⋅˚₊‧ ୨𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐩୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅
Lee know x reader / grump x sunshine / roomates to lovers / smut (a bit fluff)
**involves!!** sex, dirty talk, tension, strong language, detailed smut part, cursing, eating out
enjoy xx (open for request)
★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★
You always joked that Minho was a cat in a man's body. Aloof, picky, fond of sunlight but only if it wasn’t too warm. He could spend an entire day curled up in bed and then complain about being restless. And of course, he'd swat at your affection like it was some offense to his dignity.
But he never actually asked you to stop.
“You’re too cheerful,” he muttered that morning, as you danced into the kitchen humming a summer pop song, barefoot and in your oversized shirt. His hair was a mess, eyes puffy from sleep.
“Good morning to you too, Grumpasaurus,” you chirped, sliding a mug of coffee toward him.
His fingers brushed yours as he took it. He didn’t look up. “What did I say about nicknames?”
“You hate them. So I use them to test your patience. You’re welcome.”
That earned you a twitch of a smirk — the closest you usually got to a real smile before noon.
You'd been living with Minho for over a year. It started as a convenience thing. Two dancers in the same company, both single, both used to erratic schedules. You weren’t best friends, but he let you in more than most — in his own quiet, snarky way.
Still, lately, the air between you had started to change.
Like last week when you came home tipsy, collapsing onto the couch in a giggly heap. You asked him to dance with you, and he’d said no — then surprised you by actually grabbing your waist and moving with you. Not teasing. Not joking. Just eyes locked with yours in the low light, chest brushing yours, and his grip firm.
He didn’t say anything after that night.
But he also didn’t avoid you.
_
It was a rainy Friday when everything finally snapped.
You were both off that night. You’d ordered takeout, queued up a rom-com, and were currently poking Minho with your toes on the couch, trying to get him to laugh.
He grumbled, shifting. “If you keep touching me, you’ll regret it.”
“Oh no,” you gasped in mock terror, scooting closer, “is the grump going to unleash his wrath?”
“Try me.”
You paused. The tone was different.
So was the look in his eyes — darker, unreadable.
And when you leaned forward to press your forehead against his, expecting a playful shove, he didn’t move.
Instead, his voice dropped. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like I don’t want you.”
The words froze you.
He licked his lips, jaw tight. “You flirt. You tease. You climb into my space and act like you don’t know what it does to me.”
“…Minho…”
He surged forward and kissed you. Hard.
It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t testing the waters. It was weeks — months — of tension breaking like a wave. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head just right, mouth moving with heat and need. You gasped, and he took the opening, tongue slipping against yours, slow and hungry.
When you finally broke for air, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”
You swallowed. “Then stop pretending.”
He pulled you into his lap, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. You could feel him — already hard, straining against his sweats. Your shirt rode up as his hands explored your thighs, slow and possessive.
“You always wear this shirt around me,” he murmured, tugging at the hem. “Do you know what that does to me?”
You rolled your hips, grinding against him. “Show me.”
That was all the permission he needed.
He lifted your shirt, baring your skin inch by inch. His eyes devoured you, pupils blown wide, hands reverent as they cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you moaned.
“Lie back,” he growled.
You slid down onto the couch, legs parted, breath quick. He kissed down your stomach, eyes locked on yours the entire time, like he was drinking you in.
Then he peeled off your panties and buried his face between your thighs.
The first lick was slow — deliberate — tasting you with the patience of a man who’d thought about this too many times to rush. Then another, firmer, tongue pressing flat against your clit. You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked and licked, building you up with maddening precision.
“You’re so wet,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak. “All that sunshine. All mine.”
You barely had time to beg before he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right as his mouth returned to your clit. You came with a shudder, thighs clenching around his head, voice breaking on his name.
He didn’t stop. Not until you were gasping, trembling.
Then he kissed you — open-mouthed, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
“Your turn,” you whispered.
But he was already undoing his pants, and your eyes widened.
“I’ve wanted you like this for so long,” he said, voice rough. “I’m not gonna last if you do that.”
“Then don’t hold back.”
He slid inside you slowly, inch by inch, both of you groaning at the stretch. He filled you completely — the kind of full that made your head spin. He held still, trembling with restraint.
You cupped his cheek. “Minho. Move.”
He did. Hard and deep.
He set a rhythm that was all-consuming — slow enough to feel every thrust, fast enough to make you dizzy. His mouth found yours between gasps, hips snapping, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the quiet room.
When you clenched around him, his breath caught.
“You close again?”
You nodded, barely coherent.
He reached down, thumb circling your clit just as he thrust deep one last time. You shattered beneath him, and he followed with a hoarse cry, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.
You lay tangled together, the room filled with the soft patter of rain.
Minho brushed your hair from your face. His usual scowl was softened — unreadable in a new way.
“You’re still a grump,” you whispered.
He kissed your forehead. “Only for everyone else.”
