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DIRTY LITTLE FREAK

GENRE: PWP, SUB! EX-BULLY MINGI x DOM! READER.

SYNOPSIS: Song Mingi’s nothing like the boy who bullied you relentlessly in high school. When you meet at a blind group date, you’re a woman on a mission: Take Mingi home and show him you’re nothing like the girl you used to be.

WARNINGS: sub! mingi, size kink, degradation, toys, oral, impact play, unprotected sex, finger sucking (LOL), and riding. bonus: mingi wears a harness :) NSFW, MDNI 18+!

Mingi’s softer. That’s the first thing you notice.

Long blond hair frames his face in a way that makes him look almost cherubic. Rosy cheeks—pink lips. Gone is the rugged punk who relentlessly bullied you in high school.

He doesn’t recognize you. There’s no way he does.

To him, you’re just another beautiful woman on a blind group date—one who apparently doesn’t mind getting caught staring.

You smile when he finally notices. The tips of his ears turn pink, and he flinches, shy beneath your gaze.

"What's your name?"

When Mingi finally works up the courage to ask, he laces his fingers together, eyes lifting just long enough to study your face before they dart back down again.

You answer back softly with your name, every movement calm and effortless. Plucking an olive from your martini, you slip the toothpick between your lips and pull it free with practiced ease.

“I’m Song—”

“Mingi,” you finish for him, flashing a toothy grin.

His brows lift. “Oh... do you know me?”

Your dark eyes linger on him, impossible to read. A slow smile curls at your lips. “Something like that.”

You lean forward just enough for the movement to feel intentional. He whips his head to the side, throat bobbing when he stared at the way your tits pushed together for a second too long. You arch a brow before continuing.

“But I’ll know you even better if you come home with me tonight.”

He chokes on his Sprite, sputtering as the soda sprays across the table.

The guy beside him jerks upright with a curse, eyes bulging as he stares at Mingi.

"Dude—what the fuck?"

Mingi looks seconds away from dying of embarrassment. "...I am so fucking sorry."

The guy just shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he heads for the bathroom.

"Sorry," you say lightly. "Too forward? You can say no."

Mingi's head snaps up. "Oh, God. Please take me home with you."

The words tumble out before he can stop them.

His eyes go wide. A slow, crimson blush spreads across his face as he realizes he'd been a little... too eager. "I mean—" He squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck."

You sit in silent victory for a couple of seconds before raising your credit card.

"Check, please?" Handing it over smoothly, you add "And I'm paying for his too."

When you make your way to the taxi with Mingi trailing behind you, you're grateful there's no moon tonight. If he'd gotten a better look at your face, he would've seen the unnerving smile etched across it. There was only one thing you had in mind:

Song Mingi, I'm nailing you to the fucking bed.

𝜗ৎ

High school was a cliché down to the T.

Boys poked and prodded at you with all the contradictions of adolescence. You were either too ugly to acknowledge or someone they wanted to sleep with in secret.

And Song Mingi stood at the forefront of it all.

He never bothered to remember your name. Instead, he'd go out of his way to laugh at you in the middle of class, just to hear everyone else join in. Crumpled balls of notebook paper bounced off the back of your head. Snickers followed you through the hallways. He'd always call you a little freak.

It wasn't just Mingi. Almost every boy in school seemed to have it out for you. You never really understood why—all you knew was that it was rarely kind.

On the better days, though, Mingi would scratch the back of his head in frustration before quietly leaving a carton of juice on your desk when you were too scared to eat in the lunchroom. One time, he shoved a guy for cornering you in the hallway.

Those moments almost felt like apologies.

Awkward and gangly, just like him. But even then, it never stopped.

When you were younger, you tried to understand him. You really did. During your self-help phase, every audiobook insisted people were more than the worst things they'd ever done. That forgiveness made you the better person.

You wanted to believe that. But you were way too fucking pissed.

From there, your life became the kind of rags-to-riches story people loved to tell. You went to college but still carried that adolescent rage with you. Every man you slept with became an emotional punching bag—a place to dump every humiliation, insult, and wound high school had left behind.

By the time you graduated, you were unrecognizable.

Confident—a little shameless, even. Years later, you stopped hiding behind your hair. For you, revenge wasn't getting even. It was becoming prettier and successful enough to look down on everyone who'd ever tried to make you feel small—from an empire you'd built with your own two hands.

And then, one day, you met the right kind of man. The kind who begged for your spit and paid you for it.

It was good money. Still is.

And quite frankly—you can't wait to show Mingi what the years have done to you.

𝜗ৎ

"You know—it's funny," you say, gaze drifting up to the ceiling with a soft sigh. The tasseled paddle taps against your palm in a lazy rhythm, like a metronome while you think.

Mingi's a mess beneath you. Spit drips in wet lines down his bobbing throat, pooling in the hollow of his twitching chest. His soft pants try to escape around the gag, strangled and useless.

He'd taken to it more readily than you expected. When you waltzed into your condo earlier that evening, you gave him the rundown fast and sharp—I don't bottom, I call the shots, here's the safeword—and tossed him the harness to see if he'd flinch.

He didn't. Just ran his thumb over the leather and asked if you had something in his size.

The harness you cinched around him earlier does exactly what it's meant to—squeezes his chest together, keeps him taut and presented. His eyes have rolled back, tears gathering at the edges of his long lashes. Strands of soft platinum blond hair cling to the sweat on his cheek, plastered there like silk against glass.

You press the button. The cock ring underneath his underwear kicks up a notch and Mingi lurches forward, hips jerking, only to be snapped back by the ropes. The restraints bite into his skin and he groans, the sound vibrating against the ball gag.

You smile.

It's enough to cut through the haze—Mingi forces his eyes open, struggling to focus on your face. You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dropping to his eye level.

"You used to call me a little freak," you say, almost conversational. "All the time in high school."

The words hit him like cold water. It's frighteningly sobering. Mingi jolts, genuine surprise cutting through the pleasure-drunk fog.

"But look what we have here?" You tilt your head, letting the paddle trace a slow line down his sternum. "Song Mingi, the biggest jackass of my entire high school career... turns out to be the dirtiest fucking freak of them all."

His eyes roll back: hips thrusting forward on pure instinct, rutting into empty air, back arching in a sharp curve as another groan tears from his throat.

Your eyes widen, jaw dropping—and then you're laughing, bright and delighted.

"Ha! Did you just—" You lean closer, delighted. "Did you just have a dry orgasm?"

It's cute. Everything about him is so unbearably cute.

Then, all at once, a sick little epiphany settles over you.

Maybe this is what all those overpriced self-help journals had been trying to tell you all along.

Finding someone to be so pathetic can feel like forgiveness.

And now, he looks so pathetic, you adore the way he looks when he's ashamed.

You reach forward, fingers finding the buckle of the ball gag. It comes loose with a soft click, and you pull it free—a thin line of saliva trails after it, glistening in the light before you toss it aside. It hits the floor with a wet thud somewhere behind you.

You're still straddling him, knees bracketing his hips. You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath your palms, the heat of his skin through the harness.

"So," you say, quiet now. The edge in your voice has softened to something almost gentle. "Tell me, Mingi. You want to stop?"

You've had your fun. If he safeworded right now, walked out— you'd let him. No strings.

He stares up at you, eyes wide and glassy, tears finally spilling over to track down his temples. His breath hitches.

"N-no." His voice is wrecked, raw from the gag. "Please. Let me stay."

The smile that curves your mouth is genuine this time. "What a good boy."

You lean down, pressing your lips to the sharp line of his jaw, then higher—his cheek, the corner of his eye. You pepper kisses across his eyelids, tasting salt.

"Still wanna stay and fuck the girl you bullied?"

He sniffles, and the sound is almost laughable coming from someone his size—big, broad-shouldered, built like he could break you in half. But he looks so angelic and soft right now.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I liked you."

You go dreadfully still. "The fuck do you mean you liked me?"

Mingi swallows hard, trying to compose himself. He doesn't look at the way your thighs are pressed against his hips, the damp patch on his abdomen where you've been grinding against him.

"I didn't know how to..." He exhales shakily. "I didn't know how to deal with it. Liked—liking when people treated me a certain way."

He pauses, gathering the words like they're heavy stones.

"You probably don't remember this. But the first time we actually met wasn't homeroom."

"Sophomore homeroom, first day." you say automatically.

He shakes his head slowly. "No. Last day of freshman year. You were—some guys were messing with you in the hall. You ran into me after, literally ran into me, and you were furious. Called me a piece of shit." He hesitates, throat working. "Spit on me, too."

Your brow furrows. You don't—

"And I got hard," he confesses, voice barely audible. "Right there. Couldn't... after that, I couldn't get off to anything else. Couldn't stop thinking about it. About someone—about you—degrading me like that."

He finally meets your eyes, desperate and bare.

"So I started treating you the way I wanted you to treat me. I was shitty to you because I wanted you to be shitty back. I wanted—" He breaks off, jaw tight.

You stare at him.

"That's..." You sit back, processing. Your hands are still on his chest, but they're lighter now, almost hovering. "That's fucked up, Mingi. That's genuinely atrocious."

You shift your weight, thighs pressing harder against his hips. Your hand finds his jaw, thumb brushing the mark your slap would leave. "Safeword check. Remember what I told you?"

"Kitty." The word comes out rough, immediate. He's still locked in, pupils blown wide.

"What's your red? Your no goes."

"I don't..." He swallows. "Don't like being choked. Or spanked."

"Slapping?"

His breath catches. "Green."

Your hand moves before your brain catches up—palm cracking across his cheek, snapping his head to the side. The sound is sharp, obscene.

"You liked me?" Your voice drops, dangerous and low. You grip his chin, forcing him to look at you. "You couldn't even fucking recognize me, sick fuck."

"If you really mean it," you say, "then show me."

Your thumbs hook into your underwear, sliding them down your thighs. You step out, kicking them aside, then move over him—knees settling on either side of his head, lowering yourself until you hover just above his mouth. Close enough that he can smell you. Feel your heat.

"Then fucking eat."

Mingi doesn't hesitate. He surges up, mouth finding you with a desperation that makes your breath catch—thick lips closing around your clit, suction immediate and hungry. He drags his tongue upward in one long, flat stroke, pressing firm so he can taste all of you, everywhere, the broad muscle working relentlessly against you.

You're soaked. A thin line of wetness escapes, trickling down to his jaw, pooling in the hollow of his cheek before he swipes it away with another pass of his tongue.

He flicks the tip of his tongue rapidly against your clit. The sensation zips up your spine like current as you roll your hips, pressing down harder, grinding against the bridge of his nose until you feel the bone.

The view from above wrecks you.

Mingi's pupils are blown wide, eyes rolled back to crescents of white, lashes fluttering. The rope has bitten deep into his big arms, the skin there flushing an angry, bitter red. His platinum hair spreads across the wet sheets in tangled strands, darkening where sweat and spit have soaked through.

You have to force yourself to breathe.

Below, his hips piston upward in empty thrusts, rutting against nothing. The thin black jock you gave him strains tight, a dark, spreading patch blooming at the front where he's leaked through the fabric, desperate and untouched.

Finally, you take a closer look. Pausing your grinding almost curiously—thoroughly impressed.

"You act like such a fucking pussy," you breathe, rolling your hips down harder. "But you're hung like you could actually break me. Might snap me in half before I get the chance to break you in."

You sink lower, settling your full weight over his mouth and nose. His breath hot against your thigh.

Mingi doesn't panic at the weight of you. He doubles down, mouth working frantically beneath you, lapping and sucking like a man on a mission.

You feel him still beneath you—muscles tensing, heels digging into the mattress with a groan. Mingi tries to lap at you, almost languidly.

You reach down, fingers sliding under the jock's band, and tug him free. He's hot in your palm, throbbing, and you roll the ring off in one quick motion.

and when he cums, he cums hard.

His head snaps back, a ragged sound tearing from his throat, and he comes in thick ropes that stripe his heaving chest, his trembling stomach—one landing high enough to catch the edge of his parted lips, his flushed cheek.

You don't give him time to recover before your mouth is on him, cleaning off the excess still dribbling down the ridge of his cock.

"Sit up." You instruct.

You shift off him and move to his wrists, unbinding the ropes with practiced efficiency. Mingi flexes his fingers, opening and closing his hands to chase the blood back into them.

"Is this all you wanted?" You arch a brow, voice dropping soft. "Some attention?"

You smooth a strand of hair from his forehead, tuck it behind his ear. Your palm curves along his jaw, thumb dragging across his lower lip—pressing, testing. "Open."

He parts his lips slowly, tongue easing out in offering before flattening, stretching down toward his chin. Submissive. Empty—waiting.

"All those years acting out..." You trace his mouth with your eyes. "And this is what you were after."

Your index and middle fingers slide onto his tongue, pressing down against the wet heat of it. He's salivating already, slick gathering against your skin, salt mixing with salt.

His eyes well up—glossy, desperate—and you swear you've never seen anything this pretty. Not when his brows curve down in that perfect blend of pleasure and ache as your fingers prod the back of his throat. Not when his moans vibrate against your palm, when everything is wet: your hand, his lashes, his jaw, rivulets of spit trailing down to pool in the hollows of his collarbones.

"Or is this what you wanted?" You push deeper, feeling him gag softly around your knuckles. "My hand down your throat?"

He sits before you, hands braced on your hips, staring up with something almost puppy-like in its devotion. He nods—shameless, earnest.

"All I ever wanted." His voice is husky, worn thin with exhaustion and lingering need.

"All that effort," you laugh, "just to be used like a little toy."

You grip his cock—still slick and firm before giving him a few rough strokes. Then you lift your hips and sink down onto him in one motion, sheathing him completely.

His eyes roll back.

You pause. Five full seconds of mercy, feeling him throb inside you, watching his mouth fall open. Then you begin to move—slow, intentionally brutal of your hips against his. Your fist reaches to tighten in his hair.

Mingi stutters out a sound, half moan, half embarrassed cry that catches in his throat. "S-shit!"

It burns—his girth stretching you wide, delicious and punishing, throbbing like it has its own pulse. Your ass smacks against his thighs with every downward stroke, the skin there flushing red from impact. His whole body shakes beneath you, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

You lean down, tongue tracing the column of his throat, then hover above his mouth.

Your spit falls between you.

Mingi's lips part. His tongue catches it, heavy-lidded and delirious. He swallows slow, forcing his eyes to stay open—locked on yours, asking without words: See? Aren't I good for you?

You spit again—except this time, it falls directly between your tits. Mingi licks up your sternum, eyes still locked on yours.

Your hips roll, rise, and fall with fatal precision. Your tits bounce with the force of it.

He's fucking huge. Taking him feels like being pushed to your absolute limits—every throb and twitch forces you to accommodate him inch by inch, your body yielding to the sheer weight of him. It's a feat in itself just to fit all of him.

But then something shifts.

Mingi tilts his head back, eyes closed, offering himself up in a silent plea for the kiss he's too scared to ask for.

You answer by catching his bottom lip between your teeth, biting just hard enough to leave indentations before releasing. He sighs into your mouth as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close until your chests flush together. You flinch at the sudden contact—the leather of his harness, still warm from his skin, brushes against your nipples.

His tongue sweeps against yours, jaw loosening to take you deeper.

“Fuck," he breathes, hands sliding to your hips to pull you down against him. It’s urgent—hot in ways you can’t say you expected riding Mingi after years of hating him would be.

"If you cum in me, I'll kill you."

"Mhm. Fuck—" He hisses against your mouth, breath ragged as he drives you down on him. "Yes ma'am."

His palms spread over your ass, gripping tight and rocking you in a rhythm that has you gliding up and down effortlessly.

He looks over your shoulder and spreads you wider, staring down at where your bodies meet. When he pulls out to watch you gape open, you can't even summon the energy to be annoyed—you just shove him back down and ride him. Hard.

His hands grip your waist, admiring the way you bounce on his cock, the soft give of your body. He looks at himself, at the white mess coating his shaft. "So fucking creamy."

You grab his face, pinching his cheeks until his mouth puckers, then slap him—sharp—and shove two fingers past his lips, gripping the wet heat of his inner cheek as you slam down on him.

"Shit—you feel so good," he whines, long blonde hair falling into his eyes. "Wait, I'm cumming—"

His face goes panicked, puppy-desperate. You smile softly. “Mhm. You can cum on my tummy."

You fall back, working your clit to finish yourself off, fighting the urge to pull him deeper and cave to your (covert) need to have him cum inside do you.

His large body shadows yours as he buries his face in your neck with a cry, once you rub the tip of his cock with the palm of your hand.

"Clean it," you manage, barely audible.

Mingi drags his tongue across your hipbone, down the soft curve of your stomach, licking himself off you with something like tired worship. He finds your hand, sucking at your palm, sliding wet kisses between your fingers.

He lies flat then, face buried in your thigh, and spreads you open to taste what's still dripping from you.

Wordlessly, you pull him into your arms and cradle him against your chest.

You brush his hair back from his forehead, cupping his face as your thumb gently wipes the sweat from his temple.

“…I really did like you back then,” he mumbles, his face still buried between your breasts.

You let out a quiet hum. “Oh? Did you now?”

He groans into your chest. “God… fuck high school. Truly.”

His arms tighten around your waist.

More than anything, he hopes high school Mingi hasn’t completely ruined things for the version of him that finally might get the girl.

fin.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: sub mingi in the year of our lord. a quick writeeee + bonus photos of what mingi looks like in dirty little freak :3

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