flat onto your back on the carpet. Your chest heaves up and down, trying to stabilize your heart beat. Mingi sits up on his knees and removes his shirt. Hearing his necklace jingle, you pick your neck up to look at him. Fully expecting to see him beaming at you, proud of his mastery, you’re shocked to see an emotion-less stare. When he starts making his way toward you, you flinch, unable to read his expression. He stops, “Can I?”
“Yeah…” His figure hovers over yours and he reaches down to kiss you.
“Hold on to me.” In a flash, you’re lifted off the floor and placed on the edge of your mattress. Bracing yourself with your hands, you watch him remove his jeans. Once done with himself, he lifts your hoodie up and off your body, leaving you entirely bare to his eyes. He leans in and you close your eyes, waiting for him to kiss you but his lips make contact with your neck instead. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you curl into him as he bites and kisses at your skin. His hands are placed on either side of your hips, which is definitely ticking you off. You go to express the desire for him to touch you, but instead of authoritative, your words come out more as a plea. Which he, of course, laughs at. You push him away, readying a tantrum to ruin the mood he’s working hard to set up. He recedes with a smile on his face. Thank God, because the face he made earlier was very off-putting.
“What?” His playful demeanor never ceases to turn you on.
“Don’t laugh!” He leans in but your face is turned away and your arms are crossed over your breasts.
“But you sound so cute when you say it like that,” his lips meet your cheek, he then goes to your ear, “‘touch me.’” He mimics your whine, and you gasp, driving him away again, falling back onto the soft surface.
Your hands covering your face, you yell, “Shut up! You’re so annoying.” Heat builds up in your face. You recognize the irony of the fact that you’re blushing over his words while laying nude in front of him. He gets on the bed and crawls over you to kiss the back of your hand, “What? I love hearing it…I love you.” Every time he says it, the wind gets knocked out of you and you have to take a second to recover. You uncover your face, “Boo, lame.” He laughs loudly and gets off you. Standing at the foot of your bed, he tugs you towards him by your hips.
“Jeez, so mean. Can’t even express myself.” He pulls his boxers down, letting his length spring out. Your right leg is lifted and placed over his left shoulder. His right hand reaches down to pump the red, throbbing member.
“I’m sure you can think of better ways to express yourself.” Just the sight of him alone has your eyes sparkling but right as he’s about to enter you, you call out to him.
“Mingi. Condom.”
You had a scare not too long ago and decided to finally stop being insane and play it safe. Mingi had no problem following your lead.
“Where?”
“Drawer.” You almost moan seeing that he’s tall enough to just reach over and grab one from your side table without breaking physical contact. He rips it open and rolls it down his length.
“I keep mine in my side table too.”
“I know. I learn from the worst.” He snickers, scrunching his nose at you. The sweet moment of you two having a laugh together is suddenly ruined when he forces half his length inside you without warning. “Fuck!” He figured the combination of his spit and your slick would have you wet enough. Still, you definitely are not ready for everything he’s about to give you. It feels like a truck is ramming into your body every time he thrusts into you but you can’t say you dislike the feeling. His movements are drawn-out and intense. Your eyes are closed but Mingi’s are fixed on your face. Every moan and groan just pushes him further and further into you. “You missed this, huh?” Your eyes spring open.
“Don’t get too cocky–” Another slow thrust steals the words right out of your mouth and leaves you drooling. He presses forward, his lower abdomen makes contact with your sensitive clit and you arch away from his touch. Instead of taking the hint, he looms closer.
“Don’t run away.” Then, seemingly out of nowhere, his laggard movements turn into a rush. Every time he brings his hip to yours you get pushed away from him. Getting tired of having to hold your body in place, he takes your leg off his shoulder and leans over you. Holding himself up on his forearms, his necklace hangs over your lips. He sees you struggling to focus with the piece of metal constantly hitting your mouth. You hear a giggle and before you know it, you open your eyes to find the necklace in his mouth. He looks so hot. His little crooked tooth is on display as he smiles down at you while simultaneously ripping you open. You wrap your arms around his neck and legs around his waist, using your ankles to urge him to go even deeper. You’re not sure what it is but you need to feel his weight on top of you. Something about being crushed by him will appease a specific part of your mind. So, you pull his face into the nook of your neck. The majority of his weight is being supported by his left forearm as he drags his right hand down your body, pinching your nipple. Once he elicits a high-pitch whine he’s satisfied with a quick laugh. His hand continues to move down your body, in the dip of your waist, he anchors his hand there to push your body onto him, harder.
“God–fuck, that’s so good.” For the past hour and a half, you haven’t had a single thought aside from Mingi. You’re sweating, he’s sweating, and with how humid it’s gotten in the room, the walls are probably also sweating. The smell of sex lingers in the air and you love it. Your mind is blank except for one word. “Mingi.” You gasp out. Usually, he would try to draw out your sessions more but you had him really riled up today. He can feel your walls closing in around him so you must be close. He knows you’re enjoying this by the number of times you’ve said his name thus far. He’s really close too, but he feels guilty every time he finishes before you. He attempts to pull away to lessen the sensations on him but you’re wrapped around him and surprisingly strong, so he’s stuck where he is. Not that he’s complaining. He’s aware of how much you’re enjoying this position, so to make it even better for you, he starts moving his body in a wave-like motion. Now, every time he enters you his abdomen touches your clit in an upwards motion, essentially flicking it. Such a dumb man, yet so painfully aware of his actions in bed. You won’t last long with this new implementation; you never do. In a matter of seconds, he feels you coming undone and decides it’s time for him to stop rejecting his own release as well. The wave of ecstasy that washes over you has you doing almost a full sit-up, with Mingi on top of you, while gripping the sheets so hard you rip them off the edge of the bed. Your walls start spasming around him and he lets go. You milk him dry while still asking for more. Both of you tense every muscle in your body then relax. He falls on top of you, and for the first time, you feel his full weight, and it really is suffocating. Even though you said you wanted this you can’t breathe. He hears your labored breathing and immediately gets off of you.
“Oh shit, sorry babe.” He rolls over to your side, removes the condom, and discards it in the trash can underneath your desk. Then he slips his boxers on and comes back to lie with you. When he lies down, he places an arm over your belly and kisses the side of your head. “I love when we come together. It’s like the stars aligning.”
You’re still fighting for your life to catch your breath but once you do, you reply, “so poetic” sarcastically. He laughs at you mocking him. It’s like your body realizes how hard it was working the way you just got so tired out of nowhere. You yawn and turn your face to Mingi who’s already looking at you with a smile on his face, “tired?”
“Yes.” After losing every last bit of energy you had, you simply decide to give in and fall asleep.
“Can I stay?”
“Yes.” You feel yourself drifting off as Mingi sneaks his other arm under your head then pulls you into an embrace. Instinctively, you turn to your side, against his body and ready yourself for a good night’s sleep.
That is, until you remember that you told your mom you’d be back home almost two hours ago. Your eyes snap open.
“I have to go home.” You sit up despite his protests, out of breath due to the fact that you’re stricken with fatigue and sleepiness. Mingi groans, annoyed with your sudden change of plans.
“We’ll wake up early. Let’s just lay down.” He tries to pull you down into a lying position again, but you scooch out of his grasp and off the bed.
“Can’t. I told my mom I’d be back, I have to keep my word.”
“Baby, please, I’ll pay you.” You laugh as you walk over to your closet to grab a clean towel, wrapping it around your naked figure.
“How much?”
“50?” You tsk and start walking towards your door. “100?” Just before leaving the room, you turn to him and gesture a finger upwards, telling him to raise the price. “200?” You shake your head and walk towards your bathroom. Right as you’re about to enter the other room, you hear, “Higher!? I'm just a college student! No good dick discount?” You giggle as you turn on the faucet and wait for the water to heat up. You take this time to zone out and allow the steam to enter your system. Your jaw unclenches, and your shoulder muscles relax; the cold really makes you stiff. You extend your hand towards the running water, but quickly retract it, feeling that it’s still cold. After a quick shiver, you lean back against the bathroom sink, still waiting. Just then, you hear the door creak open and in steps your wonderful houseguest with one of your towels wrapped around his waist.
“My towel!”
“This is the one you said I could use.”
“Fine, then you wash it too.”
“Then I’ll forget it at my place. I’ll give you five–no–ten bucks to wash it for me.”
“Every wash?“
“Yep.”
“I’ll wash it every day.”
“Okay, let’s set up a direct deposit.”
“And if I decide to wash it multiple times in a day?”
“I’ll make a y/n fund, to keep up with the bills.”
You giggle, “The y/n bills?”
“Yeah. Y/n fund for y/n bills.”
“Good plan.”
“Thank you… is someone else in the shower?”
You both chuckle. “No. We’re waiting for the water to warm up, old building.”
“Oh–we?” He raises an eyebrow at you with a knowing smirk on his face.
“I assume you’ll be joining me.”
“I will, but do you want me to?”
“It’d save us both time.”
“That’s not what I asked–”
“Okay, it’s warm.” You remove your towel and place it on the hook protruding from the bathroom door, but he just stands there, eyeing your body up and down. You step into the tub and pull the shower curtain. When he doesn’t join you in the following ten seconds, you start to get impatient, “Come.” You’re too tired to deal with his games right now. You hear him let out a small laugh, then the shower curtain opens, and the cold air hits you immediately. “Get in, it’s cold!” You pull him towards you by the wrist until he has his chest against your back. You’re kinda just standing there, enjoying the warmth of the water washing over your figure. You and your roommates decided to turn the heat off over winter break. No one will be around, so it makes no sense to pay the useless bill. As a result, your apartment temperature matches the outside conditions. Mingi grabs your washcloth from the rack hanging on your showerhead and lathers a decent amount of body wash on it. You don’t move a muscle, just eyes closed, hot water on your scalp, and holding your hands out to catch some water as well. He grabs your wrist and starts cleaning you with the washcloth. You lean back until your head makes contact with his chest. He runs the soapy cloth up your arm, around your shoulder, and behind your neck, but when he reaches your chest, he uses his hands instead. Placing the soapy fabric on the shelf molded into the wall, he grabs some more of your body wash and squeezes out an ample amount all over his hands. The whole time while he has been washing you, you’ve had your eyes closed. When you feel his hands make contact with your body, you open your eyes and turn your face up to look at him. He kisses the apex of your cheek and begins massaging your chest. “Are you sleeping?”
“No, I was just resting my eyes.” You look down, watching his hands run over the mounds of flesh. “Enjoying yourself?”
“I dream of this.” He lowers himself to kiss the side of your neck, and you lean your head to the other side, allowing him full access to his canvas. There is only one hickey on your neck, and he knows once you see it, he’s in for a lecture. So, he sticks to just kissing and biting at the skin. His right hand cups your left breast, playing with your nipple. While his left hand brings the soap down your stomach, inching dangerously close to your core. You’re not sure if you can handle another round, but who are you to say no?
The distance between his hand and your center grows smaller; you separate your legs, granting him access. His sudsy hand begins moving in small circles over your clit, and you feel something poking at your lower back. Feeling a little cheeky, you grab the washcloth and squeeze out some soap onto your hands. You bring your left hand back around your hip to grab his hard dick. He lets out a harsh whimper, feeling you wrap your hand around the tip as you slowly pump him. The position is definitely awkward; it’s hard for you to move your hand comfortably. Just as you’re about to turn around, his hand suddenly pushes down harder on your bundle of nerves, causing you to bend over slightly from the sensations. He turns you around and tugs you into him, kissing you with a new ferocity that he hasn’t brought thus far. You place your thumb on the side of his lip, pulling it down so he’ll open his mouth and initiate a messy kiss. With that motion, Mingi catches on that you’re ready, willing, and able to partake in round three. His hands slide down your lower back and roughly grab your ass. A couple of harsh squeezes and slaps later, he trails his way to the back of your thighs and lifts you up in one motion. You guys haven’t tried this position yet. You struggle to hide your excitement. He turns to the side, the water hitting his left shoulder as he continues to devour your lips. You worry that he’ll get tired holding you up like this, but that’s the last thing on his mind. One hand lets go of you and swiftly guides his length towards your entrance. When you feel the head entering your warmth, you go limp. He pins you back against the wall and begins drilling into you without warning; your yelps are drowned out by the high water pressure. Your hands grip onto his shoulders while he moves you up and down on himself. “Fuck–so wet.” Your legs lock into place right above the ridge of his hips, in his V-line. Crying out at the enjoyment of being stuffed and unstuffed so quickly, your right hand winds up in his hair as his mouth hovers over the shell of your ear, whispering vulgarities you’d rather not repeat in this lifetime. You grab a fistful of his hair so you can feel attached to this plane, as his rough movements are making your body go numb. The heat from the shower only adds to the ambiance. All you can feel is the physical connection between your body and his. Engrossed in his zeal for you, and the way his stomach rubs against your clit, you’re nearing your climax. It’s been, maybe, seven minutes since you two started, and goodness, do you feel embarrassed that you’re about to come this fast. He feels your grasp on him tighten, then a familiar palpitating of your walls; he gasps, then laughs in your ear.
“That fast?” Instead of responding with words, you pull on the hair at the base of his skull, causing him to look up as he chuckles at you. “Hasn’t even been ten minutes and you’re already coming.” His words mock your appetite (or lack of), and you hate how much you’re enjoying it. He turns his head to catch a glimpse of your face. He was so absorbed in his ecstasy that he completely forgot to poke fun at you. “Missed me that much, huh, y/n? Tell me how much you missed this.” Nothing, you don’t wanna speak since you’re too busy chasing after your high. His ministrations slowed when he noticed you were close, anticipating his bitch ass behavior, you took it upon yourself to keep riding him until you peaked. Forcing your hips down on his dick, then using your shoulder muscles to pull yourself back up. The physical activity is so pleasing. You continue the same motions, using your abs, shoulders, legs, and arms as you work your body on his. Your body is going to give up soon. Eyes blown out, he watches in amazement. Placing a kiss on your wet cheek, he watches you desperately pursue your release. While he would love to mess with you, he can’t help but join your cause; he finds you working this hard endearing. “You’re close, aren’t you?” You finally look at him and nod, going in for an all-tongue kiss. He obliges and begins moving his hips, but especially focusing on the motions of his lower abdomen. Making sure he grazes your clit with every thrust, he’s on a mission. With his help, you immediately find the light at the end of the tunnel. You yell, “Fuck! Mingi–” Tears form at the edges of your eyes, “Don’t stop–” The buildup is absolutely diabolical, you’re scared you might die with this orgasm. The sensations are just too much, your nerves are being overloaded, and you definitely cannot process the amount of endorphins being released in your body right now. Right as you come, you squeeze your eyes shut, and a couple of tears fall down your cheeks. As the waves of pleasure wash over you, your arms and legs give out, but thankfully, Mingi is still holding you up. He doesn’t stop and keeps going. The effects of your orgasm start to wear off, and you’re left with an overly sensitive bundle of nerves that is being continually stimulated right now. You try to struggle against him to push him away, but you simply do not have the strength for that right now. He keeps going, moving your hips up and down the entire expanse of his dick. You’re wet enough to let him bottom out. Your greedy hole is sucking him right back in the second he slides himself out. The overstimulation starts to subside, and you allow him to use you for his own euphoria. The sounds of your sex are now even louder than the water from the shower head. That one vein that runs through his member starts to pulse inside you. You’re completely unaware of what’s happening; your mind has melted. He fucks into you one last time before retracting himself from your sopping core. Right as he lets you down, your knees buckle. He still has a grip on your lower back and catches you before you fall. Your sleepy eyes struggle to remain open until you feel a viscous, warm fluid sliding down your leg. “Did you–”
“Yeah, sorry, baby.” There really was no plan. He just happened to come, but decided to pull out at the last second. He moves away from your body, allowing the water to hit you; it’s still hot. He spends the next ten minutes washing your body again, then turns off the shower, basically carrying you out of the tub, and wraps a towel around you. With the large towel placed around your shoulders, you find yourself struggling to keep your balance, feeling as though you may collapse any second. “Whoa. You sure you’ll be able to make it home?” He quickly dries his body and wraps a towel around his waist. You shake your head no because there’s no way you’re driving in this current state. Your mother will bombard you with calls, but you'll come up with something. You should’ve guessed that a third round would’ve ruined your chances of going home tonight. “Can you walk?“
You can, but you don’t want to, so again, you shake your head no. He exhales in joy, watching you zone out. He takes a second to stare at you, the love of his life, but you’re still spacing out. When he notices that you are starting to shiver, he picks you up, bridal style, and rushes to your bedroom. Placing you down on the bed, he goes to your closet to get you a pair of warm clothes. When he returns with something to wear and socks, you’re already fast asleep under the covers. Even though sleeping with you naked is very tempting, he doesn’t want you to get sick. So, as you sleep, he works diligently to dress you, careful to not wake you. Either you’re really tired, or he could be a super spy with the way he was able to do everything without waking you up. For the next few minutes, he watches you sleep, wondering if he should join you. Instead of making a choice, he opts to admire your features as you sleep. Your lashes gently rest on your cheeks, and your face is a little puffy because you’re so sleepy. He's not sure how, but you somehow feel his presence and open your eyes. “I’m sorry, baby. Did I wake you up?” He brushes your hair back off your face lovingly. Without saying a word, you close your eyes, shuffle to the other side of the bed, and pull the blanket open, allowing him an entrance. “Come lay.” After hearing a giggle, the bed shifts, and you now have your own personal heater next to you. Since it’s so cold in the apartment, the second he gets in bed, you move over until your body is flush against his. Pressing yourself on him, you wrap an arm around him, and he slides his left arm under your head, turning to his side to place an arm in the dip of your waist. “Good night.” The last thing you remember is him placing an endearing pack tier forehead.
In the morning, as you assumed, your mom is blowing up your phone. Both of you wake up around eight in the morning to your phone, dinging with messages and calls from your mom. You sit up with a yawn and reach over Mingi to grab your phone from the side table. Trying your best to stay quiet, but he opens his eyes the second your arm goes over his body. He grabs your wrist and interlaces his hand with yours, “Why are you being so sneaky this early in the morning?”
“I was trying not to wake you up.” You let go of his hand, grab your phone, and start going through the notifications, resting your forearms on Mingi’s stomach. He runs a hand over the back of your head, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, she’s just worried about where I am… Okay, let’s get up.” Putting your phone down, you bring the palms of your hand down on Mingi’s stomach, causing a small slap sound. Once off the bed, he walks towards your suitcase, getting it ready for transport. With haste, you make your bed and clear any messes because you would hate to come home to a dirty room. You were so focused that when you turned around, your soul almost left your body, seeing a giant man against the wall, asleep. You pat his shoulder, when he opens his eyes, you nudge your head towards the front door and he follows behind. The two of you slip your shoes on in silence. You unlock the front door to leave, but Mingi grabs your arm. “You’re not wearing a jacket?”
“Uh, no. It’s fine, though, because my car is literally just outside.”
“That doesn’t matter; it snowed last night, so it’s probably freezing.”
“Ugh, Mingi, don’t be annoying. Let’s go.” While you understand he’s just looking out for you, you are literally the worst person ever in the morning, especially when you don’t get enough sleep. You try to leave again, but he pulls you back into the apartment. “Hang on.” He unzips his puffer jacket and takes it off, handing it to you. “Wear this.” Holding up the material in front of you, you stare at him, a little annoyed. You know it’s not worth complaining over, so you take it from him and put it on.
“Now I have another reason to see you.” He places a peck against your forehead. You open the door once more, gesturing for him to leave before you. With your suitcase in hand, he walks out, dragging it behind him, waiting for you in the hallway. You lock the apartment door and walk down the stairs, out the building door. As you lead the way over to your car, Mingi asks, “Front seat, backseat, or trunk?”
“You can just put it in the trunk. Thank you.” Clicking the button on your keys, your trunk springs open, and he lifts the suitcase into the small space. “Of course, baby.” You stuff your hands in the pockets of his jacket as you watch him close the trunk of your car. He takes a step forward, grabs your face with both hands, and kisses you. “Unblock me.” You laugh because you forgot about that. You take out your phone, unblock his number, and turn it around to show him. “Thank you. I can finally sleep at night. I’ll see you later today, okay?”
“Mm.” You nod, smiling, and get into your car. Mingi waits for you to pull out and disappear from his line of sight before walking over to his car.
The second he gets in, he feels like he might explode. He’s come a long way from where he started. That night, when everything went down, he was already really upset that you and he had a miscommunication, but when you kissed Yunho, he sorta lost it. The insecurities literally started falling out of his mouth. When you walked away from him after he said “he wasn’t ready”, he ran inside and went through all seven stages of grief. Hands running through his hair out of frustration, eyes tearing up, he remembers taking so many deep breaths to stop himself from crying. As he paced around his room thinking of what he should do, his eyes landed on the figurine you got him. He ended up taking it out of his car because Wooyoung broke it. He couldn’t stop the tears anymore, fuck, he realized he was in love with you. The time and effort he put into his relationship were not worth losing over his petty behavior. He snapped out of his psychosis and ran to your apartment, but when he got there, your car wasn’t in its spot. He started to freak out and tried to call you, but it kept going to voicemail. He tried Instagram, but your account wouldn’t come up. You didn’t even let him follow you; he just memorized your username. After falling to his knees out of despair, he figured someone was bound to come, so he could make his way inside at some point. There was no foresight in any of his plans; it was merely a means to an end. Unfortunately for him, your downstairs neighbor came home first to find him sitting on the steps leading up to the front door. In hindsight, he realizes how suspicious he may have looked at the time, asking to be let into a building he didn't live in. When he failed to contact you that night, he didn't give up completely, but he had to give up for the night, so he decided to go home. When he got back, the party was ending. Yunho noticed how upset he was and tried to talk to him, but Mingi really wasn't in the mood. At the time, he heavily blamed Yunho for the breakup. For a full three days, Mingi built a habit of going to your apartment, ringing the (wrong) bell, and waiting for a response. Eventually, he decided to stop ringing the bell after a heated altercation with your downstairs neighbor, who threatened legal repercussions if Mingi kept returning, but he knew he couldn't give up. He decided to change his approach and went to his family home because his mom kept calling him. Although he had planned to avoid his best friend for a long time, he couldn't do that because as soon as he got home, Yunho was already there. He said something along the lines of, “You can't avoid me forever,” which, unfortunately, was true. Instead of pushing his closest friend away again, he confided in him, talked about how much he regretted everything. Every plan Mingi came up with was immediately shot down by Yunho, calling him insane. Despite other friends telling him not to be a stalker, Mingi still staked out your building in secret. For a whole week, you never showed up. He regrets not asking for your address earlier. He didn't even know any of your friends' names; you wouldn't tell him. He was starting to lose hope until Yunho suddenly admitted he'd seen you at a cafe. Mingi had to fight every atom in his body to not punch him in the face. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?!” He screamed in Yunho's face, holding his collar very calmly. Yunho just said, “You weren’t talking to me! And your brother said you hadn’t come home, so I just asked her where you were.”
“You should’ve told her to unblock me!” Yunho had to stifle his laughter at the fact that Mingi got blocked.
“Did she say anything about me?”
“She said she wants to move on–”
“Of course, she said that to you.”
“I don’t like her. I mean, she’s cute–but that’s it.” They had a little bit more of a back-and-forth that night, but all Mingi got from that conversation was that he should keep trying because he doesn't want you to move on. As the days passed, he grew increasingly hopeless. On one particular day when he and Yunho decided to hang out, both of them were graced by a text from you. Upon receiving the text, Yunho, like the great friend he is, immediately handed him the phone. Both of them huddled around the phone, trying to create a plan for him to “inconspicuously” meet up with you. Thankfully, the plan worked. Truly, he has never worked this hard for a woman, and he's not even upset about that. He would do a lot for you, a lot more than you know. Now he just has to keep up his good streak so he can make you his for real.
summary: yunho tries to be the good, catholic church boy his mother wants, he goes to church every sunday, never misses mass, stays out of trouble, mostly, until he meets you, sin wrapped in the sweetest salvation he’s ever seen
warning: dom/possessive yunho, sub reader, unprotected sex, fingering, oral, squirting, anal, creampie, mentions of past abuse
genre: smut, romance
pairing: catholic church boy yunho x emo atheist afab reader
word count: 13.1k
part three
part five coming soon
masterlist
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Steam coiled thick in the small shower, fogging up the glass, slicking down the tiles, clinging to every gasp and moan like heat made flesh. Yunho’s head tipped back against the wall, droplets chasing each other down his throat, his chest, disappearing between the flex of his abs and the curl of your fingers around his thighs.
“Fuck, baby…” he hissed through gritted teeth, one hand knotted in your soaking hair and the other gripping just under your chin as your mouth dragged down his dick like you had nowhere else to be. Like the taste of him was all you needed. Your knees burned against the ceramic floor but you didn’t stop, didn’t flinch, just let your lips slide over him again, tongue teasing the underside before hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper. The sound he made was filthy, guttural, desperate, almost broken.
“God, you’re so….” He cut off with a choked breath, hips twitching forward into your mouth, jaw clenched like he was trying to keep his soul from spilling out. “You’re fucking perfect.” You looked up at him through your lashes, hair soaked and heavy in his grip, your mouth full of him as you moaned low. The vibration made his knees damn near buckle. “Shit, shit…” he gasped, watching your lips stretch around him like a fever dream. “Don’t stop. Baby, don’t…..”
His voice cracked when you swallowed him whole. The back of his head thunked against the wall, fingers tightening in your hair, grip on your jaw even tighter, breath stuttering like he didn’t know if he wanted to come or cry or thank God you ever walked into his life. His thighs tensed beneath your hands as you began to bob your head faster, sloppier now, spit mixing with the water, the obscene wet of it echoing in the shower like a sin confessed too loud. “Fuck, I’m gonna…” Yunho’s voice was wrecked, hand trembling in your hair as he pulled you back suddenly, panting hard.
You blinked up at him, lips swollen, spit and water dripping down your chin as he looked at you like you were holy. “Get up here,” he growled, voice thick with want as he yanked you to your feet and slammed his mouth onto yours, tasting himself, tasting you, tasting everything. One hand found your ass, the other your neck, tilting your head as his tongue swept in deeper. You whimpered against him, body pressed back against the glass as he lifted you like you and pinned you there. His dick hot and heavy between you both, twitching against your stomach.
Yunho didn’t waste a second. The moment you dropped back down and turned, hands hitting the glass, slick and trembling under the hot spray, he was behind you, one palm splayed over your lower back, the other guiding himself between your thighs. His breath ghosted over your neck as he pushed inside slowly, carefully, savoring the way your body gave way for him like it was made to take him. His lips parted against your skin, kissing a line up to your ear as he sank in deeper, groaning low when your hips pressed back into his.
“Always so perfect,” he whispered, voice ruined. “So fucking good for me.” You gasped, forehead pressing to the fogged glass, every inch of him dragging slow and deep. He set a pace that bordered on torturous, thrusts measured, deliberate, his mouth never leaving your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. Each kiss made your knees weak, and the stretch of him had your nails clawing at the wall.
He stayed buried deep, grinding into you between soft praises and breathless moans, the steam cocooning you both in heat and want and something dangerously close to something much more.
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San tossed another handful of popcorn in his mouth, legs kicked up on the coffee table, watching Inception like he hadn’t seen it six times already and still didn’t understand the last twenty minutes. One of the rare Sundays where neither of them had work. Yunho had disappeared to shower fifteen minutes ago with you and San was not going to pee this time, he’d hold it, he’d learned his lesson after the third walk in.
Knock knock knock.
He groaned, brushing crumbs off his tank top. “Yunho, I swear to god if you ordered delivery again and forgot to tell me….” He opened the door and froze. “Mrs. Jeong?” Standing in all her terrifying grace was Yunho’s mother, pristine as ever in a matching blush pink sweater set, hair immaculately styled, eyebrows arched like she already didn’t approve of whatever she was about to see.
Behind her stood Gunho, holding three containers stacked neatly in his arms. San could smell the kimchi jjigae. “What… what are you doing here?” She breezed past him like she paid the rent. “Well, my son has not shown his face at Sunday dinner in three weeks, so I brought the leftovers.”
San flinched. “You, uh. You didn’t call first?” She gave him a look like calling was for the weak. Gunho shrugged, mouthing, help me, as he followed her inside.
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All you could feel is Yunho’s grip tightening, his control slipping the second your moan breaks loose and echoes off the tile. “Fuck…” he growls, forehead pressing to the back of your shoulder as his hips snap forward harder, faster. The slow, reverent thrusts disappear completely, replaced by something raw and unrestrained. He’s pounding into you now, water slapping against skin, the glass fogging so thick you can barely see your own reflection.
Your hands slide helplessly down the wall as another moan tears out of you, loud, wrecked, completely unfiltered. “Yeah,” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “That’s it. Let me hear you.” His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you back to meet every thrust. The sound is obscene, skin on skin, water splashing, your breath stuttering every time he hits that spot that makes your knees shake.
“Yunho!” You cry, voice breaking as he thrusts deeper, faster, like he’s chasing something he’s been holding back for weeks. His mouth moves everywhere, your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck, open mouthed kisses between desperate groans. “You feel so fucking good,” he mutters, almost feral now.
Your moans get louder, less controlled, bouncing off the tile as his pace turns relentless. One hand slides around your front, fingers slick as they find you, rubbing fast and messy like he knows exactly how close you are. “Come on,” he whispers hoarsely in your ear. “Come for me. Let go.”
Your body tightens, your moan turning into a broken gasp as the pressure coils tighter and tighter….. until your body snaps, the wave crashing so hard it leaves your vision white around the edges.
You moan loud, unrestrained, as it rolls through you, shaking and clenching around Yunho, your hands scrambling against the slick wall for something to hold onto. “Fuck, baby,” Yunho groans, his thrusts stuttering as he presses his body to yours, holding you through every trembling aftershock. “That’s it… god, that’s it…”
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San watches, panic behind his smile, and quietly slips the popcorn bowl to Gunho’s hands and grabs the food containers in exchange, walking the containers to the fridge, hands moving on muscle memory while he tries to think. He knows what Yunho is doing right now. Exactly what he’s doing. And the timing couldn’t be worse.
Gunho plops onto the couch and picks up the remote like nothing’s happening. “Hey, San, where’s the volume?”
San gives him a tight smile. “Mute. It’s on mute. Shhh.”
Mrs. Jeong sets her purse down and folds her hands as she sits on the edge of the couch. Regal. Judgment incarnate. “So, where is Yunho?”
San hesitates. Gunho, bless him, is too busy licking butter off his fingers now as San clears his throat. “Shower.” Mrs. Jeong’s eyebrows raise. She crosses her legs, coat still on. “Well then,” she says sharply. “I’ll wait.”
San doesn’t move as she sighs dramatically, glancing around the apartment like it personally offended her. “Ever since this girlfriend of his, he’s missed church, gotten a tattoo…” she shakes her head, eyes narrowing. “I barely know who he is anymore.”
San winces. Internally screams. Externally smiles. From down the hallway, just barely….. Thunk. Water still running. And maybe… was that a moan? San coughs. Loudly as Gunho turns up the TV. “Popcorn, mom?” Gunho offers.
San quickly put away all the food containers. He had just shut the fridge when he heard it, bare feet slapping against the hardwood, lazy, freshly showered. “San, order something to eat…” Yunho called as he walked into the room, towel slung low on his hips, hand still drying his hair with another. But the moment he looked up….. he stopped.
San was frozen in place, holding a bottle of water mid air. Gunho was sitting on the couch, elbow deep in the popcorn bowl. And right next to him, perched like a queen on a pleather throne was his mother.
“There you are,” she said sharply. “Missed Sunday dinner. Again.” Yunho blinked. Twice. Then slowly lowered the towel from his hair. “Hi, Mom.” Gunho shoved popcorn in his mouth like he was watching his favorite drama.
San closed the fridge door as quietly as possible and turned around, trying not to make eye contact with anyone as Mrs. Jeong stood, smoothing down her blouse. “Three weeks now. No dinner. No call. Your brother tells me you’ve barely been answering his texts.”
Yunho’s jaw twitched, just a little. “Been busy.”
“With what, exactly?” she asked coolly, crossing her arms. “Certainly not church. Certainly not family.”
San shrank closer to the kitchen counter. He’d rather face a demon at work than be caught in the middle of this. And then it happened. Yunho rolled his eyes. Rolled. His. Eyes.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t exaggerated. Just the briefest flick of his gaze to the ceiling as he muttered under his breath, “Here we go…” The room went still. San slowly looked at Gunho, who had paused mid bite, eyes wide as Mrs. Jeong’s expression didn’t crack at first, but something behind her eyes froze. “Excuse me?” she said, voice tight.
Yunho’s towel was still in place. His chest still damp. His patience clearly not. “I said, I’m tired, Mom,” he replied, standing taller, arms crossing over his chest. “Can’t I just have one fucking day off without being guilt tripped?”
San choked on his water. Gunho’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Mrs. Jeong blinked, her mouth parting just slightly. He had never cursed at her before. She turned slowly, glancing at San, who pretended to be very fascinated by the water bottle in his hands, then at Gunho, who gave her a sheepish shrug.
Yunho’s mother looked back at her oldest son, her tone sharp but low. “You’ve been different since her.”
Yunho didn’t respond.
“You skip dinner. You miss church. You barely answer my calls. And now…” she gestured at him, towel and all “this is how you come out to greet your mother?”
Yunho exhaled hard, nose flaring. “If I had known you were here, I would’ve put pants on.”
“I raised you better than this. This all that girl’s doing….”
Yunho’s jaw ticked. “Her name is…” But before he could finish, a voice drifted from the hallway. “Yunho, where did my…..” You had padded up behind him barefoot, hair still damp and clinging to your shoulders. His oversized t shirt hung off your body, brushing the tops of your thighs and nothing else.
San blinked like he was suddenly witnessing a felony. Gunho nearly dropped the popcorn. And Mrs. Jeong froze. Her eyes dragged over you slowly, your flushed cheeks, wet hair, bare legs, and then flicked back to Yunho with the kind of look that could kill crops and wither sunlight. It wasn’t even confusion. It was confirmation.
All she had to do was look at your damp hair and towel clad body to know what she’d just interrupted. “You,” she said coldly, like the word tasted bitter on her tongue. “The girlfriend.” You paused mid step, glancing between her and Yunho. The tension was suffocating. Even the air felt thick.
Yunho didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide you. Instead, he took a half step back so his shoulder brushed yours, arm ghosting behind you in a subtle, protective gesture. “Yeah,” he said, voice calm but firm. “She is.”
Mrs. Jeong’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. “I see,” she said tightly. “Well. That explains a lot.”
Yunho’s arm slid around your waist. “Like what?”
Her jaw clenched. “Like why my son doesn’t call. Doesn’t show up. Doesn’t care about the things that used to matter.”
Your fingers curled into the hem of the shirt instinctively, heart pounding. But Yunho didn’t let you shrink away. He squeezed your hip gently, voice low and even. “I still care,” he said. “Just not about things that make me feel like I’m not allowed to live my own damn life.”
Gunho was practically vibrating on the couch. San had backed halfway into the kitchen as Mrs. Jeong glared. “Clearly, we’re done here.”
“Clearly,” Yunho said, matching her tone.
She gave you one last slow, judging glance, the kind that silently declared you were the problem, before turning on her heel. Gunho scrambled to follow after her, shooting you both a look that screamed, damn, she’s pissed, before slipping out the door behind her.
San finally let out a breath. “Well,” he muttered, “that was intense.”
You looked up at Yunho, wide eyed, holding back a laugh. “I should’ve stayed in the bathroom.” He let out a breathless laugh, then looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him sane. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
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The bell above the diner door jingled with a lazy chime, and Yunho barely looked up from behind the counter as he wiped down the register. It was late morning, slow enough that San was leaning against the milkshake machine, flipping through a dog eared manga and sipping on a soda.
The three men that walked in didn’t look like the usual crowd. One was short but broad, his bleached blonde hair buzzed close to his head and his arms covered in tattoos, some prison ink rough, others fresh and detailed like he’d paid real money for them. The other two were taller, both built like they either boxed or liked people thinking they did. One wore sunglasses indoors. The other had a lip ring and a look in his eye like he was searching for someone to punch.
Yunho clocked them instantly. Not just because they didn’t belong, but because the moment blondie caught his eye, he smirked, like he knew something. The trio slid into a booth by the window. The leather squeaked under their weight. San barely glanced up. “Looks like a group of guys about to tip a total of one nickel.”
Yunho gave a tight smile and grabbed his notepad, heading over with the casual calm he wore like a uniform. He’d dealt with worse. Probably. Hopefully. “Morning,” he greeted, slipping the pen from behind his ear. “What can I get you?” The blonde guy leaned back, arms stretching across the booth like he owned the place. “You work here?” he asked, gaze dragging slowly over Yunho’s name tag.
Yunho raised a brow. “That’s usually how it goes when someone wears the uniform and holds the notepad.”
The man’s smirk twitched wider. “Cute.”
Yunho didn’t blink. “Menu’s in front of you.”
“Didn’t come here to read,” the guy muttered, flipping it shut. “I’ll take the steak and eggs. Well done. Toast not soggy. If it’s soggy, I send it back.” One of the others grunted. “Make it two. No runny yolks. If my eggs are lookin’ at me, I’ll throw ’em at you.”
Yunho bit the inside of his cheek. “Noted,” he said flatly, jotting it down. “And for you?”
The third guy just stared at him for a beat too long before going, “Burger. Double patty. Extra cheese. No pickles. And don’t fuck it up.”
Yunho didn’t flinch, but San had definitely stopped reading behind the counter. “You want fries with that?” Yunho asked coolly.
The guy scoffed. “What do you think?”
Yunho nodded once, his jaw locked, pen scratching as he turned away. “Food’ll be right out.” As he walked back to the kitchen window, San joined him with a look that said, what the hell was that? Yunho didn’t answer, just handed off the order and leaned against the counter, eyes narrowed slightly at the booth.
“I don’t like that one,” San muttered, pointing his straw at blondie. “He looked at you like he wanted to fight or fuck you.”
“Probably both,” Yunho said under his breath. “And not in the fun way.” San made a noise of agreement, squinting. “You know them?”
“Never seen them before,” Yunho said, but the way the blonde one had looked at him, really looked, sent something crawling down his spine. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way blondie was still staring over his shoulder. Didn’t like the fact that the diner suddenly felt too quiet. He forced himself to move, pretending to check the coffee pot, pretending not to feel the weight of something coming.
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The bell above the diner door jingled as you and Wooyoung stepped inside, the late afternoon sun casting long slats of gold across the black and white tiled floor. The place was buzzing, forks scraping plates, conversations overlapping, a toddler laughing from a corner booth.
Heads turned the moment you walked in. And how could they not? You were in black vinyl and lace, the kind of outfit that didn’t whisper confidence, it screamed it, strutted it, left claw marks on the floor behind it. The sheer floral top clung to your skin, outlining the black bra beneath, while your skirt caught the light like oil on pavement. A silver chain glinted around your neck with every step.
You spotted Yunho behind the counter, working the milkshake machine like it owed him rent, biceps flexing under the rolled sleeves of his uniform shirt, eyes focused as he layered whipped cream onto a chocolate shake. He hadn’t seen you yet. You crossed the diner with a sway in your hips and leaned across the counter, fingers curling lightly over the chrome edge. “Do I really have to go to Sunday dinner?”
Yunho glanced up, and for a second, he just looked at you. Really looked. Eyes dragging slowly over your outfit, lips parting like he forgot how to breathe. Then he smiled, crooked and infuriating. “Yes,” he said. “If I have to sit through my mother, I’m taking you with me.” He turned smoothly, handing off the shake to a waiting kid before wiping his hands on a rag. But when he turned back to you, your expression had changed.
No more teasing. No glint in your eyes. Frozen. Yunho frowned, following your gaze across the diner. The booth in the back. Blondie’s booth. “You know him?” he asked lowly, already bracing as Wooyoung, standing just behind you, was watching too now, a sudden stillness replacing his usual chaos. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s not good.”
Then blondie was smirking. At you. And it wasn’t just a smirk. It was the kind that made Yunho’s blood pressure spike. Like the guy knew something he didn’t. Like you were his. Like he owned the right to look at you like that. “Who is he?” Yunho asked, voice dropping.
You blinked, tearing your eyes away, and looked at him. “He’s my ex,” you said quietly. “The blonde one. Liam.” Yunho’s expression didn’t change for a second. Then it did. His eyes went flat, jaw ticking hard. The name meant nothing to him, but the look Liam was giving you? That meant everything. “He treat you like shit?” Yunho asked, too calm now. You hesitated. Wooyoung was already glaring, fingers drumming on the counter like he was waiting for a green light. “Yeah,” you finally admitted. “He did.”
Yunho’s knuckles whitened around the metal milkshake cup. His eyes stayed on Liam, gaze like a sniper scope. “He’s been pissing me off since he walked in,” Yunho muttered. “Didn’t know he’d earned it.”
“Yunho…” you warned, but your voice was soft. Not really a protest. Not when part of you liked the heat flashing behind his eyes. “I’m just looking,” he said, flashing you a crooked smile. “For now.” Liam raised his glass in a slow, mocking toast again and Yunho leaned forward, lips brushing close to your ear, voice low enough only you could hear. “He wants you to look back. Don’t.” He pulled away before you could answer, tossing the milkshake tin into the sink with a clang and heading for the back to “check something.”
You and Wooyoung made your way to your usual booth, back corner, half shadowed from the overhead light, far enough from the jukebox but still close enough to watch the action. You slid in with a sigh, legs stretched out under the table, while Wooyoung sat across from you, drumming his fingers on the tabletop and stealing glances toward the counter where Yunho was back working. “He’s gonna blow,” Wooyoung said casually, voice low as he popped a straw into his soda that San brought him. “Ticking time bomb, that one.”
You didn’t answer. Not because he was wrong, but because you could feel it too. The tension. The shift in the air. Yunho moved past your booth, a hand towel slung over one shoulder, heading toward another table, and you let your eyes follow him. He stopped at a four top near the windows, notepad in hand. “What can I get you guys….”
“Oh, diner boy,” one of Liam’s friends interrupted, smirking as he leaned back in the booth like he was king of something. “Refills.” The tone was enough to curdle milk. Yunho didn’t move. Not for a beat. Not for two. His spine was straight. Shoulders tight. The muscle in his jaw ticked once before he turned his head slightly to glance at the guy. Not all the way. Just enough. “Be right with you,” he said through clenched teeth, voice like gravel and glass, then turned back to the current table like nothing had happened.
But you saw it. The flicker in his eyes. The breath he forced out of his nose. Wooyoung saw it too. “That boy is two seconds from putting someone’s head through a napkin dispenser,” Woo muttered, leaning his chin on his hand. “And I’m not gonna lie, I kinda hope he does.” You shook your head, but you weren’t smiling.
Yunho was walking a tightrope, and you were standing on the other end of it, just trying to figure out if you were the balance… or the reason he was starting to fall. You could feel Liam’s gaze on you still. But more than that, you could feel Yunho’s heat across the diner. Like a storm waiting to break.
Yunho finished taking the order with the same stiff professionalism he’d been clinging to all afternoon. His voice didn’t falter, and his hands didn’t shake, but the tension was bleeding through, quiet and volcanic. He scribbled the last item onto his notepad, turned with a muttered “I’ll have that right out,” and made a beeline for the drink station. He didn’t look at you as he passed. Didn’t need to. You could feel the barely leashed fury radiating off him like waves of heat off asphalt.
Behind the counter, San clocked it immediately, watching with one brow raised as Yunho grabbed three glasses and started filling them with ice like they’d personally wronged him. “You look like Satan himself just possessed you,” San said dryly, sliding a plate of fries onto a tray. “And you’re about to drag those assholes straight to hell.” Yunho didn’t look up. His jaw was so tight you could see the vein pulsing in his neck. “If one of them so much as breathes in her direction…” he muttered, voice low and dangerous, hands gripping the drink handles so tight they creaked.
San let out a long sigh, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he leaned in closer. “I’m just saying, if you snap and punch that blonde bastard in the throat, make sure I’m holding the milkshake machine so we don’t both get fired.” Yunho finally glanced up, and San’s smirk faded just a little when he saw his friend’s eyes. Murder wasn’t just a concept in them, it was a promise. And San had never seen Yunho like this before.
“You okay?” San asked, more seriously this time. Yunho didn’t answer. He just grabbed the drinks, jaw ticking again, and turned back toward Liam’s booth. You and Wooyoung watched from across the room. You could tell the second Liam said something again, this time quieter. Leaned in toward the table, grinning. You knew that grin. You hated that grin. And so did Yunho, because you watched him stop just short of the table, every muscle in his back going rigid.
Yunho approached the table like a storm dressed in diner whites. He set the refilled drinks down a little too hard, soda sloshing just shy of the rim, and turned to walk away without a word. But Liam, cocky and cruel like always, couldn’t resist. “So…” His voice was just loud enough to carry, dragging the last syllable out like he was stretching gum. “Diner boy… you fucking my girl?”
Yunho stopped dead in his tracks. Turned. Came back. And leaned in slightly, one hand resting on the edge of the booth table like it was the only thing keeping him from lunging across it. His voice was calm. Too calm. “I must be doing it better than you,” he said, locking eyes with Liam. “Considering you’re the ex.” You could’ve heard a pin drop in the silence and the way Yunho’s voice seemed to echo.
Wooyoung’s brows shot up, and San ducked behind the counter like he was bracing for a flying salt shaker. Liam’s smirk twitched, faltering for a split second, but it was enough. “Tread careful,” Liam muttered, sitting back. “I’m just sayin’, not every girl wants to settle for second rate dick and strawberry milkshakes.” Yunho’s lips curled in something that wasn’t a smile and San was already moving the second he heard Liam say “second rate dick.” He rounded the counter in record time, sliding in between Yunho and the booth like a damn referee at a heavyweight match.
“Alright,” San said brightly, clapping a hand on Yunho’s chest and giving him a gentle push back. “Let’s not make this a felony, yeah?” Yunho didn’t budge at first. His jaw was locked, eyes still trained on Liam with that murderous gleam that only showed up when someone really pissed him off. But then San leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. “Come on, man. He’s not worth it. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
Yunho exhaled hard through his nose. He looked at you, just for a second, saw how tense you were, how you weren’t even looking at Liam, and that was enough. He stepped back and San kept a hand on his arm just in case, guiding him back toward the counter like he was defusing a bomb as Liam muttered something under his breath, but this time Yunho didn’t react.
The bell above the diner door jingled as Liam and his friends finally stood to leave, their empty plates scraped clean and their egos louder than the tip they definitely weren’t going to leave. Liam shot one last look over his shoulder, smirking like he’d won something. You didn’t look at him. You only looked at Yunho. And he was already staring at you. He stood behind the counter, towel still clutched in his hand, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. San said something to him, probably another check in, maybe a warning, but Yunho didn’t respond. He tossed the towel aside, rounded the corner, and disappeared through the back door without a word.
You slid out of the booth before Wooyoung could even stop you. “Where are you going?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Out back,” you muttered. You pushed open the back door and found Yunho leaned against his car, head tilted back, eyes shut, hands fisted in his apron but he straightened when he saw you, shoulders loosening, jaw unclenching like your presence alone flipped a switch. The anger didn’t vanish completely, but it dulled, settling into something quieter.
He looked at you now, really looked, eyes softer than they’d been all day. “Hey,” he said gently. “I’m good. He’s gone.” You nodded, folding your arms around yourself without realizing it. For a beat, neither of you spoke. The hum of traffic somewhere down the street filled the space, the faint clatter of dishes inside the diner muffled behind the wall. Then Yunho cleared his throat. “When did you… date him?”
The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t accusatory. It was careful. Like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. You hesitated and Yunho noticed immediately. His brows knitted together, concern replacing the last traces of anger. “You don’t have to tell me if….”
“No,” you said quickly. “I just… haven’t talked about it in a while.” You shifted closer, back pressing lightly against the cool metal of his car, eyes dropping to the concrete between your feet. “I left him over a year ago,” you began quietly. “When I was living in Malibu.” Yunho stayed silent. Completely still. Listening. “He started getting controlling,” you continued, fingers worrying at the hem of your shirt. “Didn’t like how I dressed. Didn’t like my friends. Especially when his friends were around, said I embarrassed him. Said I was asking for attention.” Your voice tightened, just a little. “It got worse fast.”
Yunho’s hands curled at his sides.
“He…” You swallowed. “He hit me. Once.” The word landed heavy between you and Yunho sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, head dipping as his eyes shut for half a second, like he was physically restraining himself from punching a ghost.
“I left that night,” you said. “Didn’t pack much. Just called Woo. Him and Yeosang helped me get out. That’s when I came here.”
Yunho stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate. Like he didn’t want to startle you. “You didn’t deserve that,” he said quietly, voice low but steady. “Not a single second of it.” You shrugged, a reflex you hated. “I know that now.”
He shook his head, eyes intense but gentle. “No. You deserved better then, too.” His hand hovered near yours, not touching yet. Asking without words. When you didn’t pull away, he laced his fingers through yours, grip warm and grounding. Safe. “I’m sorry he even breathed in your direction,” Yunho said, jaw tight again, but this time the anger was protective, not explosive. “And I swear to you, he will never touch you again. Ever.”
You looked up at him then. And for the first time since Liam walked into the diner, your chest felt like it could expand fully again. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment. “You don’t have to go full vigilante.” Yunho huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I know. But for you I will be.”
He squeezed your hand once, grounding both of you. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go back inside before San decides to jump the counter himself.” And when you walked back toward the door together, his hand never left yours.
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Yunho stood in front of the mirror, sweatpants slung low on his hips, one hand dragging slowly down the center of his spine until his thumb grazed the healed ink. The cross glinted faintly under the low bedroom light, sharp and unapologetic between his shoulder blades. He tilted his head just slightly, watching the way the muscle in his back flexed with the movement, jaw ticking.
“Still not tired of staring at yourself, huh?” came your voice, soft and teasing from behind him. He turned slow. You were curled up on his bed, legs tangled in his comforter, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts that barely reached mid thigh. The collar had slipped off one shoulder, and your hair was still a little damp from your earlier shower together. His camera was in your hands, flipping lazily through photos with that wicked little grin he never got used to.
Yunho arched a brow as he walked toward you. “You’re one to talk.” You smirked without looking up. “I’m surprised these angles didn’t send your dad into cardiac arrest.” That made him stop at the foot of the bed, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. “Y/N.”
Your grin widened, devilish. “What? I think I look great.” You set the camera down beside you, just as he came closer. The mattress dipped under his weight, and in a blink, he was kneeling beside you. One hand braced near your shoulder, the other trailing down the front of the shirt you’d stolen and pausing just over where your piercings pressed against the thin cotton. His thumb rubbed slow, purposeful circles over the fabric, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to these,” he murmured.
“Still obsessed?” you asked, breath catching just a little when his other hand joined in, teasing along the hem, fingertips sliding underneath to brush your waist. “Every time you wear one of my shirts,” he said, dipping his head to press a kiss just above your heart, “I remember exactly what’s under it.”
You bit your lip, arching just slightly into his touch. He smiled against your skin, voice low. “You’re gonna make me take my time with you again.” And you grinned, eyes gleaming. “Good.” His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt before peeling it up and over your head in one slow motion. The second it hit the floor, his mouth was on you, lips closing over one pierced nipple while his hand slid between your thighs, cupping you through the damp cotton of your panties.
“Fuck,” he murmured against your skin, tongue flicking your piercing. “You’re already wet for me?” Your breath hitched, back arching into him as his other hand rose, two fingers pressing against your lips. “Suck.” You did without hesitation, moaning softly around the digits as his mouth moved to your other nipple, giving it the same attention, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees wobble.
He pulled his fingers free, shiny and warm from your mouth, and his gaze never left yours as he pushed past the waistband of your panties and thrust those same fingers into you, slow and deep, knuckles disappearing as your head fell back with a cry. “So fucking tight,” he growled, fingers curling as he pressed his mouth to your neck, biting down just enough to make you gasp. “You feel that, baby? That’s mine.”
Yunho groaned as your walls clenched around his fingers, his mouth latched to your nipple like he couldn’t get enough, sucking hard, tongue swirling around the barbell before dragging his teeth across it, making your whole body jolt as his fingers started pounding into you, slick sounds filling the room, the wet heat between your thighs soaking his palm. He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow, just pushed deeper, rougher, his wrist snapping with practiced rhythm.
“You gonna come for me, baby?” he mumbled around your nipple, the vibration of his voice making your thighs tremble. “All over my fucking hand?” You were already there, hips grinding down, panting, whimpering, your fingers twisting into the sheets. “Yunho… fuck!” He kept his mouth sealed over your nipple, tongue relentless, his fingers slamming into your dripping heat until your body locked up and then shattered, squirting so hard it soaked his hand, your thighs, even the edge of the sheets.
Yunho moaned against your skin, never missing a beat, hand still moving as you shook and gasped, overstimulated and breathless. “Goddamn…” he whispered, pulling back just to watch the mess you made, his lips slick, your nipple swollen, and his fingers still buried deep. “Look what you do to me.” His breath was heavy as he slowly pulled his fingers from your soaked cunt, watching the way your slick clung to them with a crooked, hungry smile. His other hand cupped your ass, thumb digging into your skin.
“Turn around,” he said, voice thick with lust, rough like gravel. You once obeyed without a word, flipping onto your stomach before rising to your knees, chest still pressed to the mattress. Yunho grabbed your hips, groaning at the sight of you, panties clinging to your thighs, and your skin glistening from the mess he’d already made of you.
He hooked his fingers into the band of your panties and dragged them down slow, savoring every inch of exposed skin, watching them drop to the floor. Then he stood, pushing his own sweats down and kicking them aside, his dick heavy and hard, already leaking for you as he got behind you, one knee on the mattress, one hand wrapping around the base of himself to stroke it as he lined himself up. His other hand slid up your spine, palm warm and grounding.
“You look so good like this,” he murmured, eyes dragging over every inch of you. “Mine.” He guided the tip of his dick through your folds, dragging it through your slick before slowly pushing in, inch by inch, thick and deep, until he bottomed out with a groan that curled into your spine.
Your moan was instant, soft and broken as your fingers gripped the sheets. “Fuck…. baby…” you gasped, head dropping forward as the stretch hit you just right. His hands slid firmly around your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he pulled back and slammed into you again, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. “God….” he grunted, picking up the pace, each thrust rougher, hungrier, deeper as he leaned over you slightly, voice hot against your ear. “Never letting you go.”
Your moans were ragged now, your body rocking forward with every thrust as Yunho pounded into you, the sound of it obscene, your thighs trembling beneath him. And he didn’t slow down. Not even a little. He drove into you again and again, your body shuddering from the rhythm of his thrusts, his hips snapped forward just a little harder every time, and he suddenly slipped out. A breathless grunt left him, and in the same second, the head of his dick pressed accidentally against your other hole, slick with how wet you were, nudging there with a pressure that made your breath catch.
You gasped, a loud moan tearing from your throat before you could stop it, hips rolling back, slow and deliberate. “Fuck,” you whispered, already feeling your body clench from the contact. “Yunho…”
He froze, his fingers tightening at your hips. “Baby?” You rocked back again, grinding against him, voice wrecked and breathless. “Do it.” His jaw clenched. You hadn’t done this since that one time. But the way you were pushing against him, the way your voice cracked, all soft and needy, he couldn’t hold back.
“You sure?” he asked low, his tip pressing just a little harder, testing as you nodded, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Want you, Yunho… want you there…” A growl rumbled in his chest as he reached down, guiding himself, one hand stroking soothing circles on your back while the other gripped your hip, and then he started to push in slowly.
Your moan turned guttural the second you felt the blunt head of his dick press against your entrance, your hips instinctively pushed back catching Yunho off guard. “Fuck,” he hissed, one hand gripping your waist, the other splaying across your lower back to hold you still. Your breath was shaky but eager, already pulsing around nothing. “More….. please.”
He moved slow at first, guiding himself with both hands now, the tip pushing past that tight ring of muscle, your body stretching around him with a burn that made your spine arch and your fingers fist the sheets. A screaming moan ripped from your throat as he bottomed out, his dick thick and filling. Yunho’s head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, chest rising in a shaky breath. “Oh my God, baby…” His voice was wrecked already, hips still, savoring the heat and pressure. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You whimpered beneath him, every inch of your body trembling as you adjusted. “Move… Yunho, move…” He kissed along your shoulder blade, down the curve of your back as he started to roll his hips slowly, letting you feel all of it. Every drag of his dick was thick, deep, deliberate. His hands framed your waist like you’d fall apart if he let go. “You feel so fucking good like this,” he groaned, leaning down to press his chest to your back, his voice rough against your ear. “So tight, so perfect.”
Your moans grew louder, more desperate with each thrust, and Yunho picked up the pace, still careful, still controlled, but deeper now, harder. He groaned every time he bottomed out, grinding into you like he was trying to brand himself into your body. The stretch still burned, sharp and hot, but it sent waves of pleasure crawling up your spine until your knees started to shake.
You reached back, grabbing at his thigh, your voice cracking through a moan. “Yunho, please…”
“Too much?” he asked, breath ghosting over your neck as he bent over you. You shook your head frantically. “No…. fuck, no….. it’s not enough. Please, I need you to go faster. Harder. Please.” His hips stilled. And then you whimpered, desperate, the sound needy enough to make his jaw clench. “Yunho…. baby, I need it… need you to fuck me harder!”
He growled low, something possessive and primal rumbling from his chest as his hand clamped down on your hip and his other palm pressed between your shoulder blades, pushing your face into the bed. “You want it that bad?” he rasped, dragging his dick out slow, just the tip left inside before he slammed back in, making you choke on a moan. “That needy for me, baby?”
“Yes! Please…. don’t stop… don’t you fucking dare stop”
That was all he needed. He started pounding into you with brutal, relentless force, every thrust punching a cry from your lips. His name, sharp and broken, left your mouth again and again as your body bounced from the impact. He was so deep, so thick, your legs trembling, hands fisting the sheets while he fucked you like he was trying to split your soul from your body. “God…. look at you,” he grunted, hips slamming against you, balls smacking your skin. “So fucking tight…. taking me so good…. dripping all over me and I’m not even in your pussy.”
You sobbed out his name, barely able to breathe, the coil in your belly snapping tighter, tighter, closer…. His hand slid up and tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to hear him pant against your ear. “You’re gonna come for me like this?” he growled, still pounding you open. “Gonna come on my dick while I fuck your ass?” He grunted as he dragged you upright, your spine arching into his chest as he wrapped an arm tight around your waist. His dick stayed buried deep in your ass, every thrust now slamming up into you from behind with enough force to make you cry out.
You were trembling, whimpering, already on the edge of breaking completely when his hand slid down between your thighs. “I’ve got you,” he growled, fingers finding your clit. “Come for me again, baby. Let me feel it….” His fingers moved fast, ruthless, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he pounded into your ass with raw, punishing thrusts. You couldn’t stop the sob that ripped out of you, loud, wrecked, as your orgasm slammed into you like a lightning strike.
You screamed, legs buckling, whole body convulsing as you came hard, gushing against his hand. He held you through it, one arm a vice around your middle, the other still working your clit as your cunt clenched helplessly in aftershocks. Your vision blurred, your mouth open in a silent cry as you shook, overstimulated and gone. Yunho cursed, deep, feral, his rhythm stuttering. “Fuck, baby…” You felt him grind as deep as he could go before he growled low in your ear and spilled into you, his release hot and thick, his whole body trembling against yours. He didn’t pull out, just wrapped both arms around you from behind, holding you close as your gasping breaths synced together in the dark.
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“You okay?” You asked Yunho, dragging your finger along the inside of his arm as he drove. He glanced at you sideways. “Just thinking.” You grinned. “About how your dad definitely saw my tits on camera?” His knuckles flexed on the steering wheel.
“Should I ask your dad if he liked my angles?” You teased, legs crossed, the lace hem of your romper riding up just enough to make Yunho clench the steering wheel harder than he already was. “You wouldn’t.”
You grinned, adjusting the cardigan you’d halfheartedly thrown over the outfit. It wasn’t even that cold, it was strategy. A thin attempt to tone it down for the sake of the woman you were about to face. Not that Yunho had asked you to. Not that he cared.
“You look…” His eyes swept over your thighs, the fishnets, the choker at your neck. “like I’m walking into that house already in trouble.” You rolled your eyes. “You love it.”
“Yeah…. I do.” His voice was rough now, too much memory of what happened last night and too little time to do anything about it. “Do not sit on the kitchen counter. Or the dining table. Or…”
“Or what?” you challenged, smirking as you tilted toward him, your perfume hitting his nose. “You’ll bend me over it in front of your mother?” He groaned, low and frustrated, eyes fixed on the road like it might save him. “I already didn’t go to church again,” he muttered. “Don’t make me commit actual murder before lunch.”
“Oh please,” you laughed. “Your mom probably thinks I’m a heathen already.”
“She knows you are,” he said, but there was no real heat behind it, just a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gunho still won’t look me in the eye. And my dad… God help me if you bring up those pictures.”
“I’ll be good,” you sing songed. “Probably.”
Yunho pulled into the driveway and shifted the car into park, but didn’t move. He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression softened. “You sure you wanna do this?”
You shrugged, but your voice was honest when you said, “I’m not scared of your mom.”
“That makes one of us.”
You laughed again, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Come on, sinner boy. Let’s go say hi to your family.” He exhaled, then reached for the door handle like a man heading to war. He opened the door for you, ever the gentleman even when he was seconds from combusting, and you stepped inside to the clean, quiet tension of the Jeong household.
Mr. Jeong was the first to appear. He looked like Yunho, stern brow, sharp gaze, the kind of man who didn’t waste words. But his expression softened a fraction when he saw you, and that alone made your eyebrows lift. “This her?” he asked Yunho.
Yunho nodded, one arm protectively at your lower back. “Yeah.”
Mr. Jeong gave you a once over, quick, clinical. Then he nodded, not unkindly. “Welcome. I’m Minsoo.” You offered your hand, giving him a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Mm. Hopefully some of it good.”
You smiled wider. “I plead the fifth.”
That earned you the ghost of a smirk before he turned toward the dining room. “Lunch is ready. Come in.”
“Tch.” That sound could’ve sliced you in half. Yunho’s mother appeared from the kitchen, arms crossed, gaze narrowing instantly on your outfit. The flowers. The lace. The fishnets. She didn’t say anything. Just stared like she was calculating how many ways your presence disrupted her feng shui.
“Mrs. Jeong,” you said politely, even sweetly. She offered a nod so tight it could’ve doubled as a twitch. “Lovely house,” you added. Still no reply. Gunho was already at the table, hiding behind his glass of water. The moment he looked up and met your eyes, he flushed violently and choked, actually choked, on nothing. You bit the inside of your cheek hard trying not to laugh.
“Gunho,” Yunho greeted him casually, like nothing was wrong, taking the seat across him. You sat beside Yunho, ankles crossing under the table, the hem of your romper riding just a little higher as you reached for a napkin. Yunho didn’t miss it. Neither did his mother, apparently. She sat down with a pointed glance at your knees and muttered, “The weather must be much warmer to you.”
“Oh, it is,” you said sweetly, unbothered. “And I run hot.” Yunho coughed into his hand to cover a laugh. His dad just sipped at his beer like he was trying to hide an amused grin. Mrs. Jeong said grace and narrowed her eyes at you for not bowing your head before everyone started eating.
The soup was hot. The silence was hotter. Gunho was still pink across the ears. Yunho had his ankle hooked around yours beneath the table, grounding you. And Mrs. Jeong? She was staring at her spoon like it had offended her. “So,” she finally said, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her napkin. “What is it you do for work?”
Yunho tensed immediately, jaw ticking like he knew exactly where this was going. You didn’t even flinch. “I work at a clinic downtown,” you said, gently blowing on your spoonful of broth. “Just a small place. Four days a week.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Jeong replied, the syllable light and thin as ice. “A medical clinic?”
You nodded, eyes still calm. “Mhm. Wellness based. Physical therapy, holistic services, some herbalist work. I mostly run the front, help with scheduling and patient support.”
“And who owns the clinic?”
“Wooyoung’s uncle.”
There it was. That pause. That barely perceptible pause that screamed “oh dear.” Yunho’s mother blinked once. “The same boy who posted that video from the rooftop bar on Instagram last week that dear San shared? The… boyfriend?”
Yunho snorted into his water, and Gunho full on wheezed as you leaned forward just slightly, resting your elbow on the table like you belonged there. “That’d be him.”
“And you’re not… concerned about professionalism in a workplace like that?”
Yunho’s grip on your thigh tightened, but you were already smiling. “Nope,” you said breezily. “It’s actually a really peaceful environment. People heal faster when they’re not being judged, you know?”
Mr. Jeong looked up at that, brows raising just a bit, and Gunho bit his lip so hard you thought he might bleed. Mrs. Jeong, however, didn’t budge. “But I assume it’s not a long term position?”
You tilted your head, playful. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It just sounds… temporary.”
Yunho exhaled slow through his nose, voice smooth but firm. “It’s a job that pays well and lets her live her life. What exactly is the issue? I work at a diner, remember?”
Mrs. Jeong looked at her son, eyes sharp. “It’s not an issue. I’m simply asking questions.” You leaned in again, resting your chin in your hand. “You’re welcome to ask anything. I just might not answer the way you want.”
That did it. Mr. Jeong gave the slightest laugh, under his breath, barely audible, but it was there. And Yunho finally smiled, turning to glance at you with pride written all over his face. Gunho, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “Would you like more soup?” you offered sweetly, turning back to Mrs. Jeong. “It’s delicious. You must of put such hard work into it.”
She blinked, lips pursed. “No, thank you.”
You grinned. “Didn’t think so.”
Mrs. Jeong folded her hands on the table, that porcelain smile still pinned to her face like it was stitched there. “And your family?” she asked, ever so polite. “Where are they based?”
You didn’t miss the flick of her eyes down to your rings, your wrists, your neckline, like she was trying to figure out what class you came from based on accessories alone. “My mom lives in New York,” you replied, gentle but unwavering. “Has for the past twelve years or so.”
“And your father?”
Yunho’s hand tightened on your thigh again, a silent check in, but you just took a breath and kept your eyes on her. “He passed when I was young.”
That did it. That tiny, momentary flicker behind her eyes, the calculation, the adjustment. You weren’t some rich girl acting out. You weren’t some party girl clinging to her son for clout. You were something else now. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, voice a notch softer, but not quite warm. “My father passed when I was young as well.”
“Thank you.” You smiled without teeth. “He was a good man. And I’m sure your father was as well.”
Across from you, Mr. Jeong gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Gunho went quiet again, spoon paused halfway to his mouth.
“And your mother?” Mrs. Jeong continued. “What does she do?”
“She runs an art gallery,” you said simply. “She’s actually been curating an exhibit that opens next month.”
“Impressive.”
Yunho finally jumped in then, voice easy but firm, “Yeah, Y/N gets all her boldness from her mom. You should hear some of the calls I’ve overheard.” You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “He likes to eavesdrop.”
That earned a laugh from Mr. Jeong. Even Gunho snorted. But Yunho’s mother? She just sipped her water. “That explains a few things,” she murmured, setting her glass back down with precision.
You just tilted your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But not a dismissal either. For now, it was a draw.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Plates clinked softly as the last of lunch wound down. Mr. Jeong retreated to the living room with a quiet grunt, settling into his recliner like he’d earned it, remote already in hand. The low murmur of a sports channel drifted in from the other room.
Gunho stood awkwardly, stacking bowls. “Hyung, can you help me with my pc? You said you would when you came.” Yunho shot you a quick look, you good?, and when you gave him the smallest nod, he pushed back his chair. “Yeah. Be right back,” he said, brushing his fingers lightly over your shoulder as he passed.
And then it was just you. And Mrs. Jeong. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. You stood first, collecting dishes without being asked. “Where should these go?” She watched you for a moment, assessing again, before turning toward the sink. “Just there.”
You moved quietly, rinsing bowls, stacking plates. The domestic rhythm settled into something almost peaceful. Almost. After a minute, she spoke. “You don’t seem nervous.” You glanced up. “Should I be?”
“Most girls are,” she replied coolly. “Meeting their boyfriend’s parents.”
You dried your hands carefully. “I respect you. But I’m not afraid of you.”
That made her pause. She turned slightly, leaning against the counter. “You’ve changed him.” There it was. Not an accusation. Not quite a compliment. You didn’t rush your answer. “He’s still him,” you said gently. “He just doesn’t feel like he has to shrink anymore.”
Her jaw tightened just a fraction. “He used to care very deeply about tradition. About structure.”
“He still cares,” you said. “He just doesn’t want to suffocate.”
Silence stretched between you. From the living room, the TV crowd roared faintly as Mrs. Jeong picked up a dish towel, drying a plate with precise movements. “He’s always been… intense and…. afraid to show it….”
You smiled slightly. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
“He didn’t go to church again today.”
You met her eyes evenly. “That was his choice.”
“And you support that.”
“I support him choosing for himself.”
Her gaze searched your face for something, defiance, maybe. Disrespect. She didn’t find it. Instead, she found you steady. “You’re very confident,” she said finally.
“I had to be.” That landed differently. She set the plate down. “He’s never brought someone home like this.”
“Like what?”
Her eyes flicked to your fishnets. Then back up. “Unapologetic.”
You didn’t smile this time. “I don’t apologize for existing.”
A long beat passed between you. Then, unexpectedly, she gave the faintest exhale through her nose. Not quite a laugh. But not cold either. “He gets that from his father,” she murmured.
You softened just a little. “He gets a lot of good things from both of you I’m sure.”
She studied you again. And this time, there was less judgment in it as upstairs, a thud echoed, followed by Gunho’s voice and Yunho’s deeper reply. Normal. Familiar. Mrs. Jeong turned back to the sink. “You may dry.” It wasn’t warm. But it wasn’t dismissal either. It was… permission.
The first crack of thunder was loud enough to rattle the dishes in the drying rack. You and Mrs. Jeong both looked toward the window at the same time. What had been gray clouds earlier were now swallowing the sky whole, rain coming down in violent sheets. The trees in the yard bent almost sideways under the wind.
“That wasn’t supposed to start until later,” you murmured. From the living room, Mr. Jeong turned the volume down on the television. “Roads will flood if it keeps up like that.”
Upstairs, footsteps thudded, and a second later Yunho and Gunho appeared at the top of the stairs. “Is that thunder?” Gunho asked. As if on cue, lightning flashed bright enough to illuminate the entire kitchen.
Mrs. Jeong didn’t hesitate. “Yunho, you’re not driving back in this.” Yunho opened his mouth to argue out of habit, but another crack of thunder cut him off. “It’s fine,” she continued firmly. “You can use your old room. The rain will be worse in an hour.”
Yunho glanced toward the front window, jaw tight, weighing pride versus common sense. The rain was coming down so hard the street was already shining like glass. He looked at you. You raised one brow. “I’m not swimming home.” His lips twitched as his mother’s gaze sharpened slightly at the exchange. “You as well,” she added, clearly directing it at you without saying your name. “The roads aren’t safe.”
There it was. Not warm, but not exclusion either. Yunho’s eyes flicked back to his mom, measuring her tone. Then to his dad. Then back to you. “Sure,” he said finally.
Gunho blinked. “Wait, really?”
Yunho shrugged one shoulder. “Looks like it.”
Another crack of thunder rolled through the house, deeper this time, almost shaking the walls as Mr. Jeong stood slowly from his recliner. “Storm’s moving faster than they predicted.” Mrs. Jeong was already wiping her hands on a towel. “I’ll get fresh sheets.”
Yunho’s jaw tightened slightly at that, old pride resurfacing, but he didn’t protest. Instead, he stepped closer to you, voice low enough only you could hear. “Does she like you now?” You smirked. “We’re getting there.” You paused before teasing him. “Do you still have glow in the dark stars on the ceiling?”
“Maybe.”
“And posters?”
“Maybe.”
Your grin widened as outside, the wind howled again, rain slamming against the windows like a warning. You weren’t leaving tonight. And judging by the way Yunho was looking at you now, half amused, half something darker and something you couldn’t quite place, it wasn’t going to be a quiet night either.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The storm didn’t let up. Rain hammered the windows in relentless sheets, wind rattling the gutters like the house itself was bracing. Every few minutes lightning flashed bright enough to turn the living room white for a split second before plunging it back into the warm glow of lamplight.
Gunho had retreated upstairs hours ago, headset on, yelling at strangers through his PC mic now that Yunho fixed it. Mr. Jeong was still planted in his recliner, arms crossed, watching some old action movie like the weather wasn’t trying to reenact the apocalypse outside.
Mrs. Jeong sat in her usual chair, posture perfect, hands folded loosely in her lap. And on the couch, Yunho, in a pair of his old gray sweats, drawstring hanging loose. And you. Swallowed in one of his faded black band tees from high school and Gunho’s sleep pants that were just short enough to show your ankles. Yunho’s old pajama bottoms had nearly swallowed you whole earlier, and after five minutes of tripping over them, Gunho had silently tossed you a pair of his old smaller ones through the doorway without making eye contact.
Now you were curled into Yunho’s side, legs draped over his thigh, your head tucked under his chin. His arm was wrapped around your shoulders like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. The movie played in the background, some car chase scene, tires screeching, gunshots popping through surround sound, but neither of you were really watching.
His thumb traced slow, absent circles against your upper arm. Every once in a while, the storm would crack loud enough to make the windows shake, and you’d instinctively press closer. He liked that. He dipped his head slightly, brushing his lips against your hairline without thinking and Mrs. Jeong noticed. Of course she noticed.
Her eyes flicked from the television to the two of you, observing the way Yunho’s body curved protectively around yours. The way you fit into him without hesitation. The way his hand rested possessively on your hip under the blanket. Mr. Jeong noticed too, but said nothing.
Another crack of thunder rolled through, deeper this time. You shifted, fingers curling into the fabric of Yunho’s sweats. “You good?” he murmured quietly. “Yeah,” you whispered back. “Just loud.” He hummed and tightened his arm around you just a fraction more. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t rebellious. It was simple. He was comfortable. And that was new. Mrs. Jeong’s gaze lingered on that detail longer than the others. Because Yunho had never been like this before. Not at home. Not soft. Not relaxed enough to curl around someone in front of them.
Lightning flashed again. For just a second, the room lit up, and in that bright white flicker, it was obvious. He wasn’t shrinking here anymore. He wasn’t bracing. He was just… himself. Mrs. Jeong leaned back slightly in her chair, thoughtful now instead of critical as Mr. Jeong cleared his throat. “Storm’s not slowing.”
Yunho didn’t move. “Yeah.”
You tilted your face up slightly to look at him. He glanced down, eyes softening when they met yours. And in that quiet, storm filled living room, under his parents’ watchful eyes, he looked at you like you were home.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Rain battered the roof like a thousand impatient fingers. The storm still hadn’t eased. If anything, it had settled in for the night. Yunho’s old bedroom door clicked shut softly behind you, the glow from the hallway disappearing as he flipped on the small bedside lamp. The room was… painfully nostalgic.
You turned slowly in a circle. “Are those…” you tilted your head back, squinting at the ceiling. “Really glow in the dark stars?”
Yunho groaned immediately. “Don’t.”
You burst into laughter anyway, pointing up at the scattered constellations. “You literally mapped out Orion.”
“I was ten,” he defended, running a hand through his hair.
“And the Avengers sheets? These are the fresh sheets your mom grabbed?” You tugged at the comforter, revealing Captain America’s shield near your knee. “Oh my God. Is that 2012 promotional merch?”
“Okay, relax,” he muttered, stepping closer. “It was a limited edition.”
You turned toward the walls next, eyes scanning the faded Marvel posters still taped up, Iron Man slightly peeling at the corner, Thor mid lightning strike, a younger, softer version of Yunho frozen in time in the middle of all of it.
“You were such a nerd,” you teased.
“I am a nerd,” he corrected, and before you could take another step, he grabbed your waist and pulled you backward onto the bed. You yelped, laughing as you landed half on top of him, half tangled in the sheets. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat back against the headboard, then tugged you properly into his lap like it was instinct.
Outside, thunder rolled deep and long. Upstairs, faint muffled shouting from Gunho’s gaming headset filtered across the hall. The house felt alive around you. Yunho was shirtless now, somewhere between changing into sweats and wrestling you onto the bed, his shirt had disappeared. His skin was warm under your palms, familiar and solid. The small cross tattoo at the back of his neck peeked out when he leaned forward slightly.
You reached up without thinking, fingers brushing the ink gently. His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you felt it. “I still can’t believe you let me pick out your first tattoo,” you murmured softly, tracing the lines with your fingertip.
“I told you I trust you.” His hands settled on your hips, thumbs absentmindedly brushing slow lines against the fabric of his old shirt you were wearing. “You like it,” he said quietly. You smiled, dragging your nail lightly along the edge of the tattoo. “I absolutely do.”
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the room for a split second, the posters, the stars, the two of you tangled together on a bed that once held a teenage version of him. You leaned back slightly in his lap, studying him. “This is weirdly cute,” you admitted.
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t call my old bedroom cute.”
“It’s adorable.”
He scoffed, but his hands tightened just a little on your hips, grounding you there. “You know,” you added playfully, glancing up at the stars again, “if we turn the lights off, I bet they still glow.”
“They do,” he muttered.
Your grin widened as thunder cracked again, closer this time, and instinctively you shifted closer to him. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, chin resting against your shoulder. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The storm raged. Gunho yelled at someone in game. And Yunho’s heartbeat thudded steady against you.
“Don’t make fun of me too much,” he joked softly as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I’m not.” He studied your face carefully. “You fit here,” he added, almost like it surprised him. You softened. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Maybe I do.”
Yunho watched you for a second too long. You were still straddling his lap, fingers resting lightly at the back of his neck, tracing the edge of his tattoo. Your lips were inches from his. Close enough that he could feel your breath. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he murmured, voice already lower.
You didn’t answer. You just leaned in and kissed him. It was slow at first, then deeper, your fingers sliding into his hair, your body pressing closer to his bare chest. He responded instantly, hands tightening at your waist as he kissed you back harder, mouth moving with growing hunger.
He shifted, guiding you back against the mattress, his body following without breaking the kiss. The old Avengers sheets crinkled under you, glow in the dark stars faintly visible above as lightning flashed again. His hands slid under the hem of the shirt you were wearing. “Still making fun of me?” he asked softly against your mouth. “Never,” you whispered, breathless.
He pulled the shirt over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere across the room. His eyes dragged over you, heat flaring immediately. His hands followed the same path, warm and deliberate. Your bra came next, unclasped and discarded without much thought.
He exhaled slowly, almost reverent for a second before the corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve never been more glad my parents’ bedroom is downstairs,” he muttered.
You laughed quietly. “Gunho might hear a show though.”
He groaned, leaning down to kiss your collarbone, your shoulder, trailing warmth along your skin. “But then again.. Gunho’s already seen and heard worse,” you teased, and he shot you a look.
“Do not remind me.”
You giggled against his ear, remembering the camera incident all too clearly again as his hands slid along your sides, palms slow and firm, reacquainting himself with every inch. He dipped his head again, mouth brushing over your skin, unhurried but intent, like he was savoring the fact that this was happening here, in the room with the posters and the stars and the old memories.
“Be quiet,” he murmured against you, though there was no real command in it.
“Make me,” you whispered back.
Thunder cracked again. And this time, Yunho didn’t hesitate. He kissed you deeper, his weight settling over you, hands roaming with growing confidence as the storm outside drowned out every small sound you made. He broke the kiss slowly, dragging his mouth down your jaw, your throat. His hands slid to your hips and, with a soft shift of weight, he flipped you onto your stomach. The movement wasn’t rushed, it was deliberate. Controlled.
You felt the mattress dip as he hovered over you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of the sleep pants you’d borrowed from Gunho. He tugged them down slowly, inch by inch, eyes never leaving your body as he exposed more of your skin. The fabric slid off your legs and hit the floor somewhere near the discarded shirt and he exhaled quietly.
Then he bent down. His lips pressed against your lower back first. Slow. Warm. Unhurried. He kissed upward along your spine, hands gliding over your hips, your sides, memorizing you all over again. He reached your shoulder blades and continued higher, flipping you gently back onto your back as his mouth traveled.
He kissed across your collarbones. Down the center of your chest. And when he reached your breasts, he paused. Every time. Like it surprised him. His hands cupped you gently as his mouth followed, kissing just above the piercings first. teasing, before finally brushing over them with slow, careful attention.
You sucked in a breath instantly as he kissed one, then the other, tongue tracing lightly before his lips closed around the metal. Not rough. Not frantic. Just savoring. His hand slid along your waist, thumb brushing your skin absentmindedly. You shifted beneath him, restless now as your hands reached down, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “Impatient?” he murmured as you tugged again. “Take them off,” you breathed. A slow smile curved across his mouth. He rose to his knees, pulling the sweats down his legs without breaking eye contact. The storm flashed again, briefly lighting the room, casting shadows across the old Marvel posters and the ceiling stars.
He climbed back over you immediately, settling between your legs, hands braced on either side of your head. Slow. Intent. His mouth lowered again, not rushed, not desperate. Just steady heat, building. You reached for him without thinking, fingers curling around him, guiding him closer because the waiting was suddenly unbearable.
“I need you,” you whispered. That was all it took. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him down to you, and he exhaled slowly as he positioned himself. He didn’t rush. Even with the heat between you, even with how desperately you were pulling him closer, he moved with control. Slowly. Carefully. He pressed forward inch by inch, sinking into you with a low, restrained sound that he swallowed against your neck.
You gasped softly, fingers digging into his shoulders as he filled you completely. “Shh,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your ear. “We’re not alone.” That only made it worse. The house creaked. Rain tapped against the windows. Gunho’s muffled voice carried across the hall again.
Yunho started moving. Not fast. Not hard. Just a slow, deliberate rhythm. A steady roll of his hips that made you arch up into him instinctively. Every movement was controlled, restrained, like he was holding himself back purely out of necessity. Your hands slid down his back, nails tracing lightly over his skin. He buried his face in your shoulder to muffle the quiet sound that left him when you tightened around him.
“You’re going to get us caught,” he breathed, though he didn’t stop. You bit your lip to keep quiet, hips lifting to meet his next slow thrust. The lack of noise made everything sharper, the brush of skin, the heat between you, the way his breath hitched every time you moved. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes half lidded. “Slow,” he reminded himself more than you. But his grip on your thigh tightened. And his rhythm deepened just slightly.
Yunho’s rhythm began to change. Still careful. Still controlled enough to keep the room quiet. But deeper now. More certain. His breathing grew heavier against your skin, not from recklessness, but from something steadier. Intentional. His hands weren’t gripping to claim or restrain you. They were holding you like he didn’t want to lose you. And that was different.
Every other time had been heat and sparks and chaos. Passion. Teasing and challenge. You pushing him. Him losing control. Both of you reckless with it. This felt… grounded. He shifted suddenly, sitting up and pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. The old mattress dipped under the movement, glow in the dark stars faintly glowing above you in the dim light. His hands settled at your hips. “Come here,” he murmured.
You adjusted instinctively, your legs tightening around him as you found your balance. You rolled your hips slowly, grinding against him, and he sucked in a quiet breath, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Careful,” he warned softly. You smiled and moved again, slower this time, deliberate. Letting yourself take control. Letting your body set the pace. His hands didn’t force you. They guided. Supported.
Your palms pressed against his chest as you moved in his lap, slow and unhurried, every shift of your hips making his jaw tense slightly. He wasn’t chasing anything now. He wasn’t trying to overpower the moment. He was watching you. Really watching you. The way your brows knit together slightly when you focused. The way your mouth parted when you exhaled. And something in his chest tightened. This wasn’t just heat. It wasn’t adrenaline. It wasn’t rebellion.
It was you in his childhood bedroom, wearing his old shirt earlier, helping his mom clean up, sitting on his couch like you belonged there. It was you teasing him in the car. You holding steady under his mother’s questions. You curled against him during the storm.
It was you.
His hands slid up your back slowly, fingers spreading warm and secure between your shoulder blades. He let you move. Let you keep grinding against him. Let you keep the rhythm. And somewhere between one breath and the next, it hit him so clearly it almost made him still.
He was in love with you.
Not because you were wild. Not because you challenged him. But because when the chaos quieted…. you felt like home.
He pulled you closer, forehead resting against yours as you continued to move slowly in his lap. “Y/N,” he breathed softly. Not a warning. Not a command. Just your name. And the way he said it was different than every other time. Because he almost said it. I love you. It rose up his throat, sat heavy behind his teeth. Three words. Too heavy for this room. Too fragile for this moment. He swallowed them.
Instead, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you back down onto the mattress. The shift wasn’t abrupt, but it wasn’t soft either. There was urgency in it now, emotion bleeding into movement. You landed against the old sheets with a breathless sound, and he followed immediately, positioning himself between your thighs again. His eyes searched your face for just a second. Then he took control.
He lifted one of your legs, guiding it up and over his shoulder, holding it there as he pressed forward again. The new angle made you gasp instantly, fingers gripping at the sheets beneath you. “Yunho…” you whispered as he moved. Slow at first. Then deeper. Harder. His restraint began to thin. Not reckless, not chaotic, but driven now. Intent guided by something steadier than lust.
You started to lose the fight to stay quiet. Your breaths grew louder, your hands reaching for him, nails dragging down his arms. He leaned down quickly, capturing your mouth in a kiss to swallow the sound. His lips moved against yours, urgent but grounding, like he was trying to keep you both tethered.
The storm outside cracked again, thunder rolling long enough to mask the small sounds slipping from you. His rhythm picked up. Not wild. Not out of control. But certain. Every thrust deliberate. Every movement purposeful. His grip on your thigh tightened slightly as he pressed closer, deeper, like he was trying to anchor himself and you broke against him suddenly. Your body arched, a sharp cry caught halfway between your lips and his. He kissed you harder to quiet it, holding you there as you trembled beneath him, your hands clutching at his shoulders.
He didn’t stop. He stayed with you through it, hips still driving, breath uneven now. Your name left his mouth against your skin like a prayer. And when he finally followed, when his control slipped just enough, he buried his face against your neck, holding you close as his breath staggered.
He stayed there for a moment after. Still inside you. Still holding your leg. Still not letting go. I love you hovered on his tongue again. He didn’t say it. Not yet. Instead, he pressed a slow kiss to your collarbone, breathing you in like he was memorizing the way this felt.
Outside, the storm kept raging. Inside, under childhood constellations, Yunho lay there in the quiet after, heart pounding, words unspoken, knowing everything had just changed.
pairing: song mingi x reader (no pronouns mentioned, reader has female anatomy)
au/genre: college!au, tutor!reader, mingi does not give a shit about studying, smut
word count: 4816 words
warnings: voice kink (AHHHHH), oral and fingering (reader receiving), reader is a little mean, kitchen sex, anime references, cringe, a joke about adhd, dirty talk... um..., oh right Mingi has a big dick (wbk), everyone's a little silly, unprotected sex (boo ‼️👎🏻), premature ejaculation almost, creampie, cum eating... (not reader...), i think that's it. NOT PROOF READ YET!!
synopsis: mingi hates studying, but what he hates way more than that is being perceived as stupid. what mingi loves on the other hand, are pretty people getting flustered about his voice
or
mingi shows you exactly what he hates and loves.
a/n: i was almost ready when i saw this tiktok and it completely blocked my mind because it's SO FUNNY, but at the same time, it's men being dudes, dudes being bros, and that kind of made it hard for me to continue. i apologize for the 24h delay 😞
Mingi is not one to sit there and look at books. Or papers. Or anything that doesn't move and feed his brain with bright colors and his ears with noises, really. He prefers to vibe, and studying is definitely not the vibe. Sadly, studying is a part of his life as a university student. Yes, he chose this path for himself and yes, he was aware that it would involve studying. Still, now that it's really happening and is not just an obstacle to overcome in the far, far future, Mingi kind of wishes he'd chosen something else to do with his life. It's just exhausting, why would he waste the precious time he has left on planet earth on something that doesn't get the serotonin floating? He's pretty sure he has some undiagnosed ADHD simmering up there, but who is he to judge that? He's certainly not studying to become a doctor or whatever.
Anyway, given the fact that Mingi doesn't like to study, he's not had much experience with it in the first place. He's barely gotten his way through school, but uni is a different level. Hence, he needs someone to 1) teach him how to study and 2) make him study, or rather: have a judging eye on him while he is supposed to study, so the fear of being called out on it may light a fire under his ass and force him to bury his nose between the stinky pages of an old library book (on that note: he also needed someone to show him how to check out books from the library).
And that's why you are here, every Thursday afternoon, sitting at the sad excuse of a kitchen counter slash dining table in Mingi's scandalously expensive apartment given its size, growling next to him every time you catch him analyzing the bumps on his wallpapers instead of the letters on the pages.
Mingi generally likes you, even though you are a bit scary, he has to admit, or maybe that's the appeal. You are polite, but you have a way of looking at him that makes him feel like he's getting mansplained by your eyes. Your taunting gaze on him makes him feel small, and he doesn't like that at all. It makes him feel like all these years of drinking milk to make him stand at the 1.84m he is at today were in vain. You always have that one expression on your face, and maybe that's just Mingi's subconsciousness telling him to STUDY HARD FOR GOD'S SAKE, but in the way your eyebrows would scrunch together just the tiniest bit, he reads: God, he is fucking stupid.
He doesn't know which (since he did not pay attention in biology class, nor is he even sure they teach that in biology class) chemical in his brain suffers an allergic reaction every time you look at him like that, but there has to be one. There is nothing that Mingi hates more than being called stupid. Well, except for studying, maybe.
Call him lazy, call him a scalawag, call him witty for being able to get through all of school without reading a single one of the set books if you must, but do not call him stupid.
The only problem is that you haven't, well, called him stupid per se. It's just how Mingi interprets your stares. Also, he desperately needs you because he doubts there will be many other contestants that are okay with getting paid as little as you are (which is all Mingi has left by the end of a month full of Pokémon trading cards). So Mingi just has to sit back and relax and simply take it because, apparently, that's what he gets for not studying his entire life.
A loud ringing wakes Mingi from his peaceful afternoon nap - one that he has really earned this time around, he managed to look through his study notes for a full 20 minutes during his lunch break!
Disoriented, Mingi raises his head to make out his location and what year he is in. It rings again. Slowly, Mingi recognizes the shrill sound as his door bell. He slowly gets up, a quick glance in the mirror tells him that his hair is an absolute mess (which is really a crowning achievement given his buzz cut length) and he has imprint marks from his blanket all over his right cheek, but his sleepy mind doesn't even take it in. Mingi furrows his brows and shakes his head. Who would dare to disturb his peaceful slumber at this ungodly hour (4pm)?
The answer, of course, stands right in front of his door. With your arms crossed and the tip of your shoe drumming a dent into Mingi's "come in if you're a silly baka"-door mat, you raise an unimpressed brow at the sleepy shell of Mingi that blinks one eye after the other.
A few seconds pass until Mingi finally realizes who you are, and his mouth forms an 'o'-shape. Immediately after, he furrows his brows once again, his body slumping forward a bit because: why on God's green earth are you here? Then, it hits him like a truck, the aftermath of the collision blowing the remaining sleep out of his eyes: it's Thursday afternoon!
"Sorry," he says and sheepishly scratches the back of his head, then steps aside to let you enter.
"It's fine, it's only freezing cold outside," you stare at him before stepping in, shudder as you kick your shoes off, slip into Mingi's guest slippers and hurry inside. Mingi's brain does not register the sarcasm drenching your words.
"Let's get to it, shall we?" You ask as Mingi finally manages to follow you into the kitchen. You sit, take out a few sheets of paper from your backpack, then look over questioningly as Mingi has not even moved a millimeter, but instead started yawning like his life depends on it. Your eyes drift down his body. "Or maybe after you've put on some pants?"
Mingi freezes, looks down to confirm that, indeed, he's not wearing pants, but Naruto boxer shorts, then covers his crotch with his hands and buzzes off into his room.
Minutes later, Mingi reenters the kitchen, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips that, yes, he checked twice if he's wearing them the right way around. As mentioned, he is generally unable to properly focus on his studies, but today, it's exceptionally bad. Of course, you'd notice.
"Mingi, are you okay?" There's worry in your eyes – a sight Mingi has not seen. Ever.
"I'm fine, just tired," he mumbles, eyes unfocusing as he stares ahead.
"Yeah, you are? Why?" Mingi's tired mind cannot question why you suddenly seem so interested in his well-being. He also doesn't put any meaning into why you're scooting closer to him, your forearm accidentally touching his.
"I studied during my lunch break," Mingi informs you, a little, proud smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Something tingles inside his chest as you carefully place your hand on his arm. As he looks over at you, you smile at him, and he notices your gaze flickering down to his lips for a second.
Hold on. Mingi's mind suddenly snaps out of its hazy state and works on overdrive. He might be the type to vibe, the type to just let things play out, but he'd be damned if he didn't notice when someone likes him like that. He suddenly notices the way you started creating skin-on-skin contact with him, the way you want to be closer to him, eyeing him even more than you ever did before. Just... why? Is it because you saw him in his Anime panties?
A few moments pass, and you sit back, then pat your pencil against the book to remind him of the reason why you're actually here. Mingi groans, admittedly a little dramatically and unreasonably erotic, brushing a hand through his hair to flex his biceps right in front of your face. You seem unimpressed.
"Well, fuck me," he chuckles deeply, the rasp in his voice more evident than usual due to his nap. It's then when you tense, he notices from the corner of his eye. Oh. Okay. So it's the voice?
"I'm really glad you're tutoring me, you know?" He purrs, throwing in a little praise to get you extra bothered, and you simply breathe out nervously.
"Heh, no worries," you brush him off. Mingi decides that, for now, he's made you suffer enough and keeps quiet. Instead, he focusses on his studies, although he's already planning his next step to terrorize you with the sultry rasp his vocal cords are gifted with.
"Mingi, focus-"
"No, I get what I have to do, the contents just won't stay in my head." Mingi reasons, his voice unusually, but not by chance, high pitched, eyebrows scrunched as to why the hell he has to do this before doing that only to do whatever next when it wasn't like this for the other exercise he had to do minutes prior. He is not stupid (!), he does understand how this works. It's just that it doesn't make sense, and that is surely not his fault.
"Are you stup-" you start, but shut your mouth before you're even able to call him the dumbest fucker you've ever crossed paths with. Mingi inhales sharply. Oh, oh, you're lucky he is patient, and you're lucky he knows that as soon as he growled a few dirty words into your ear, you'd slam your upper body on the counter without regards of caution, pushing your panties down under your skirt and begging him to take you right there - or at least, that's what he imagines.
Yes, Mingi is super patient, that's just what comes with the entire vibe-personality package, so he does not dump your cute sorry ass on his baka-door mat, but simply closes his pen, lays it on the table and looks at you. A fabulous idea plops into his mind.
"God," he groans as deeply as he can, stretching his arms over his head, "I guess I'm just a little" - he throws in a little moany sigh - "a little distracted today."
"A-are you?" You nod, biting your lip subconsciously. Mingi looks at you without moving his head. "Why?"
"Well, just stuff, you know?" Mingi enjoys how the rumble in his voice makes his throat and - obviously - you feel. "There's just a lot, going on. Like big... big stuff. Stuff that just keeps coming and coming, in and out, just like that. Ugh, I wish I could just let all this frustration out you know, all this pent up stuff." He watches for your reaction.
Unmistakably, your hand holding your own pen in a relaxed manner mere seconds ago now desperately grasps the poor objects until your knuckles turn white, your breathing is uneven and loud as if you'd just ran the entire way from Mingi's place to the next convenience store (seriously, why the fuck is he paying so much for this godforsaken apartment?). And - Mingi's favorite reaction to him ever: you're pressing your thighs together.
Oh, how Mingi loves himself a good reaction like this.
"Big stuff, huh?" Your voice trembles as your nervous eyes search for his. "H-how big?"
"Oh, really big. Just really fucking big," Mingi confirms with a slight smirk. He loves how you just fold easily like that. One second, you're over there feeling superior on your little throne of knowledge that Mingi lacks, and the next, you're making a little mess in your panties just because Mingi so much as spoke. Absolutely incredible. People should start calling him "the rizzler".
"I think-" you clear your throat, "I think I should head home then?"
Mingi smiles to himself as soon as you turn away to pack your stuff into your backpack. His hands automatically reach out to play with his pen, his long, slender fingers toying with the object, inevitably drawing your attention to the movements. "Already?"
"Mhm." You stare a second too long, gulp, then hastily stuff your belongings into the big compartment of the backpack, Mingi listens to the sweet melody of stressed breathing and papers crunching.
As amused as he is, he decides that it is time for the big reveal.
"Keep it in your pants, baby" he looks over, his eyebrow halfway raised, and stops rocking back and forth and fiddling with the pencil as you freeze in your tracks and stop packing. "What?"
Slowly, you turn your head to look at him. "So you know?" You manage to squeak.
Mingi smugly pushes his tongue into his cheek. He loves how you're basically vibrating out of nervousness. "Oh, I know."
You sigh, hands finally letting go of your stuff and motioning defeat. He wonders what's going on in your mind right now. Are you afraid he's going to call you out? That he's going to make fun of you? That he's going to call you a needy slut and send you home? Or are you wondering if he's going to give you what you want? Mingi loves this game.
That's why he decides to make your situation a little more miserable.
"I also know that you think I'm stupid," he explains calmly, trying his best to no longer show any excitement, smugness, or any emotion whatsoever on his sharp facial features to really confuse you. Well, that's what you're getting for (almost) calling The Song Mingi stupid. Just a little payback, is all. He's not going to go so far and make you cry. No, no, Mingi can't handle when people cry, much less so if it's because of him.
Nevertheless, your breath hitches. Oh, you're fully aware that he didn't like you calling him that at all. Oh, how the gears are turning behind your forehead as you're trying to figure out what's going on, and what's going to go on in the next minutes.
"Thought so," Mingi deadpans. Yeah, that's right. Look how smart he is now! Super smart! He's got you all figured out. He knows exactly what to say and how to act to make you feel - and, fuck, does this feel like redemption - stupid.
"I'm sorry-" you start, back facing Mingi's form, but Mingi is not here for it. Mingi has gotten what Mingi wants. Mingi feels as powerful as he imagines a lion to feel, like, every day.
"Dumb fucks good," he simply states, just putting it out there, throwing it into the room for you to do with that statement whatever you like. Mingi's mind is already satisfied, his ego stroked because he's just proven that he isn't dumb. Although... he wouldn't mind a little diddling because, if he's being honest, you're hot as fuck and seeing you react to him in this way- well, he's also just a man!
"What?" You probably think you must've terribly misheard him as you whip your head around to face the confident Mingi smugly leaned back in his chair. Your eyes meet his, and he is sure that you now realize that, no, you definitely did not mishear him. That was exactly what he said.
In the blink of an eye, Mingi feels your presence on his lap, a last final look into his eyes before he feels your lips against his, desperately chewing away the remaining air separating his spit from yours. It's messy, lips colliding, too much teeth and tongue, but it's all raw and desperate. Mingi gets the vibes that you may have had some pent up want for him, but that's honestly the last clear thought he can muster before you grind your hips against his.
A deep groan escapes Mingi's lips, inevitably echoing against your own quiet gasps that just turn louder with every movement of your hips, your hands frantically trying to touch him everywhere at once to the point where he has to grab your arms and pull you back. Your eyes, wide. And confused, but somehow lidded and hazy at the same time struggle to take in Mingi in front of you. Yes, Mingi is aware of the effect of his siren eyes.
For another moment, he simply enjoys seeing how destroyed you look already, but honestly, there is just one thing on his mind.
"I'm gonna eat you out," he informs, waiting for you to nod frantically, whine and scramble off his lap for him to keep his promise. And you do, allowing Mingi to grab your waist with his large hands and lift you onto the counter. Of course, he can't resist getting another taste of your lips, almost losing himself in the soft pillows that frame your pretty mouth, but the hardness creating a tent in his sweatpants reminds him that he should possible attend a little lower.
Hence, he kisses his way over your cheek towards your jaw, then over your neck and down your collarbones. Mingi is not sure what your opinions on love bites are, so he just hopes you can remember him being right here and here and here even without visual proof, he can save that for next time.
Okay, Mingi admittedly was not able to hold himself back completely, his teeth only gently nipping at your skin on his way down. He simply hopes for the best, but your sounds seem to imply that you do not mind him one bit. Instead, you sound as if you wouldn't mind him taking a few bites more.
Impatient as you are, you assist Mingi in pushing your shirt out of the way, the straps of your bra automatically falling down your shoulders to reveal more of you to his hungry eyes.
And as much as Mingi would like to spend hours playing with your chest, he keeps it down to a minimum, kissing the soft flesh while gently pushing the remaining material out of the way for better access. His lips wrap around a nipple, his hands meanwhile busy with massaging the other and carefully holding your waist. God, Mingi loves boobs. But he might love the way your fingers comb through his hair and gently pull on it a bit more even.
Finally, the time has come, and Mingi kneels down on the floor. Pushing your skirt up, hands caressing your thighs, he creates eye contact with your eyes glazed over by lust and want. It doesn't even faze him that he hasn't cleaned these floors in weeks, honestly, he is in so deep he probably wouldn't even realize if the stove was on, lighting his study notes on fire.
He wants to tease you more, make you wait, maybe make you beg even, but he just feels too hungry to keep waiting. His fingers hook into the hem of your panties, pulling them down your legs as quickly as possible before spreading your legs and groaning in anticipation.
Throwing your thighs over his shoulders, he pulls you forward a little further, chuckling as you almost lose balance and smile at him. Okay, maybe Mingi feels a little tingle, and maybe that is not a horny tingle, but that's something to worry about later, if ever. Right now, he has a mission: dive in.
So that's what he does, obviously, planting a careful kiss right on your clit to wait for your reaction. And you do not disappoint, gasping slightly at the first sensation before getting louder and bolder the more Mingi tastes you.
His tongue gently parts your folds, getting a first taste of your juices. You basically cry out as his tongue prods at your hole, carefully easing its way inside to caress your walls.
Automatically, your hands fly to his hair, gently pulling at the roots to find a way to ground yourself, the feeling assumingely overwhelming, Mingi thinks, not to brag, but-
Mingi's eyes roll back at a particularly hard tug at his hair, paired with the way your hips grind closer until you're basically riding his face. Fuck, how are you so hot? Mingi's fingers grab hard at your thighs, loving the way the soft flesh feels in his hands.
To experiment a little more and, first and foremost, to get more rewarding reactions out of you, Mingi lets his mouth wander back up to your clit, gently sucking the nub between his lips, his tongue carefully flicking as not to overwhelm you. At the same time, a fingers sneaks its way over to circle your entrance.
Your throat coughs out a broken moan at this, your eyes switching between looking at Mingi's eyes and his mouth, and closing completely. Mingi loves taking in the pleasure written all over your face. He might not admit it, but he loves this kind of praise much more than verbal praise because your body really can't lie. He can literally taste how good he is at this.
He finally pushes his finger inside, loving how the wetness and muscle contractions are basically pulling him deeper and deeper until past his second knuckle. He feels around a little, trying to find the spots that seem to appeal to you the most, watching carefully how you react to each and every flick of his wrist.
Although, he feels that one finger is not enough to prepare you for the rest of him, so he adds another, massaging them into the spot that seems to be making you see stars with the way you grip his hair even tighter and mutter something he interprets as a warning that you're about to cum.
Keeping his pace, he successfully sends you over the edge, letting you ride out your high on his tongue before removing his lips, only getting his fingers massage the last clenches out of you.
Looking up he realizes you look, respectfully, wrecked, with your chest heaving, your hair a little messy and your eyes hazy and glossy, parted lips asking for his. And who is he to deny them, as he leans in to allow you to taste yourself. You seem to like it.
Pulling back after a while, he looks at you. You look so happy and relaxed like he's never seen before. For some reason, it reminds him of the weight in his pants that he suddenly feels the need to inform you about.
"You make me so hard," Mingi says lowly, carefully taking your hand to prove it to you, "feel." It's more your hand guiding his with how fast you reach down to feel him, eager to touch the outline of him through the sweatpants. And as if you're getting paid to stroke Mingi's ego even more, you gasp at his size.
Mingi can't help but smirk, of course, who wouldn't?
"Big stuff, huh?" You repeat your words from earlier, but this time no longer nervous, but cheeky as you bite your lip playfully. Oh, how Mingi would love to make you choke on his dick right now, just a little, and in a loving matter, but he's honestly waited long enough and he really just needs to be in you right now. And besides, Mingi is more in his giving > receiving era.
Instead, he grins. And he feels like there is something more.
Impatiently, you tug at his pants, successfully moving them a millimeter. Mingi helps you push his pants further down until it pools around his ankles. You giggle.
Damnit, Mingi. Why couldn't you've changed your underwear? Mingi mentally scolds himself, a good amount of his previously earned smugness flying out the window. Instead, he gives you kind of a sheepish look.
"I don't mind," you assure, tugging at his anime boxers next, "it's actually relieving to be reminded that you're still the cute, dorky Mingi and are not possessed by a sex demon."
"Incubus," Mingi points out.
"I don't fucking care. Just get this hideous thing off and have sex with me!"
Mingi does not need to be told twice, although he makes a mental note to scold you later for calling the one and only Naruto printed on a piece of fabric shielding his balls from the outside world hideous.
"God, fuck," you let out, and Mingi chuckles at your reaction to his naked lower half, "come here. Please."
You pull him closer, wrap your legs around him and beg him with your eyes. Mingi wastes not another second, aligning himself with your hole and slowly pushing forwards. Your eyes roll back as he enters you, causing you to hold onto him for dear life as he inches inside, filling you completely.
God, must your walls hug him so perfectly? Must you be so unbelievably wet just for him? Must you make these sounds? Mingi feels like he doesn't want to be inside anyone else ever again.
"I feel like I don't want to inside anything else ever again."
How did that get out there?
You chuckle, and have the nerve to pinch his cheek, as if he wasn't balls deep buried inside you right now. "You're so cute."
Cute?!
Mingi will show you cute. He grabs your jaw, admittedly still gently, and makes you look at him as he pulls almost all the way out until his tip catches at your entrance. "Cute?" And he pushes in all the way all at once. You moan, the feeling too much, too intense for you to still keep your eyes open. Helplessly, you cling to Mingi's body as he repeats the action 4 more times before setting a steady rhythm, angling his hips in a way that should stimulate the spot you liked so much earlier.
With your mouth hanging open and your eyebrows scrunched, you look like the prettiest thing Mingi's ever seen. He wants to see you drool, watch you completely lose your mind over nothing else but his cock. At the same time, he is surprised how good it feels. Well, not surprised that it feels good, but that it feels abnormally good, like he's about to nut in the next minute or so. Hopefully, he's able to coax another high out of you before that.
"What was it that riled you up so much earlier? My voice?" He growls, and you as much as whimper in return. "Yeah, like it that my voice is so deep?" You nod pathetically. "Cute."
"Mingi- 's so good."
"Yeah, am I fucking you good?" Mingi grins and you nod weakly, struggling to keep your eyes open. Mingi really shouldn't be the one talking big because honestly, he feels like if u moan one more time, if ur walls clench around him one more time, he is going to lose it. Something about this entire situation is just super surreal to him, or maybe it's simply you that is the reason for his premature high that is coming for him with fast steps.
"Fuck, baby," he groans, kissing your cheek before whispering, "can I please cum inside?"
"Shit, y-yes," you confirm, nodding quickly as you fight your hardest battle to keep your eyes open, focused and on the man that's currently grinding his tip into your sweet spot. Mingi feels like he loves you.
Mingi also feels like he's loosing his grip on reality, which is why he grabs your hips harder than before, using his strength to really slam his hips into yours with force, drowning his thoughts with the sounds of your moans. There is nothing on his mind except for you, you, you, and the primal need to make you his.
"Please," he groans, not quite sure what he's begging for, but it doesn't really matter in the end, does it? All that matters is that Mingi's ears catch the way you're begging him to cum for you, to fill you up, to please, please finish inside. He is not going to deny you that wish.
His hips stutter, his mind goes numb as he feels his muscles tighten and contract, releasing deep inside you. The feeling spreads in his body, feeling high and happy with such a forceful orgasm like this one.
Everything after is just a blur in his mind, he just remembers realizing that you didn't cum a second time, and he wouldn't be Mingi if he kept it that way. That's why he found himself back on his knees seconds after pulling out, sucking your clit back into his mouth, tasting his own release that's threatening to drip out if it wasn't for his fast fingers pumping in and out of you to push you over the edge.
It doesn't take long until you do, orgasm fueled by the lewd action of Mingi eating his own cum out of you, he assumes. Somehow, you two end up in his bed after, mostly because Mingi is a cuddler, partly because Mingi is not able to let you go yet. Or ever. Who knows.
after an eventful night with boring conversations, inconvenient men and a deadbeat dad, all you want to do is get drunk and forget it all. thankfully, your dad's best friend, choi san, is always eager to help in case you get sick. now tipsy and bolder, you might as well shoot your shot.
pairing: dad's best friend!choi san x fem!reader
genre: smut with plot.
warnings: SMUT! MDNI!!! age gap (san is 42, reader in her early 20s); intox kink kinda (san handfeeds her liquor); oral sex (f receiving); fingering; p in v; unprotected sex (boo gross); tipsy, but consented sex; sweet talk; praising; cursing; san uses 1 (one) degrading term; creampie. 😋
a/n: heeeyyyyy 😝😝😝 sorry for the delay i was enjoying my work break lollz 🤞🤞 hope you like it as much as i enjoyed writing it. love you, stay safe! <33
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the first glass of cognac made you frown slightly. san's hand under your chin made sure to capture and wipe every droplet of the ridiculously expensive liquid that dripped down the crystal glass he held against your parted lips, whispering sweet praises at you. you knew exactly how you got into this situation, exactly how you got your father's best friend hand feeding you the well-aged liquor on his equally ridiculously expensive couch, inside his ridiculously expensive condo.
it had been a rough night. being the daughter of a CEO wasn't easy, especially when those so-called investors would follow after you like puppies in charity events like that. "suitors", as your father would call them. you hated every single one of them. the polite ones, the flirty ones, the witty ones. especially the entitled ones, acting as if they had the right to court you just because they had big money playing in your father's bank account. but that's not how the band plays, is it? after all, you had your eyes on only one man. a real man, not a boy like those who'd complain about you being inaccessible. a Man. Choi San. your dad's best friend. the man that saw you grow up, saw you sprouting into a beautiful, confident woman. the man that spoiled you rotten, even now in your early twenties. buying new cars whenever yours broke. new phones if he ever saw your old ones slightly glitching, new apartments, new clothes, new makeup. everything, in the palm of your hand while he still treated you like a princess.
so there you were. after a night of being yelled at in public by your father, being followed around by inconvenient men, and unmasking your father’s multiple mistresses, you found yourself in a position you could only see in your dreams.
the gucci black dress bundled in the middle of your parted thighs, giving the older man enough space to be kneeled in between them. the compromising position was just another excuse he gave to be closer, and you knew it. and went with it.
“that's it, good girl,” he whispered as you swallowed the last drops of the golden liquor. it was the third glass, and you were starting to feel dizzy, head starting to reel.
“don’t call me that,” you mumbled back, a small pout taking your lips. you always got needy when you drank, it wasn't news for you. it was for san, though, who had never seen you in that state. tipsy, blushing and turning into mush under his sharp, but still warm gaze.
“why not, princess? i’ve always called you that, i didn't know you had a problem with it,” his voice was sincere, worried. he didn't want to push any limits, didn't want you to be uncomfortable. missing all the signs of the lust that took over your body with each drink, san was still the perfect gentleman even when you just wanted him to eat you alive.
“i’m not a girl anymore,” you slurred out an excuse, avoiding his concerned gaze.
“to me, you are,” he said back in his gentle voice, thumb brushing against your bottom lip sticking out, poking the plump flesh with his ringed finger, “my good, sweet girl.”
you felt your pussy throb. fuck. fucking hell, you needed him. needed him to do unspeakable things to you. there and then, on that expensive leather couch. you weighed the options, looking down at the way his tie hung loose around his neck, the black silk tie with the pink pinstripe pattern you had gotten him for Christmas calling your name like the Green Goblin mask. it was all too much for you, the taste of alcohol on your lips and his breath fanning over your cheeks. good god. fuck it. you had to make a move before he moved away.
with a deep breath, you gathered the courage the golden liquor poured down your throat and finally spoke up, “but i don’t want to be your little girl anymore,” your voice was firmer, even if dragged through your lips, “i’m tired of being your little girl. i’m a woman now.”
you looked up at his face through your lashes, watching the way he watched you. sharp, cat-like eyes focused on your features. you thought he didn’t, but he noticed everything. every caught breath, every stolen glance, every lick of your lips. he noticed every time you stared at his hands for too long. every time you found an excuse to touch him. every single time you pressed your thighs together when he spoke at a meeting. how you avoided meeting his gaze sometimes. even just now, he noticed the way your hands shook, the way you bit your lip, the way you still avoided his gaze. it was exhilarating, honestly. he prayed for it not to be something out of his mind, and you had just handed him the perfect confirmation on a silver platter.
“you're a woman, indeed,” he breathed out, eyes dropping to your lips before coming back to meet your gaze, “you want me to treat you as any woman, princess?” he asked, his voice alluring in your tipsy brain.
“no, i-” you interrupted him, but he took the reign back before you could finish.
“or do you want me to treat you as my woman?” his voice was calm, hands sliding from your face to your arms, then your legs, resting on your thighs.
your head reeled with his words, your skin burning with his touch, speechless as you looked at him. “come on now, sweetheart. where’s that smart mouth, hm?”
you mumbled something that even yourself couldn’t figure out, averting from his gaze as if it was a reflection of your own desires. you opened your mouth to speak once, twice, three times, but it never came out properly.
“use your words, baby, i know you can,” he encouraged, thumbs brushing lightly against your inner thighs, “use your big girl words.”
you strangled a moan in the back of your throat, taking a deep breath in before you spoke, “i want you to treat me as your woman, sannie. please.”
“good girl,” he whispered, downing the whiskey you didn’t even notice he poured for himself. and again, before you could process, his lips were pressing against yours, hands cradling your face. he tasted like alcohol and mint and desperation, the kiss drowning you in all the yearning from both sides.
you sighed heavily, hands sliding over his arms, pressing against his biceps as you’ve been wanting to do for a while. with a courage you didn’t know you had, you slid his suit jacket down his arms, not breaking the kiss as the piece was thrown somewhere in the room, desperate hands loosening and untying his tie only to hang it around your own neck.
he finally parted the kiss, taking off his glasses so he could properly trail soft pecks down your jaw to your neck and shoulders, strong hands roaming your body like uncharted territory, testing the pressure, the softness, the grip. everything he needed to know to pleasure you, his sweet, perfect, golden girl.
“sannie…” your voice came as a whine as he kneeled again, lips pressing against your inner thighs, hands pushing the dress up until it crumpled at your waist. pulling you closer, san rested your legs on his shoulders, looking up with a hunger unfamiliar to you.
“i know, sweetheart,” he mumbled, trailing the kisses closer and closer to your groin, “just let me make you feel good, hm?” he placed a kiss against your clothed cunt, tongue pressing against your clit through the fabric. a moan escaped your lips, breath shuddering as he kept licking, making a mess of your already damp panties. gripping his hair, you pushed his head closer to you, whimpering sweet pleas until you got what you wanted — san to push your panties to the side, tongue directly pressing against your sensitive bud, sucking and blowing on it, making you shudder and moan underneath his touch.
your hips buckled up, trying to get more friction, more contact, anything. you needed more, wanted more. san held your hips down, stilling your movements as he dove into your wet cunt, tongue pushing inside, eating you out like a starved man being introduced to his last meal on earth. he moved deliberatedly, precisely, with years of practice. you understood now why his ex wife couldn’t keep away from him. with your head thrown back and mouth hanging open with pouring sounds of pleasure, you felt that sweet wave of pleasure overtaking your senses, the first orgasm of the night washing over you like a tsunami, with san drinking every drop of your release like liquid gold. he let you go after your breath finally calmed, chest heaving with your juices coating his chin and the tip of his nose.
he studied your features, watching the way your lip trembled, the way your cheeks flushed and small droplets of sweat started to form on your forehead. he smiled, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheekbones. “how are you feeling, pretty girl?”
you finally managed to look at him, his eyes shining towards you with lust and care, genuine love pouring from them. you smiled back, giggling softly. “really good,” you said, fixing your position on the couch, “what about you?”
“really good too,” he said, pressing more kisses to the side of your face, “but i think that’s not enough for my woman.” his voice was raspy, alluring like a siren, earning a low moan out of you.
“isn’t it?” you breathed out, watching him closely as his hand sneaked to your back, finding the zipper of the dress. he didn’t answer verbally, only shaking his head.
“can i?” he whispered, slowly pushing the zipper down as you nodded in confirmation. soon enough the dress was somewhere on the floor, panties still pushed to the side, breasts free from the enclosure of the tight dress. he felt his mouth salivating, cock throbbing in his pants. “you're perfect. so beautiful, my sweet girl.”
he took your hand, kissing your knuckles as he brought you up, guiding you towards the master bedroom, full glass walls giving you a perfect view of the busy city under you two. laying you on the bed, san made his mind that no other view would ever compare to you. unbuttoning his shirt and unbuckling his belt, his eyes never left yours, a silence so loud you swore he could hear the way your heart pounded on your chest.
with only his boxers keeping you separated, san crawled on the bed to you, trailing kisses up your calves to your thighs, then your hips, belly and waist, capturing a nipple in his lips and testing the way you reacted, the way your breath hitched. he sucked harder, hungrier, your reactions leaving him nothing but eager for more. his left hand found your free tit, squeezing with contained strength, playing with the already perky nipple. he pressed his hips against yours, his clothed bulge grinding against your covered cunt and making you moan.
“san, please,” you moaned, legs parting further to better accomodate him, “i need you.”
“as i said earlier, love. you have to use your big girl words. aren't you a woman now?” he teased, breath fanning your collarbones. you whined. spoiled, always used to get what you want. you didn't want to ask for it again. “c’mon, baby, i know you can do it again.”
he pushed, hips pressing harder against yours. you moaned louder, “p-please. sannie, i need you to fuck me. fuck me as your woman.”
“there you go,” he mumbled against your skin, placing a lovebite on your shoulder as his hands explored you body, hooking the edge of yout panties and pulling them down, doing the same to his own underwear. now free of any fabric, you could see clearly. he was big. thick and long, red tip throbbing in desperation, dripping pre cum on the expensive silk sheets. “you want it?” his voice was low in a way you didn't recognize, sultry, provocative.
“yes! yes, i want it. please, sannie, i want it so much,” you almost cried, buckling your hips up to try and meet his, “please. please, sannie, i need it.”
“fuck,” he growled, rubbing his tip on your clit, slapping it there and watching your wetness mix together, “you're so gorgeous. every single part of you.”
he forced his glans against your slit, capturing your arousal before slipping inside you. slowly, centimeter by centimeter, hands steady on your hips, thumbs tracing invisible patterns on your skin. he took his time, filling you to the brim, bottoming out on you with that furrowed brow you knew he only got when he was focused in something, “shh, shh, shh, baby, it's okay,” he cooed as your back arched and your moans dragged, “take your time. i'm here.”
you took deep breaths, feeling him inside you, clenching your walls around him, eyes focused on his. he was a goner, of course. fuck, your pussy felt so good. so tight. a nod was all that it took for him to start moving, deep and slow at first, earnings gasps and mewls that fell from you lips. your well-done nails carved his biceps at each thrust, dragging and scratching his skin as he got bolder, faster. he quickly picked up the pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin getting louder at the same time your moans got higher, nails clenching and dragging on his back to make those perfect red lines that would last for weeks.
“good fucking god,” he moaned, hands snaking up to grab your tits, squeezing as he kept pouncing on you like a predator, “you're such a nasty girl. such a nasty fucking girl, letting me fuck you like this.”
you whined, back arching as he hit that perfect spongy spot again and again and again inside you, your whole body shivering with the strength of an upcoming orgasm.
“are you going to cum for me, pretty girl? hm? you gonna cum for me?” he mumbled in your ear, slowing his thrusts and kissing your jaw as you whimpered in complaint, “answer me.”
“yes,” you moaned out, nodding and whining, hips moving in desperation for more of him, chasing that sweet release, “yes, please. please!” you echoed those two words again and again, a satisfied smirk taking place on his lips.
“then cum for me, baby,” he growled in your ear, hips moving fiercely, knocking the air out of your lungs with an earth shattering orgasm, the only breath you had left used to scream his name and more begging.
“there we go,” he groaned, not slowing down a bit, even though his thrusts became erratic, sloppier. he almost, almost, pulled out, but you were faster. looking up at him with pleading eyes, hazy and lustful.
“don't pull out,” you managed to say in between overstimulated moans, legs wrapping around his waist again, keeping him in place. he couldn't fucking take it anymore. with a few more thrusts, san was buried deep inside you, making sure not a single drop of cum would land outside your perfect pussy.
after a minute of heavy breaths and calming down, san slowly pulled out, cum dripping down your thighs. as a gentleman he is, choi was quick to clean you up, gathering the oozing cum with his fingers and stuffing it back inside you, making your legs shake with each pump of his fingers. “nice and full. so pretty,” he murmured, kissing your inner thighs and trailing up to your lips, placing a gentle kiss there.
“you okay?” he asked, breath mingling with yours.
“yeah,” you nodded, feeling as sober as it could be, “are you.”
“i'm perfect, my darling,” he laid by your side, bringing you to lay on top of him, “better now.”
“we should get drunk more often,” you said, a playful undertone on you voice as your fingertips traced patterns on his chest. he laughed, hands caressing your sides.
“we should, yes,” he echoed your earlier nod, a playful smile on your lips as he kissed you, “but i’d rather be sober to be with you.”
pairing: wooyoung x f reader genre: fluff and smut wc: 11.9k
it's almost Valentine's Day, and for the first time in your life, you're on your own. an empty house with no parents seems the perfect opportunity for anything; your best friend wants a party, and your cousin hopes for the chance to slow down. but all you want is for your sly, stunning pool boy to finally act on what his eyes have been promising
chapter warnings: smut, MDNI, fingering, vaginal sex
a/n: this fic is written for the lovely @vampzity! I really hope you enjoy <333 the hugest shoutout to @everyonewooeverywhere for setting up this fic exchange event!! can't wait to read everybody's work! <3
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Sunday, February 1st - 4:59am
"Good morning sweet pea!"
The air inside Twisted Treats was a rush of much needed warmth. You squinted as you closed the back door with a click; it was Sumin, your best friend, calling, but in the early hours of the morning the light was too low in the bakery to see her. You followed your ears; the only sound was coming from the coffee bar, hissing and the soft hum of the grinder. The air smelled of fresh dark roast and the promise of a little more energy. With sleepy eyes and heavy legs you dragged yourself there.
"Morning," you mumbled as you spotted her, already busy and prepping, her black hair tied back in a perfect high pony. Running a hand across your jaw, you tugged at the sleeves of your huge winter coat, blinking in an attempt to wake yourself a bit.
"You sound chipper," she joked, grabbing a mug from the cupboard above and setting it below the just-starting drip of the machine.
"Just need some coffee and breakfast." You gave her a small smile, yawning for the millionth time that morning. You had more trouble sleeping last night than expected; it was so uncomfortably quiet in the house. You tried not to think about it as you turned to your left, hanging your coat in the back closet and setting your bag in your cubby.
"I'll make us some breakfast burritos," she said once you appeared again, and you nodded. Sumin was in her bee mode, buzzing from one thing to the next, normal for her at this time of the morning. Even in winter, the cold desert wind whipping her red cheeks as she ran in from the car, she was here and ready. Nothing could deter her; she had the kind of work ethic most could only dream of. It was the reason her mother, the owner of this quaint little bakery, trusted her to open all on her own.
"Your mom get to California in one piece?" she asked.
"Yeah, she texted me last night when she landed. It's such a quick flight, barely two hours." You were tying back your own hair, trying to ready yourself.
"Someone better have made me some coffee!" a grumbly voice called from the back door, Hongjoong waltzing in with messy hair and dark under-eye bags, his shoulders hunched.
"I call dibs on that one," you pouted, grabbing the mug as it almost overflowed, replacing it with another.
"But I'm your favorite cousin."
"You're my only cousin."
"Only and favorite."
Sumin flicked on the back kitchen's light and it seeped all the way to the front counters, where stacks of heart-shaped rolls and empanadas sat waiting for the morning rush. Hongjoong's face looked pale and dull in the harshness of it, the yellow fluorescent twinge reflecting off his cheeks, hollow. You rolled your eyes at him but handed over the mug, feeling a pang of concern.
"Works every time," he laughed, before wrapping an arm around your shoulder, kissing your temple. "Your mom's in Cali now, right?"
"Mmhm."
"Was it weird having the house all to yourself last night?" It was so like him to worry about you, even though it was he who really needed the worry.
"Yeah, I couldn't sleep," you sighed, rubbing your eyes. "I'm sorry if I make no sense today, my brain feels like scrambled eggs."
"You know you can always come stay with me."
"Me too!" Sumin called from the stove.
"Both of you live with too many people already, I don't wanna impose. It's fine, I'll be fine." You waved them off, saving the second cup of coffee from overflowing, setting it aside to cool. You grabbed the key from the drawer, unlocking the register, setting everything in motion. Not an hour from now the first customers would be shuffling in, and that meant one thing; take the dough Sumin had already started for the bagels and start forming them. There wasn't time in the morning for drawn out conversation, no chance to fret over each other. They both knew that as well as you did.
The three of you worked in practiced silence for the next half hour; every move choreographed, breakfast done as soon as the bagels were ready for their second proof. It was inhaled, not a second to waste, and you scrambled to gulp down the last half of your coffee, it having gone lukewarm and somewhat unpleasant. But you didn't really care, it was all for function; you just needed that little boost of energy before the rest of Sumin's sisters arrived, all their eyes droopy with sleep.
"I need coffee," Yoon whined from the back door, walking towards you with a targeted look of desperation, her eyebrows turned up. She and Sieun were working the front today first thing, the shift a strange mixture of rush and absolute dead silence.
"No coffee till you're twenty, you know that," Sumin scolded from the back.
"But I'm tired."
"Why didn't you trade shifts with Isa today?"
"She was out late last night with a boy," Yoon pouted.
"Boys ain't shit!" Hongjoong called from the back, the clang of something punctuating his words.
"Pipe down, we're about to open!" you called back, eyeing the start of the short line that formed every morning out front.
Yoon looked too, sighing and suddenly dropping the act. She really was quite mature for eighteen, but she liked to try her luck when she could; oftentimes her doe eyes and button nose, mixed with the right tone of need, could sway a decision. But with her older sister it rarely worked, especially when it came to the family business.
"Is Sieun here?" Sumin called, just as the back door swung open again, then slammed shut.
"Sorry, my fucking alarm didn't work this morning for some reason and this little butt-" she pinched Yoon's arm, then pulled her head down to place a kiss on her cheek, "-didn't come and wake me."
"You always wake up later than me, I thought you were still getting dressed," Yoon called.
"It's all good, I'm here now," she sighed, throwing her stuff into the back closet, then running to the front door. "We ready guys?" she called. Taking the largest key from her set and turning it in the lock, she opened the door with a flourish as the morning regulars shuffled in.
As soon as they did the bagels finished, and the rush began, not a moment to think. It was a satisfying way to start the day; no chance to ponder or worry about anything, your energy needed here and there, an extra set of hands or a measuring cup frantically washed. You loved seeing how productive you all were; Hongjoong's strong arms kneading, the girls at the front making lattes so fast it seemed they were stuck in double speed. The hours flew by and before you knew it your stomach was grumbling; it was late morning, time for another meal, the rush finally over.
"Hey," Sumin said, coming over to sit with you at the one table in the back, wood benches long and open. She put her arms around you, finally having the chance to really say hello. "You doing okay? You seemed kinda down this morning."
"Oh, yeah, I'm alright. I just didn't get much sleep last night. It's weird being in there alone."
"That house is so huge," she sighed, nodding. "Seriously, you can come stay at mine, my mom won't care. She already wants you to come over every night for dinner."
"I know, but I just think it's time for me to be on my own, figure it out, you know? I feel like I've been so pampered by my parents. I need to mix things up, need to learn to do shit on my own."
"You do tons of shit on your own, what do you mean?"
"Yeah, but, I don't know, I just feel so juvenile sometimes. Never had a real boyfriend, never lived away from home..."
"Well most boys kinda suck, and frankly, if I grew up in a house like yours I'd never want to leave. A pool, a hot tub, a theater, I'd be throwing parties all the damn time."
You snorted. "I bet that's what my parents are expecting me to do."
"Did someone say party?" Hongjoong asked, sliding in across from you with his sandwich in hand.
"I was just saying, mom and dad probably think I'm gonna throw tons of parties now that they're gone. Which is funny."
"Why?" Sumin asked.
"Cause I'm not going to, obviously."
"Okay, but your best friend sort of has a birthday in hmm, let me think, about a week, isn't it? And she maybe sort of really would love it to be a pool party in your heated, luxurious pool."
Hongjoong chuckled, a hand jumping up to cover his full mouth.
"You could just ask me like a normal person," you laughed, poking her in the ribs.
"Mm yes, and I am of course the epitome of highly normal-"
"Shut up, of course you can have a party at my house. I thought you wanted to go to that bar by the university, though."
"I want J to be able to come, she felt left out last year. I was thinking of just having it at our house but honestly with everything going on recently I think it would be a bit awkward."
"So your dad's visit went well?" you asked, grimacing.
"Um, it's still going."
"What?" you and Hongjoong asked in unison, utterly shocked.
"Yeah, I really can't stand being there right now. Like, if they want to get back together for real this time, maybe my dad could get his own apartment here in town and they could spend time together there? But no, of course not, he's way too much of a user for something as sensible as that."
The three of you sat in a deep silence, letting the energy settle.
"Sorry," she mumbled, picking at the sandwich on her plate.
"Hun, it's okay. I'm sorry he's there, that sounds fucking awful. You should come stay with me if it's that bad."
"You'd let me do that?" she asked.
"Sumin, a million times over. The guest room is empty or we can sleep in my parents giant bed or even the couch in the living room. Anything at all, if it would help."
"I think they'd get pissy if I actually started staying with you," she answered, biting her lip. "Mom and Dad, I mean. I don't want them getting weird with all the girls because I'm not there. But after the party I'll stay over for sure, that would be nice."
"Wait, isn't there a guy staying with you now though? In the guest room?" Hongjoong piped up.
"What?" you asked.
"The one who cleans the pool and stuff."
"Oh, Wooyoung, he's staying in the guest house."
"Damn, the whole thing to himself? Aren't your parents letting him stay for free?"
"Mom was feeling generous I guess, I think she feels really bad about leaving me. She wanted to make sure there was someone there to take care of the pool and the yard and everything. I could have done it myself, but you know her."
"That lucky, lucky boy," Hongjoong laughed, shaking his head.
"He seems kind of indifferent about it, honestly," you sighed.
"He still hasn't talked to you?"
"Barely."
"What about Yeonjun?"
"Nothing." You pulled up your phone, showing the text to both of them, left on delivered. "I'm being ghosted again."
"You should invite Wooyoung to the party," Sumin said, her eyes suddenly flashing with the excitement of a new idea.
"Really? But you've never met him before, you really want him at your birthday?"
"We've met him, I know not like, actually, but we said hi at that one party in the student village, remember? Like two years ago?"
"Yeah, I mean, we know he's at least not totally insane-"
"I just want people there, lots of people, please invite anyone who wants to come. I want a big party, I haven't had a big party since high school. I'm about to be twenty-five." She slumped forward, the heel of each palm shoved in her eyes.
"Just wait until you're twenty-seven," Hongjoong replied, forcing a smile.
"You both need to get over yourselves, you're not even close to old."
"You don't get to say that, you twenty-three year old baby," Sumin pouted, laughing as soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth.
You laughed too. "If it would make you feel better, we'll have a big party. I don't have that many friends but I'll invite a few. Joongie will probably be a better help on that front."
"I haven't seen my friends in fucking ages," he sighed, staring off.
"Seriously? When's the last time?"
"Before finals for sure, I can't remember exactly."
"How come?"
"I've had like no days off and I have the sleep schedule of a senior citizen these days," he deadpanned, blinking rapidly.
"Joong, if you need more days off it's no biggie. We've appreciated the extra help but we'd be fine without you, I promise." Sumin's head was tilted to the side, held up with her chin on fists.
"I need the money, our rent went up again."
"Again? What the fuck, your landlord is so damn greedy," you replied.
"I know, I don't know what I'm gonna do when it's time for clinicals. I won't have the time to work here anymore."
"Joong, stay with me," you said.
"You know I can't do that-"
"Why?"
"You know what my parents will say if they find out. And I know your mom would tell my mom in passing or something-"
"Then we don't tell her. My dad's contract was extended for another six months, and she told me she'll be out there at least until the start of summer. She hates flying, she doesn't want to be back and forth constantly. She doesn't have to know, it's fine." You emphasized the last word, imploring him to believe you.
"She'd find out somehow. A neighbor or something."
"I'd just tell her you've been visiting me and staying over a lot to keep me company. And no one's gonna do that, no one gives a shit like that in my neighborhood. They're chill, they wouldn't snoop and gossip to my mom or anything like that."
"You're sure?" he asked.
"Promise."
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"I'll consider it."
"Hongjoong, you are crazy not to take her up on this," Sumin added beside you.
"I can't deal with the accusations from my dad, he'd have a fucking field day if he found out I was staying somewhere for free. At his sister's house no less."
"Well, thankfully they live on the east side of town."
"Far, far away," he sighed, nodding. "Fuck, it does sound nice to live with you. Yoongi has this new boyfriend who's been staying with us and he’s been driving me crazy."
"Wait so there's now five of you in that little place? Why isn't that making your rent cheaper?" you asked.
"Oh, the guy isn't paying anything."
"No, no, you come and stay at mine, that's ridicul-"
"Where is that cake you decorated this morning, the heart shaped one?" Isa cut you off, whipping around the door to the back kitchen area.
"Oh, top shelf of the fridge!" you called back, standing to make sure she found it.
"Oh it's beautiful," Seeun added as she joined you all, running to grab a giant order of bagels that were set aside this morning, now ready for pickup.
"Are things crazy up there right now?" Sumin asked them, standing too, just as Hongjoong did, all of you ready to jump in as needed.
"No, it's actually pretty chill today. You guys can head out early if you want. Oh, Hongjoong," Isa started, searching her pockets with her free hand to find the piece of paper she was looking for. "That guy who always comes in for cherry empanadas, he left his number for you."
"Ooh la la," you chuckled, peering over the table to read the note as the two girls headed back to the front to deliver the waiting customers their orders. "Oh my gosh, Seonghwa's that guy with long black hair, right?"
"Yeah," Hongjoong sighed, eyes stuck on the crumpled paper in his hand, his body frozen.
"Are you happy about this?" Sumin asked, sounding out the words slowly.
"I don't have time to date right now," he answered, suddenly shoving it in his back pocket. "I don't even have time for a little hookup."
"But you're moving in with her, right? And quitting working here because you're in nursing school and really should just be focusing on that?"
"Oh. Yeah. Right," he blinked. "I forgot we just talked about that. My mind is so fucked right now."
You scooted around the table to hug him, running a hand lovingly through his short hair. "Let's all go to mine, I've got tons of leftovers my mom left me. We can move you into the guest room tomorrow if you want."
"You two go, I'm gonna keep an eye on the girls for a few more minutes," Sumin answered, coming over to give you both hugs too.
"Okay, see you in a bit," you called, as you dragged Hongjoong to the back closet, and then out the back door.
Sunday, February 1st - 2:13pm
The house still felt eerily empty, but at least with Hongjoong and Sumin chattering away upstairs, your mind didn't have the chance to panic like it did last night. The kitchen still smelt of delicious curry, the homemade masterpiece you'd reheated for your second lunch. Days worked at the bakery were tough when it came to food; meal times got wonky, 4:30am an early time to rise, even for the early riser you were. It was a means to an end, and a fun job, you reminded yourself; one day you'd be the pastry chef at one of those insane, opulent restaurants in the upper east side of town, open four days a week, reservation only.
But until you graduated from culinary school, until you'd worked the hours required to finish your internship, it was early mornings at Twisted Treats with your best friend. Not so bad, as internships go; some of your classmates were far worse off than you if their stories were truthful. Your life had often seemed to turn out that way; luck was on your side, or something like it. Nice house, loving parents, a stable, mostly fun, not too stressful upbringing. You always had friends, several for life, like Sumin and Hongjoong, and got along just fine in school.
But growing up with two parents in love had made you so hopelessly unsure of one thing: boys. You wanted to find someone perfectly right, wanted the excitement of a first date, and eventually the calm joy of years spent together. You knew it was possible, that good men like your father existed, and could love and cherish their partner in all the right ways. It just never worked out for you; there was the nice boy from freshman year, who promised pleasure but lasted ten seconds. There was the less nice one a year later, who actually knew how to use his fingers, but his words could be vicious and all too quickly you had to dip. It just never seemed to be the case that a guy had all you wanted; the brains, the kindness, the face and the touch.
And then your mom hired Wooyoung. He caught your eye at that party when you met him, but he caught everyone's eye, of course; stunning nose, pouty lips, those dark eyes that seemed to say a million more things than his mouth ever did. He was sly and cunning and had a whip smart mind, you could tell right away; an observer, he spent most of that evening watching people from the wall, just as you did. You could have sworn his eyes caught on yours several times, that he was sneaking glances at you just as you were sneaking them at him, but the chance never arose to swap numbers or even really say hi, and then the night was over and life went back to what it had been.
When he walked in the front door that January day his hair was long, and in a wave of deja vu, your feeling of intrigue returned. He was so fucking pretty, damnit, and so polite with your mom, staring over your way whenever he could, his facial expression not changing. When she showed him to the guest house you sat out on the porch, wrapped in your coat and biggest scarf, staring through the small line of trees that separated your parent's property from the next. Your dad was already in California, and you realized for a moment this is how it would feel once your mom left; a huge house behind you, completely vacant, a new stranger staying a mere fifty feet away.
But your mom was still there, and around her he was especially quiet, doing his job diligently, only speaking in your presence when absolutely necessary. His glances were still there, but he was always looking over his shoulder too, as if expecting your mom to walk in at any minute and scold him for eyeing her precious daughter. You felt an awkwardness too when she was around, having never talked to her much about boys. You'd never had a real reason too; nothing had gone further than a few dates, nothing had seemed worth mentioning.
You hoped, in the back of your mind, that would change once she left. You worried about missing her, worried that you'd be a basket case and completely unable to handle yourself, but you also felt an excitement at what the freedom might allow. Your mom had been known to be intimidating, and you hoped that was the only reason Wooyoung was so hesitant with his words. There was a chance now to really get to know each other, and even if he technically worked for you (as your mom had reminded you for weeks now), you didn't want it to limit anything.
The back door swung open, and there he was, gloves on hands, his face sweaty, cheeks flushed. His hair was distractingly messy and his breaths were strong. "Oh, hey."
"Hi," you smiled, wiping the last of the mess from the marble counters.
"How's it going?" He pulled off the gloves, tossing them on the kitchen’s island, before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, swiftly uncapping it.
"Good," you replied, feeling the awkwardness of the conversation, but also feeling the excitement. "How's the pool?"
"All good, all good," he answered, taking a swig, his adam's apple bobbing.
"You haven't managed to break anything yet?" you ventured, stepping towards the drawer with the trash can to throw away your paper towel.
You were now only feet from him, his white tee hanging off his chest in a way that caught your gaze completely.
"Is that what you're hoping?" he laughed, tipping the bottle up again, taking a long, deep swallow and staring at you as he did.
"Of course not," you laughed in response, one foot twisting nervously around the other. You moved your gaze back to his; you were determined to show him the confident side of you, the side that could flirt and joke just as well as he could.
"You're not looking for a chance to get me fired?" he asked, cocking a brow.
"Don't be stupid," you gasped, feigning shock with an open mouth. He stared at it a beat too long, his distraction obvious, before starting to chuckle.
"I should say the same to you." He finished the final sip of his bottle, sliding even closer to you to throw it in the trash.
"What, you don't like my joking?" you asked, eyes wide and innocent, loving the little game.
"I love it," he sighed, clasping hands behind his back as he readjusted his feet. "Just don't know if you know what you're in for."
"Oh, I think I know." You maintained your eye contact, smiling ever so slightly at the look of intrigue that passed through his eyes.
"So you're not just some little princess?"
"Is that what you think of me?"
"You've got your own castle, all to yourself," he smirked, looking around the place.
"If that makes me a princess, then..."
"You are." He smiled with closed lips, his cheekbones high.
"I don't know about that."
"You are, you totally are." He started chuckling, almost like he couldn't help it, his head turning slightly to the side.
"I'm just a girl," you answered, trying to look stern, hold the frustration of what felt like lost ground. But you kind of liked it, you had to admit.
"And I'm just a guy," he shrugged, turning back to you straight on. "Who works for you."
"Oh please, don't let it be like that."
"Like what?"
"You don't work for me, you work for my parents, and I'm just here, just happen to be here."
"Hmm, I see," he replied, holding back a laugh.
"Fuck off," you huffed, closer to genuine shock this time, not sure what to make of the implication. You didn't even realize your hand was moving until it hit his solid torso; a playful punch, nothing really, but the brush of contact was electric.
He leaned in further. "I'm your pool boy, your poor, lowly pool boy," he uttered, deep and sultry, an obvious attempt to rattle you.
And it worked. "You're insane," you laughed, unable to keep the pink from sprouting in your cheeks.
"You like when I call myself that," he chuckled, biting his lip.
"What are you talking about-"
"You know what, princess," he laughed, leaning in, the invitation obvious. You weren't sure what about the nickname did it for you; maybe it was just because it came from his lips, but it sounded right, so perfect, not at all as embarrassing or infuriating in the way you thought it would. It was all too easy to fall into the kiss; how inviting his lips were, the little freckle pulling you in. His hand came around your head and you felt the slightest tug, your bodies coming flush, your hand finding his abdomen again.
But just as it was starting to really go there, his tongue brushing your bottom lip, you heard the unmistakable sound of feet tumbling down the stairs.
You pulled apart suddenly, his eyes widening slightly as he stared towards the hall, not sure as you were where the noise was coming from.
"So you're not alone," he said, a hand on the counter, his face unreadable.
"Sorry, some of my friends-"
"You know my gay ass would hate th-" Hongjoong stopped as soon as he spotted Wooyoung, pulling up short as he hit the ground floor. "Hi, sorry, I didn't think you'd be down here."
"This is my cousin Hongjoong, he'll be staying here for a while," you explained, smiling to try and assuage the obvious awkwardness everyone felt.
Wooyoung turned. "Nice to meet you man," he said, stepping towards him to give a friendly shake.
"And this is my best friend Sumin."
"Nice to meet you too." He shook her hand as well, nodding slightly as he did so.
"Did you tell him about the party?" she asked.
It all suddenly felt like a bad idea, something about his sudden change of demeanor concerning you. "No, do you really think-"
"Yes, come on, it'll be fun!" she pleaded. "And I really need the distraction right now," she added from the corner of her mouth, making you laugh despite your worries.
You sighed, trying to brush the concern from your mind. "Okay, well, Wooyoung, you are invited to the birthday party I am throwing here for Sumin this coming Friday. We'll be ordering pizza and hanging out in the pool and hot tub and probably drinking, I don't know...?" You were usually the one mixing, enjoying the use of the bartending set your mom bought for your dad two Christmases ago.
"Martinis!" Hongjoong called.
"With what gin?" you asked, staring into the very empty liquor cabinet behind you.
"With the gin I will steal from that annoying guy who is suddenly living in my apartment rent free," he replied with a cheeky smile. You laughed and shook your head at him. "We've got a week, we can get what we need."
"We're all kind of busy. Plus, is that what the birthday girl wants?"
"Martinis sound good and fun to me. You know I love olives," Sumin answered.
"Alright, martinis it is," you relented, turning back to Wooyoung with a smile. He'd stepped away but not far, still only feet from you, his gaze strong. "If you'd like to come, you're more than welcome."
"Friday night you said?" he asked.
"My sister is making me a giant red velvet cake!" Sumin blurted, her eyes lighting up. "And you can bring as many friends as you want, the more the merrier. They're both bringing people, it'll be a big bash."
"I'll invite some guys from the swim team, I'm sure they'd like to come," Wooyoung nodded to her. "If you're sure it won't be too many people," he added in your direction.
"Of course not. You're for sure coming?" you asked, eyebrows raised.
"Sounds fun," he shrugged, eyeing you sharply with a smirk. "I like a pool party." His eyes grazed up and down your body, then landed on your eyes again.
Your skin sizzled. "Alright, well, we better start making some plans." You smirked back at him, holding his gaze until you couldn't any longer.
"Well, food's already taken care of," Sumin replied. "It'll just be the drinks and whatever else we'll need, probably should get solo cups, right? Your parents wouldn't want us using all their nice glasses. Unless we're getting beer, do your friends like beer Wooyoung? I know most of Hongjoong's don't so we usually don't..."
As she prattled on you could barely follow. Your mind was stuck on one thing, and one thing only: you couldn't be happier that you bought that blue bikini on sale two months ago. At the time it seemed frivolous, a pointless purchase made on a boring day, something to be shoved in a closet and never seen again. But now, as you stared at Wooyoung, as he pulled his gloves back on and stared back, you couldn't wait for the look in his eye when he finally saw you in it. Your heart raced with all the potential; this was finally happening, and you hoped and prayed it wouldn't be another let down.
Saturday, February 7th - 5:53pm
"Is it weird having a birthday so close to Valentine's Day?" you asked as you curled a thin strand of Sumin's hair, soft in your hands.
"I guess so," she answered. In the guest room next door you could both hear Hongjoong scrambling through piles of clothes to try to find something to wear; he'd been too busy to fully unpack yet, boxes and a few random trash bags still littering the floor.
"I always thought it would be weird." You let the strand go, and it bounced as it joined the others. The whole day you'd been in silent preparation mode, decorating and picking out outfits, the three of you thoroughly exhausted by the early afternoon. Now you all were attempting to rally, to find that needed energy for the party tonight. It was set to start early, 6:30pm, as most of you worked at the bakery and rarely stayed up past nine. But you and Sumin had the next day off, so there was no telling how late things might go.
"Has anyone ever tried to weasel their way back into your life with a happy birthday text?" she asked you suddenly.
"No. Wait, who?"
"Mingi," she answered.
"Oh wow, what did he say?"
She turned her phone to you, and you squinted to read it. Happy Birthday Minnie, I hope you treat yourself today.
"Were you not expecting it?" you asked, hardly feeling shocked by the message. It was about as unremarkable as a birthday text could be.
"No, cause I know him, and I know he's only sending it to piss me off or force me to talk to him again. If he felt neutrally towards me he wouldn't say anything."
"Well how can you expect him to feel neutral after you broke up with him?"
"Okay, whose side are you on?" she whined, whipping around as you set down the curling iron, turning it off.
"Hun, you know I'm on your side. And you know how I feel about him," you replied, taking her hand in yours, squeezing. "I'm sorry that text upset you so much. You should just delete it, forget about it."
She turned away, her eyes finding the floor. "I don't get why everyone liked him so much, he's just a guy."
"He just seemed nice, and treated you really kindly. That's all," you answered her. "But it's not anyone's choice but yours what you do with your life. If he's not the right guy for you then he's not the right guy. Simple as that."
"It's never simple as that," she sighed, looking up. "Love is always a clusterfuck."
"No it's not-"
"Except for your parents," she cut you off, smiling in frustration.
"It really sometimes is calm and easy," you continued, moving behind her again to brush out the curls. "I swear."
"So how's the Wooyoung thing coming along?"
"Throwing it back in my face, wow," you laughed, shaking your head. A little flicker of anger flashed over Sumin's eyes, and you knew then you'd pushed it earlier; she was still cut up about Mingi, even if three months had passed, and you really shouldn't have tried your luck in singing his praises. She was right, too, that your own desire for a relationship was far from fulfilled, and she deserved all the gossip, no matter how frustrating. "Nothing's happened since that kiss, it's like you guys walking down scared him so badly he's avoiding me or something."
"Calm and easy, hmm," she answered, staring at the ground again.
"Maybe he's just busy, or stressed with school," you reasoned. "I've barely seen him at all this past week."
"When you do see him, does he still barely talk?"
"He says more than he used to, but not like that day. He still stares like he's going to devour me," you chuckled, trying not to feel the worst of your disappointment. "Maybe he looks at everyone like that and I've just never noticed?" Your face scrunched up in a look of defeat, and Sumin, spotting it in the mirror, shook her head.
"No, no, he does not look at everyone that way. You know that. You know what you're seeing," she said. You turned from her hair to set down the brush, satisfied with the beachy waves you'd achieved, framing her face perfectly. She turned in the chair, eyeing you directly. "I'm sorry I just got weird with you."
Your head popped up, brows furrowed in confusion. "You're fine, what do you mean?"
"I'm all sensitive about Mingi talk still," she sighed.
"I know, I'm sorry I said what I said. It's not my place."
"No, it is," she answered. "I get it, he was nice. He was too nice. It freaked me out and I didn't trust it and I didn't know what the hell to do. So I broke up with him at his best friend's birthday party. I'm cruel."
"You are not cruel," you replied, leaning down to hug her. "You didn't want to be with him anymore. It's good to tell someone that as soon as you feel it. Not drag it out."
"Hmm," was all she replied with and you pulled back, hands on her shoulders. She couldn't meet your eyes, her face painted with discomfort. There was something more she wasn't telling you, but just as you went to ask her what it was, Hongjoong appeared in the doorway.
"How do I look?" he asked, spinning to show you his floral swimming trunks, paired for now with a loose blue button up that he left wide open, his chest and abs on full display.
"Like any man's wet dream," you replied, singsong. Sumin turned and laughed, nodding in approval.
"The room is a fucking mess, sorry," he said as he entered, coming to sit on your bed to watch the two of you finish your preparations.
"It's fine, not like anyone will need to be up there anyway." You shifted over to the mirror, checking that your hair was still as fluffy as you'd made it this morning. You peered at your outfit again; the blue bikini top sat tight on your chest, your boobs out in all their glory, and over the bottoms sat little jean shorts, the hems cut-off. You hadn't yet had a chance to tell Hongjoong what happened, his week horrendously busy with moving and classes, and with the news Sumin had just shared with you, there was determination in your chest to forget your woes and just have a good night with them both.
You pulled back with a final flick of your hair.
"You look so good," Sumin said, staring.
"So do you girl," you replied, her outfit nearly identical to yours, only with slightly longer shorts and a pink bikini top.
"Isn't it crazy we can dress like this in winter?" Hongjoong chuckled from behind, staring down at his bare legs and abdomen.
"Ah, the desert. Gotta love it," you laughed, taking mascara from the top drawer of your desk and quickly applying it.
"Not in July," Sumin replied.
"Let's not think about that right now," you laughed, finishing your application with a few blinks. "Isn't it almost time?"
"I think so," Hongjoong answered, realizing he left his phone in the other room. He stood quickly, about to leave, when he saw the look on both of your faces. "Are you guys okay?"
"Yeah, just, stuff," you sighed, smiling at him in the mirror.
"Girl stuff," Sumin added, rolling her eyes.
"You can tell me about girl stuff, did something hap-"
The front door bell rang, loud through every speaker in the house, and you all jumped.
"I guess it's time," you smiled, laughing at the frazzled look on your face in the mirror. "You ready?"
"I suppose," Sumin said, forcing herself to stand and take your arm, Hongjoong taking the other.
"We'll tell you tomorrow," you told him, nudging your head against his shoulder. "Let's just have fun tonight."
Saturday, February 7th - 7:45pm
He was standing across the room from you again, beer in hand, chatting to his friend.
That was the one introduced as San, with wide shoulders and a sharp jaw, his demeanor tough and stoic. It quickly became apparent that they were best friends, or at least the closest of everyone, and you pondered it as you hung back and watched on.
The pizza and cake had already been devoured, but not everyone set to come had shown up. All of Sumin's sisters had, and the gaggle of Hongjoongs friends. Momo and Sana you knew, the rest you didn't; it was hard to keep all the names straight when he introduced them in such quick succession.
Your two friends from culinary school, Suzuka and Mizyu, had taken over drinks duty from you as soon as they noticed all the available ingredients, and the other two you'd invited texted last minute cancellations, citing early morning shifts at the respective bakeries they worked for.
The rest of Wooyoung's friends were the rowdiest, the only ones yet to brave the pool, playing games involving drinks and swimming and holding breath that you couldn't understand even if you tried. There was Jongho, San's younger brother, who J eyed with obvious attraction. There was Yunho, the tall one, and Changbin, Felix, Yeosang, and Han. You were fairly sure you remembered the names correctly, but if you turned out to be wrong, you wouldn't be surprised.
You'd never seen so many people in the house, not since maybe a birthday decades ago that you hardly remembered. And apparently, according to Wooyoung, two of his friends were running late, still on their way. You'd been excited for the party, thinking it would present the perfect situation for flirtation; unfortunately the same thing happened last time, the two of you wall bound, just staring. A week had passed and it was starting to feel like the kiss hadn't even happened.
"I wanna go to the hot tub," Sumin called to you, stepping away from the little circle of her sisters, all chattering away.
"Ooh, hot tub," Mizyu sang, finishing another drink, running it over to Isa.
The room was teeming with balloons and streamers, some of which had already been snagged and lay crumpled on the floor. Outside, string lights hung across every available surface, twinkling in the darkness. The sounds from the pool games were a comforting sort of cacophony, and getting to witness the fun from the comfort of the hot tub sounded mildly pleasant. It was at least something; indoors you felt utterly underwhelmed, despite everything.
"Let's go then," you smiled, taking her arm in yours, walking to the back door. There were of course other things that could turn the night from borderline boring to completely enthralling, but you weren't sure they would happen after all. Wooyoung and San were standing just to the left of the back door, and as you passed you eyed him, frustration written all over your face.
"You guys going to the hot tub?" he asked, cutting San off, who turned abruptly and watched the interaction with interest.
"This is a pool party," you replied, giving him a sidelong glance as the two of you tumbled outside.
"The hot tub's not a pool," you heard in response, his tone high and joking, and you fought the urge to turn around and roll your eyes at him.
"Wow, you guys are bickering now," Sumin laughed, pulling two towels from the chest outside.
"Shut up," you laughed back, smacking her with yours.
"It's cute!"
"It's immature, we're not 15," you chuckled.
"Don't be like that, just enjoy it. He's probably nervous as hell to actually make a move."
The two of you pulled off your shorts, setting them on the pool chair nearest the tub, and stepped in.
"I'm trying," you replied after a second, shuddering as the warmth of the water swept through your body. "But I'm getting frustrated."
"Ahh that feels good," Sumin sighed, sitting down beside you. "Listen, you make the first move if he's being so cagey. You already know he likes you."
"I know I should, I just need a good opportunity-"
"There you guys are!" Hongjoong called from the back door, prancing over with his drink in hand, ripping off his shirt. "It's so time for a soak."
He sat down beside you, but Sumin nudged him out of the way, wanting to maintain a space next to you in case bravery suddenly struck Wooyoung.
"I see how it is," Hongjoong joked, but moved comfortably, his friend Sana joining you all.
Finally Wooyoung poked his head out the door, catching your eye with the look of a question, which you answered with your eyes. You were attempting to make up for the somewhat harsh look you'd just given him moments ago; you softened your gaze, imploring him to move already.
He seemed to get the message. He turned San and started pushing him outside as he made some grand point, bickering with Woo for pushing him, but once the tub came into view he dropped his act and went rather silent. The other three in the tub had fallen into light chatter, and you watched as he and Wooyoung both stripped off their shirts, setting them right where Hongjoong had set his.
Woo stepped into the tub slowly, setting himself down beside you, leaving just a foot or so of space. It was close enough to make your heart race a bit; close enough to mean more than nothing. His lean arms and chest glowed in the colored lights, and his nose curved distractingly, catching your gaze.
"I hope my friends aren't being too crazy," he said, glancing over to the pool with the slightest furrow in his brow.
"Oh no, they're fine." You pulled your gaze away, forcing yourself to look too. The tall one, Yunho, and San's younger brother, Jongho, seemed to be racing.
"They're insane," San added.
"I kind of like it," you chuckled, smiling at them both.
"That's good news," Wooyoung chuckled back, slowly looking more relaxed, reaching an arm behind you, resting it on the ledge.
"Aren't more of them still coming?"
"Yeah, they said they'd be here now. Must be taking their sweet ass time."
"As always," San laughed, his eyes clearly catching on Sana, who smiled back with the sweetest blush.
"You know her name is almost the same as yours," Hongjoong piped up, noticing the quick moment.
"I do," San laughed, the rest of you chuckling too, Sana looking embarrassed.
"I just think that's pretty funny," Joong continued.
"What a sophisticated sense of humor you have, Joongie," you teased, Sumin smiling in full on laughter, the tub feeling warmer by the minute.
"I gotta make fun of her somehow, she's literally perfect," Hongjoong pouted, turning to Sana and poking her.
"That she is," San added, and you and Sumin fell into each other, giggling with hands covering your mouths.
"Damn, San, you got game," Hongjoong nodded approvingly.
"Do you want another drink?" San asked in Sana's direction, ignoring the comment.
"Another martini would be nice," she smiled, moving subtly in his direction.
"Coming right up," he nodded, stepping out. You could see her eyes tracing the lines of his abdomen.
"San, bring me another beer!" Yunho called from the pool, downing the last of his current one.
"Me too!" Jongho added.
"Get your own damn drinks!" San yelled back, disappearing inside.
"Do you want anything more?" Wooyoung asked once the laughter died down.
"No, honestly. Thanks for asking though."
"Neither do I," he smiled, scooting the littlest bit closer.
"You don't have to say that just cause I did," you laughed.
"I don't want to get sloshed tonight, I should really take it easy," he laughed. "Even if it sounds fun."
"I think they're getting sloshed enough for the rest of us." You nodded towards the pool.
"Definitely," he laughed.
The two of you were silent for a moment. His gaze fell to yours, your body curling into him, ever so slightly, and you bit the inside of your bottom lip.
"You having a good time?" he asked.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" He smiled, shaking his head. "What's not up to your standard?"
"Nothing," you sighed.
"Tell me."
"I said it was nothing-"
"Tell me." You liked how it came out as almost a demand.
"You've barely talked to me."
"I'm talking to you now," he chuckled, his gaze stronger, so piercing it felt like he could see your soul.
"Yeah, but you didn't for like, an hour and a half."
"You were keeping track?"
You playfully punched at him again, sending splashes of water rocking through the tub.
"Woah, if it's gonna be like that go get in the pool," Sumin playfully scolded.
"Might as well," you sighed, pushing out of the tub with one hand on Wooyoung's shoulder. Things had chilled out a little at the pool, a few of the boys inside getting another round of drinks, so it seemed like the perfect time.
Just as you began to walk down the steps, shivering with the change of temperature, you heard a voice call out.
"Woo, we're here!"
You thought you recognized it, and whipping around, you realized you did. It was Seonghwa, the regular at the bakery, clad in the most casual clothes you'd ever seen him in.
"Finally," Woo answered him, walking over to greet him. Your eyes shot right to Hongjoong, still in the tub, doing an expert job of not appearing shocked. But you'd known him his whole life and could tell, just from that little flicker in his eyebrow, that he was practically shitting himself.
'You invited him?' you mouthed when he caught your eye. Joong shook his head furiously for a moment, before Seonghwa spotted him and everyone went a bit silent.
Until the next man tumbled out the back door.
"Mingi, show Wooyoung what you got-"
Mingi cut off his friend's words with a hand to the chest. He had spotted Sumin, there in the hot tub below him, and his face was pure shock he wasn’t even trying to hide.
"Oh, fuck no," you heard her mutter, jumping out of the tub and grabbing her towel, darting past him inside.
"Minnie, wait," you heard him say as he slunk in after her. Eyes were wide around, looks of confusion on everyone's faces. Wooyoung slowly made his way over to you.
"They used to date," you said, answering the question clearly in his eyes.
"I didn't realize she was his Sumin," he said, shaking his head.
"He told you about her?" you asked, settling on the top step of the pool.
"Of course." He sat down next to you. "He's crazy about her."
"I wonder if I should go after her."
"Let them figure it out," he said.
"She was already stressing this morning, I'm just worried-" you cut yourself off with a harsh breath.
"I think she'll be okay."
"But what if they have a fight, what if, I don't know, something happens?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know." You pouted at him, then looked down at the twinkling water, sighing.
"I think you need to stop worrying so much." You shot him a glare. "Or not, my bad."
But he was right and you knew he was. You could feel yourself spiraling, ever since your mother left, the unknowns of this new chapter of your life striking worry through you at every turn.
"She'll be fine," you sighed, coming back to yourself.
"How can I make it up to you?"
"What?"
"I've upset you, what can I do to make this pretty face happy again?" He brought a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, half wet from the tub.
"Let's have some fun," you smiled, before splashing water at him, diving away as quickly as you could to try and avoid his retaliation.
It was so much better to be fighting in the pool than thinking so much, his friends joining in on your side and splashing relentlessly. There were screams and laughs, attempts to knock you off balance; he was successful with many of these, being a far stronger swimmer than you were. Grappling under the water, you felt the electric fire that you wanted. All muscle and hands and veins popping out, the warmth of the pool doing wonders. Finally he relented, and breaths ragged, you both chilled out on the steps again.
"I like your tattoo," you said, raking your fingers along his inner forearm.
"Yeah?" His body was buzzing with energy, you were almost sure he would kiss you again, right there in front of everyone, with how pent up he felt. Faces close, dripping with sweat and anticipation, his mouth was wide open, eyes taking you in. But he just spoke again. "Do you have any?"
"One, somewhere I can't show you out here," you chuckled, seeing his pupils dilate in front of your very eyes.
"Where?" he whispered.
"My hip," you whispered back. You pointed to the spot, right below the hem of your bikini bottoms, and his finger moved over yours, pulling it down slightly.
"Wooyoung," you gasped, shoving his hand away. You could hear titters behind you, looking back to see Hongjoong, Seonghwa, San and Sana lounging comfortably in the hot tub still, happy as can be.
If only Sumin and Mingi could make up, and Wooyoung could finally make the move you were hoping for, it might be a perfect night.
You stared longingly at him, almost awe struck, before his friends tumbled back outside again. So too did a bunch of the girls; it seemed everyone had started drinking games inside, and were bringing them out to the pool. Suddenly it was full, every person still present at the party jumping in.
“Everyone pair up, we’re gonna play chicken!” one of the boys called, giggles following in a giant chorus. You could see J and Jongho already standing together, and everyone else was teasing and jostling for who they’d go with.
“Everyone wants Yunho cause he’s tall,” Wooyoung chuckled to you, watching multiple of Sumin’s sisters beg for his partnership.
“This is gonna be such a disaster,” you laughed, shaking your head.
It all started normally enough, the losing pair each round having to chug a beer between them. Most of the boys took it upon themselves to take one for their team, but Isa wouldn’t let Yeosang take a singular sip; she had a weird thing about beer and chugging.
But soon enough it devolved into mostly just laughing and drunk chaos, and you really weren’t feeling it anymore. Maybe it was because your normal bed time had passed and you just felt tired, but you couldn’t stand the noise. You walked back to the tub to soak again, at least getting a little distance from it all, but Wooyoung didn’t follow.
“How are things?” Hongjoong asked as soon as you were in earshot, making space beside himself for you. You could already see he and Seonghwa were far more comfortable than before; little touches, body language that was calm, serene.
“Good,” you smiled as you sunk in, smiling at Sana across the way.
“What exactly are they doing over there?” Seonghwa asked.
“I don’t know, they were playing chicken, but I’m not even sure anymore.”
You all watched as Wooyoung dove in after Jongho, the two tussling under water amidst the huge crowd that still stood in the shallow end of the pool.
“They’re crazy,” Seonghwa said, San laughing, and it seemed like some kind of inside joke.
“Does that include Wooyoung?” you asked, trying not to sound too desperate for more information about him.
San laughed. “Definitely. But not like the others.”
You watched as Yunho downed another beer, and blinked with surprise, wondering how many that was now.
“If they get too rowdy we can take them back to campus,” Seonghwa said, and San nodded.
“Oh, no, they’re fine.” You tried to feel that way; why was it irking you so much that Wooyoung was over there with the drunk group? “Have you guys seen Sumin and Mingi at all?”
“No,” was the response from everyone, heads shaking.
“Weird,” you sighed, the tub falling quiet, almost uncomfortably so. You weren’t sure why this little nagging feeling of concern had come back so suddenly when just minutes ago you were certain of the evening’s near perfection.
“I’m gonna head in,” you suddenly decided. With one more look at the pool you spotted Woo talking with Seiun, and it was enough to send your legs padding along. You didn’t even bother drying yourself, just wrapped your towel around your back and headed in.
It was dead quiet, but the kitchen looked tornado stricken; most of the streamers were down now, deflated balloons dotting the floor, and along every counter were dirty plates and cups and empty beer bottles. You swept a few into the garbage before stopping yourself; this was not the point of tonight, cleaning was supposed to happen tomorrow. But that anxiety nipped at your heels and forced you to do something to assuage it; finally you decided you needed to find your best friend.
She didn’t answer a text right away, but you’d sort of figured that would happen. She might not even be here anymore; there was no telling where her and Mingi had gone off to. If she stayed you were pretty sure she would have come out hours ago, and you knew Mingi had a single dorm all to himself, a place she spent many nights those months ago.
You wandered. Your parent’s master bedroom was down the hallway on the bottom floor, along with the small guest bathroom and a storage closet. You peered into all three; no Sumin or Mingi in sight. You walked upstairs; your room was empty, and so was the guest room. You saw the mess Hongjoong had mentioned and chuckled to yourself, finding his total lack of organizational skills endearing as always.
There was only one more place to check. The small theater was in the basement, a room originally designed as a cellar and extra storage space. Your grandparents had helped your parents install the screen and couches that filled the space now when you were just a kid, and you had always thought what a fun hide out it would be if you actually had a boyfriend.
The stairs were carpeted, perfect for your covert operation, and you didn’t even need to hit the basement floor to know they were there.
It wasn’t anything dirty; just the bright sound of Sumin’s laugh, punctuated by a low voice, lilting as it almost certainly teased her. You headed upstairs immediately; it felt too intimate, almost worse than hearing them fuck, but at least you knew she was safe and sound in the house, and sounded happy.
And her happiness would be enough for you. Things just felt weird with Wooyoung, you couldn’t put your finger on it, but maybe they weren’t meant to be as you wished they were. That was how it always went with boys, didn’t it; they were cute, or sweet, or utterly gorgeous, yet they hardly ever could be what you needed them to be. He seemed more interested in his friends, in his life, than you. Or he seemed scared to start something; you really couldn’t tell what it was, but there was some stumbling block, something you were tripping up against.
You took yourself upstairs to your room, deciding it was time to wash the chlorine from your hair and maybe lay down for the night. You were tired, and you knew that exhaustion always clouded your thoughts in unhelpful ways.
You entered your bathroom, staring at your face in the mirror, water-proof mascara still mostly in place. There was something in your eyes that you hadn’t seen before, and a wave of frustration hit you; a meltdown was coming, you were doing just what you thought you would. Coming apart at the seams, you could see it in your eyes, your mother’s absence driving it all. How could you have thought you could do it, that you were mature enough for this next step of independence?
You threw the towel on the floor, tired of thinking, tired of the confusing machinations of your brain. Just as you began to untie your bikini bottoms, there was a knock at your bathroom door.
“Fuck, you scared me,” you jumped, a hand clutching at your chest. Wooyoung stood in the doorway, a towel of his own around his back, wet hair clinging to his face.
“Sorry,” he chuckled, entering the room, resting a hip against the counter.
“Did the games end?”
“No,” he answered.
“They’re all still going?” There was judgement in your tone that you couldn’t hide and a look on your face that mirrored it.
“Did you not have a good time tonight?” he asked.
“No, it was fine.”
He took in a sharp breath. “Why would you have a party here if you don’t like parties?”
“I do like parties, you’ve seen me at one before,” you shot back, eyebrows low.
“I’m not accusing you of anything.”
“Sorry,” you sighed, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“What did I do?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve upset you, what did I do?” His tone was soft and his eyes were too, something you hadn’t seen from him yet.
“I just- it’s nothing, I’m being insane.”
“And I made you feel that way, didn’t I?”
“Maybe,” you relented, taking a deep breath. Your heart rate was skyrocketing; you weren’t prepared in the slightest for this conversation.
“Why?”
“Cause it feels like you’re avoiding me.” The words tumbled out in a rush.
“I’ve been busy this week-”
“Not just this week, I mean here at the party. You barely talked to me until we got in the hot tub. Then when your friends are playing crazy drinking games you’d rather hang with them than with me.”
He stood still a moment, just staring. “You really hate drunk people, don’t you.”
“I guess I do,” you chuckled, his tone breaking the ice enough for your tension to begin to dissolve.
“If you want my attention, you just have to ask for it baby.”
“Well maybe I don’t want to ask.”
“Well how else am I supposed to know?” He was smirking, leaning forward.
“What do you mean, you kissed me, of course I want your attention!” you laughed, mouth agape.
“I wasn’t sure if you did, you jumped away from me so fast when your friends came down the stairs-”
“You jumped away from me!” you broke in.
“And today-” he continued, stepping closer, “when everyone started arriving, you barely even looked at me. You were just with the girls, making drinks. You hardly seemed interested when I introduced my friends.”
You sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was being like that. There’s just never been so many people here, and I guess I don’t really like hosting.” The realization washed over you in a rush.
“Then don’t ever do it again,” he smiled, stepping closer again, reaching his arms around you.
“Okay,” you smiled, melting into him, the kiss tender for a moment, but quickly deep, tongues and teeth, your hands pulling at each other.
“Of course I want to hang with you,” he chuckled, nipping at your neck, making your breath hitch.
“If you say so,” you joked, pulling back from him, resting against the counter too.
“What were you doing up here?”
“I was just gonna shower, I hate when chlorine’s in my hair too long,” you answered, playing with the strings of your bikini as you stared into his eyes.
His gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing a little at the corners. He didn’t say a thing, but his lips tensed just the smallest amount, making you curious.
“What?” you asked.
“I think you know what.” You thought you did too; you’d put the invitation out there, and were pretty sure it was fairly obvious, but were just waiting for him to take it.
“Just say it.”
He stared, taking another breath. “Can I join you?”
“In the shower you mean?” You were seconds from laughing, giddy with his admittance of interest.
And instead of answering he just put his lips on yours again, pulling you in through the shower door, closing it. He turned on the water, breaking the kiss a moment; it was cold for a second, making you squeal and jump, knocking into him. Once it turned to its comfortable warmth you were kissing again, his long hair trapped in your fingers, his own hands trailing down to untie your bottoms, hastily messing with the knots.
Once the spell of nervousness was broken it all happened so fast. Your bikini fell to the floor, and so too did his trunks, kicked to the back corner. You’d ripped off your top without even bothering to untie it; his hands were all over you, teasing every possible sensitive place, your nipples pebbling under his brief touches. His lips moved to your neck and your head tipped back, warm water flooding over you, intoxicating you with its punishing heat. His breaths were strong and ragged in your ear, his cock hard against your leg, twitching.
You reached down for it, making a satisfying whine rip from the depths of his throat. It was an exhilarating moment of power, but one he ended quickly; reaching down to your core, he found you soaking and silky, running two fingers along your slit and making your whole spine go fuzzy with pleasure.
“Fuck,” you breathed, body almost going limp against the wall behind you. He bit his lip and almost smiled, you could see through your hooded eyes, but kept his motions steady and certain, his fingers finding their place at your clit and rubbing slow, steady circles around it. His lips found your neck again, then your mouth, his tongue sending waves of pleasure through you all the way to his hand. It was pure fire you felt, completely enthralled; never had a simple touch felt so good, left you so devilishly high.
The orgasm came with a speed you didn’t expect; searing and electric, it trickled through the nerves of your fingers, toes, everywhere. Once you came down your hands were all over him, pulling him in, almost crashing into the shower head. He reached a hand out to hold you both steady, laughing as he bit down on your neck, nearly losing himself. Something about the steam of the room was clouding everything, in a perfect haze that promised no thinking, only touch. He needed you more than words could explain, and he couldn’t wait another second.
He turned you around, hands against the wall, and lined himself up. Bending over you, he kissed up your back, your shoulders, your neck and your ear, as he slid in slowly, bottoming out with a satisfied groan. You were already noisy, unable to help it; he fit like a glove, so utterly perfect, and his thrusts had the perfect level of force that left nothing more to possibly be desired.
It lasted longer than you could account for, really; so slow, sensual, pulling at the very essence of your being. Every worry and confusion quelled, every question answered. He reached down between your legs, your body flush and close, rubbing your clit as he fucked you, your body reacting in need. The orgasms were one after the other, each stronger than the last, your legs spent and shaking by the end, hardly holding you up. His groans became stronger, and you pulled his head to your neck again, trying to stifle them, but it hardly mattered with the water raging above you.
He finished with a few strong, fast thrusts, your cunt fluttering around him, so spent. He held you up, turning you, kissing you strongly again as you rested against the wall. You pulled back and dropped your head against his chest, holding on as you grounded yourself, and suddenly felt his hands moving through your hair, shampooing it. You nearly collapsed again from the way your heart squeezed; his fingers on your scalp completely tantalizing, you breathed softly, letting him rinse it out too. He then squeezed some on his own head, cleaning his hair in haste, moving you out of the way to rinse it so it wouldn’t get in your eyes.
That night, curled under the sheets of your bed, it happened again. Touches, kisses led to so much more, and soon you found yourself under him, legs wrapped around his hips, his hair brushing over your face as he buried himself in you again.
Saturday, February 14th - 12:21pm
“Wait, so you were happy to see him?” you asked Sumin.
It was nearing the end of your shift, Valentine’s always a busy, crazy day at the bakery, and you finally had the chance to sit down. Hongjoong had come just for the day to help out, even though Sumin had tried to fight it, but in the end you all were thankful. The extra pair of hands had really come in handy, and the whirlwind had left you all a little delirious.
“Well, yeah, honestly,” she answered, sliding into the bench beside you. Hongjoong sat across, downing a cup of coffee and a quesadilla, listening with rapt interest.
“They why did you run inside when he came?”
“Cause I didn’t want him to be all mushy and shit in front of everyone.”
“But you did want it.”
“Yeah, that text pissed me off. It was nothing.”
You laughed. “It was.”
“Like truly don’t text me anything if that’s how it’s gonna be,” she answered, laughing. “You know? I knew he wanted to say more but he just didn’t.”
“You guys back together now?” Joong asked.
“Yeah, we are,” Sumin smiled.
“And you and Seonghwa?” you asked him.
“We’re hooking up,” he smiled.
“Men,” you laughed, shaking your head.
“What about you and Wooyoung?”
“We just started dating, we’re not officially together yet,” you answered him, sticking out your tongue.
“Wow, having sex before you’re officially together, how could you,” he teased.
“I’m gonna slap you,” you answered.
“Hey guys,” Seiun stumbled in from the front, whipping around the door. “Three guys are here to see you. Can I let them back?”
“How the fuck do they know we’re all here?” you laughed.
“I told Seonghwa.”
“Joong! So you’re hooking up and texting each other constant updates?”
“He just asked this morning, I don’t know,” he shrugged.
“Let them back, it’s fine,” Sumin answered, her opinion the only one that really mattered. It was rare for non-employees to be let back here, but she was certainly allowed to break that rule when she wanted.
The three shuffled back in almost embarrassing silence, so tense and awkward, and you couldn't help laughing at them, Sumin and Hongjoong breaking into giggles too.
“What the hell is this?” Hongjoong laughed.
“Just give us a second,” Mingi answered, one hand coming up, the other seemingly stuck behind his back. You realized the other two had their hands clasped the same way, and you gave Woo a questioning look. His hair was soft and fluffy, and the puffy jacket and loose jeans he wore were the picture of coziness. You really just wanted to get up and hug him, but as you stood Mingi interrupted.
“Wait, stay seated,” he said. “Ok guys, ready?”
The other two looked at him sideways and nodded.
“One, two, three,” he continued.
“Happy Valentine's Day!” they all cried, whipping huge flowery bouquets from behind their backs, each finally approaching.
“Oh my god,” you laughed as Wooyoung handed you yours, bright white and purple flowers filling it, the smell sweet and beautiful. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he chuckled, leaning down to place a peck on your lips. “I know this is kind of silly but Mingi really wanted us to do it,” he whispered, sitting down beside you.
Sumin had risen already and was kissing Mingi by the fridge, and Hongjoong and Seonghwa were full on laughing, a less domestic but still cheerful picture. There was nothing about the scene that you could hate; your two best friends happy, and you getting what you want, the sweet and smart and sexy boy, pretty as can be.
“It’s perfect,” you answered him, kissing again, nuzzling tight into the crevice of his shoulder.
