Pairing: domestic bf!mingyu x gf!reader
Summary: a headcanon of mingyu being your domestic boyfriend! (y'all had just started dating and he's LOCKED IN)
Warning/s: very domestic mingyu
Notes: i have a minwon fic coming up so im just warming y'all up! it's gonna be angsty, so here's smth fluffy :)
by some miracle, mingyu was able to ask you out on a date after his many, many tries
the date went absolutely well, so you went on more dates. he asked you to be his girlfriend after 6 dates, but you said no. the man was PERSISTENT so you eventually said yes after he told you that he had a "vision".
as soon as you said yes, mingyu had no plans in slowing down bc for him, you were IT. the first time he saw you? dating apps: deleted. girls on his instagram: unfollowed, blocked, and chats were deleted. contacts: exes and situationships were deleted. he was very committed to you even before you knew it.
in mingyu's mind, you're already married
grocery shopping dates
"We also need to get stuff from my list." Mingyu says, pushing the cart.
"What's on your list?"
"Ingredients for tonight's dinner. I'm cooking, so just relax."
sends you furniture links at 2AM
"Let's go to IKEA."
"We don't live together, Gyu."
"Not YET ;)"
cooks for you constantly! You're craving truffle pasta? He's already out buying truffle oil and stuff. You want fries and have no patience in ordering? He's making fries FROM SCRATCH!
talks about "our _____" casually
"Our kitchen should be very clean all the time, and I want a kitchen island that's huge."
"Our bathroom should have one of those fancy showers that has a 'rain' setting so I can act out emotional drama scenes when I shower."
"Our kids are gonna be so cool because we're cool... but you're also very awkward so I hope they only get a little bit of that."
gets extremely excited over mundane couple things
"I got us matching house slippers!! Aren't they cute?!"
"I don't care if we have different phones because I bought us matching cases!!"
"My mom gifted us matching bathrobes and mugs. You can't leave me now because my mom likes you for me, and I like you very much. These robes are so cute!! Let's use all of this on our at-home spa day!"
sends you apartment listings just for "looking", but already calculated commute times for both of you
absolutely the type to stand behind you while you cook, just to hug your waist and bother you,
keeps buying “extras” for his apartment because “you’re here all the time anyway”
gets proud over domestic things. it genuinely feeds his ego. fixing a cabinet? changing a lightbulb? fixing the sink? checking your car? suddenly, he's the man of the house
"I'll do it, babe. I'm THE man, after all."
owns an apron that somehow screams boyfriend material
would 100% argue with you in ikea over aesthetics and then apologize by buying you dessert afterward
keeps pictures of you on his fridge like a husband who misses his wife at work. actually, he keeps your pictures everywhere: his wallet, his phone case, by the door (so he can kiss it before he leaves), on his nightstand, and on his bathroom mirror so he can flex his muscles in front of you or just talk to you while doing his skin care routine
if you stay over multiple nights in a row, he starts referring to his apartment as “home” for both of you
"Just move in here already!! Or we can get the apartment down the road. It's so pretty!"
definitely the type to say “this reminded me of you” every time he buys random home items
if you jokingly call him your husband once, he thinks about it for the next three business days
"Cheol hyung, she called me her husband... I can't function!"
*when he picks you up from a party* "Hi, it's me; the husband! I'm ready to pick up my gorgeous wife!"
"Let's get married NOW"
secretly loves when people assume you live together already because honestly? in his mind, you practically do
"Seokmin thinks we live together, isn't that crazy? Actually, you know what? It isn't."
one day you realize he’s been building a life around you so naturally that neither of you even noticed when it started happening
"Mingyu?"
"Yeah?"
"Let's move in together."
"Oh hELL YEAH! You won't regret it, babe. I'm calling the agent about that pretty apartment down the road. We need a place that's new and fresh if we want a fresh start for our new chapter together. God, I love you so much."
When an unexpected early return home reveals a vulnerability too tempting to resist, a long-suppressed obsession fractures a carefully maintained boundary, drawing two people into a dark, breathless encounter where the ultimate threshold of desire awaits crossing.
The stifling heat was a physical weight, pressing down from the high ceilings of the family mansion until the very air felt thick enough to swim through. You’d watched the black town car pull away hours ago, carrying your parents to their endless corporate meetings. Then, not long after, you’d heard the low rumble of your older stepbrother Mingyu’s sports car fading down the driveway. Alone. The word sang in your blood, a permission slip you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.
The second-floor living room was the hottest room in the house, a sun-drenched glass box that overlooked the manicured gardens. The late afternoon sun poured through the wall of windows, turning the plush white rug into a field of molten gold. It was too much. The thin sundress you wore felt like a wool blanket. With a sigh of pure surrender, you began to peel it off, right there in the middle of the room. The dress pooled at your feet. You stepped out of it, then hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your legs. A trail of clothing led from the doorway to the vast, L-shaped sectional sofa.
All you kept on was practical: a soft, worn white cotton tank top, so thin it was nearly sheer, and a pair of simple pink cotton panties. The cool, buttery leather of the couch was a shock of relief against your bare thighs and back as you stretched out. You grabbed the remote, flicked on the television to some mindless home renovation show, and let the monotonous drone and the heavy warmth pull you under. Your limbs grew heavy. Your eyelids fluttered once, twice, then stayed shut. The remote slipped from your lax fingers onto the rug.
You didn’t hear the key in the front lock. You didn’t hear the heavy, confident footsteps crossing the marble foyer. You didn’t hear the pause at the bottom of the stairs, or the quieter, more deliberate tread as he ascended.
Mingyu stepped into the second-floor hallway, pulling his gray hoodie over his head with a tired groan. The work meeting had been grueling, but it had wrapped up early, gifting him an unexpected afternoon of silence in the massive house he’d bought for his new step-family. He’d only been back a week, and the ghost of the little girl he remembered—a giggling child with braces and pigtails—still lingered in his mind, obscuring the reality of the young woman who now lived here.
He turned towards his wing, then froze. The door to the sunroom was ajar. A sliver of golden light cut across the dark hallway floor. And then he saw the clothing. A delicate floral dress. A pair of denim shorts. His breath hitched. He moved on silent feet, pushed the door open just enough to see inside.
The sight hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, driving the air from his lungs in a silent rush.
You were asleep on the couch, one arm draped gracefully over your head, the other resting on your flat stomach. The dying sun was directly behind you, a blazing halo that backlit your form and rendered the thin white cotton of your tank top utterly transparent. He could see the shadow of your body beneath—the gentle inward curve of your waist, the sweet flare of your hips. And your breasts. God, your breasts. The fabric was stretched taut over their magnificent, full swell. With your arm raised, the hem of the tank had ridden up, exposing a strip of smooth, sun-kissed stomach and the delicate, lace-trimmed waistband of your pink panties.
But it was your right breast that truly captured him, that unraveled every thread of his control. The position, so artlessly innocent, had pulled the loose neckline of your top aside. One perfect, full breast had spilled out, completely bare to the warm, still air. The peak was a pale, delicate pink, hardened into a tight, eager bud. A dream, perhaps, or the slight chill from the central air whispering across your skin. It was a vision of such casual, unassuming eroticism it made his head swim. His fetish—a deep, primal fixation on breasts he’d spent years trying to intellectualize, to cage—roared to life, its demand absolute and deafening.
His cock, which had begun to stir at the first glimpse of you, was now a hard, painful ridge straining ruthlessly against the zipper of his jeans. A low throb pulsed in time with his hammering heart. The rational part of his brain, the part that knew he was twenty-nine and you were his much younger stepsister, screamed that this was a violation, a point of no return. It was a whisper lost in a hurricane of need.
He was across the room without deciding to move, drawn to that exposed peak like a planet pulled into a star’s gravity. He sank to his knees beside the couch, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. The scent of you—vanilla lotion, sunshine, and something uniquely, unbearably you—filled his senses. He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. He watched, mesmerized, as tiny goosebumps rose in its wake.
Just one taste. The thought was a prayer, a damnation.
He closed the final inch. His lips, fuller than you remembered, parted. His tongue darted out, a hot, wet point that traced a fleeting circle around the areola before his mouth closed over the hardened nub, sucking it gently, reverently, inside.
Your eyes flew open.
A soft, shocked gasp left your lips. Your body jolted, not in fear, but in a wave of pure, instinctual arousal so potent it short-circuited all thought. Your hand, which had been resting on your stomach, flew up. But instead of pushing him away, your fingers tangled in the thick, dark silk of his hair, holding him to you. A moan, low and involuntary, vibrated in your throat. Your back arched slightly, pushing your breast more firmly into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth.
He released your nipple with a soft, wet pop, his lips glistening. He didn’t pull away. His face was inches from yours, his handsome face, his dark eyes, usually so guarded and cool, now blazing with a hunger that stole your breath all over again. His gaze traveled over your face, down to your bare breast, then back to your wide eyes.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice a rough, gravelly sound you’d never heard before. “Look at you.” His thumb came up, stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the heat in his eyes. “You’re so fucking pretty. I thought I remembered a little girl. But you’re… God.”
Before you could form a word, before the reality of what was happening could truly land, his arms slid under you. One hooked behind your knees, the other cradled your back. In one smooth, effortless motion, he lifted you from the couch as if you weighed nothing. You were cradled against his chest, your bare skin pressed to the soft cotton of his t-shirt, your nose filled with the scent of him—cedar, clean sweat, and something darkly masculine. You instinctively looped your arms around his neck, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his.
He carried you, bridal-style, out of the sun-drenched room, through the shadowy hallway, and straight into his bedroom. It was a space you’d rarely seen—all dark wood, sleek lines, and a massive bed with charcoal-gray sheets. He didn’t turn on the light. The last of the sunset bled through the blinds, painting the room in stripes of deep orange and purple shadow.
He laid you down in the center of the cool, crisp sheets. The contrast against your sun-warmed skin was electric. He stood over you for a long moment, just looking, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor.
“This is wrong,” he said, but it wasn’t a statement; it was a question, a plea for you to contradict him.
You swallowed, your throat dry. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but a thrilling heat was pooling low in your belly, dampening your cotton panties. You met his gaze in the semi-darkness. “It doesn’t feel wrong.”
A groan ripped from him. He came down over you, bracing his weight on his powerful arms, caging you between them. His mouth crashed down on yours. It wasn’t a gentle first kiss. It was a claiming. His lips were demanding, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a confidence that made your toes curl. You kissed him back, tentatively at first, then with a growing hunger that matched his own. Your hands slid up the hard planes of his chest, feeling the powerful muscles shift beneath his shirt.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot against your cheek. “This is all I’ve thought about since I saw you on that couch,” he muttered, his hands going to the hem of your tank top. “This.” In one swift motion, he pulled it up and over your head, tossing it aside. The cool air hit your bare skin, and your nipples tightened into aching points. His gaze devoured you, the hunger in it so raw it sent a fresh jolt of wetness between your legs.
He lowered his head again, but this time his mouth went to your left breast, giving it the same devoted attention he’d given the right. His tongue laved the peak, his teeth grazing it with just enough pressure to make you cry out and arch off the bed. His hand came up to cradle your other breast, his thumb rubbing slow, tantalizing circles over the nipple. The dual sensations were overwhelming. Pleasure, sharp and sweet, radiated from your breasts straight to your core, which clenched emptily.
His mouth moved down, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses over your ribcage, the dip of your navel. His large hands settled on your hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your panties. He hooked his fingers into the pink cotton. “Lift up,” he commanded, his voice thick.
You obeyed, raising your hips. He slid your panties down your legs and off, his eyes locked on the hairless mound he’d revealed. He let out a shuddering breath. “Perfect. Every fucking part of you.”
He leaned down, but instead of going where you desperately wanted him, he nuzzled the inside of your thigh, his stubble scratching deliciously against your tender skin. He placed a soft kiss high up, near the junction of your leg. Then another, closer. Your legs fell open of their own accord, a silent, wanton invitation.
He accepted. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs even wider apart. The first, slow, flat stroke of his tongue up your center made you jolt and gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Mingyu oppa!”
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with his mouth. He ate you like a man starved, his tongue finding a rhythm that was both relentless and exquisitely precise. He licked broad stripes, then focused on the tight, throbbing bud of your clit, circling it, sucking it gently into his mouth. One of his hands slid under your ass, tilting you up to give him better access, while the other hand ventured lower, a single, blunt finger pressing against your entrance, testing your wetness.
You were drenched. He growled against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your entire body. He pushed that finger inside you, slowly, deeply, as his tongue continued its devilish work on your clit. The feeling of being filled, however slightly, while his mouth was on you was too much. Your hips began to move of their own accord, rocking against his face, chasing the sensation.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips wet and glistening. “Fuck my mouth. Just like that.” The dirty words, spoken in his deep, cultured voice, pushed you closer to the edge.
The coil of tension in your lower belly tightened, tightened, until it was a white-hot wire about to snap. Your breaths came in ragged pants. A high, thin whine escaped your throat. He added a second finger, curling them inside you, stroking a spot that made you see stars.
“I’m… I’m going to…” you choked out.
“Come,” he ordered, his mouth sealing over your clit again, sucking hard.
The orgasm ripped through you with violent, unexpected force. Your back bowed off the bed, a silent scream on your lips as waves of pure, molten pleasure crashed over you, radiating from your core out to your fingertips and toes. He didn’t stop, gentling his tongue but not ceasing, drawing the sensations out until you were sobbing with the overstimulation, pushing weakly at his head.
He finally relented, sliding his fingers from you and moving up your body. He kissed a path up your stomach, between your breasts, to your mouth. You could taste yourself on his lips, salty and musky, and the intimacy of it made your spent body shudder.
He was still fully clothed, a massive, hard wall of muscle and denim pressed against your naked, trembling form. The prominent, rigid length of his erection pressed insistently against your thigh through his jeans. His eyes searched yours in the near-darkness, his own breathing harsh.
“You feel that?” he rasped, grinding his hips against you once, making the denim drag roughly against your sensitive skin. “That’s what you do to me. That’s from just looking at you, from tasting you.” He kissed you again, deeply. “I want to be inside you. Now. But you have to say it.”
He groaned into your kiss, a low, resonant sound of pure lust. Your permission was the key that unlocked a cage he’d kept tightly shut for years. He pulled back, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light.
“You have to see what you’ve done to me,” he said, his voice rough. He stood up beside the bed, his movements deliberate and powerful.
You watched, your heart pounding anew, as he began to strip. The gray hoodie was already gone. Now, he pulled his t-shirt over his head with a single, swift motion. Your breath caught. You’d seen glimpses of his physique—the broad shoulders through his clothes, the strength in his arms as he carried you—but this was the first time you saw him bare. His chest was sculpted, defined muscles shifting under smooth skin, a light dusting of hair trailing down his abdomen. He was beautiful in a way that was almost intimidating.
He didn’t pause. His hands went to his belt, the buckle clicking open with a sharp, final sound. He unzipped his jeans, pushed them down his legs, and kicked them aside. He stood there in only his black boxer briefs, the fabric straining against the massive, hard outline of his erection. Then, hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he peeled those off too.
Your eyes widened. You’d never seen a naked man before. The sight of him, fully exposed, was a revelation that sent a dizzying mix of awe and nervous heat straight through you.
He was… huge. His cock stood erect, thick and long, curving slightly upward from a nest of dark, trimmed hair. It was flushed a deep, angry red, the head swollen and gleaming. The sheer size of it made your own insides flutter with a sudden, acute awareness of your smallness. Your untouched, tight body.
He came back to the bed, hovering over you, his naked body a landscape of muscle and intent. He kissed you again, deeper than before. His tongue explored your mouth with a hungry thoroughness, tasting you, claiming you. His body pressed against yours, the heat of his skin searing into you. You felt the hard length of him grind against your thigh, then slide upward, the slick, hot tip finding the damp, sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs.
You gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and your hips arched instinctively. The pressure, the friction, even through the thin barrier of your own arousal, was incredible. He moved against you, a slow, deliberate rock that rubbed his cock against your clit. Pleasure, sharp and electric, shot through you. You moaned, a soft, helpless sound, and writhed beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders.
He broke the kiss, his lips moving to your ear. His breath was hot, his voice a husky, sinful whisper. “You are making me sin, baby girl,” he murmured, the words a confession and a praise. “Turning me into something I never wanted to be.”
His hand slid down your body, over your trembling stomach, to the wet heat between your thighs. His fingers found you, slick and open for him. He didn’t push inside. Instead, his thumb settled on your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. The pressure was perfect, firm and knowing. You gasped again, louder, your back arching off the bed, your head pressing back into the pillows.
“So responsive,” he whispered, watching your face with rapt fascination. “So perfect.”
He continued the circles, building the pleasure until you were panting, your thighs shaking. Then, he withdrew his hand and knelt up between your legs, pulling them wider apart so he could look. The dim light from the sunset fell directly on you now, illuminating every detail.
His expression shifted from hunger to genuine surprise. His gaze was fixed on the smooth, hairless mound of your pussy. It was pink and glistening, completely bare.
“You waxed?” he asked, his voice thick with curiosity.
You shook your head, your cheeks flushing. “No,” you whispered. “I… I never grew hair there. My doctor said it’s a… hormonal thing.”
His mouth fell open in a silent, shocked “oh.” The realization—that this wasn’t a deliberate act of grooming, but a natural, innocent state—seemed to hit him with a new wave of intensity. His eyes darkened. “You’re completely untouched,” he breathed, the words filled with a possessive awe that made your stomach tighten.
He didn’t wait. He lowered himself again, but this time his mouth went not to your breasts, but lower. He kissed the inside of your thigh once more, then moved inward, his lips finally meeting your soaked, tender flesh. He didn’t just taste you; he worshipped you. His tongue explored your folds, lapping up your arousal, before focusing on your clit with the same devastating precision as before. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, holding him there.
As his mouth worked, one of his hands came up. His fingers, slick from your wetness, stroked your entrance. He pressed one, then attempted two, sliding them forward.
A sharp, unfamiliar pang of discomfort made you writhe. It wasn’t pain, but a stretching, full sensation that was too much, too new. You tensed, your hips shifting away instinctively. “Wait,” you gasped, pulling his head up gently by his hair.
He looked up, his lips wet and shining. “No one’s… seen you here?” he asked, his thumb still circling your clit, maintaining the sweet, torturous pressure. “Or touched you?”
You nodded, your face hot. “No. Never.”
A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. It was a smile of pure, male triumph. “Mine,” he whispered, the word a vow. His thumb continued its circles, the pleasure building even as the ache from his attempted penetration faded.
He knelt up again, positioning himself between your widely spread legs. He took his own cock in his hand, stroking it slowly, his eyes locked on yours. Then he leaned forward, resting the heavy, hot length of it above your slit. The weight of him, the heat, was a profound presence.
Now, you could see it clearly. How long it was. How thick. How the red, swollen head glistened with his own arousal and your wetness. It was a reality that dwarfed any fantasy.
“It won’t fit,” you whispered, the fear real but mixed with a desperate, aching want.
He shook his head, his expression serious. “I won’t force you,” he promised, his voice firm. “Never.”
Instead, he began to move. He tapped his length against your slit, a gentle, teasing tap-tap that sent shivers through you. Then he rubbed the broad, smooth head of his cock along your wet folds, sliding it up and down, coating himself in you. The sensation was bizarrely intimate, a promise of what could be.
“Look at you,” he groaned, his eyes drinking in the sight of his cock gliding over your bare, pink flesh. “Just the sight of you… I could cum right now.”
The admission, the raw need in it, sparked something inside you. A courage born of reciprocal desire. You wanted to give him something, to match the pleasure he’d given you.
You pushed at his shoulders, gently. “Lie down,” you whispered.
He looked surprised, but a flicker of intrigue passed through his eyes. He complied, rolling onto his back beside you, his huge cock lying hard and ready against his stomach.
You moved, sitting up, then swinging a leg over to straddle his thighs. You looked down at him, at the formidable thing in your hands. You took it, both of your small hands wrapping around its base. It was hot, almost feverishly so, and so hard it felt like steel wrapped in silk. The skin was smooth, velvety. You leaned down, your hair brushing his stomach.
You opened your mouth and took the head into it.
He hissed, a sharp intake of breath. “Fuck.”
It was too big. Your mouth was small, tight. You couldn’t fit more than the first inch or two without feeling your jaw strain. You struggled, a slight gag reflex tightening your throat, but you pushed past it. You wanted this. You sucked, using your tongue to lap at the slit on the tip, tasting the salty, musky pre-cum that beaded there.
He moaned, a deep, ragged sound. His hands came up to cradle your head, not forcing, but guiding. “Easy, baby. Just… just like that.”
You worked him, sucking as much as you could take, using your hands to stroke the length you couldn’t accommodate. The tightness of your mouth around him, the sheer novelty of it, seemed to drive him wild. His hips lifted slightly off the bed, a subtle thrust into your mouth.
“You’re so good,” he choked out. “So fucking tight.”
You continued, losing yourself in the rhythm, in the feeling of power it gave you to see this strong, controlled man unraveling beneath your touch. His breath became ragged pants. His fingers tightened in your hair.
“I’m gonna cum,” he warned, his voice strained. “You need to… you might want to stop.”
You didn’t understand. You’d heard the word, seen it in contexts, but the reality was abstract. You didn’t stop. You sucked harder, your tongue swirling.
He cursed, a raw, guttural word. His body tensed, every muscle locking. And then he spilled.
The first hot, sudden surge into your mouth shocked you. It was warm, thick, a salty-sweet flavor that flooded your senses. You gasped, but you didn’t pull away. Instinct, or maybe devotion, kept you there. You swallowed, the act automatic, taking him deeper as he pulsed again, and again, his release filling your mouth. You kept sucking, milking him through it until his hands came up, gently pulling your head back.
“Stop, baby,” he breathed, his voice wrecked. “That’s… that’s enough.”
You pulled off, your lips wet and glistening. You looked up at him, your eyes wide. He was panting, his chest heaving, his eyes closed for a moment in blissful exhaustion.
Then he reached for you, his arms strong even in his spent state. He pulled you up, maneuvering you until you were lying on top of him, your head nestled on his chest. Your naked body was pressed against his, skin to skin, a comforting warmth. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.
You were both tired, breathless, a shared fatigue from the emotional and physical storm. The room was quiet now, the last of the sunset light gone, replaced by the deep blue of early evening. His heartbeat thudded steadily against your ear.
He shifted, his lips finding your forehead. He kissed it softly, a tender gesture that felt more intimate than anything before. Then he whispered, his voice low and serious, “Keep this a secret between us, babygirl, okay?”
You looked up, meeting his eyes in the near-darkness. You nodded, a silent promise. Then you smiled, a small, private curl of your lips.
He smiled back, a trace of that earlier triumph still there. He kissed your forehead again. “My perfect little secret.”
🍷 pairing: bf!Mingyu x reader
🍷 content: angst 😞
🍷 word count: ~1k
🍷 summary: when did mingyu fall out of love with you?
🍷 now playing: out of love by alessia cara
🍷 A/N: OUCH!! my goodness!! I apologize in advance LOL!
🍷 part of the breakup song collection
There's not a thing I could say
Not a song I could sing
For your mind to change
You can see it in Mingyu’s eyes. It’s as plain as day.
Your boyfriend of five years is not in love with you anymore.
The question is always on the tip of your tongue. After you fight, after he slams the door behind him, after he gives you the silent treatment for days on end. When you see Instagram stories of him at parties and gatherings without you.
When did you fall out of love with me?
Was it something you did? Was it something you said? Was it gradual or did it hit him so suddenly over coffee?
When he won’t look at you, when he won’t hug you, when he won’t kiss you, when he leans away from your touch- you just want to blurt out the question.
When did you fall out of love with me?
Your cousin’s wedding is so beautiful. There are pink and white flowers hanging from every inch of the ceiling. Your family is overwhelmed with happy tears, thanking god and the universe and heaven that she was blessed with a good man. A man who has been with her through grief and joy. A man who has promised to take care of her until death.
At the reception, various family members approach you and Mingyu asking when you’re going to be next. He laughs it off with his handsome smile and charming personality, distracting them from the fact that he hasn’t given them an answer. Only you notice.
This man you’ve given six years of your life to will not marry you. And he can’t even say it. He’d rather fraud the people you love, playing the part of a loving boyfriend when he hasn’t slept next to you for the past two weeks. He’d rather fraud you, beating around the bush, starting fights instead of just telling you the ugly truth.
You turn your head to look at him. He’s watching the couple’s first dance, sipping his champagne with a fond smile. Handsome with long black hair in a sharp blue tuxedo. You feel your heart truly break for the first time. How did it become like this? How? In an instant, he transforms into the twenty-two-year-old you first met at a frat party in your last year of college. A friend of a friend with a face more beautiful than a thousand suns. He was the life of the party, a people magnet, a charmer, and yet he only had eyes for you the second he laid eyes on you. He spent the next three months chasing you down, wooing you with flowers and food, until you agreed to go on one date with him.
Funny how the chaser becomes the one who runs away.
“Want to dance?” Mingyu leans back to ask you. “Oh, uh yeah,” you reply with a small smile. He holds his hand out, an invitation, a promise of a slow dance awaiting. You join the other couples wrapped up in each other, whispers, stolen glances, smiles- signs of true love on display for everyone else to see. Mingyu wraps his arms around your waist, drawing you close, yet you feel the distance between you more than before.
You watch your hands lay flat against his chest before you finally meet his eyes. All you want to do is cry.
You know when your time has run out. There’s nothing in his eyes. You’re looking into them, begging for a hint of the love he once gave you all those years ago. When he held you in his arms, promising to never hurt you. When he told you he would love you until the end of time. When he declared he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.
Standing in front of you is a total stranger. When, when, when? When did you fall out of love with me? Was it something I did? Was it something I said? Why, why why?
The song ends. A more upbeat song starts to play, and Mingyu lets go of you. “Gonna grab another drink, do you want something?” You shake your head, standing alone on the dancefloor watching him go.
It’s suffocating being in here. You silently slink out the exit, walking to your car before remembering you left your clutch with your keys inside. There’s a small concrete bench at the end of the parking lot. The trees sway in the light wind as you take a seat. You feel like you’re watching a horror movie of your life. How can you look your mother in the eyes and tell her you’re feeling pain that even she can’t fix? How can you admit to your younger sisters that you’re afraid? How can you tell your father that his first daughter, the pillar of strength, is crumbling, drowning, falling?
How can you tell yourself that the man you prayed would never hurt you is now breaking your heart?
There are no words to express the pure devastation you feel in the bottom of your heart.
Lost in thought, you don’t hear someone approach you, plopping down next to you. For a second, you think it’s one of your sisters, but then you see the blue trousers.
It’s Mingyu.
Neither of you says anything. He wordlessly hands you a coke with vodka. Your go-to drink since your college days. A tear slips and falls into the cup.
If Mingyu won’t end this, then it’s time you should.
The question is on the tip of your tongue. But you can’t bring yourself to ask it. Because then it will be real. Realistically, you know that you don’t want an answer.
“I think we should break up.”
Mingyu doesn’t respond.
The two of you look into the dark sky, knowing that it will be the last thing you do together. Unasked questions will forever remain unanswered.
I'm back for my second guess on the easter egg of chapter 4:
It's the numbers--
Before the shift starts we have them count up
"She has her phone in one hand..."
"with the same two fingers she used in Garcia"
"her top three most erotic experiences"
"after four rounds of chemo"
"looked like my five-year-old brother wrote it"
Then during the shift we have the count down:
(easiest example is the section in 1:00 AM, but it happens multiple times throughout! VERY cool)
🎉🎉🎉
Yes, it’s the numbers!! 🌺🪻🌻🪷🥀🌼🌷🌸🌹💐
It actually starts at "zero" when Santos is miserable while talking to her mother, going 0-1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1, and then from there it repeats 5-4-3-2-1 / 5-4-3-2-1 / 5-4-3-2-1 over and over until hitting "zero" again when Noah dies. It stops for a while after that, only ticking back up when Garcia comes to the roof, finally ending at "five" as the two of them share a teasing, happy moment
There's some symbolism there, and it's also meant to subconsciously key you into how Santos' anxiety feels while establishing one of her primary coping mechanisms—counting
And fuck it was a challenge, going through the chapter so many times to plant them where I wanted, blend them in as naturally as possible, keep them in order, and ensure I didn't include any extras ("one" and "two" specifically were very hard to avoid)
So, since you figured it out, I'll list fifteen options for KMG Garsantos within the categories of fluff, smut, and angst, and you can pick one to become a future fic of roughly 5k words. Note—I won't start writing this until after the epilogue's done since I want to respect that as a priority, but I can post a shorter sneak peek in the meantime
Fluff: (1) A holiday with Garcia or Finn's fam; (2) Proposal; (3) Santos' birthday + a cute gift; (4) Travel to a new country; (5) Fall activities with the sub-options of: (5a) A corn maze & haunted house, (5b) Apple orchard & pumpkin carving, or (5c) Halloween
Smut: (6) Sex tape; (7) High sex; (8) Remote control vibrator; (9) Phone sex; (10) Any sex they've already had, but switch them (ex. Santos riding Garcia's face, Garcia fucking Santos in a public place, etc.)
Angst: (11) Garcia kicks Santos out of the OR; (12) Garcia breaks her hand; (13) Santos' mother dies; (14) One of them has a major health issue; (15) Santos hides something big from Garcia causing Garcia to ask for a "break"
If you don't wanna choose, I can also decide for you, no pressure!!
