07:21:03. kim seungmin
PAIRING. kim seungmin / fem! reader GENRE. smut, angst, friends with benefits WORD COUNT. 2k WARNINGS. toxic relationships, mild and unintentional self-harm (skin picking), some religious imagery (hell, devil), explicit sexual content: dry humping, nipple play, dirty talk
NOTES. blablabla reworked word vomit. an old piece for a different fandom that i rewrote with more filth
This is the part where you run away.
Staying here would mean a lot of things, all of which you cannot begin to pick apart and understand.
Your fingers fumble at your seatbelt, the click of metal loud in the hush. You keep your eyes on your lap, never once on Seungmin. He doesn’t look at you either. His hands sit at ten and two, stiff, knuckles pale.
What was one to say, anyway?
“Thanks,” maybe. So you say it. “For driving me.”
He clears his throat, but it barely does anything. His voice is rough when he speaks. “I’ve always driven you home.” The words come out rougher than they should, but the twitch in his shoulders reads more as a flinch than anger, so you let it pass.
“Right,” you nod. And then it becomes silent.
The ringing in your ears fills it, that hollow sound you get when your body’s stretched too tight. You could almost hear your skin tearing apart where your nails have picked on your hands. You could almost hear the pleasure and pain, if those have any sound at all. And you wonder what they would sound like when they do.
A scream? A groan? A sob? What would you hear? Whose voice would it be?
His?
It feels heavy, and it feels heavy for an infinite amount of time. Like the beginning of this silence started long before you were even alive, and it stretches until a million years have passed. Maybe it would go for millions more, until the weight becomes so crushing that time would end.
“I’ll go now,” you say, and the millions of years left in the sands of time shatters. Your hand fiddles with the handle, waiting — foolishly — for a word, a glance. Anything. You’d be fine without it, but you wait anyway.
The door swings open.
Call me, you should say. Or I’ll call you. That’s how it goes — the ritual before the separation. Text me when you need anything, you would suggest. He always knows what you mean. Then, a week later: Come by tomorrow. I might have plans the week after. A full cycle. I’ll see you again.
Your mouth instead forms words that feel to you like, “Thanks, again.” Your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.
This is the part where you run away.
But his voice catches you. “Wait–”
A hand on your elbow, warm and steady, draws you back in. His grip is careful but unyielding; you don’t resist. He could push you, pull you, drag you for all you cared. It has always been this war, the push-and-pull, an unfilled space between. The rope between you is never cut, just stretched until your hands burn.
It has always been so hard to understand what you have. You and Seungmin have had each other at an arm’s length, always in reach, in touch, but never in each other’s arms.
“We need to talk first,” Seungmin starts. The door clicks shut. His hold remains. His skin on your skin burns, like it always does. It seethes of something that you know is akin to sin. Some levels of hell, loveless pits.
Is it really the pit of empty romance? When he touches you, time and time again, you have never felt such a rush in your spine and it kills you that only he could do it to you. Only he knows your body. Only he knows you.
“Talk?” you echo, voice sharp and small. “About what?”
“You know what.”
This war.
“This again,” you mutter. “I don’t–”
“Stop lying.”
The push-and-pull.
“I’m not lying!” you snap. “I’m not lying. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Seungmin flinches, but it’s so small a move that you bet you would not even notice if it isn’t you.
But it is. You, who knows his body well. You, who knows him well.
(You do not know him well enough to understand what you are to him, and what he is to you. You do not know him outside of burning flesh and the pits of hell.)
“We have to talk,” he grits his teeth, and you hear it in his words. His hand has begun to loop around your arm that you have to shift your body to turn to him. You face him and he faces you, eyes staring each other down.
“And I asked you. About what?”
“Stop being so goddamn dense!”
An unfilled space between.
“Stop being so fucking vague then, Seungmin!” you cry. A finger to his chest. “Tell me right now. What should we talk about? Sex? Bodies? Because that’s all we ever know about each other.”
“No,” Seungmin stutters. “No, I–”
“Or about how this sick thing we do is just a repeating series of– of whatever bullshit this is?”
Seungmin tightens his lips together. He seems to have something to say, but he keeps it. He stares forward, mapping out the points on your face like lights in the deep night.
You suppose that is fair. You have never seen each other up this close. You and him always had your eyes closed, afraid to see what secrets hide under your skin. The sense of touch does not help you know where the devil is playing. The sense of touch deceives you into the wicked pleasures of the devil until you dance with it.
But it is too late. Because the devil lets you feel what you are aching to repress.
Intimacy is the only truth in sex. Without it, it’s just self-destruction dressed as desire.
One wrong step and you fall, again and again–and again, into the bottomless pit. Pleasure and pain.
And you’re both still here.
“Kiss me,” you whisper. You don’t have to tell him, and you know that. He’s already too close.
It all crashes.
You collapse into each other and it feels so right. The devil is somewhere letting the smolders form the fire that melts your bodies together. It feels heavy, and it feels heavy for an infinite amount of time. But you don’t mind the weight, not right now. Not when it’s this.
A sigh falls against your lips and your mouth comes back to the plushness of his. He retaliates with his tongue teasing into your depths.
Unholy, is what this is. You, and Seungmin, and this.
His hand slides down your body, teasing what little skin gets exposed with your shirt riding up. He rubs his thumb on it, and he could be etching his name onto your hip but you do not care. He could mark you and you would let him because you’re his. His. His.
“Mine,” he breathes.
Your hand rests on his thigh, nails biting through the fabric.
His hand slowly slides up, up, until he finds the curve of your waist under your shirt. It feels too much and altogether, not enough. You needed more. You ask for more.
You pull at each other until you don’t know when you start and he ends. It’s all coming together, in the front seats of his godforsaken car and it’s coming together now.
“Fuck,” he clicks his tongue when you find yourself pulling away to breathe, “Come here.”
He guides you into his lap as you feel his seat slowly moving back. You move with the rush of a being so hungry, so starved and he lets you settle on top of him, straddling him with your palms splayed over his chest.
“What now?” you ask him. His stare is so blown that it almost scares you, because it feels like a dangerous mistake. They almost swallow you.
He grabs both your hands and brings it around the back of his neck. Seungmin steadies you there before reaching to your face, letting his thumb pull your bottom lip.
“What now?” he repeats, brows raising when he tries to put more of his thumb into your mouth and you welcome it willingly. You close your lips around it, slow. His breath hitches.
You smile against his fingers, knowing what this means and knowing how this would end tonight. All sentiments forgotten. All anger and frustration, fuel to this desperation.
“I’m going to do what I do best,” he murmurs lowly, inching closer before removing his thumb from your lips then giving it a taste of his own. God. Fuck. “Make you feel good.”
He does not give you any time to respond before pressing his lips onto yours again. This next kiss is harder, hungrier. You answer with your whole body, rocking into him just enough to feel him curse under his breath.
Your name spills from his mouth. His grip on your hips is possessive, dragging you forward until there’s no space left between you. The friction is sharp and intoxicating, denim on denim, heat building so fast it’s dizzying.
You gasp against his lips, and he takes it as an invitation, tilting his head to kiss you deeper. One hand stays anchored at your waist while the other slips under your shirt entirely, splaying wide against your chest. His palm is hot enough to make you shiver.
You roll your hips once, twice, and feel him tense beneath you. A low groan rumbles from his chest, the sound vibrating straight into your mouth.
“Seungmin–” you breathe, but it comes out as more of a whimper.
“Don’t stop,” he sighs, voice rough and pleading.
His thumb strokes over the curve of your ribs, brushing the edge of your bra, testing your breath. You arch into his touch, and the motion drags you harder against him. His hips lift instinctively to meet yours, and the perfect press of him against you draws another sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make.
“God, you feel–” he breaks off, kissing you like the words might burn him if he says it whole. He pushes your bra up, exposing your bareness to his fingers and he immediately plays with whatever he could touch.
Your hands are in his hair now, tugging just enough to make him inhale sharply. He answers by sliding his other hand down, cupping the back of your thigh and pulling you in tighter, grinding up into your heat in a rhythm that makes your head fall back. He takes the opportunity to dive under your shirt and nibble on the side of your tits.
The car is thick with heat, with your breathing, with the wet sound of your mouths meeting over and over. Every shift of your hips sends sparks crawling up your spine, every lick of his tongue and every squeeze of his hands leaves your skin buzzing.
You’re seconds from letting go, from losing the careful hold you still pretend to have. His lips have found their way back to your jaw, then to your throat, teeth grazing before his tongue soothes over the mark he’s already claiming.
“Mine,” he says again, voice muffled against your skin. “All mine.”
His mouth finds yours again just as his hand slips under the waistband of your jeans — not inside, not yet, but close enough that you feel your pulse there, frantic.
You break the kiss to suck in air, forehead pressed to his. “We shouldn’t,” you manage.
“I know.” His thumb brushes just under the line of your underwear. “Then tell me to stop.”
But you don’t.
Instead, you kiss him again, harder, like maybe that’s your answer. His hand doesn’t move further, but it stays there — a threat, a promise, a tether.
You take the words out of each other’s mouths and fill it with unrelenting sighs and the utterance of each other’s name. Seungmin, your lips mutter. Seungmin. Seungmin. Seungmin. Please, Seungmin.
Time doesn’t stop, not even under the suffocating fog of pleasure and pain in the air. Not even when everything is shed away and all that’s left is you and him, bare. With only skin as the barrier for the secrets of your insatiable souls.
This is the part where you run away.
But you don’t.
