mingisprincxss

[mingisprincxss]

war room

[ S. Mingi ]

╚═════════

summary: you and mingi have been at each other’s throats at work for over a year until you finally snap

warnings: dom mingi, sub reader, public sex, tongue fucking, fingering, mouth fucking, masturbation, spanking, squirting, slight overstimulation, unprotected sex, creampie

genre: enemies to lovers, smut

pairing: mingi x afab reader

word count: 9.9k

note: this was anonymous request as mingi x coworker but I might gotten a little carried away 😭

masterlist

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You were late. Not “oops I missed the early train” late. You were “sprinting through the glass lobby, iced coffee in hand, praying your boss hadn’t noticed your empty desk yet” late. And of course, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, that’s exactly when he turned the corner.

Song Mingi. Towering. Short bleached blonde hair. Arrogant. Wearing that smug smirk and a fitted white button down rolled at the sleeves like he was doing everyone a favor just by existing. You’d know that smug smirk anywhere. You saw it every time he interrupted you in meetings or sent a passive aggressive “per my last email” at 11:59 PM.

And now that smirk was directly in your line of fire.

Literally.

You rounded the corner too fast and collided with a solid wall of Mingi, the impact jarring enough to send your iced coffee exploding out of its plastic cup like a crime scene in slow motion. The coffee soaked the front of your blouse, your skirt, your dignity and, to your absolute horror, his pristine white shirt.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, staring in disbelief at the dripping mess down your chest, already forming into sticky brown blotches.

Mingi looked down at himself, his lips pursed in exaggerated disapproval. “Well, that’s one way to start a Monday,” he said dryly, pulling the damp fabric away from his skin.

You scowled, already digging for napkins from your bag. “Maybe if you didn’t walk around corners like you own the damn building!”

“Maybe if you watched where you were going,” he cut in smoothly, brows raised over those annoyingly stylish glasses. “But then again, chaos is kind of your brand.”

You shot him a glare, dabbing at your shirt. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like, I don’t know, not here?”

Mingi only grinned, eyes dropping, lingering, for half a second too long at the way your wet blouse clung to your chest before flicking back up with a maddening twinkle in his eye. “Oh, I do,” he said, voice low. “But this was worth the detour.”

You opened your mouth to snap back, something about HR and sexual harassment training, but your voice caught in your throat because why was he still standing so close? And why, beneath all your irritation, was your pulse racing just from the heat radiating off his body?

“Nice of you to mark your territory, by the way,” he added, tugging his tie loose and slinging it around his neck like he had all the time in the world. “Next time, just ask for my number.”

You gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a waterless goldfish. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, already backing away, “you can’t stop thinking about me.”

You watched him retreat down the hall, blonde hair tousled, damp shirt clinging to his broad back, and you hated, hated, how right he might be.

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You had just finished blotting the last of the coffee from your now semi transparent blouse, thankfully hidden under a spare blazer you kept at your cubicle for “fashion emergencies” (which today totally qualified) when your phone buzzed.

Boss Lady: My office. Now. Bring Mingi.

You stared at the message. Then again. Then audibly groaned. There was only one person on this floor who could ruin your day in a single sentence besides Mingi, and apparently, today was a buy one get one kind of deal.

You found him, naturally, leaning against the edge of the copier like it was a runway, sleeves rolled, top button undone. The smug bastard even had his glasses pushed slightly down his nose as he flipped through a report like he was posing for a Forbes cover shoot.

“Boss wants us,” you announced flatly.

He looked up, a slow smile curling across his lips. “What, already tired of pretending you don’t like me?”

You deadpanned, “I will staple your tie to your desk.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t like it,” he replied, tossing the file down with a wink.

You gritted your teeth, spun on your heel, and marched ahead, fully aware of his long strides catching up just to match your pace, like a tall, smug shadow.

The office was glass walled and way too exposed for comfort. Your boss, Ms. Hwang, was perched behind her sleek desk, hair immaculately pinned, her manicured fingers typing at the speed of judgment.

“You’re late,” she said, not even looking up. Mingi opened his mouth. You jabbed him in the ribs with your elbow before he could make it worse. “Sorry,” you said instead, ignoring his offended glare. “There was… a coffee incident.”

“I see that,” she said dryly, eyes finally flicking up to your still damp blouse. “You two just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way.”

“We really try,” Mingi offered, smiling like he’d just been asked to model for a dating app ad called OfficeFlirt. Your boss sighed and clasped her hands. “Perfect, then. You’ll love this.”

You blinked. “Wait. Love what?”

She leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Corporate just greenlit the launch of the DaVinci Project’s pilot phase. We’re short staffed, and I need my best and brightest working on it. Which unfortunately,” she said, sliding two identical folders across her desk, “means the two of you.”

Silence.

You reached for the folder with a numb hand, cracking it open like it might bite.

“You want us to work together,” you said slowly, trying to process. “On a top level client rollout.”

She nodded. “You’ll be representing the creative and marketing arms together. This is a high stakes project. Big exposure. Don’t screw it up. Mingi’s brows raised just enough to suggest this was the kind of challenge he lived for.

You, on the other hand, felt your soul leave your body. “But…”

“No buts,” she cut in sharply. “You two are oil and fire. But I’ve seen what you’re capable of when you’re competing. Now I want to see what you can do when you’re forced to cooperate.”

You shot a look at Mingi, who smiled back like the devil in designer frames. “Oh, I’m all in,” he said smoothly, grabbing his folder. “I’ve always wanted to know what real teamwork with her would feel like.” His smirk was way too smug.

“I hope HR’s on standby,” you muttered, flipping the folder closed.

“Good,” Ms. Hwang said, already turning back to her screen. “You start tomorrow. Briefing at 8 a.m. Sharp.”

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Outside her office, Mingi leaned close, voice low and maddeningly amused. “You gonna wear another see through blouse for our first team meeting or should I bring you a splash proof lid this time?”

You turned to him slowly, sweet smile on your lips, voice sugar and steel.

“I hope you choke on a spreadsheet.”

He laughed, genuinely laughed, as you walked away, already plotting how to survive the next however many days without tossing your computer or yourself, out a window.

But beneath all the simmering rage and scathing remarks, one thing was dangerously clear, You were going to kill each other.

Or you were going to fuck.

Maybe both.

Probably both.

Definitely both.

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You knew it was going to be a long day the moment you stepped into the elevator.

Not just any kind of long. A wearing heels and a smile while mentally screaming kind of long. The elevator hummed softly as it rose toward the tenth floor, the mirrored interior catching the reflection of your deliberately curated outfit, a curve hugging beige pencil skirt, sheer black tights, a fitted black top tucked in with lethal precision, and heels so sharp they could double as weapons.

Your hair was perfectly styled, makeup flawless, your expression unreadable. You looked like confidence personified. You felt like committing arson. Because today? Today was day one of your partnership with Mingi.

You exhaled through your nose as the elevator doors slid open. It was too early for his voice. Too early for his cologne. Too early for his entire tall, annoying existence.

And yet.

“There she is,” came the voice from your shared project room before you’d even made it to the coffee station. “Looking like she’s about to seduce and fire someone at the same time.”

You paused in the doorway.

And there he was, Mingi, already seated at the long glass conference table, one arm draped casually over the back of the chair, glasses perched on his nose, hair effortlessly tousled and infuriatingly golden in the morning light. His crisp white shirt was half unbuttoned at the top, tie undone and hanging loose around his neck like a fashion statement, not an HR violation.

You ignored the way your stomach fluttered. Mostly. “Did you get here early just to annoy me, or is it a gift?” you said dryly, walking to your seat on the opposite end of the table.

He grinned, eyes raking over you in a slow, unhurried scan that made heat crawl up the back of your neck. “Why choose?”

You rolled your eyes and dropped your bag onto your chair before walking to the coffee bar.

You could feel his gaze trailing after you, and you hated, hated, how smug it made you feel.

“New skirt?” he asked, already halfway through his coffee. “Or just new attitude?”

“New boundaries,” you said sweetly. “Want me to draw them for you? Or would that require more than a single brain cell?”

He chuckled, the low sound irritatingly attractive. “Careful, princess. That skirt’s got claws.”

You froze mid pour, glaring at your reflection in the silver coffee carafe. “If you call me princess again, I will staple your tongue to your desk.”

Behind you, he let out a soft hum. “Kinky.”

You took a very long sip of your coffee before returning to the table, where your shared project folders had already been laid out. You sat. He mirrored you, because of course he did, spinning his pen between long fingers like he was bored already.

“Let’s just get through this,” you muttered, flipping open the folder. “No snide comments. No flirting. No games.”

Mingi leaned forward slightly, his voice low and dark with amusement. “Who said I was playing?”

You looked up sharply, and just like that, the tension thickened, heavy enough to spark.

And the day hadn’t even started.

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The project war room, an overly air conditioned, glass walled conference room, much your boss’ office, lined with whiteboards and ego, had never seen this much tension.

You sat across from Mingi, laptop open, fingers flying over the keyboard as you updated slides for the client pitch deck, each click more aggressive than the last. Your heels were kicked off under the table, blazer folded over the back of your chair, hair starting to frizz slightly from the stress of trying to make any of his ideas fit the actual strategy.

He was sitting just far enough away to be annoying but close enough to make your skin itch, legs spread like he owned the floor, one elbow hooked over the back of his chair, the other hand resting on the edge of your shared table. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, and every now and then, he’d push them up without looking away from you.

“So,” he said casually, “what if instead of a voiceover, we pitch a spokesperson? Someone hot. Confident. A little smug.”

You didn’t even look up. “Like you?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it out loud, but yeah.”

You slowly lifted your head, fixing him with a stare that could stop a moving vehicle. “We are not using you as the face of a campaign unless the campaign is, How To Be the Human Equivalent of a Traffic Violation.”

“Ouch,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “That one actually stung. Should I add that to your list of compliments?”

You ignored the heat rising in your cheeks. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“Because I have no choice.”

“You could’ve called in sick,” he mused, tipping his chair back just enough to be cocky. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in that skirt.”

You froze, fingers stilling on the keyboard.

Mingi leaned forward, the shift making your breath catch before you could stop it. His voice dropped, just a touch lower, enough to hum in your chest.

“Not that you don’t look good every day, but…” He tilted his head, eyes flicking down, slow and deliberate. “Today? You’re kind of killing me.”

You blinked. Then narrowed your eyes. “What’s your angle?”

His lips twitched. “What if I’m just telling the truth?”

“No. You’re trying to mess with me,” you said flatly, spinning your laptop toward him a little too hard. “Focus. We have to have this presentation ready by Thursday and your entire section reads like it was written by a man who thinks synergy is a love language.”

He leaned in again, this time closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, subtle and expensive. “I am trying to mess with you,” he murmured, voice warm now, teasing. “Just not the way you think.”

You frowned, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached past you, his hand brushing yours, and adjusted a slide on the screen like nothing had happened. But his smirk said otherwise.

You sat there, momentarily stunned. Flustered. Angry at yourself for being flustered.

And somewhere across from you, Mingi was quietly losing his entire mind, because your lips were pressed together in a tight little line, your eyes shooting daggers, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to lean in, palm your jaw, and see if you’d still glare at him when your breath hitched beneath his touch.

He’d been pretending for a year. Teasing, bickering, snarking like it was a sport. But now?

Now he was done playing.

And you had no idea.

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The office break room was unusually quiet for once, no microwaves humming, no interns whispering over mismatched mugs. Just you, your much needed second, okay, third, cup of coffee, and five minutes of peace before you had to dive back into the war room with him.

You leaned against the counter, mug in hand, scrolling through your phone while the rich scent of hazelnut filled the air, the faint hum of the vending machine behind you the only background noise.

“Didn’t think anyone could make business casual look that good.”

You blinked, looking up to find Eric from IT, tall, charming in a corporate puppy dog kind of way, smiling as he grabbed a mug from the cabinet.

You arched a brow. “Didn’t think anyone still used that line in 2025.”

Eric chuckled, pouring his own cup. “Guilty. But I mean it. You’ve been looking… sharp lately.”

You hummed, noncommittal but polite. “Deadlines will do that to you.”

“Still,” he said, stepping a little closer, “you and Mingi on that project? Bet it’s been a fun week.”

You sipped your coffee. “If your definition of fun includes daily homicide fantasies, sure.”

Eric laughed again, easing into your space just enough to suggest interest. “Well, if you ever need to blow off steam, grab a drink after work, maybe…. I’m around.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Smooth.”

“I try.”

What neither of you noticed, at least, not yet, was the very tall, very not amused presence leaning against the wall just outside the doorway, half shadowed by the frame. Mingi had been on his way in, a new pen clenched between his teeth, that usual lazy swing to his step until he saw you.

And him.

His jaw tightened, pen forgotten, gaze locked on the way Eric leaned in. How close he was standing. How you were smiling.

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You jumped slightly when a deep voice broke the moment like glass.

“Aren’t you two a little old for flirting over a Keurig?”

Both you and Eric turned.

Mingi stepped fully into the room, straightening his glasses with the most unnecessarily smug look on his face.

Eric cleared his throat, stiffening. “Just talking.”

Mingi smiled, tight, sharp. “Sure. Talking.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Mingi replied, walking right up and grabbing the coffee pot you’d just used, reaching around you like he wasn’t halfway invading your space. “Actually,” he added, his voice low and pointed, “I prefer fresh coffee. The burnt kind always leaves a bad taste.”

Your jaw clenched. Eric blinked awkwardly, then coughed. “Uh…. right. I’ll catch you later.”

You didn’t respond. Too busy trying not to throw your scalding mug at Mingi’s face.

When Eric finally left, the room suddenly felt much smaller as You glared up at Mingi. “What the hell was that?”

Mingi shrugged, calm and collected as he poured himself a cup. “Didn’t like the vibe.”

You crossed your arms. “You didn’t like the vibe or you didn’t like him?”

He met your gaze, a flicker of something dark behind his eyes. “Is there a difference?”

You scoffed. “Unbelievable.”

“Look,” he said, setting the pot down and facing you fully now, voice quieter. “If some guy’s gonna try to shoot his shot with you, he can at least wait until I’m done with mine.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Mingi leaned in, close enough you could smell the coffee on his breath, feel the heat rolling off his body, close enough to kiss if either of you moved an inch.

“It means,” he murmured, voice like sin, “I’m not playing anymore.”

And then, just like that, he stepped back, grabbed a stir stick, popped it into his mug, and walked out like he hadn’t just thrown a live grenade between your ribs.

You stood there frozen, heart pounding, coffee forgotten in your hand. And it finally hit you.

He wasn’t just messing with you anymore. He was flirting.

For real.

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The second your heels hit the polished floor of the office lobby the next morning, heads turned.

And you knew it.

You didn’t wear the thigh highs and blazer combo for attention. Not really. You wore it because you felt like it. You wore it because you were a grown woman with good taste and zero patience for corporate dress code politics.

You did not wear it because of Mingi.

Absolutely not.

Not because his voice had echoed in your head all night, low and rough and saying things like, I’m not playing anymore.

Not because you had very specifically remembered the way his gaze had dipped when he looked at you in that pencil skirt.

And definitely not because you had, embarrassingly, replayed that break room scene more than once in the privacy of your own bedroom.

Nope. You were fine. Cool. Chill.

Until you walked past the war room. And his head snapped up like he sensed you.

Mingi was seated at the table, leaned back like usual, one arm slung over the chair, glasses perched low, dress shirt sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose. His hair was still a little damp, like he’d run late and barely made it in.

But when he saw you, time hiccupped. He blinked once. Twice. And then, that smirk.

You kept walking, heels sharp against the tile, ignoring the way his eyes tracked your legs. Your skirt. The perfect, infuriating length of skin exposed between the hem and the tops of your stockings.

You didn’t see him adjust in his chair, but you felt it as you slid into your desk like nothing had happened, flipped open your laptop, and opened the presentation file as if your brain wasn’t currently being fried by the memory of his stare.

But it was only 8:06 AM and you were already failing miserably at ignoring him.

Because a minute later, he strolled over to your side of the office, coffee in hand, no folder, no excuse, no shame, and leaned against the edge of your desk like he lived there.

“Morning,” he said, eyes full of mischief and something darker, voice scratchy in that just woke up and didn’t fully recover from his dreams kind of way.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. “Morning,” you said flatly, typing one word into the doc before deleting it five times.

He didn’t move. “You dress like that for me?” he asked, sipping his coffee, casual as hell.

You finally looked at him. “You dress like that for HR complaints?”

Mingi grinned, teeth flashing. “Touché.” He stepped back, but only so he could lean in closer on your other side, now behind you. You stiffened when his hand lightly brushed the edge of your chair.

“Just one question,” he murmured. “Is that skirt as short as it looks, or are my eyes just blessed?”

You twisted in your seat and looked up at him, fully intending to cuss him out, but the words got stuck somewhere behind your tongue and that stupid warmth blooming across your chest.

“Go back to your desk,” you said, voice a little breathier than intended as Mingi held your gaze for one beat too long. Two. Then stepped back with a soft chuckle, turning on his heel and sauntering away.

And you? You stared at your screen, trying not to have a full-on internal crisis over the fact that, Your thighs were definitely still tingling. You could smell him on the air he left behind. And okay fine maybe just maybe he wasn’t as annoying as you’d convinced yourself.

Which was a problem. A big one. Because if Mingi kept flirting like that, and you kept reacting like this, you were either going to fall for him… or fuck him.

Certainly both

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You’d just finished sending one slide over to Mingi with a half decent caption when the ping hit your inbox.

Boss Lady: [ My office. Now. Both of you. ]

You stared at the email.

“Please tell me this isn’t about the pitch deck,” you muttered, already knowing it absolutely was.

From across the room, Mingi looked up from his phone, clearly getting the same message. He met your eyes with a dramatic sigh, tossed his pen onto the table, and mouthed, you’re in trouble, like the world’s most obnoxious teen boy in homeroom.

You flipped him off. Professionally.

The walk to her office felt like a funeral march.

Ms. Hwang didn’t even look up when you stepped inside. She just motioned to the chairs in front of her desk like a queen beckoning peasants. You sat. Mingi followed, arms crossed, long legs sprawled like he paid rent on that chair.

“I’m going to ask this once,” Ms. Hwang said, voice tight, eyes sharp behind her rimless glasses. “Where. Is. The. Deck?”

You opened your mouth, but Mingi beat you to it.

“We’re just finalizing a few last minute tweaks…”

She held up a hand. “I don’t want a song and dance. I want results.”

You tried to salvage it. “It’s nearly done, we just…”

“Nearly done?” Her brow arched. “This was due yesterday.”

Mingi leaned forward. “It’s a complex rollout…”

“And it’s a basic deadline,” she snapped. “What the hell is going on between you two?”

You froze.

Mingi blinked.

Ms. Hwang folded her arms and gave the both of you that look, the one that made grown adults reconsider their careers. “I don’t care if you’re sleeping together, hate each other, or planning to elope in Vegas. What I care about is that this project, my project, gets delivered. Tomorrow morning. Finished. Clean. Ready to present to the board.”

Your mouth went dry.

Mingi cleared his throat. “We’ll get it done.”

“Oh, I know you will,” she said, pulling out a red folder and slapping it on the desk. “Because you’re both staying late tonight. I’ve booked the conference room. You’ll have zero distractions and full access to the shared drive, but you don’t leave until it’s done. Is that clear?”

You nodded, jaw tight. “Crystal.”

She looked at Mingi.

He gave her his most charming, don’t blame me grin. “Loud and clear, boss.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I swear, if I have to hear about another delay…”

“You won’t,” you both said in unison.

“Good.” She already turned back to her computer. “Now go. Finish it. And for god’s sake, try not to kill each other.”

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Back in the hallway, Mingi exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “So. Working late with you. Alone. In a glass room.”

You shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I haven’t even warmed up,” he said, grinning as he fell into step beside you.

You groaned. “I swear to god, Mingi, if we don’t finish this deck tonight…”

His smirk widened. “Then we’ll just have to pull an all nighter.”

Your step faltered.

And he noticed.

But he didn’t say anything, just opened the door to the now dimly lit conference room and motioned for you to walk in first like a gentleman… or a predator pretending to be one.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And the silence that settled between you?

Was dangerous.

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It was 10:41 PM.

Everyone was gone.

The lights in the hallway had switched to night mode, dim and motion triggered, casting long shadows outside the glass walls of the conference room. The only sounds were the soft clacks of your laptop keys, the hum of the overhead fluorescents, and the distant roll of the janitor’s cart somewhere on the floor below.

And then, of course, there was Mingi.

Seated across from you, legs wide, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses perched at the edge of his nose as he tapped away at his own laptop like the tension between you didn’t exist.

Like he hadn’t been toeing the line all week.

Like you hadn’t been clenching your thighs under the desk every time he leaned back in that chair and ran a hand through his hair like he was bored when you were practically burning.

“We should lead with the user adoption data,” you said, not even looking up.

“We could,” Mingi replied slowly, stretching with a yawn, “or we could just keep playing it safe and boring and exactly what the execs expect.”

You sighed. “This isn’t about being boring, it’s about being strategic…”

“No, it’s about you always needing to be right.”

You froze.

“Excuse me?”

Mingi leaned back again, arms crossed now. “Every time I suggest something even a little outside the box, you shoot it down like I’m incompetent.”

“That’s because your version of ‘outside the box’ is borderline reckless.”

“No, it’s because you don’t trust me,” he snapped, sitting forward now, his voice louder than it had been all night. “You never have.”

The air went tight.

You stood slowly, palms flat on the glass table. “Maybe because you’ve spent the last year treating this job like a damn joke and me like I’m just another chance to push your stupid buttons.”

“Oh, please,” he barked out a laugh. “You are a button. One big, shiny, hot as fuck panic button.”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Your hands curled into fists.

“You think this is a game?” you hissed, walking around the table now, glaring down at him. “You think you can just flirt and tease and drive me insane and I’m not going to say something eventually?”

He stood up to meet you, tall and broad and entirely too close. “You’re already saying something. Every time you look at me like you want to kill me and kiss me in the same breath, yeah, you’re saying a lot.”

You hated how fast your pulse jumped. How dark his eyes were now. How your breathing turned shallow the second his voice dropped an octave.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” you said through clenched teeth.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up.

“Liar.”

You snapped.

One hand fisted his loose tie, yanked him forward, and crashed your mouth against his.

Hard.

Messy.

Hot.

Mingi groaned against your lips like he’d been waiting for this for months, which, to be fair, he had, his hands flying to your waist, gripping you like he wasn’t planning to let go. Your back hit the table, files sliding, forgotten. His tie wrapped around your wrist now, your other hand already buried in his hair, tugging, demanding, needing.

Mingi’s mouth was on yours like it was the answer to every fight, every late night, every repressed fantasy you’d tried to bury under bullet points and deadlines. And god, the way he kissed, like he was angry and starved and obsessed, made you forget you ever hated him.

The table dug into your back, cool through the fabric of your blazer, your fingers still fisted in Mingi’s tie as his mouth left yours only long enough to breathe.

And then he was kissing your neck, slow at first, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw like he wanted to taste the pulse hammering there.

You gasped as his hands, bigger than you remembered, rougher than you’d dared to imagine, slid up your thighs, fingers curling around the hem of your skirt like it offended him.

“Fuck,” he murmured into your skin, lips trailing down to the curve where your neck met your shoulder. “You wore this on purpose, didn’t you?”

You shivered, lips parted, unable to form words because his hands were higher now, thumbs teasing along the tops of your sheer thigh highs, dragging over the band with maddening slowness.

You arched into him, breath hitching. “Mingi…”

He hummed like a warning and pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes. “You don’t get to say my name like that,” he said, voice dark, lips shiny from your skin. “Not unless you mean it.”

You swallowed, nails digging into the lapels of his shirt. “I don’t.”

He smirked, cocky and sinful, his hands slipping just under your skirt now, his fingers stroking lightly up the inside of your thighs. “Liar.”

“I hate you,” you whispered, the words barely making it out.

And still, your hips pushed forward, seeking his hands, chasing the burn.

Mingi’s gaze flicked up to yours, wild and wicked. “Say it again.”

You glared, breathless. “I hate you.”

His fingers squeezed at the tops of your thighs, thumbs circling dangerously close to the wet heat between them. “Yeah?” he said, mouth brushing yours now, his tongue barely tasting the corner of your lips. “Then why are you soaking through your panties for me right now?”

You gasped, your head dropping back as he kissed your throat again, hot, open mouthed, biting this time. You moaned, a sharp sound that echoed in the empty room, shame and desire coiled so tightly inside you that you weren’t sure where one ended and the other began.

And his hands?

Still climbing.

Still teasing.

Still treating you like a prize he’d finally earned after playing the long game. Because he had. And now? Now he was going to take his time ruining you for every other late night office crush that had ever even thought about flirting with you.

Mingi’s breath was ragged now, matching yours, one hand splayed flat on your thigh, the other gripping your waist like he needed something to anchor himself.

And then, without a word, he dropped.

Straight to his knees.

Right there between your legs in the middle of the empty office, the night humming outside the windows, the only light coming from the soft glow of your laptop still open behind you, it’s screen forgotten.

You barely had time to process it before his hands slid up your thighs again, slow and reverent now. Not teasing. Not cocky. Hungry.

And when he leaned in to press a kiss just above your knee, lips hot through the sheer black fabric, your breath caught so sharply you nearly folded. “Mingi,” you whispered, broken around his name.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. He kissed higher. Then again. And then bit. A gentle, maddening scrape of his teeth through your thigh high, just enough pressure to make you gasp, to make your hips twitch toward him like your body had made the decision for you.

He growled, actually growled, and bit higher, right at the top band of the stocking. His fingers gripped behind your knee, lifting your leg over his shoulder as his mouth latched onto the seam with a slow drag of his teeth.

And then he pulled. Not with his hands. With his mouth. The stocking slipped down, inch by inch, his lips brushing your skin the whole way. Every nerve lit up in a flash fire of heat and disbelief.

When he got it down past your calf, he let it fall, fingertips brushing the underside of your knee like a silent promise.

Then he moved to the other leg. And did it again. Slower. This time, his mouth lingered. His tongue flicked out against the sensitive spot behind your thigh and you whimpered, knees instinctively trying to close, but his hands pushed them apart, firm and possessive.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your bare skin, lips dragging up toward the inside of your thigh, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your body trembled, caught in the heat of it all.

“Mingi…” you breathed, unsure if it was a warning, a plea, or both.

But he was already kissing back up, now unhindered, now tasting the skin those thigh highs had hidden, leaving goosebumps and sparks in his wake.

And when he got close enough that you felt his breath ghosting between your thighs? He looked up at you through his lashes, flushed and wrecked and starving.

“You still hate me?” he asked, voice low and rough, lips brushing the top of your thigh like a threat as you met his gaze, fists tangled in his shirt, your skirt hiked up past the point of no return.

You barely had time to try and answer, to blink, before Mingi stood again, fast, fluid, towering over you with heat still radiating off his body like fire pressed into skin. His hand caught your chin, not rough, but firm, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

His pupils were blown. His lips were slick. His jaw clenched like he was holding back something feral. “You want this?” He asked, voice a gravelly growl. “Say it.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned in closer, nose brushing yours, his thumb sweeping over your bottom lip, soft but possessive, like he was already memorizing the shape of you.

“Don’t make me guess,” he whispered. “Don’t let me go back down there unless you want me to ruin you.”

You swallowed hard, thighs twitching, your hips instinctively rocking forward toward the only thing that could ease the ache. “Yes,” you breathed, barely audible.

His grip tightened just slightly.

“Louder.”

Your hands curled into his shirt, your voice trembling but sure.

“I want it.”

His mouth broke into a grin, slow and dark and satisfied.

“Good.”

And then he dropped again. But this time, it wasn’t slow. This time, he shoved your knees apart, hands dragging your skirt higher with zero ceremony, intentional now. No more teasing. No more holding back.

His fingers hooked into your panties, black, lacy, soaked through, and he dragged them down your legs in one sharp motion.

You gasped as the cool air hit you. Then moaned as he balled the panties in his fist, met your gaze again, and shoved them into his pocket. “Mine now.”

And then his mouth was on you. Hot. Wet. Devastating. He licked a stripe up your center, tongue broad and unhurried, tasting you for the first time and wanting to remember everything. Your breath caught, hands flying to his hair as he groaned against you, groaned, like he was the one getting off on this.

“Mingi…” you choked out, hips twitching as his tongue circled your clit with dangerous precision, his fingers gripping your thighs, anchoring you in place.

You grabbed at his hair, tugging, writhing, trying to keep still as his tongue flattened, licked, sucked like he’d been dreaming about this exact moment.

And he had. Because nothing had haunted him more than the idea of you like this, spread out, breathless, thighs over his shoulders while you moaned his name and yanked his hair like you needed it to breathe.

He moaned again, deeper this time as he sucked at your clit, his tongue flicking in perfect rhythm until your legs began to tremble and your head fell back with a low, broken curse.

Mingi didn’t come up for air. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give you room to think, to breathe, to remember anything but the way his mouth was wrecking you.

His tongue pressed deep inside you, hot and wet and relentless, fucking into you with obscene precision, curling, dragging, pumping like he was claiming space no one else ever could.

And then his nose, God. The way it nudged up against your clit, grinding into that sensitive bundle of nerves every time he thrust his tongue deeper, made your back arch and your hands fly to his hair again, fisting in the soft blonde strands with a ragged cry.

“Mingi… fuck, fuck!”

He growled against you, the sound vibrating straight through your core, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly your skin tingled, holding you open for him, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Like you were his. And you were. In that moment? Absolutely his.

He pulled back just enough to suck your clit into his mouth, hard and filthy and needy, before plunging two fingers inside you, thick and perfect, curling instantly as he slid them deep, his tongue flattening beneath your clit as his nose rubbed just right.

“Oh my god, Mingi!”

You weren’t even sure if the words made it out as your body convulsed, your thighs locking around his head as you grinded against him, chasing it, chasing everything.

You were moaning now, loud, almost sobbing as his fingers pumped in and out of you fast, fucking you hard while his tongue never left your clit, his nose dragging against it like he knew exactly what it was doing to you.

And he did. He’d imagined it. Dreamed it. Fantasized about making you come undone on his face until you couldn’t speak his name without shaking. “Come for me,” he growled, words muffled into you, tongue licking wildly now, fingers slamming into that perfect spot over and over.

And you did.

Hard.

Violent.

Unstoppable.

Your body seized, thighs trembling, heels digging into the edge of the table as you came with a strangled, broken cry, your voice cracking, your nails digging into his scalp, your whole world narrowed to the heat and wet and want crashing through you in waves so intense you could barely breathe.

You were panting. Moaning. Still twitching as his mouth slowed, soft now, lapping at you gently as your body shuddered with aftershocks.

When he finally pulled back, chin slick, lips swollen, eyes blown black with lust, he looked up at you like you were something holy.

“Still hate me?” he rasped, licking your release from his bottom lip.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All you could do was stare down at him, on his knees, hair messy from your hands, your panties still in his pocket, and wonder how the hell you’d ever survive this man now that he knew what you sounded like when you broke.

Your body was still trembling, your thighs slick, lips kiss bruised, lungs barely catching up, but your mind? Clear. Clearer than it had been in weeks.

You wanted him.

Not to flirt. Not to tease. Not to hate.

You wanted to wreck him.

With your knees wobbling and your hands still bracing the edge of the conference table, you slid down, slowly, deliberately, until your knees kissed the cold floor.

Mingi’s breath caught as you looked up at him through your lashes once he stood, eyes glassy, lips parted, hair wild around your face.

And he stared.

Chest rising and falling like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His hands had dropped to his sides, fists clenched, his dick already straining against his slacks, painfully obvious, thick and heavy, begging for attention.

You reached for his belt. Your fingers moved slowly, unfastening it with unshaking purpose now, your nails dragging down the zipper, his abs twitching when your hand brushed over the bulge beneath his boxers.

Still looking up at him. Still fucking owning him from your knees. When you pulled him free, hot, hard, big, you paused. Eyes wide. Lips twitching into the hint of a smirk. “Jesus,” you whispered.

He let out a low, breathless laugh, half choked on the tension. “Still wanna hate me?”

You met his gaze, eyes burning with something darker. “I don’t hate you,” you murmured. Then you leaned in, pressing a single kiss to the base of his dick, just above where his abs tensed.

You looked back up, lips brushing his tip, already wet with precum. “I want to ruin you.”

His groan was wrecked as his hand found the back of your head, not pushing, just holding, like he didn’t trust himself not to lose control the second your lips wrapped around him.

You licked a stripe up his shaft, slow, deliberate, swirling your tongue around the head just to watch him twitch, and then pulled back enough to whisper, “Fuck my mouth.”

His breath stopped. For a moment, he just stood there, wide eyed, panting, staring at you like you’d just unlocked a part of him he wasn’t ready to show the world. “You sure?” he asked, voice rough, trembling with restraint.

You opened your mouth. Tongue out. Lips parted. Then nodded. And that was it.

He grabbed your jaw, not rough but firm, guiding himself to your lips, and then he thrust, slow and deep, sliding past your tongue until your throat flexed around him.

He moaned. Hard. Guttural. Hands flying into your hair like he was already losing himself.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucked, letting him slide in and out, saliva pooling and dripping down your chin as he started fucking your mouth just like you asked, like he needed to.

He started slow. One hand tangled in your hair, the other braced on the table behind you, Mingi held still as he guided himself past your lips again, inch by inch, watching your mouth stretch around him, watching your eyes flutter as you adjusted to the weight, the heat, the thickness of him.

“Shit,” he hissed, his abs flexing as you took more, your tongue pressed flat beneath him. “Just like that… fuck, you look so good with my dick in your mouth.”

You moaned, just a little, soft and breathy, and that alone made his hips twitch.

“Fuck, don’t…. don’t do that,” he gasped, already losing his rhythm.

But then you did it again. A louder moan this time. Vibrating around him. Echoing deep in your throat. And when his eyes dropped lower, when he saw your hand, fingers between your own thighs, rubbing, sliding, grinding against yourself while you moaned around his dick?

Something inside him snapped. “Are you…” he choked out, head tilting back for a split second before yanking you closer. “You’re touching yourself while I fuck your mouth?”

You nodded, wide eyes watering, spit already leaking from the corners of your mouth.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he groaned, and that was it. He started moving. Really moving. His grip on your hair tightened, guiding your head now, thrusting into your mouth with growing speed, each snap of his hips punctuated by a low, filthy moan that only made you wetter.

“You like this?” he growled. “You like gagging on my dick, don’t you, baby?”

You moaned again, louder, hand working between your legs faster now as you let him use your mouth, tears streaking down your cheeks as your throat stretched to take him.

“Fucking…. shit, you’re perfect,” he gasped, hips stuttering as he thrust deeper, your gag reflex hitting but your nails digging into his thigh like you loved it.

“Choking so pretty for me, fuck, just like that… fuck yourself, baby. Come for me while I use this mouth. Show me how bad you want it.”

And you did. Right there on the floor, your mouth full of him, spit and tears and slick dripping down your thighs, you came. Hard.

A muffled, wrecked moan echoing around his dick as your body jerked, back arching, hand trapped between your thighs as your orgasm crashed through you, leaving you shaking and completely gone.

Mingi choked on a groan, pulled out fast, barely in time, his dick glistening, his breath ragged, your spit clinging to him in strings as you gasped for air, lips swollen, jaw slack.

“Fuck…. fuck,” he hissed, jerking himself once, twice, holding off with every ounce of restraint he had left. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You looked up at him, ruined, dripping, glowing. And smiled as Mingi was panting, chest heaving, spit slick dick twitching between you as he stared down at the absolute mess you’d made of yourself on your knees. His jaw clenched like he was barely keeping it together.

Then he grabbed you. Lifted you right off the floor, your legs barely had time to wobble before he was kissing you, kissing you like he hadn’t just been fucking your throat ten seconds ago. His hands cradled your jaw, lips hot and open, tongue desperate and deep as you clung to his shirt, dizzy and drenched and gasping against his mouth.

You groaned into him, fingers flying to the buttons of his shirt. One popped. Then another. Then the whole thing was sliding off his shoulders, his black tie still hanging loose around his neck like a collar begging to be yanked.

His skin was warm and flushed and gorgeous, abs flexing as you shoved the shirt down his arms and dropped it to the floor, hands sliding over his chest with a hunger you weren’t even trying to hide anymore.

And then his hands found your waist. Turned you. Bent you. Your front hit the table, palms bracing against the slick surface, your skirt rucked all the way up to your waist as he stepped in close behind you.

You gasped, hips jerking forward as his palm landed on your ass, sharp and claiming, followed by a low groan behind you. “Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hand over the now reddening skin. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You looked over your shoulder, breathless, ruined. “Then stop talking and…”

Another spank.

You moaned.

Then you pushed back.

Just enough that the head of his dick nudged higher, slipping between your cheeks and catching on the tight ring of your ass.

Mingi froze.

His moan? Loud. Wrecked.

“Jesus…. fuck, baby…”

You whimpered, teasing yourself with his tip, just the barest pressure making your whole body shiver. “You want it?”

He growled. Actually growled.

But then, you felt his hand wrap around himself, dragging his dick down, sliding between your soaked folds until he found your dripping entrance again.

And his voice? Low. Dark. Dangerous. “Next time.” And then he pushed. Deep. Stretching you, making you cry out, the sound raw and desperate as he filled you slow, inch by glorious inch, his hands gripping your hips like he needed to hold you together as much as he needed to hold himself back.

“Fuck…. fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he bottomed out. “Pussy so fucking wet….. taking me so good.”

You whined, nails scratching at the table’s surface, back arching as he settled deep inside you. “You’re so big,” you whimpered. “F… Fuck, Mingi….. so deep”

He groaned again, one hand sliding up your back, pushing your spine down to deepen the angle as he rocked forward just once, making you scream.

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice right by your ear now, hips grinding slow and deep. “You love it, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, tears stinging your eyes. “Y… Yes! Yes…. please……. more”

Mingi was buried inside you, slow thrusts rocking your entire body into the table with each deep grind of his hips. His hands framed your waist, fingertips digging in, eyes locked on the way your body swallowed him with every roll forward.

You moaned, high and breathy, your knees starting to buckle, forehead pressed to the cool glass as your mouth parted with every drag of his dick along your soaked, stretched walls.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, breath ragged as he slid back, then pushed in again slow. “You feel like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, hips instinctively pushing back to meet each thrust. And then he leaned forward, his chest against your back, hand sliding up your torso to grab your throat, his lips brushing your ear as he grunted, deep in your body now.

“You want me to fuck you?” he whispered, filthy and low. “You want me to ruin this pussy, baby?”

“Y…. Yes,” you gasped, fingers clinging to the edge of the table like you were holding on for your life. “Please…. please, Mingi, fuck me!”

That was all he needed.

His hand slid back down to your hip.

And then he slammed into you.

Hard.

Fast.

Unrelenting.

Your scream ripped out of you as he fucked into you like he’d snapped, like the leash had finally broken and this was what he’d been holding back from the very first time you argued in the break room.

His glasses slipped down his nose, fogged and crooked from sweat and motion. One sharp thrust, and they fell, clattering somewhere on the table as his hands grabbed your waist tighter and he fucked you, raw and fast, his dick pistoning in and out with filthy, wet sounds that echoed off the walls.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “Taking every inch. Fucking soaking me, baby, your pussy’s starving.”

You were crying now, lips parted, eyes rolling, your body jerking forward with every brutal thrust.

And it built.

Fast.

Too fast.

“Mingi…” you gasped. “I…. I’m… fuck…. I’m gonna….. I’m coming!”

“Come for me,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, his hips snapping against your ass, desk rattling beneath you. “Come on this dick, baby, make a mess for me, show me how good I make you feel.”

You screamed. Your entire body seized, muscles locking, back arching as your orgasm slammed into you like a wave, crashing so hard you gushed around him, slick, hot, everywhere, your walls clenching so violently around his dick that it pushed him out, his length slipping free with a loud, soaked sound as your legs collapsed beneath you.

“Mingi…. fuck!”

He groaned, low and guttural, staring down at you, wide eyed, watching as your release dripped down your thighs, pooling beneath you, your body still twitching, hips jerking in aftershocks.

He reached down, stroking himself once, twice, still soaked in your slick, his voice cracked and ruined.

“Fucking hell, baby,” he panted. “You just…. squirted me out.”

You whimpered, still breathless, wrecked, your legs trembling and soaked, lips parted around a moan that never fully formed.

Your legs were shaking. Your whole body still pulsed from the orgasm he’d ripped out of you, from the way your release had forced him out, your slick dripping down your thighs, glistening on his dick, coating his abdomen.

And still, you weren’t done. You blinked up at him, chest heaving, face flushed and wrecked, tears dried on your cheeks, lips parted and slick.

He was standing there, shirt open, glasses gone, his black tie still hanging around his neck like a leash only you had the right to pull.

And you did. You turned around, barely steady, hands gripping the edge of the table as you sat up, legs trembling as you reached for him. Your fingers curled into the silk of his tie, tugging him down, his lips brushing yours, both of you panting into the space between.

Then you pulled harder.

Tugged him closer.

And he let you.

Your thighs opened just enough to wrap around his waist, ankles locking behind him as you used your last ounce of strength to drag him back in.

Mingi moaned, loud, needy, as his dick slid through your soaked folds, catching on your entrance, your heat guiding him right back to where he belonged.

And when you whispered, raw, broken, “Come back to me,” he lost it. He grabbed your hips and sank back in. Slow. Deep. All of him.

You both moaned at the stretch, your whimper soft and shaky, his curse hot and ragged as your body pulled him in, still fluttering around him, still dripping wet and desperate.

“Fuck,” he gasped, forehead falling against yours. “You’re… you’re still so tight.”

You clenched around him on purpose, lips brushing his. “I don’t care,” you breathed. “I want it.”

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, lifting you slightly, adjusting the angle as he rolled his hips, burying himself to the hilt making you cry out, arms flinging around his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist like you needed to hold him inside.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “I’m right here, baby. Gonna fuck you so good….. make you mine.”

You nodded against his neck, body trembling with every deep, perfect stroke as he started moving again. This time? Not rough. Not fast. But deep. So deep.

Each thrust sent soft, wet sounds echoing in the quiet room, your bodies sticky and tangled, skin slapping against skin as he filled you again and again, his forehead pressed to yours, lips ghosting over your mouth with every moan.

“Mine,” he whispered. “You hear me? Fucking mine.”

And you didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Because with every stroke, every kiss, every filthy whisper, he was making you his, deep inside you, his breath ragged, his abs twitching as your body clenched around him like a vice. He was trying to pace himself, trying to savor it, to feel every second of you wrapped around him.

But your voice? Your voice broke him.

“Harder,” you gasped, legs still locked around his waist, your hips grinding up to meet every slow thrust. “Fuck…. please, Mingi… harder, I need it, I need you to fuck me, I want you to come inside me…. make me come again!”

He froze. Just for a second.

Like a man possessed.

And then?

He growled.

Low. Animal.

And started slamming into you.

You cried out, your back arching off the table, arms flying around his neck, legs tightening as he pounded into you now, hips snapping with brutal precision, dick driving into you so deep you could feel it in your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…. just like that…” you sobbed, your hands flying to his hair, grabbing it hard, yanking him closer as your other hand fisted his tie and pulled.

Mingi moaned, loud, helpless, as your nails dragged along his scalp, your lips brushing his jaw. “Fucking…. please…. don’t stop…. yours…. don’t fucking stop!

He didn’t. Couldn’t.

He adjusted his grip, slid one arm beneath you, lifting you just enough, just high enough to angle you perfectly, so every thrust hit your spot like he’d mapped it out.

“God, baby…” he panted, hips slamming into you. “You feel so fucking good, you’re so wet… I’m gonna… fuck….. I’m gonna…”

You were already gone. Your moans had turned into sobs, your nails dragging down his back, your pussy fluttering around him as your body got tighter, hotter, seconds away from detonating.

“I’m gonna come,” you whined. “Mingi… fuck…. please, come with me… fill me, baby, PLEASE!”

And when your body snapped, legs shaking, toes curling, mouth open in a silent scream as you soaked him again, clenching his dick, milking him for every inch, he broke.

With a roar that echoed in the empty office, Mingi slammed into you one final time, his entire body locking up as he came deep, dick twitching, cum spilling into you thick and hot and endless, his arms holding you like he was afraid he might disappear inside you completely.

You shook together.

Bodies tangled.

Mouths gasping against each other as he rutted through the last few pulses of release, burying himself to the hilt, filling you full as you both came down, wrecked, undone, shaking.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, your hands still in his hair, his tie twisted around your fist. “feel like I just died and resurrected.”

You could barely breathe.

But you smiled.

Because if that was death?

It was fucking phenomenal.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The office felt brighter the next morning.

Or maybe that was just the smug satisfaction rolling off you in waves as you walked side by side with Mingi toward Ms. Hwang’s office, both of you dressed a little too sharply, a little too composed for two people who definitely hadn’t slept.

You were sore in places you didn’t know could be sore.

Your thighs ached.

Your voice was still a little raspy.

But your lipstick?

Perfect.

Mingi looked just as lethal. Fresh shirt, hair styled, glasses cleaned, and that same black tie you’d been gripping in your fist hours ago? Oh, he wore it again. Loose around his neck. Like a reminder.

You knocked once on Ms. Hwang’s door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response.

She glanced up over her glasses, then back down at her watch. “You’re early.”

You both smiled.

“Thought we’d make your morning,” Mingi said smoothly, stepping forward to set the finished binder and flash drive on her desk.

“All files finalized,” you added, sliding the summary sheet into place with the kind of precise, practiced fingers that had absolutely not been wrapped around a dick twelve hours ago.

Ms. Hwang raised a brow. “You two actually finished?”

Mingi chuckled low under his breath. “Oh, we finished.”

Your elbow jabbed into his ribs so fast even your boss missed it.

“Everything’s proofed,” you said, keeping your expression neutral. “Slides are clean. Data’s perfect. Talking points are locked.”

She glanced through the binder, flipping a few pages, nodding slowly. “This is… good. Surprisingly good.”

You and Mingi shared a look.

Your smirk curled lazily at the corner of your mouth. “Oh,” you said. “We work well under pressure.”

Ms. Hwang gave you both a look, half suspicion, half, if I find out you were screwing in my office I swear to god, but ultimately said nothing. “Fine,” she said, closing the binder. “Presentation’s at 10 a.m. Don’t be late. Don’t be sloppy. Don’t embarrass me.”

You both nodded.

“Understood,” Mingi replied, then turned and walked out beside you like the model employee.

The second the door closed, he leaned closer, whispering by your ear, “Kind of hot watching you act professional when you were begging for my dick last night.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“Don’t start.”

“Already did.”

“Keep talking and I’ll actually stab you with a pen.”

Mingi just grinned, slipping his hands in his pockets.

“Only if you say please.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

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[mingisprincxss]

ANGST arranged marriage San please 😖 like so angsty my heart drops but also please like allude to comfort at the end otherwise my heart might stop

the contract husband || choi san || request

| genre: angst with comfort. husband! choi san. | mentions: marriage of convience. mean san but he will be soft soon. mention of san has a lover before he got married.

word count: 5.7k

The rain didn’t stop the day you married Choi San.

It didn’t drizzle or soften into something romantic—it poured, relentlessly, as though the sky itself was mourning. The clouds had wept from morning until now, thick and heavy sheets hammering the earth like sobs no one dared to speak aloud. The wedding bells rang, but their sound—meant to symbolize joy and new beginnings—was hollow, clanging like distant echoes in a tunnel you couldn’t escape. What was supposed to flutter your heart only worsened the pounding in your head.

This wedding wasn’t a celebration. It was a performance.

The reception had long begun, though you felt like a guest in your own life. You wore a second dress—something lighter, shinier, stitched with elegance—but no amount of fabric could hide how stiff your smile felt. Your cheeks ached from holding it up, a porcelain doll carved into place. You wanted to peel the day off your skin like a costume that clung too tight.

Weddings were supposed to be unforgettable—a core memory carved into the heart. But this one, you knew, would haunt you instead. A memory that would replay in your mind like a scratched record—over and over again, even when you begged for silence.

Outside, guests huddled under umbrellas, their hems soaked and shoes squelching against the marbled floors. They filed in one by one, murmuring polite congratulations with smiles more rehearsed than heartfelt. These weren’t your friends. These weren’t even strangers. They were your father’s loyal employees—people who bowed more to power than to people.

You remembered standing at the altar, the garden outside drowned in grey, the flowers you chose weeks before now beaten down by rain. You had looked out at that storm and thought, “How fitting.” The heavens cried louder than either of you could.

You glance down now at the ring on your finger—a thin gold band that shone with cruel clarity under the reception lights. It gleamed like a joke. A promise without a heart behind it. Your happily ever after had been reduced to ink on a contract. San’s signature, your signature. Two strokes of a pen and a lifetime of pretending.

This wasn’t love. It was logistics.

A union not of souls but of stocks and legacy. It had always been this way—your life negotiated by others, your future traded like currency for someone else’s security. You were the daughter. The heir. The bargaining chip.

You sighed, quickly catching it and smoothing your features again as another guest approached. A man with a wrinkled smile and distant eyes—the type of man who shook hands with your father in boardrooms, not the kind who remembered your name. You nodded, playing the part. You always did.

But then—amidst the blur of suits and champagne flutes—you heard a voice that pulled you back to something real, “I last remember you—you still had pigtails and two broken teeth.”

You turned, and there she was. Your old neighbor. The woman who used to exchange fruits with your mother over the fence, who slipped you candies and told you fairy tales with wrinkled hands and kind eyes. The only one who ever showed up without asking for something in return.

She didn’t know the full story—didn’t need to. She could feel it. The falseness of this day. The absence of the groom. The ache behind your smile.

She sat beside you, settling quietly in the chair where San should have been. You didn’t even flinch. The word husband still didn’t sit right on your tongue. Not when the boy you once adored had become a man you barely recognized—distant, unreadable, hollowed out by expectation just like you.

Your grandmother figure patted your arm gently, her touch warm and grounding, “Happy endings don’t always wait at the end,” she said softly.

You looked down, brows drawn, the corners of your lips tight. Your voice cracked beneath the weight of everything you weren’t allowed to say, “I won’t even have that… not even in my other lives.”

She only chuckled softly, a knowing warmth in her weathered eyes, “Oh, dear… it’ll just be today. But I promise you—it will get better. Look…” Her wrinkled fingers lifted, pointing across the ballroom. You followed the direction of her gesture and your gaze landed on a small group of men.

Choi San. Your contract husband.

He looked unfairly perfect today. That tailored gray vest hugged his torso like it had been sewn by the gods themselves—crisp lines, subtle sheen, every button carefully done except for the rolled-up sleeves of his striped shirt, betraying a casual arrogance that somehow made him even more irresistible. The pale blue stripes added this quiet, intellectual edge, and don’t even get me started on that black tie—slim, elegant, like he was trying to behave but kept forgetting he was a trouble incarnate.

And those glasses? Please. Wire-thin, perfectly perched on his nose, making his sharp jawline and dark hair look even more devastating. He was talking with his colleagues so easily, tilting his head with that little smirk that said he knew exactly how good he looked, voice low and teasing, like silk over gravel.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was composed, magnetic, impossible to ignore. The kind of man who made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. The kind of man who could make the whole room feel smaller just by glancing in your direction. And the worst part? You were in love and he doesn’t.

And the pain of one-sided love didn’t begin on your wedding day. No, it started long before—when you first learned who your contract husband would be.

Choi San. A name you hadn’t uttered in years, but one that had never truly left your heart. You’d buried those feelings six years ago during your college days, back when love was just a passing ache and not the lifeline you clung to now.

He had been a friend of a friend. You only met him a handful of times, usually when Seonghwa brought you along to small gatherings, campus events, late-night dinners. But even then—just from those few brief moments—you knew. It was love at first sight, or something terrifyingly close to it. You’d find your thoughts drifting back to him for days after, replaying the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his laughter seemed to echo louder than the rest.

He had been warm then. Kind. Effortlessly charming. The kind of person who made you want to believe in timing and fate.

And when the announcement came—when you were told you were to be married for the sake of your family’s legacy—you hadn’t expected it to be him. But the universe, in its twisted irony, had chosen San. You had stood there, stunned, the name echoing in your ears like a whisper from the past. But when you turned to face him, he didn’t even flinch.

There was no surprise in his eyes. No softness. It was just silence, the mere thought of bringing up about your bond back then would only increase the emotions swirling inside his chest, so you kept it to yourself and be more vigilant on your choice of words.

It was as if every memory you’d clung to—every soft smile, every shared laugh—had been erased from his heart. Like they had meant nothing. His features were composed, unreadable. But his eyes were different now—hard, cold, as if they'd forgotten how to look at you the way they once had. From that moment on, he became someone else. A stranger draped in the skin of someone you used to know. The warm boy you fell for was gone. In his place stood a man who kept his distance, who answered with clipped words and silent glances. He was polite when necessary, detached when possible. Cold—almost deliberately so.

And still, you loved him.

A quiet, stubborn kind of love—the kind that didn’t make sense to anyone but you. Those who knew would only shake their heads, whisper behind closed doors about how naive you were. Gullible. Foolish. Blind to the way he treated you. They said you clung to a fantasy, to a man who barely looked at you, who left you with silence and half-hearted gestures.

And maybe they were right. But even so, you stayed. You hoped. You held onto the fragile belief that one day—someday—your feelings would be returned. That beneath all his cold distance, there might still be a part of him waiting to love you back.

When the day of the wedding came, the venue was everything out of a fairytale. Floral arches, soft lights, strings of pearls, and an aisle meant for dreams. A little girl’s fantasy—but a bride’s quiet nightmare.

Because not everything magical is meant to feel real. San stood at the altar like a statue—stone-faced, still. He didn’t turn when you approached. Didn’t smile. He didn’t reach for your hand until the officiant gestured for it, and even then, his touch was mechanical—gentle, but empty. When he slid the ring onto your finger, his jaw was locked tight, his shoulders strained beneath his perfectly tailored suit.

There was no love in his eyes. No pride nor hesitation. Only duty, an obligation he has to fulfil. A role he was forced to play.

And when it came time for the ceremonial kiss, his lips merely brushed your cheek—a formality more than a gesture. Fleeting. Hollow. A ghost of affection that never quite arrived. Then, later that night, he sealed your fate with a single line. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said coolly, loosening his tie with practiced indifference. “This room is yours. I’ll stay in the study.”

And that was three months ago. Three months of pretending. Three months of cold dinners and colder silences. Three months of separate rooms, separate lives, and separate hearts. And yet, somehow, your love for him still lingered—quiet and uninvited, like the echo of a dream you couldn’t forget.

The mansion was too big for silence—and yet, somehow, it echoed with it.

Every footstep felt like it traveled forever, swallowed by the polished floors and tall, hollow ceilings. Even the ticking of the antique clocks seemed louder than your own voice. The halls were pristine, untouched, like a museum of a life that wasn’t being lived. The air was cold, not from the weather, but from absence. It was a house built for grandeur—yet all you could feel in it was emptiness. The loneliness didn’t scream. It settled quietly into your bones.

You passed like ghosts—brushing past each other in the mornings, shoulders nearly grazing, eyes barely meeting. Sometimes you wondered if he even saw you at all. Breakfasts shared in silence. Evenings spent in opposite corners of the same room. You lived parallel lives that never intersected—like two actors stuck in different plays, sharing a single stage. You shared a last name, but not a life. A bed in title only. A love story that never started.

It wasn’t hatred. Not exactly. Hatred, at least, was loud. Hatred burned. This was something colder, something quieter—like fog that never lifted and the clouds of gray stayed still, covering what is left of the blue sky. It wasn’t even indifference, because sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something but swallowed it instead.

And that was worse. Because it meant there was something there, something unspoken. But never enough.

When his eyes met yours, there was always a flicker—something sharp and unreachable. Was it guilt? Regret? A memory he didn’t want to hold? Or worse, did he blame you? Did he see you as the lock on the door he never wanted to enter? Every time you searched his face for something—anything—you found only that wall. Cold stone, smooth and impassable.

But you tried. God, you tried—over and over again—to make things lighter, softer, bearable for the both of you. You smiled when he didn’t. You spoke when the silence stretched too long. You left the door open, just in case he ever decided to walk through it.

But every time you took a step forward, he took three back. And nothing echoes louder than the silence of a breaking heart.

Still, you stayed. Still, you hoped. Because you were stubborn—foolishly, fiercely so. Because love, real love, doesn’t die easily. Not when it began so softly. Not when it bloomed from something innocent, untainted by bitterness. Not even when it was one-sided.

Not even when it hurts.

And you were determined to make a change.

You knew you weren’t the strongest emotionally. You weren’t made of steel, and you never pretended to be. But this—this—was where you drew the line. Where you faced the very thing you’d always struggled with: fighting for what you wanted. For what you deserved.

You had loved Choi San since your senior year of college—quietly, patiently, from the sidelines. And though your love had never been loud, never demanding, it had lasted. And now, for the first time, you were ready to try. Not for validation. Not for approval.

But for him.

You were reaching out. You made breakfast once—his favorite, remembered from years ago. You had gotten up before the sun, the mansion still draped in blue shadows. The kitchen light flickered softly above you, casting a golden glow on your quiet effort. Eggs, rice, and seaweed soup. Just like he liked it back in college—when things were simpler, lighter, when the distance between you hadn’t yet turned into a wall. The kitchen smells like comfort food—but it’s not comforting at all. It’s heavy, oppressive. The steam clings to the walls like it’s trying to fill the silence between you, but the silence is too wide. Too cold.

He comes in without a word. Doesn’t even glance your way.

The door clicks softly behind him, and he walks like he’s already miles ahead—his hair still damp, swept back neatly, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the resolute cut of his cheekbones. He looks every bit the Grand Duke—polished, powerful, untouchable. His vest is pressed, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal expensive cufflinks. The suit jacket slung over his arm completes the picture. Ready for meetings. Strategy. A future that doesn’t seem to include you.

You hear your own heartbeat before your voice even comes out.

“San-ssi… wait.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to make him stop—just long enough to glance over his shoulder. A flicker of acknowledgment. That brief second is all you need, and yet it still takes effort to pull the next words from your throat.

“Please…” You swallow. “Please have breakfast before you go.” The silence stretches between you like a taut thread. His gaze shifts—finally—not to you, but to the table. You’ve laid everything out: a warm soup still steaming, fried eggs arranged neatly, fresh rice, a small plate of pickled radish, even a slice of orange peeled just the way he used to like it. Like muscle memory.

He turns his back to you, “I don’t eat breakfast.” He starts toward the door again, and your fingers twitch—instinctively reaching out, though you don’t move.

“At least,” you say softly, “have the soup. Just a few bites. It’s… it’s cold outside. Your stomach will hurt if it’s empty.”

You curse yourself for the way your voice shakes at the end. You didn’t mean to push. You know better—this is a contract marriage, just ink on paper. Expectations were never part of the deal. But still… you couldn’t help it. You didn’t want to be strangers under the same roof.

There’s a pause—heavy, uncertain. Then, a slow exhale, “…Fine.” He turns and walks toward the table. Shrugs off his coat and drapes it neatly over the chair before sliding into the seat. You hold your breath as he picks up the spoon and lifts it to his lips. A faint puff of steam. One sip. Another. And then… he stops. His hand lowers.

“Now stop pestering me.” The spoon clinks against the bowl as he places it down with surgical precision. He rises to his feet, collects his coat without looking at you, and walks out. No thank you. No acknowledgment. Not even a glance. Only the sound of the front door slamming shut behind him, loud enough to jar the silence he left behind.

You stand there, rooted to the floor. “Take care…” you whisper. You try to smile—try to be the version of yourself who could pretend—but your lips won’t cooperate. The corners tremble. The effort tastes like iron.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to press the ache back into place. The room is still warm from the soup, but you’re freezing from the inside out. It feels like frost coats your ribs with every shallow breath you take. You don’t know what hurts more: the sting behind your eyes or the hollow in your chest that grows heavier with every morning like this. All you wanted was for him to look at you—really look—and remember who you were to him once. Friends. A bond forged before title and duty and distance hardened his heart.

But now there’s only a shadow in his eyes.

And you’re left standing alone in your own kitchen, holding your heartbreak like something fragile you don’t know how to set down. Loving a ghost who doesn’t know you’re haunting him too. The room is so quiet you can hear it—your own heart breaking. And somehow, you wonder if he hears it too. 

If he does… would he even care?

The second time you both shared the same space and time was during a thunderstorm—the kind that blanketed the sky in slate gray and rolled thunder deep enough to rattle the floorboards. Rain lashed against the windows like it had something to say. The power had already flickered twice, the fireplace barely holding its glow. A single book lamp clipped to the spine of your novel cast a soft halo of light onto the page, the only other source of warmth in the room besides the slow-breathing embers.

You were curled on one end of the couch, lost in the unfinished book you bought a few days ago. Words blurred and sharpened between each flash of lightning. Across from you, he sat with his laptop open, glasses slipping down his nose, eyes flicking between email replies and graphs you didn’t pretend to understand. The storm hummed between you—constant and low, a pressure in the air that made your skin buzz.

A bolt of lightning tore through the sky so violently it lit the entire living room like a snapshot—bright and blinding. A second later, the thunder cracked. Sharp. Immediate.

The power cut out. Silence rushed in.

Your breath caught, and instinct took over. You reached out, without thinking—just a small touch, the barest brush of your fingers against his. Not even a full gesture. Just… closeness. Humans. Unspoken. Comfort in the dark. But he flinched. Hard. Pulled away so fast it startled you more than the thunder. It wasn’t loud—but it felt loud. Like something inside you had been exposed and immediately dismissed.

Like your touch had burned. You stayed frozen, hand still halfway between you. The air felt colder somehow, heavier. The rejection sat between your ribs, thudding louder than the storm itself. He didn’t say anything—no apology, no look back.

“I’ll check the fuse box,” San murmur before standing up and disappearing down the hallway, laptop still humming faintly with its battery light. 

And you sat there. Alone again. The storm outside felt smaller compared to the one brewing quietly in your chest. You let your hand drop into your lap, your fingertips tingling from a touch that hadn’t even happened. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were being dramatic. But the thing about loneliness is that it feels louder in the dark. 

The last words you heard — so simple, so unintended — were what finally shattered whatever fragile thread had been holding you together.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. It was just dinner. His birthday. You had spent the entire afternoon trying to make it feel special, to soften the growing distance that settled like a wall of glass between you. You told yourself it didn’t need to be perfect — just enough to remind him that you were still here, still trying, even when it felt like he wasn’t.

So you climbed the stairs to his study with every step, you rehearsed your lines: something light, something kind. Maybe he'd smile. Maybe he'd look at you the way he used to. Or maybe consider being acquainted instead of being completely strangers.

But right as you reached the door, knuckles hovering mid-air, his voice bled through the wood — low, muffled, but unmistakably his.

“I didn’t want this.”

You froze. At first, your heart knocked louder than your fist ever could. Then silence fell heavy in your chest, as if your ribs had caved in to keep it from breaking. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You never wanted to know like this. But curiosity, or maybe desperation, kept your feet nailed to the floor. Your hand dropped limply to your side as you leaned in, barely breathing.

“I didn’t want any of this,” he said again, voice rough and frayed, like someone who had been holding something in for far too long. There was a tremble in it — not from anger, but from exhaustion. Like he’d been carrying too much for too long, and now it was spilling out in a room where you weren’t meant to hear.

“I didn’t choose this marriage.” The words fall like a blade, slicing through the quiet — and through you. There’s a pause, one that stretches too long, too heavy. Your eyes flick around the hallway as if looking for something to hold on to, anything to make this moment less real. But nothing comes. And when the next words land, it’s like your heart tears straight from your chest.

“Every time I look at her, I think of what I gave up — what I lost. I lost her because of this marriage. She told me to focus on my wife, but I know she’s hurting because of this!”

The breath stutters out of your lungs.  Not like a gasp. Not like a cry. But like something breaking — something vital that doesn’t come back. You don’t wait to hear more. You can’t. Not when the silence that follows feels like it’s cracking open your ribcage, spilling everything you were holding onto.

Who was she? The one he gave up for this marriage?

The thought alone sends a sick, twisting feeling through your gut. Did she come before you? Was she someone he still held in his heart during the vows, the dinners, the nights you tried so hard to believe were real?

You thought you had time. You thought, maybe, love would come eventually.

But now it all feels like a lie wrapped in routine. Your throat tightens. Your vision begins to swim, and your legs start to move — more from instinct than thought. You stumble backward, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the walls too close, like they’re closing in on your every breath.

You don’t know how you make it to the bedroom — or if you even make it fully inside. Maybe you collapse just past the doorframe. Maybe your knees give way the moment your fingers curl around the doorknob. But you hear the soft click of the door shutting behind you, and then—

Your body caves in like it’s been waiting for this moment to fall apart. 

And then the tears came. Not in sobs—no. You gasp, like you’re drowning on dry land. Each breath feels like a battle. Each cry, a jagged thing caught in your throat. It’s the kind of heartbreak that makes you fold in on yourself, arms around your ribs as if you could somehow hold the pieces together. The kind of pain that feels physical, like grief itself is clawing its way through your chest, trying to tear something loose.

You loved him.

God, you loved him. Quietly. Stubbornly. Painfully. For years.

You cradled that love like it was sacred, something worth waiting for. Something that might finally bloom if you just held on long enough. You memorized the shape of his silence, learned how to live in the shadows of his indifference. You reached for him a hundred times with trembling hands, never once asking for more than he was willing to give—and yet, you kept reaching.

Maybe that’s the cruelest part of all. That even now—even after hearing him say he didn’t want this, after realizing he had never truly seen you as someone worth choosing—some part of you still held on. Some part of you still hoped. You cry until your throat is raw, until your body feels hollow, until there’s nothing left but the eerie quiet that follows a storm. And in that silence, the truth settles in like dust on a forgotten shelf.

It all makes sense now.

The early mornings. The late nights. The way he barely looked at you across the dinner table, the way he seemed to flinch when your fingers brushed. It was never you. It was never going to be you. Maybe there was respect—some shred of duty he tried to honor. But love?

No. That had always belonged to someone else. And the worst part isn’t just that he loved another. It’s that while you were trying, giving, hoping—he had already been comforted in someone else’s arms. And that made you sick as your attempts were probably making him uncomfortable while he is still with someone. 

And in that moment, you wished — God, you wished — you had stayed downstairs. Stayed safe in ignorance. Because now you know. This day… this birthday, it wasn’t a celebration. It was either your release — the final sign to let go of whatever love you were still foolish enough to hold — or a curse, proof that no matter what you did, no matter how much you gave, Choi San would never choose you.

And you were alone and a fool this whole time.

When the moon was high and the tears had finally run dry, you found yourself turning toward the window, where pale moonlight spilled across the floor like a silent witness to your grief. Your heart no longer ached—it simply felt... numb. Hollowed out. Every breath you took now came with a subtle stagger, the kind that lingered in the chest long after the sobs had stopped.

You wanted to stay. God knows you did.

But the thought of him loving someone else—being devoted to someone else—settled into your bones like frost. And suddenly, staying felt more like cruelty than courage.

After all, this was never a love story. Just a contract signed in convenience, not affection.

You closed your eyes, took one last breath, and stood.

Your gaze drifted toward the top shelf of the closet, where your luggage waited—untouched, collecting dust like the parts of yourself you had set aside for him. With a heavy heart and steadier hands than you expected, you pulled it down and began to pack. Quietly. Carefully. One piece of clothing at a time, as if folding away the life you never got to fully live.

By the time the first traces of dawn kissed the sky, your feet were already moving—carrying you down the grand hallways of the mansion you once shared. The silence echoed around you like farewell.

Outside, the air was cool. Crisp. Still unfamiliar.

You glanced up toward the bedroom window one last time, heart tightening—but not breaking. Not anymore.

A sigh escaped your lips as your driver hoisted your luggage into the trunk. You apologized softly for waking him up so early. He only offered a tired smile, “It’s my duty to give you proper service.”

You were gone before San ever stirred from bed. Not that he’d notice. Not that he ever truly had.

Three days passed. Not a single word from San. No calls, no messages, not even the faintest sign of worry or regret. The silence on his end said more than any explanation could, and it solidified the truth you had been avoiding: there was no space left in his heart for you. Whatever hope you had clung to was now nothing more than a delusion, one that withered the moment you realized someone else had already claimed what you had been quietly, desperately fighting for.

The only person who showed any concern was Seonghwa, the only friend who had always tried to stay neutral in the middle of your fragile marriage. He stopped by your apartment once, gently asking if you were okay before leaving behind a bag of groceries and a look of quiet sympathy. His presence felt like closure—a soft but firm reminder that you no longer belonged in the world you once shared with San.

That evening, you returned from the convenience store dressed in baggy sweatpants and an oversized sweater, the soft cotton doing little to warm the cold that settled deep in your bones. In your hand was a black plastic bag filled with snacks and two bottles of soju you planned to finish before the night was over. It was a far cry from the delicate dresses and soft perfumes you used to wear around the mansion. There, you adorned yourself with hope, with effort, with the constant wish that maybe, just maybe, he would notice. Here, alone, you wore exhaustion—both emotional and physical.

As you climbed the narrow stairs toward your apartment, your heart jumped when you spotted a sleek, familiar car parked near the curb. It looked just like his—same model, same color, same quiet presence. For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. But just as quickly, you forced yourself to exhale and shook your head in bitter self-mockery.

"Not every car with the same brand is his, stupid," you murmured to yourself, pushing down the flicker of foolish hope that rose uninvited.

You punched in your code, stepped inside, and were met with the dim hum of the apartment light flickering on. The space around you was quiet, almost painfully so. It wasn’t home, but at least it didn’t lie. You took off your shoes, dropped your bag on the floor, and settled onto the carpet, unpacking your snacks one by one with the heavy detachment of someone just trying to pass time.

Scrolling through Netflix, you chose the first series that didn’t remind you of him. You weren’t watching to enjoy anything—you just needed noise to fill the silence. But before the opening credits could even begin, a soft knock interrupted the quiet hum of the TV. You frowned, eyes darting toward the security screen, which had lit up automatically at the sound. You stood up, walking towards the small screen attached to the wall next to the dining area. And there he was.

San.

Soaked from the rain, hair clinging to his forehead, breath uneven, eyes shadowed with something unreadable. For a heartbeat, you stared, trying to convince yourself that maybe it was a glitch. Maybe he had the wrong apartment. Maybe—God help you—he had come here by mistake, looking for her.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You were ready to turn away, to let the unanswered knock echo into the silence, when his voice came through the speaker, soft and raw.

"I'm sorry..." You froze. Your heart clenched painfully in your chest as you stood in the middle of your apartment, unsure whether to stay or ignore. "I just..." he exhaled, voice barely holding together, "I was in love before we got married. And I lost her. Not because of you—just... time. Life."

You are listening now intrigued with the sudden confession—not just hearing, "I resented everything after that,” he continued, his voice shaking. “Especially the things I couldn’t choose. The things I couldn’t control.”

He paused, and the silence that followed carried more weight than all the words that came before, you saw how his eyes shook as if they were looking for your eyes or if you were , listening the whole time, "But I never meant to hurt you."

You move silently towards the door, your heart had taken control of your moves after hearing his side, your fingers twisting the knob as you pushed it slightly open for him to catch a sight of you— out of your normal dresses. You ignore the way his eyes shine, your voice was quiet, not accusing—just tired. “Why now?”

“Why come here now?”

He swallowed thickly, stepped closer, and though he made no move to reach for you, there was something unsteady in his posture, like even standing there cost him more than he’d admit, “Because for the first time, whenever you weren’t in the house,” he whispered. “And it was unbearable.”

Your heart squeezed. It was cruel, how much you still wanted to believe him. But the wounds were still fresh, and your trust was buried somewhere beneath the debris of all the days he chose silence over you, “That doesn’t mean anything,” you said, voice quivering. “You told me you never wanted this.”

He looked down, rain still dripping from his lashes. “I didn’t choose the marriage,” he admitted. “But... I’m choosing you now.”

There was no grandeur in his words. No desperation. Just quiet truth, spoken by someone who finally understood what it meant to lose something they didn’t take the time to see.

His gaze to yours was soft and honest, and this time, there was no wall between you—only the weight of everything left unsaid, “I’m not saying this because I feel guilty. Or because I think I deserve anything from you,” he said slowly. “I came here because somewhere along the way, you became a part of me. And if you’ll let me… I want to stay. This time, for real.”

You didn’t run into his arms. Not tonight. Not yet. The ache inside you hadn’t magically vanished, and the rain outside hadn’t fully stopped. Quietly. Carefully. You opened the door—not all the way, just enough. Enough to let him in from the rain. And in that small moment, something shifted between you. The silence didn’t disappear, but it softened. The space between you didn’t close entirely, but it no longer felt impossible to cross.

The rain stopped not long after.

And this time, as San stepped over the threshold, he wasn’t here because of a contract. He was here because he finally chose to be your husband.

i'm so so sorry, my loves if it's late!!

[mingisprincxss]

even my enemies know how i like my batter ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ psh (m)

summary: an annoying roommate. a situationship going nowhere. heated exchanges. filthy dreams; your living situation with seonghwa is a cesspool of insults and clashes. until seonghwa’s dream and your growing, contrasting feelings has the both of you tangled in something more than arguments.

a/n: hyunjae makes a return as a situationship (but hes not as insufferable as the other fic). this is long and i went crazy idk! 

word count: 9.6k

warnings: MINORS DNI. switch!seonghwa, switch!reader, non idol!au, roommate!au, sort of e2l? insufferable roommates to lovers (angst + fluff), LOTS OF PLOT & build-up, both seonghwa and reader have trauma, they both are not good people!!! but they learn along the way, reader is NOT cheating (n hyunjae is a pos), seonghwa has lewd dreams about reader, m! masturbation, oral (both m and f receiving) / cunnilingus + blowjob, face sitting, fingering, clit stimulation, deep-throating, cum shot, use of names (baby, angel, pretty, slut, cocksleeve), spitting, unprotected p -> v sex, cowgirl, creampie, implied multiple rounds, brief aftercare, sweet, sappy stuff at the end 🤍

You didn’t know whether being Seonghwa’s roommate was a blessing or a fucking curse.

But you’re willing to go with the second one especially when you’re now standing in front of your wardrobe in your towel, equal parts infuriated and perplexed at the colourful array of clothes that are ‘nicely’ arranged.

Which is something that would’ve been nice to know of, something you don’t hesitate to spout to Seonghwa with a flurry of hands that only garners a knowing smirk.

“I don’t care! If it’s nice and colour-coded! Seonghwa!” Your sentences are broken up from your efforts to search for the outfit you so carefully packed at the far end of the closet, and you don’t miss any breath to sigh.

The ‘easier time’ you thought you’d have with getting changed was clearly now wasted on searching frantically in the black and red sections of your carefully sorted wardrobe.

“But your closet’s always so untidy, I just thought I’d do you a favour.” Seonghwa clicks his tongue as he leans against your doorframe before averting his eyes to the ceiling as you change.

It’s the usual for both of you now; changing in front of each other (with your undergarments already on, of course) and manoeuvring around with ease that it irritates you just how used you are to each other’s presence.

Because while you’d love to banish him from the apartment you’re co-paying, Seonghwa has shown up at times: silent, delicious meals after bad days, new perspectives on a frustrating work project, straight-to-the-point advice with your situationship.

Though, that’s a good 20 percent. The other 80 is spent cursing him out and throwing whatever’s in your hand at him until all he can manage in the moment are smirks and scoffs. 

Part of that 80 is something that seemed to be innate even prior to Seonghwa’s birth: cleaning and organising every single fucking surface until it’s sparkling clean.

It was a bearable and useful trait, even, when you first moved in, but when your art materials, tablescapes and other small trinkets go missing is when you start to feel the twitch in your eye.

It started with the small things: little decorations around the house like succulents, small figurines and wall decor going missing, finding them stuffed deep into the drawers of the TV console, replaced with his own decor, or thrown away completely.

“It’s just too messy, don’t you think?” Something goes off in you. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Settling for a deep sigh, you only hope the other could compromise. It wasn’t fun to apartment hunt, so you’d decide not to place yourself in a bad spot since you met him just a week ago.

Well, that and also the fact that Hongjoong, a mutual friend of yours, had suggested this arrangement. With you searching for a place to stay and his friend looking for someone else to shoulder the rent after the last roommate left, it was a win-win situation.

“Yeah, but it’s still a shared space, Seonghwa.” You speak through gritted teeth with a forced smile, beginning to speculate that the last person didn’t exactly have a choice in leaving. It’s like Seonghwa can see the gears turning in your head, because the sides of his mouth curl up mischievously.

“Some of those were given to me by my friends; you can’t just throw my gifts away.”

“Well. Should’ve said that before I threw it away.” All he does is shrug while you follow his figure in disbelief as he walks past you into his room, but not before throwing you a brush and dustpan. “Here. Your own personal dustpan. You— uh— left some crumbs, by the way.”

“W-What— hey!” Seonghwa is so languid in his movements, slamming and locking the door with ease because he runs this show like clockwork. It’s always an incredulous stare followed by angry muttering and compliance, betting on two days before you pack up out of frustration.

But he’s again faced with your determined face four months later when you thump on his door just as the clock strikes twelve. “Park Seonghwa! I know you’re in there doing your stupid fucking LEGOs!”

The door swings open. “What the fuck do you want now?”

“You wanna tell me why my paints are all mixed up?” It’s hardly a question when all you’re doing is screaming in his face as you gesture repeatedly to your newly revamped art room.

You were banking on the possibility that you could get some down time by angrily painting out Seongwa’s infuriatingly pretty face before adding demon horns and sharp teeth (and maybe piercing the canvas itself). But it’s difficult to start when he’s arranged your paints in the colour spectrum, mixing both your acrylic and oil paint tubes.

You’re past manners at this point.

“What’s wrong with that? C’mon, don’t tell me it doesn’t look better sorted in the proper colours?”

“Yeah, no fucking shit, Seonghwa. If you actually opened your already big eyes to read the labels, you’d see that they said ‘acrylic’ and ‘oil’, you idiot!”

Seonghwa pouted and used those big eyes exactly the way you asked him to. “Aw, you think my eyes are big and beautiful?”

“Ugh, you’re not worth my breath. I’m taking a walk outside, far, far away from you!”

He only tsk’s with a mumble of annoying, thinking you’d take the chance to leave the place for good. That’s not the case, clearly. Especially at your altercation now five months later, and especially not when you’re hopping around in your jeans and still berating him for the closet situation.

You were already overshooting the timing you promised yourself you’d leave at. “You can’t just— clean anyone’s things just because you can, Seonghwa— Fuck.”

But he can hardly take you seriously when you’re crashing into your vanity and putting your head through the arm hole instead of the neck and he stifles a laugh at your scrunched up face. That strikes a chord in you.

“And you can’t just simply laugh when I tell you things, you asshole!” Another profanity leaves your lips when you aggressively tap your phone for the time, a glaring 16:41 lighting your face with a blue hue.

You’ve never touched up your face so quickly before — a little eyeshadow there, lip gloss here — before you’re grabbing your things and bolting out your room.

Not before slamming your wardrobe doors a little harder than usual and that makes Seonghwa wince before his lips spread into a smug smile. It’s like he can’t help the smugness; not that you care, at all. He tracks your frantic movements until you’re pushing at his chest with your finger.

Hm. Too busy thinking about your lips curling to hurl insults at him. Too occupied with smelling the Black Opium Glitter that makes its appearance every time you meet your stupid situationship.

“I mean it, Seonghwa,” You huff out as you continue to puncture your words with your finger, “Stay the fuck out of my room and the art room today.” Deciding you can’t look at Seonghwa for a second longer, you turn away and lift a hand to feel for your usual pendant around your neck.

And the other checks whether you’ve got everything, but it’s also, unfortunately, to silence whatever stupid crap that’s about to leave his mouth.

“Only today? Why? You gonna bring him back and fuck him while rolling in paint?”

You swear he’s gonna make you gauge your own eyes out one day, getting one step closer with already how much you roll them. There’s no helping as you reach up to clutch at your head, both hands tensed into agitated claws while you turn around slowly.

Seonghwa purses his lip with a quick cocked eyebrow, like it’s a challenge.

“Can you shut it.” It comes out more as a statement. You wish to see it come true. “And maybe. Jealous? I wonder if you even pull with how much you’re fucking bothering me, day in and day out.”

“Unf— low blow,” He clutches at his heart dramatically and fakes a fall into the dining chairs with a pout to his voice, "Targeting my ability to woo someone. I’m wounded.”

And it’s this kind of petty, back-and-forth exchange that you can’t stand. He’s always trying to get under your skin by fighting like kids at a playground that you don’t know why you give him the time of day. It’s no use having an attentive roommate at times (keyword!) when all he does is annoy and pester you.

Yet, you let your eyes linger over his stupid styled hair and plump lips for just a second longer. Why the hell is his hair even styled while he’s in the house?

“Ugh. Annoying.” You say under your breath like you aren’t any better, securing your heels and belongings before reluctantly turning back to him. “Don’t burn down the house. And stay out!”

Seonghwa grins and doesn’t say anything to your lone finger, not catching the faint At least let me clean the paint up after!

And that’s the last you allow yourself to have of him.

Hyunjae? Not so much, not when he’s got you wrapped around his finger with his sweet words and even sweeter declarations; and yet, you can’t help but feel a twinge of hesitation when he’s kissing down your neck by the front door after your little outing, desperate to have you.

Because while you fell long ago for him on unofficial dates and promises in the form of necklaces, it’s starting to wane. You’re not sure how many more I’m not ready’s and Let’s see how things go’s you can handle. If you’ve held hands, spent mornings together, kissed and made love, what’s wrong with the extra step in labelling?

But you push down those tricky feelings for now, opting to finally say something (again) tomorrow when the mood is calmer and quieter. Now, you’re too zoned into Hyunjae’s wandering hands, making you giggle when he sweeps you off your feet easily.

Only when he turns, does he see Seonghwa mid-snack. He’s unfazed and dressed, still with the styled hair that lights a fire under you. Though, you’re not sure if it’s you getting worked up from Hyunjae or the good old irritation bubbling to the surface.

“Why’re you dressed, dude?” Hyunjae’s met Seonghwa before, so he has no qualms about speaking up when you’re lacking some clothes, but you’re surprised to see your roommate raise his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“Went for an early dinner.” Your clashes are dramatic, explosive, but Seonghwa’s never this bothered and aloof. Nor speak in short answers. You always had trouble shutting him up; this was different.

“Oh, I didn’t know.” You murmur, a little confused at the breach of loose rules you set for you and Seonghwa. It wasn’t strict, but you’d at least tell each other if you had dinner plans since you didn’t want the problem of leftover food. Hyunjae lets you down easy when you pat his back, glancing between the two of you with impatience.

“Didn’t think you needed to know since, y’know.” Seonghwa gestures aimlessly at the two of you.

That makes you recoil just a bit, eyes travelling over his outfit and appearance — a little frazzled, unkempt — before they snap back to him staring holes into you. It’s piercing, that you don’t even have the chance to tell him you already scheduled a takeout delivery for the three of you.

Hyunjae interrupts. Famous for never reading the room, he pats Seonghwa on the back with a nod and nudges him towards his room, “Well! We hope you have plans for a movie in your room, preferably with your headphones on.” Like he’s waiting for your roommate to catch on. 

Of course he does, fast, daring you to say something with a stare that gets broken with Hyunjae’s touch along your shoulder, dragging down, down, down to your hand.

“Y-Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

But Seonghwa doesn’t pull up a movie, music or even his new LEGO set that he’s been itching to build, not when he knows you’re just two doors down getting it on with someone like Hyunjae.

He doesn’t have anything against the dude, truly, but it’s something to give advice to your roommate and then having that same situationship slap your back like you’re a close friend of his. When all Hyunjae does is avoid commitment and is apparently allergic to being a partner worthy of your attention.

Seonghwa doesn’t understand why he’s so adamant on driving Hyunjae away, but in that moment, any emotion — confusion, anger, resentment — is directed towards cleaning his already spotless room. Clothes sorted, figurines and LEGO sets reformatted.

He’s this close to changing the whole layout of the room (the wardrobe’s already diagonal) when he hears laughter permeating the walls, getting closer.

It travels from your room to the art room just beside his and he cringes when he realises you might blow up once you realise he’s also stress colour-coded your paints, again. But all he hears are your giggles and Hyunjae’s grating voice paired with art materials being knocked over.

He can hear your voice, sort of — “The AC’s better in here. Seonghwa will kill me if he has to wash sweaty sheets again. No, no, sorry, I’m gonna keep my neckla…” — it’s drained, exasperated that Hyunjae easily distracts you with something he says.

Seonghwa has stopped listening by then. He rips his headphones from the chair, shoving it on and turning on some random song, though, even that unfortunately doesn’t block out much of your… sounds. And he stays like that, rearranging the layout of his room, dripping with sweat. But on top of keeping his pride intact, he doesn’t want to see your face.

Not the nasty scowl that’s become familiar to him, not the venom in your voice that has lost its kick.

Seonghwa doesn’t bother to find out why.

Hours after, you’re storing the last, uneaten takeout meal into the fridge.

—

A gasp, a whisper is what gets him to open his eyes. It’s not quite as he recalls, though, his walls colourful with scenery, the sheets warm under him despite sleeping on the floor out of spite the night before.

“Relaaxx, baby, dirty sheets aren’t gonna stay dirty forever.” Seonghwa feels a force on his naked chest and heat along his lower half.

But it’s not quite there, a barrier of want, desire separating him and the person on him. Head fuzzy, arms feeling like they aren’t his, wordless sounds.

“(Y-Y/N)? Wha—” Hot. On fire. It’s what Seonghwa feels. Smooth, silky — your voice curls around his skin, weaves in between his limbs and encloses around his ears. He’s drunk on you.

And floaty. You’re soft around the edges, somehow blurring into the light surrounding him.

“You need to unclench sometimes, Hwa.” You hum, moving your hips slowly to test the waters. His shaky hands scale your thighs right up to your bare ass; weren’t you clothed—?

“Always so,” you sink down, “uptight.” Your warmth around his cock is what earns a deep groan, eyes flitting between your face contorted into pleasure, the dangling pendant you always seem to wear around your neck, and the sinful drag of his length against your walls.

Good is the only thing Seonghwa can gasp out, so good, so perfect. “It is, baby. Wanna be here forever.” You whimper out. He can hardly breathe, the sensation clouding his judgement and whatever he had with you is forgotten.

Your snarl softens into ecstasy, your taut hands into feather light touches.

But that’s where it’s off, isn’t it? Skin too bright it burns wrong, heat too intoxicating it’s got his hips bucking, kiss so sloppy it sparks something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

It’s when he thinks he feels you clench around him is when his dick twitches and—

It never comes, because Seonghwa’s jolting awake with a small yelp and it descends right into a groan.

“Shit. My back…” He’s awkwardly twisted, hands braced against the floor, but also awkwardly, incredibly hard from whatever that was that he has to take a breather. But it hurts, so, so bad he wishes you—

And that’s when it sinks into him. Wanting your smaller hands around him? Craving your hot breath mingling with his?

Where was the usual provocation of his heart, if not just manifesting in a different way? That leaves Seonghwa in a dilemma, fingers aching to inch into his shorts to relieve himself with dream-you infiltrating his thoughts. But it’s you.

“This is driving me fucking crazy.” The man mutters to himself, grabbing something to hide his very obvious hard-on at least until the restroom, not aware of your predicament on the other side of the wall.

In the next room over, Hyunjae greets you with a pretty smile and a raspy voice into your neck.

You let him kiss all over your chest, but the spark inside is merely a warm, brief breeze. His hands don’t seem to make your body buzz in anticipation. And yet, you pull him closer with a carefully carved hum, with rehearsed lips.

“Hyunjae?”

“Hm?”

Here goes nothing. With a deep breath, you’re working up the courage to say the words, frankly, that you’ve already said so many times. And yet, you at least think you deserve this.

“Are we,” you sigh with a smile; you hope it’ll soften the blow, “are we going anywhere with this?” 

“What do you mean, baby?” Hyunjae whispers, too preoccupied with running his hands up and down your naked sides that now feel intrusive, invasive. Even if he’s not showing that he knows, the small taps he places along your skin tells you everything; it makes the sides of your mouth twitch up.

That the tragedy of learning someone else is all on a bet, on a gamble that they’ll turn out to be a decent enough partner that doesn’t leave you hanging.

“You know what I’m talking about, Hyunjae.”

There’s a faint groan of disapproval, knowing you’d bring this up sooner or later. With a huff, he sits up to face away from you, sheets tempestuously pooling around his body so much that he feels unreachable and unscalable. And here you were, swimming in disappointment and frustration like it wasn’t the same old game.

“Sweetheart—” You hardly try to mask your scoff from behind him. Sweetheart, at a time like this, but before he can continue, Seonghwa’s interrupting the both of you with a sharp rap on the door.

“Breakfast’s ready.” It’s short and sweet, even if a little tense.

“Y-Yep, we’ll be out.” Again, you’ll let this go just as he turns back to you, a sneaky hand along your calf that immediately sends heat towards your core, sending you falling into a dizzying dilemma that eventually you find is a bottomless pit.

Seonghwa, on the other hand, doesn’t take long to fall apart once he’s slammed the bathroom door shut. The first touch along his cock makes him lean forward onto the shower wall, utterly overwhelmed with everything you that he doesn’t want to indulge himself in.

But his hand is the closest thing to your heat within the dream, the snipping cadence of your insults and your moans from last night merging and mingling until it ingrains itself in his brain, spurring him on as he strokes himself.

Soft fuck’s are all he can manage, avoiding your name like a plague as his vision of the white wall blurs and you come into focus. That flash of your fingertips, dipping into his skin and pushing; the easy, quiet yield into you. Seonghwa spills with a loud groan that’s covered by the shower, painting the walls white with a shiver.

The loud, quick pounding of his heart, the strain in his arm, your face phasing in and out of focus.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.”

—

It’s a while before you and Hyunjae emerge from the room, but Seonghwa’s got all the time in the world, especially when he’s cumming the fastest he’s ever done and then taking the swiftest shower known to man.

It isn’t in his genes — detailed, meticulous cleaning and all — but if he couldn’t trust his words, his actions in that… lewd dream, it wouldn’t be any different when you were in the room.

He’d cook a cordial breakfast, serve it and book it out of there, but he’s already cut his finger from cutting fruits, dripped batter all over the stove and spurted maple syrup onto the island.

Seonghwa’s troubles didn’t end there, culminating into a shattered plate on the floor when he was viciously scrubbing the dirty counter.

Despite all the chaos, he thanks whoever’s up there that the knob to the art room doesn’t budge, and gets to cleaning. Only ten minutes later, do you walk out sleepily behind Hyunjae.

“Morning.” It’s curt, but it’s the usual for you especially when you’re greeting Seonghwa. The lack of response stifles you in your tracks yet again, looking up, puzzled, to find him with an awkward smile and scrunched shoulders with a bag full of porcelain shards.

“Seonghwa…?” You trail off for any sort of reaction but his expression worsens the closer you come and all you get is a small squeak before he’s bolting off with intent. It backfires when he realises he’s briskwalking the wrong way, nodding off to the two of you before he’s out the door again.

Even Hyunjae who’s usually clueless about things is looking at you for answers, but you’re not that much more knowledgeable about his different facades (if he even had more than one, other than being a nuisance in your life). And definitely not enough to be able to explain something so out of character such as that, despite being roommates for nine months.

“Oh! Well, forget about him. Look.” that prompts your head to snap to the counter — perhaps so on edge from Hyunjae’s increasingly nasal voice, and your countless, crushing thoughts — that the little gesture of a breakfast fills your heart with uncharacteristic warmth.

“Dude made us breakfast. Dunno why yours are waffles though but, whatever.” You stifle a smile, before letting your hands guide you over the stove with a washcloth.

There’s hardly any interaction with Seonghwa for the rest of the day except for maybe the small scoff when you thank Hyunjae’s bare minimum act of cleaning up, pushing the apartment into a weird sense of calm and serenity you’ve not had for a long time.

It’s two, three, four days too long that you realise something’s off. It’s almost radio silent two doors down and has been for the past few days.

This wasn’t like Seonghwa. As much as he got under your skin, he never passed off the opportunity to piss the hell out of you, whether it’s by changing your shower head’s preferred pressure settings entirely or simply putting your favourite mug on the highest shelf.

You can still hear him usually in the form of surprise, from time to time — whether he’s gaming, watching a movie or talking on the phone — but the silence that follows is nothing short of secretive, like he’s afraid of getting caught. And you know he’s somehow getting food into his room, you just don’t know how. 

It’s like you were living with a ghost who did nothing but clean, countertops still shining and floors free of dust. Anything involving you, though… nothing.

At that, you’re reaching up to cradle something usually hanging around your neck for some comfort, but you forget you’ve lost it after Seonghwa’s weird exit and isolation.

It’s late four days later when Seonghwa sees your shadow by his door, no doubt hovering and pacing that he feels something pull at his heart. Not the typical irk he feels upon sensing your presence — because frankly, he’s done anything but think about messing up your little creations lately — guilt, regret, a little mix of anticipation and trepidation?

You’ve visited twice more in his sleep over the past few days. Kissed him breathless, made him harder than he’s ever been, whispered sweet things he’s never thought you’d say.

He’s afraid. How can he even begin to redeem himself with how much crap he’s pulled on you for the past nine months? You’d look at him crazy if he even mentioned how you appeared in his dreams, let alone had some semblance of lust disguised as infatuation for you. Or was it infatuation disguised as lust? He wasn’t sure any more.

Rustle of paper, several crushed drafts and then finally slip.

Seonghwa gets up, groggy and sluggish. It’s not that he hasn’t showered or continued his hobbies, but staying in bed rethinking how he felt about his (actually attractive) roommate did things to him.

what the hell r u doing in there

There’s a weak smile on Seonghwa’s face but it drops right away when he feels the ghost of your teasing touches. He scours his mind for any reason why you’d be trying to talk to him. Was rent coming up?

Your impatience seeps through the door; the sighs, your tapping finger. Scribble. Slip.

seonghwa i can hear u. can u say smth even if its smth stupid like ‘ur mom’ or whatever. not that i gaf

You gave too many fucks, actually. The house’s too quiet without your bickering, and there’s still batter left in the fridge that you wouldn’t dare touch without Seonghwa’s permission. Well, you still would, but he’s always been a little better at putting the right amount into the waffle maker.

You liked waffles for breakfast, and you liked his aggravating voice in your ears, you guess. Those were the reasons you told yourself.

Seonghwa rolls his eyes at your persistence, heading over to his desk to get a post-it of his own. For fun, he slips it under the door without writing anything. When you kiss your teeth after turning it over and over, you ram your elbow into his door.

Seonghwa laughs. Freely. He catches himself before it can cross over the line, before it spills into the hallway and maybe, maybe into your skin.

tell me ure not dying in there, at least. Your ink on his paper, like it’s a premonition. Your scribbles are a little messy against the stark white paper, but he likes it.

i’m not dying. don’t kid yourself into worrying about me.

who said my ass is worried about you .. whos going to pay the rent. if you’re stuck there? like dude. im not exactly ceo material ..

i could always just put the money under this gap. somehow, you’ll manage.

Slip.

That’s all he says. Another thud against his door, but this time it’s your fist and Seonghwa giggles slightly to himself before there’s a small laugh emanating from the other side of the door, too.

You’re not sure what to say after, staring at his carefully written words that you don’t notice the door opening slowly. He’s cracked it open while sitting, looking at you carefully as you lean back on your hands, in shock.

For a moment, no one speaks — he’s much more disheveled than his usual self, but he looks healthy and alive — before you’re letting out a small sigh of relief.

Even as you move to look in (curiosity’s gotten the best of you, you haven’t seen his room in detail anyway), Seonghwa tracks you, albeit this time with softer, unsure eyes.

For how long he’s been locked inside, the state of his room isn’t too bad except a lingering stale smell, but it’s nothing major. You take in his written words, his room from where you were seated, noticing how they reflect the spotless apartment. 

But the latter always lacked something. It was too sterile, too pure and clean that it felt unlived in. Seonghwa’s room had touches of colour from his LEGO sets, the figurines on the desk, even the slightly messed up bedsheets gave way to how chaotically he sleeps.

Seonghwa waits with bated breath as you stand up, stepping past the doorframe and into the room. He’s quick to get up, too, clearing all the paper you’ve used up in your little chat and scooting inwards, wincing when his ass bumps into the corner of the desk.

The little eye roll you do calms him down a little, “nice nerd room you’ve got here.”

Seonghwa huffs at the little jab, but nevertheless allows you to enter. Like you’re someone hunting him, he shrinks under your gaze but takes the chance to scan over you. The wonder-filled eyes, the tempting exposed skin thanks to your tank top, your… lips turned downwards?

“—nghwa. Seonghwa!” His brows furrow.

“W-What?”

He looks at what you’re holding: a plastic bowl. As you look into it, you recognise the intricate carving of your family necklace, an heirloom; the other is a bit more tacky, a gift from Hyunjae early on but it’s something you still cherish(ed).

That curiosity is gone. The desire to give Seonghwa a chance — dissolved.

“Why do you have them?” Fuck. Why’d he leave the bowl there? He was planning to put it back silently after soaking the jewellery in some vinegar and water to clean it, but he didn’t think you were gonna slip him post-its so soon like you were in tenth grade, and then come into his room.

But it wasn’t your fault. Not at all, when all you’ve done is tolerate him while he terrorises you and drives you crazy.

“Is— is this where you’ve been keeping my necklaces all this time? You know how hard I’ve been looking for these?”

Seonghwa only swallows, hands curled into fists as he resists the urge to reach out to you.

“I just wanted to… Christ.” His heart sinks even more when you open your pendant and the photograph of your grandmother is nowhere to be found. You look at him in desperate confusion. “W-Wait—!”

He frantically searches his desk for your grandmother’s picture, but it’s strangely missing. The one time he’s not neat enough, it comes at the expense of something dear to you.

Seonghwa stutters, hands out and opening drawers, checking under figurines but—

“Fucking forget about it, Seonghwa.”

“No, no, no, I had it! It was right under here—” 

“I said forget it!” The loud, booming volume of your voice takes him aback. Your tone always had a sharp edge to it, but it always only had hints of passivity. Always warnings, never commands. “Can’t believe I came in here thinking I'd be worried about you. What a joke.”

“Of course you have my things, always in your clutch. You’re already always in my fucking business — what’s one more, right?! Move in, get all my shit thrown away. Transform the extra room, get my paints mixed up.”

Seonghwa scoffs. The accusations in your voice sends his initial apprehension running, and his heart burns again, except he doesn’t know if he wants to kiss you stupid or slam the door in your face. “Is it so fucking difficult to imagine someone wanting a clean, organised home?”

“No, but this is a shared space, Seonghwa!” You can’t help but echo your words from your very first conflict. “You wanna keep your stupid figurines and ‘pristine’ look, fine! But stop coming into my rooms to push it onto me.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“What don’t I understand, Seonghwa? That you can’t respect my boundaries as a roommate just because you need to fulfill your cleaning commissions for the day?”

“Cleaning commissions? You think I do this for fun?” Seonghwa huffs with indignation, crossing his arms and walking right up to you.

“It sure as hell looks like it.” He towers over you, but you stand your ground with a heaving chest and spiteful stare.

“I clean because I have to.”

“What kind of excuse is that?” 

“The kind that gets you beat because apparently I ‘can’t do anything right in my life’. The kind that has your mother belittling you even as an adult because you missed a spot, (Y/N)!”

You take a step back as he takes one forward. “I clean because it’s the only way I feel control over my life! Less chaos, less calamity. Disorder. I never fucking hated it before, but now anything out of place makes me twitch.”

“And then you come into my life. Your mismatched clothing, your crumbs all over the island, your stupid little pretty face saying the meanest things.”

Seonghwa walks you into his cupboard and your breath hitches when your back meets hard wood. He tsks, “and yet, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I wanted to drive you away, I wanted to drive you to the ends of the earth and leave me with my own problems. It just happened that you’re so all-over-the-place that it was the perfect opportunity to do both. Kill two birds with one stone.”

“But you were different. You’re different.”

The laugh of disbelief you let out is deafeningly loud. You push at his chest with the bowl you’re still carrying, not knowing why your vision’s blurring. You’re just tired.

“Different? Different how, Seonghwa? How much more different can I be from every other person who you’ve driven out before ’cause you can’t face your trauma? Am I just some pawn for you to push around?”

The other simply stands dumbfounded as your words sink in. Is that why Hongjoong suggested a two bedroom apartment? He was the only one ever to know about my fractured relationship with my mother. 

“No. No, you’re not but—” Seonghwa groans. “It’s just—”

“What, Seonghwa? You surely had no problem shouting earlier, but now you’re tongue-tied?”

“You drive me fucking mad, you know that?” With hands outstretched, he looks almost crazed as if something’s been bugging him for the past few days, like something’s holding him back.

“But unlike my previous roommates, they’re weren’t and are not,” Seonghwa cradles his face, mumbles, “you. In the way that despite cleaning up your crumbs, I’d let you mess up the house all over again. Because it means I’d get one more fight with you.”

“Stop fucking lying, Seonghwa.” You don’t even have enough strength to push at his chest any more. Revealing his heavy past, dropping a line like that, the audacity is through the roof. You waste no time in taking your necklaces and leaving with badly contained sniffles. But with a hand over yours, he stops you.

“I’m not. I—I don’t know what changed, but, I don’t know how to feel about you. But it’s not whatever I felt before… that.”

You feel your heart simultaneously sink and skip. Sighing, you flick his hand off of you, not bothering to even try to find out what that means.

“I just want to be taken seriously in a house that requires the work of two people. Stop saying stupid, unserious shit like this, like— like, a simple confession would make me forget about everything you’ve done!”

“It’s not stupid when I’ve had dreams, (Y/N). Dreams.” Seonghwa almost reaches forward to grasp at your shoulders but stops himself instantly. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“What?” What kind of dreams would—

He runs his hands through his hair with fervour. “I don’t know how to feel about you because for the past few days I’ve been thinking non-stop about you. All because of a damn dream.”

“I—I can’t control dreams, Seongh—”

“I’m not saying you are! Fuck, none of this is your fault, it’s just—”

Seonghwa’s skin’s on fire, all too similar to the dreams he’s had with you, making the mistake of looking at your guarded stance of clenched fists and furrowed eyebrows.

Yet, yet, your eyes; they beg him to continue even though every fibre in his body is telling him not to.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes, unknowingly letting the tension between the both of you move entirely from unfiltered rage into something more, heated with heavy breaths. One step becomes two. 

“Like you want me to undo everything I’ve ever done.”

With your necklaces in your hand, you throw the empty bowl at him with a sneer. He doesn’t catch it, letting its fall reverberate throughout his room. “I deserve at least that much, don’t you think, asshole?”

A beat of silence. “Because I will. Ten times, hundredfold over.”

The resolute firmness of Seonghwa’s voice makes you shrink back into your body, feeling like prey with the intense way he stares at you.

But the way your heart picks up isn’t just from the magnitude of his fiery gaze, devoted to his claim. You recognise it as something that has made its presence known before.

In the way you’ve had your eyes rake over his toned figure after his showers. You can’t deny following the cascade of droplets down his broad back when he picks at the hanging plants you’ve hung up. Or even the slenderness of his fingers as they flex around a rag.

And now, along the curves and dips of his arms as they rest comfortably on his hips, looking at you to say something, anything. But what do you say to that?

You gulp down your pride, directing your attention elsewhere — as if his display case of Star Wars sets are the most interesting thing in the world at the moment. He takes the chance to close in on you and your heart again.

“You can’t bring back anything that’s already done, idiot.” It’s hardly coherent with the way you’re talking more to yourself than Seonghwa.

Your eyes stay locked downwards, the scandalous hug of his tight tank around his torso now infiltrating into your eyeline. You watch, entranced, with how he takes a breath. “T—Then, let me make it up to you.”

You should be screaming, mad at him and shoving at his chest, stalking off right back to your room to sulk. But you do anything but that—

“Show me how sorry you are, then,” Your head shoots up, locking eyes with him, “Park Seonghwa.”

—and have the gall to be surprised when he lunges forward to slam his lips into yours. You stumble, eyes wide with shock but you soon receive him with moans, body staggering back into the wardrobe just as his hand cradles your head.

With his other, Seonghwa removes your necklaces timidly from your palm to place them down, but you halt him with a whispered wait.

In your needy haze, you hardly can separate Hyunjae’s cheap necklace from your family’s heirloom, throwing it over your shoulder once you feel the thin, fragile chain of it. Holding up the locket, you shake it in his face.

“I’m seriously going to kill you if you don’t find that photo.”

Seonghwa cringes, nodding quickly to your threat before you relinquish all control; your necklace in his hand which he sets down like glass, your body to his strong grip.

He pulls you in until there’s no space left between the both of you, pressing his soft lips onto yours yet again with impatient passion that it’s got you gasping. Taking the opportunity to slip his tongue in, Seonghwa walks the both of you back until his knees hit the edge of the bed and the heated kiss only increases in sloppiness.

It’s not difficult to lose your breath fast when he’s got you pressed up against him like this, traces of arousal shooting down from your neck, to your chest and straight down to your cunt.

“God, you’re fucking insane in the head.” Seonghwa simply groans out, as if he can’t believe you’re real in the flesh.

“I’ll get more insane if you continue to talk.”

Seonghwa smiles with a bite to his lip and you roll your eyes with one, too. A curious finger dips into his swollen lips, reddening from the roughness; you play with it before slipping it in and his mouth naturally parts to let you in.

He holds your fervent eyes as he wraps his tongue around the flesh of your finger. The lewd act has you squeezing your thighs together, pressing down on his jaw and he lets you.

“Hm. Pretty mouth.” A small shove and Seonghwa’s falling onto his bed and the sight makes you just a little light-headed. But you have an ace hidden, too, dipping your thumbs into the thin booty shorts you’ve got on and pulling it down, down, down your legs to reveal a light grey lacy pair.

Originally intending to call Hyunjae over to chase your worries away, you think that it’s a lucky coincidence, that you’re showing off how the fabric stretches over your skin to Seonghwa instead.

You’re quick to straddle him and you whine softly at feeling his hard-on, hands braced upon his toned stomach. “Too bad you use it too much only to annoy me.”

Feigning a pondering expression, you inch your body up with every other word that you can feel every ridge, every fold through your thin panties. Seonghwa watches you with wonder, and with hooded lids. “If only there was a way to get you to shut your mouth.”

A desperate plea leaves Seonghwa’s lips as your pussy hovers over his sternum, tilting so close into where he wants, where he needs you. There’s a damp spot staining your underwear that he can’t look away from, tugging you over with his stronger arms and begs with his wide eyes.

You can’t even finish nodding before Seonghwa’s swiping your panties to the side and latching his mouth onto your pulsing cunt, making you stutter out a deep, pornographic moan.

“So good. So warm,” It’s like something takes over him. He hums into your puffy clit, plunging his tongue right into your sensitive spots as he drinks up all your juices, “want this pussy on me forever.”

Hearing such words from the other makes you clench around nothing, a high-pitched squeal escaping from your lips when he tightens his hold around your thighs and yanks you more onto his lips.

“Soak me, angel. Want to feel you, all of you,” It’s pure agony laced within his muffled words, the vibrations sending chills up your spine, “wanna make you feel like you’ve never hated me.”

Two fingers prods at your hole from behind, entering you swiftly from how dripping wet your pussy was. You fall forward into his headboard, hands gripping it so tightly your knuckles turn white, but Seonghwa doesn’t let up with his tongue, nor his gaze.

“Sweeter, so much fucking sweeter than my dreams.” Your cunt’s gripping so intensely around his fingers as he continues to abuse your clit, circling his tongue around your bud with the same pace he thrusts into you with. And it sends your mind to another place that only Seonghwa’s eyes can anchor down, shining with a cheeky glint when you start grinding your hips into his face.

Until now, you haven’t trusted your words, but his long fingers reach places in you that you can’t even fathom and the overwhelming pressure of his mouth, sucking and sucking that you can’t help but gasp out a faint Seonghwa. 

His eyes light up without fail and he only goes back to devouring you and your cunt whole — fingers keeping his consistent, deep pace and his unrelenting tongue working you to the bone — until your throat��s spilling more yes’s and please’s.

“Yes— yes, fuck, that’s it. Cum all over my tongue.” Your orgasm crests and comes crashing down over you with repeated whines, nowhere to run when Seonghwa’s got you trapped under his arms as your thighs shake around him. “Good fucking girl.”

You hate how much of an effect it has on you, looking at him from below you with a barely focused glance that it makes you shy, again.

But there’s disappointment when he looks at you like it burns him, as if he didn’t say all those filthy things just as you lift a leg off of him, transformed to the Seonghwa who was unsure before. It’s followed by a frantic swipe of his mouth like he didn’t just make you cum. You frown.

You can’t fault his… urge to feel clean, but if he’s willing to let you mess the fuck out of this apartment and subsequently, his life, then…

Wordlessly, you lower yourself to your knees on the floor with shaky legs, tugging on his legs to get him to stand up. A soft oh my god leaves his lips when you palm at the tent in his boxers, knees buckling when your fingers slip past the waistband and you pull, slowly.

“Fuck…” You watch in awe when his cock springs out, hitting his abdomen once the boxers are off. It’s pretty, and big, the tip an angry red that’s already leaking pre-cum.

“Angel,” Seonghwa whimpers when you wrap your hand around his length, giving an experimental kitten lick to his weeping tip, “you’re driving me crazy.”

“You said that, already.” You tease before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, suckling and moaning at the taste of his pre. But he’s so tense, worrying about your cum dripping to the floor, about the drool leaving the corners of your mouth. Even if he doesn’t say it, you can tell.

“Seonghwa.”

“Huh?” His eyes meets yours.

“Stop worrying about the clean-up. There’s always later, and tomorrow, and lots of time after that.”

“But—” Placing a hand on his thigh, you ground him to you.

“It’s just work that requires two people, and whatever we’re doing now; needs two people, too. Don’t worry, we’ll get it clean.”

“Y—Yeah.” Seonghwa’s still a little on edge, but he’s comforted (and a little sheepish) at the words you’d recycled from earlier. Oh, and he’s going to make sure you feel every last bit reassured after the last nine months. “Yeah.”

“Even if I’m still a little angry with you.” With a click of your tongue, you simply purse your lips and shrug. But your need for him overrides your anger for now, taking the leap of grabbing his hand and guiding it to your head. “Take charge. Use me, and later, show me how much you want to make it up to me. And let it be messy. Deal?”

Seonghwa’s gaze hardens at your proposal, deal. Slowly, bit by bit, he lets go of the pressure to be prim and proper as you take over, tapping his tip on your tongue for a bit and making sure he sees. His hands gradually tangle themselves more in your hair as you finally stop with the teasing, bobbing your head along his length while your hands stroke the rest of him.

“That’s warm, f-fuck—” His eyes are scrunched while your mouth engulfs him, swirling your tongue around his throbbing cock that only seems to grow in your hold.

You come up for air ever so often, gathering saliva and spitting all over to make it wet and Seonghwa almost buckles back onto the bed at the visual.

“Just like that, baby, what a pretty cocksleeve.” He groans out, surprised even at his own words but you love it, switching to thumbing his tip that has him whining out. With locked eye contact, you drag your tongue from the bottom of his cock to the tip before circling your tongue around it.

It’s not long until you come up with a pop, stabbing your fingers into the back of his thighs before using only your mouth, sinking deeper and deeper until his tip hits the back of your throat and your nose is buried in his pubes. You hum. Seonghwa hisses with a strain to his voice, hands tightening in your hair until there’s a sting to your scalp.

The pain only makes you moan around his cock, your sounds reverberating through his body. “That’s it, pretty. Take my cock like a good little slut.”

Needing air, you pull away with a needy moan, eyes rolling back at his words. You’re back to sucking him off sloppily, saliva dripping everywhere with strings of it connecting your lips to his tip as he guides your movements a little rougher now, no doubt desperate for release.

Seonghwa surprises you when he stops altogether, the weight on your head gone and a hand finding rhythm along his length. His other hand grabs your face, mouth parted into an ‘o’ from his fingers.

“Open.” The simple, tense command has you rubbing your thighs together, sticking your tongue out immediately. You feel dizzy, lost in the sight of Seonghwa pumping his cock and whining out your name like a prayer. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, y-yes. Such an obedient little thing.”

“Gonna give you all of my cum—!” So obsessed with the view that you flinch just a little when his cum shoots out, painting your face a translucent white and tainting your ears with his delicious moans and pleas. Seonghwa’s cumming so much, staining your features with streaks of white while dumping the leftover cum right into your mouth.

He repeats what you did before — slapping his tip on your tongue and relishing in the wet taps of your saliva and his cum, cheeks going just a bit red from everything he’s said and done.

They stay red the whole time the two of you are tangled in the slowly soaking sheets, as Seonghwa watches you climb over him. You look like a dream — literally — dripping pussy hovering just over his cock before the spark ignites. 

Your skin on his is as beautiful as he imagined, burning with the same intensity that melts away that very barrier. Between your personalities, your bodies, hell, Seonghwa didn’t care any more.

Not when he had you, unfiltered, primal, raw now; he wasn’t going to let anything stand between the two of you any longer.

“This better than your—fuck—dream?” You tease, dragging your folds along the underside of him. Seonghwa’s eyes roll to the back of his head at your heat, nodding furiously to your question.

“Yes, baby, so so m—” He’s panting, looking up at you like his subconscious hadn’t planted this seed in his head days ago. The breathlessness, the heat rushing to his cock, the spill of your arousal around him — it smothers him in the best way possible when you lift your hips with a hand between you.

You don’t give him what he wants just yet, teasing your pussy along his length. Up, down. Up, down. “Please—”

“Please what, Hwa?” He twitches at that, making you giggle. “You like it when I call you Hwa?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa drags you down by your arms, “P-Please ride me.”

“Aw, when you’re begging like that…” You trail off, mouth just hovering over his, eyes flitting between his plump lips and unsteady eyes, guiding his cock to your waiting hole.

And when his tip nudges past your folds, Seonghwa shivers at your suffocating warmth, your walls clamping around him like a vice.

“S-So big—” You can’t help but gasp out, sinking down onto him until he bottoms out. He’s bigger than anyone you’ve taken, filling you up so immensely it’s got your head fuzzy. 

You waste no time to start moving, palms flat against his front as you work your hips and the drag of your sopping cunt around him has him groping blindly at your sides, your plump ass.

“Wait—fuck—!” Seonghwa’s eyebrows are furrowed, mouth dropped open from the sensations. You move like the thought of stopping is criminal, giggling to yourself when you feel the other meet your thrusts from below you, “a-angel—”

“Wai—” He doesn’t have the chance to complete his sentence before his tip spurts white into your pussy, coating your walls with cum. Hips bucking pathetically, and body shaking like a leaf, Seonghwa mentions anything from your name to expletives.

Your body falters when you feel his cum flood your cunt, switching to slower movements as you feel everything spill past where you were connected and ignoring the intoxicating friction between your clit and his pubes.

“Oh, look at you…” You smirk, fingers roaming all over his body. “Baby’s cumming so quickly. I haven’t even finished yet.” 

Pouting, your hips pick up the pace yet again, ignoring Seonghwa’s pleas to slow down as you chase your own high. But you’re so absorbed with the way his cock fills you up that you don’t realise he’s recovering from the intense orgasm and aiding your ministrations.

Until Seonghwa wraps both arms around your middle, causing you to fall forward with a yelp. You just manage to brace your fall with two hands with either side of his head; he would’ve liked it better for you to collide with his lips.

But he finds it better this way, especially when he plants his feet into the mattress and spreads your pussy, thrusting his length upwards into you so roughly you jerk forward again.

Seonghwa has the pleasure of seeing your expression twist into pure ecstasy, smirking when he meets your eyes. “I can be annoying, too.”

“You have been, everyday, H—Hwa…” You barely manage to get out as his hips meet your ass without any rest, sending the room into a concoction of obscene squelches and whines. “And yet, I’m still fucking you.”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes in his classic Seonghwa way, but is humbled when you grab his chin like he did earlier. He’s pliant. Saliva drips from your mouth, a blob dripping right down on his tongue and you swear you feel him twitch in you.

“Swallow, asshole.” He obeys, but not before giving you a hooded glare, making your confidence wane once he continues to ram into your needy cunt.

“You forget I can just leave you high and dry, baby. Don’t test me.” Despite the way your body’s rocking, you smile back teasingly, caging Seonghwa between your arms and leaning over his mouth.

“And you forget that you’re the one who’s made my life a living hell.”

“Oh, shut up.” Seonghwa sneaks a hand towards your clit, torturing your sensitive bud before whispering against your lips. You think you fall deeper. “You love it.” 

His pelvis meets yours in pussydrunk, nasty thrusts that soon turn sloppy, sinking into you with a mix of infuriation and lust. You don’t last long as the added stimulation sends you tipping over the edge, Seonghwa following close behind while he spills white again into your tight pussy. 

“Is this sorry enough for you, angel?” He grunts out against your lips, the hands around you unconsciously soothing your trembling figure on him. The sheets are dirtied, soiled with sweat and cum, but Seonghwa just wants more. More messiness, more you.

“Not even close, Hwa.” You laugh breathlessly, his breath hot on your lips and you can’t get enough, “give it to me. Fuck me like you hate me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

—

Seonghwa never truly rests for two, three more rounds until he’s got your body limp in his hold as he cleans you up. Movements slow and gentle, and so unlike the man who liked to piss you off. Even the way he talks—

“I got you, baby, know you’re sensitive.” Touching you like you’re delicate lace, he parts your legs to wipe up your ruined cunt. But you’re suddenly shy, exposed and all.

“(Y/N)? Needa clean you up, angel.” You mumble out a sleepy, cute It’s messy, before retaliating with a You asked me to be messy!

“Shut up, Hwa.” He looks up from his task to see a pout, before hiding your face into a pillow and letting him move your legs. He pretends not to notice your intake of breath when he mutters an Attagirl under his breath.

“What are we?” It’s the dreaded question you’ve come to ask, always at the breakfast table, always in the morning. You watch Seonghwa’s back nervously, admiring how his muscles move and yet, mourning the fact you might not get to learn every dip, every crevice in this weird, fucked up relationship you’ve got.

You’re still harbouring grudges, still mad about the little gifts he so carelessly threw away, still angry about the decal he peeled away that left adhesive marks. You’re still hurt on the words he’s flung at you, at the loathing he brings out of you.

But within Seonghwa’s exasperating, peeving personality accompanied by his unwanted affinity for neatness, you can see the care, the adoration he has for you. Maybe you wouldn’t move past infatuation, maybe not even past lust. You’re not sure yourself.

Seonghwa meets you halfway. Unlike Hyunjae, he grasps that uncertainty and holds your hand through it. He doesn’t let you wade through the dark alone.

He takes the troubling act of gambling of learning someone for the first time and gives you a challenge. You’ve played that challenge, you’ve crossed paths, you’ve butted heads, except now, instead of colliding with unmoving egos, you melt, soften into each other like the syrup on your waffles.

“I… don’t know.” Seonghwa turns around with your waffles and his pancakes, cooked to perfection with syrup and strawberries. He comes around the island with eyes locked on you — he doesn’t need to do that — to place your breakfast down, to stand between your legs.

It makes your stomach stir that you clutch at your newly cleaned locket, but your heart’s snug when his lips meet your forehead. Gentle, like the sun��s first kiss upon the moon during an eclipse.

“But, I know that whatever happens, I want it to be with you.”

by. janus, from me to you ♡

[mingisprincxss]

𝙆𝙀𝙀𝙋 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙀𝙔𝙀𝙎 𝙊𝙉 𝙈𝙀

𝙂𝙀𝙉𝙍𝙀: 𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙪, 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩, 𝙚𝙭𝙚𝙨, 𝙨𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙞���'𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩 𝙛𝙧, 𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙩

𝙎𝙔𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙎𝙄𝙎: 𝘊𝘩𝘰𝘪 𝘚𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. 𝘖𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘢 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳—𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘥. 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘨𝘰, 𝘚𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯: 𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

𝘉𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳-𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵-𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺—𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘯-𝘯𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦—𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘉𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳-𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘦𝘵? 𝘾𝙖𝙧 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙.

𝙒𝘾: 5.4𝙠 (𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥)

𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎: 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹 𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘺𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘰 𝘪 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴

San chews on a toothpick until his cheeks wad with saliva—spitting onto the dirt lot with a glare. “Who the fuck is that?”

Hongjoong sighs, fully expecting the complete 180 in San’s eyes after catching wind of your entrance earlier, despite praying that he’d remain oblivious. With you looking like that though? Borderline impossible.

You smile hard—so hard it’s like you never met him. Clean, brilliant, sharp. He tries to imagine what you looked like after the breakup, but remembers why he struggles to.

He ignored every call. The ones demanding an explanation—the hateful ones, the heartbroken ones. San loved you with his entirety, but was still fully unprepared for the kind of love you shared.

He never loved a girl like that—not the way he loved you.

So he did a stupid, irreversible thing—holding a random girl at the bar by the hips just in time to see you walk in, face falling like the world collapsed onto your chest. He watched you leave and loved you for every step you took away from him.

San’s used to making girls cry, but he vomited shortly after you left—pushing her off and ordering a Jameson Honey to wash off the stick. His triple digit body count has everything to do with trying to climb over bodies in order to get over you.

Hongjoong scratches his head, face turning towards heaven. God help me.

“That… that’s Seonghwa.” He nods in his direction, catching your eye momentarily. An immediate glaze is casted, the iron fortress over your eyes is both unrelenting and unreadable. You only smile softly before whispering in Seonghwa’s ear, his mouth slicing open with a mock gasp. San’s energy visibly darkens. The guy wasn’t bad looking and embodied everything he knew you liked in a man: tall, slicked back hair with distinct eyes. A little cocky, but nice enough to talk to.

Seonghwa’s the new guy—cocky to his detriment. He was smooth on the track and San’s only overheard his name from some girls he was mutually slamming by sheer coincidence. It didn’t phase him.

At least, it didn’t. Not until today.

Because your eyes? They racked over Seonghwa with a visible hunger. And you were a woman who didn’t need love to take a nice tumble into someone’s sheets, so long as it promised a good time.

The first day you’d met San, you looked at him with that same undeniably heated expression. It isn’t an over exaggeration to admit that his pants immediately tightened within the first four minutes of meeting you.

There’s one very important, distinguishing trait that’s important to know about San before interacting with him: He’s crass. Vulgar, even.

And he’s as ballsy as his tongue is sharp. Needlessly so. His infamous style of racing with reckless abandon proved that—which was one of the central, unnerving issues he had when you were still together. Loving you made him softer—more afraid of fucking up astronomically on the track, because that could mean not coming back home to hold you once the race was over.

And San was prepared to die young with how fast he lived, in more ways than one.

So when he approached, you weren’t the slightest bit surprised. You held the posture of a stranger, even though he made sure to stand just a little bit too close—but not close enough to warrant a response from either you or the douchebag next to you.

His blood runs cold when he notices a purple splotch on your neck, before turning over to Seonghwa.

“You racing tonight?” San doesn’t blink. Despite being shorter than Seonghwa, he seemed to make up for it in other ways—in the blatant distaste in his eyes or the broadness of his shoulders.

Seoonghwa regards him nonchalantly. “No shit”

He points to his racing jacket and gloves with a raised brow. San stifles a scoff

“Sounds good. I’m San—and the girl next to you? She’s going to be my car bunny in about thirty minutes. You know the ground rules, right?” It slides out of his mouth like butter, and you almost applaud him for his ability to be such an absolute asshole.

You cut in just as Seonghwa steps forward to grab his collar, positively furious—knuckles ready to bruise. “Who the fuck said I’m even on the roster to begin with? I don’t want to be your fucking bunny, San.”

San side eyes you “Sweetheart, you’ve been on the track enough to know what it means to even stand near it. Even if someone wanted me to take it up the ass once the tip of their car hits the finish line, that’s just the way it is. A deal is a deal so long as the stakes are met. And if you’re not comfortable being put on the line as a bet? Well…the door’s right there. The track isn’t for pussies. This entire place is Russian roulette incarnate.”

You hated that he wasn’t wrong. That’s the one thing that made this track so enticing to any daredevils in the scene. If you wanted in? Everything’s on the line and up for grabs, even if you weren’t racing. There were only a few rules everyone adhered to.

One. A bet is a bet. No matter how fucked up the deal is—if it’s made, you had to see it through.

Two. If you’re dragged or placed as a trophy and don’t like it? You can leave but are never allowed to come back to the scene.

And three, because of the incredible amount of problems surrounding racers and their partners getting intertwined with the wrong people or opposing party—which often resulted in a number of violent crimes on and off the track—the track has bestowed the title of Car Bunny.

You can only have one Car bunny. No exceptions and break ups don’t matter—it’s the equivalent of being marked permanently on the track. And once someone’s your car bunny? No one else can succeed that position. It’s a one and done deal. You can’t take it back and you can’t get another one.

And then there’s San’s favorite part of the deal, despite his hatred of long term commitment: no other racer or person who attends the track’s allowed to be involved with a car bunny. No exceptions. An overwhelmingly possessive non-negotiable.

Now it’s not in his power to stop you from dating anyone who’s not in the scene, but he’s not letting some newbie fuck you right under his nose.

Seonghwa’s still as marble.

But the one thing about men who drive fast?

Their egos get to the best of them.

And turning down San’s blatant challenge would make him clearly undeserving of standing there amongst the greatest of the underground car scene.

You glare at him. Beautiful as the god of war—out for blood when you grab his wrist and pull him out of sight. A small “oof!” tumbles out of him when you push him hard against a wall.

“What’s your problem?” He instantly knows he’s fucked up astronomically. You didn’t like yelling—too cool, collected, and confident to let someone see you so affected by something.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, only opening one and flinching when he sees your enraged expression. “Well— ya know. Just wanted a car bunny and saw you? Thought to myself it wouldn’t be so bad, fulfilling that old promise.” He chuckles nervously, lurching over when you sock him clean and firm in the gut. He spits out a cough.

Yeah, he deserved that.

But San couldn’t help the fact that the words that left him weren’t the ones he meant. He was clumsy around you and he hated that.

Numero dos in why he desperately had to get away from you.

“Old promise? How about all of those missed calls, huh? Or that insanely subpar bimbo you probably nailed while wreaking of Jameson Honey? I can finally admit that you tasted like shit on my tongue every Friday night.” Your words grit out from your teeth and San jolts up, still clutching his stomach, in shock.

You cut him off before he gets a chance to say anything. “And god so help me—I’m not rooting for you. I hope you fucking crash on your way to the finish line because the one I intend on going home with? it’s not you.” With that, you whip your head around, strutting away, hair perfuming the air as he stares at you wistfully despite the murderous intent in your words.

That one hurt. More than the punch to the gut.

Nonetheless, he stutters out with a hopeful plea.

“Keep your eyes on me. Please. Wouldn’t want to miss out on the crash, right?” He laughs again, wincing.

You pause. Heels leaving holes in the dirt, and continue on—as if never hearing his words.

Seonghwa immediately rushes towards you, grabbing your upper arms. “Hey—I’m sorry about that. I really like you and I didn’t mean to put you on the line like that. Don’t worry, I won’t lose.”

You’re already preparing yourself but your face doesn’t give you away.

“You ever seen San drive before?” is all you ask and he shakes his head. Confidence without basis, you note.

“Well— try your damn best.” Because as much as you hate him, you know there isn’t a chance that San’s losing tonight.

You kiss Seonghwa for the last time and feel San’s eyes on you. Making sure you leave a lasting impression on Seonghwa’s tongue because he won’t be able to taste you for as long as he chooses to race.

Shame.

He was cute enough to eat for awhile. And big.

Even if you tried, you wouldn’t be able to tear your eyes from San’s blood red coupe. You were never good at looking away from him.

The moment the race begun, you knew how it’d end. Dirt wafted and tires burned, drifting around the designated tracks and routes around the outskirts of the city, a mixture of both urban landscapes and rough overgrowth.

You make a performance every time San’s coupe comes back around, screeching the syllables of Seonghwa’s name, stretching it out for the entire duration of his turn.

It was impressive, really. Hwa wasn’t too far behind, and it’s the closest someone’s got to San’s bumper in a long while. The only person who’d beat San in a race was Hongjoong—long before they became good friends and when Joong was looking for both prolific and underrated racers to join his team. His end of the deal was that San would be his.

Initially, San thought Hongjoong was into boy butt, yet still took on the bet. Shrugging it off with an apology to you “Sorry baby, just know you’re the one I love.”

Once Joong beat him, San was already unbuckling his belt, strutting nonchalantly towards the latter’s Navy blue matte Mazda after the race “You prefer doing the taking or the fucking?”

The man in question deadpanned that he wasn’t particularly interested in sleeping with San or knowing what he looked like naked.

San only replied with “Oh, you wanted my freedom—Not my ass?”

Joong shook his hand with a kind, unperturbed smile “Welcome to the team.”

You laugh at the memory. It’s the first time you were able to remember San without the overwhelming ache numbing your body.

The sudden loud cheering makes you flinch and you dart your head up. Seonghwa leaves his car, throwing his helmet off. He turns to you, eyes distraught.

Shaking your head, you mouth to him.

‘It’s done.’ It didn’t take long for you to figure out that Seonghwa was a natural. He originally took on the sport as a means to defy his uptight, privileged family but settled into the thrum of adrenaline, and quickly made a name for himself as a promising greenie.

San, however, had the habit far too young for him to be easily beat. Seonghwa had a name, but San had a legend—gutsy to the point of being almost mythic.

There’s an ease San masks his gait with as he saunters over to you, almost looking apologetic but carrying the sort of backhanded pity that says ‘It’s not like I was going to lose in the first place’

To say he’s the most aggravating, grating man to be around is both an understatement and a feat.

“Suppose you know what this means?” He stops in front of Seonghwa with a tilt to his head.

Seonghwa stares him down for a couple of prolonged seconds, jugular protruding, tonguing his cheek. “Loud and clear.”

San nods, satisfied with the finality he hears in his tone. “Not too bad, greenie.”

The referee shouts out “Cheers to the new Car Bunny!” And it feels like a death sentence.

San’s face is unreadable, as the crowd dispersed: everyone either heading home or the bar.

“Need a ride?” He juts his head towards the heart achingly familiar coupe. And you feel the tension in the air: electric, intense. Just as it always was.

Like it used to be.

And if your heart were in better condition, you would pretend like nothing ever happened, as if this were another night San said he’d drive you home but instead took you over to his rugged studio apartment. The mattress will still have no bed frame and it’d still mean everything to you that he bought extra pillows and sheets, because it was starting to become a regular thing to have you fall asleep in his arms.

You know the sheets wouldn’t smell like you anymore and there might be another shade of lipstick that isn’t yours staining his pillows.

Being his Car Bunny wouldn’t have made you feel sick. It would’ve felt like an engagement ring or signing a lease to a new home.

San’s stomach churns, anxious and somehow vulnerable under the weight of your silent stare. You respond by walking over to the passenger seat, knowing the trick to getting the finicky door open by heart. His heart jumps when you connect your Bluetooth to the car immediately, happy that you didn’t remove ‘𝙎𝘼𝙇𝙇𝙔' from your device list.

As if knowing what he was thinking, you side eye him.

“I hate you, not your car.” Crossing your arms and turning to look out the window. Anywhere but him.

But like you said, keeping your eyes on him? It’s a habit. Like your desire had its own muscle memory, the taste of his cum still on your tongue. His new look wasn’t helping. Cropped hair defining his steadily maturing features, black compression tee sticking your eyes on him with how it sandwiched his flesh with sleek cloth. He was a man when you broke up but now? You were palpably aware that San’s most likely going to age like fine wine.

He grumbles something along the lines of sarcastic gratitude, before fumbling with his keys. The engine groans and spits as he makes his way out of the dirt lot.

Surprisingly, San stays quiet and takes the road that leads back into the part of the city where your apartment was. You don’t like how your stomach bubbles at the fact that he still remembers how to get there, not inching his finger towards maps or asking for your address all over again like it was a new beginning.

As much as you hated it, you were both unfinished business.

“Why did you do that?” You break the silence, cursing yourself for sounding meek.

San almost turns to look at you but keeps his eyes on the road, making a left turn. He didn’t know if you were talking about the Car Bunny ordeal or… the past. The past he really doesn’t want to talk about.

“Do what?” His voice is soft, appeasing. As if he didn’t want to step on any of the jagged edges he knew he was solely responsible for making.

“Come on, San. Radio silence for months and suddenly you want me to be your Car Bunny?” You try to steel your tone, furrowing your brows as your resolve to keep cool cracks open.

San visibly softens, a far cry from his usual eccentric confidence. “…It just happened. You know I still love you right?” It leaves his mouth like a fact and that breaks open a six month old dam in your chest.

“Do I? How am I supposed to know if you don’t say anything? That’s not love, San. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but this? Nah.” He almost crashes the car when he hears the break in your voice, immediately going off road to park and turn his emergency lights on. For the life of him, he wouldn’t be able to drive knowing you were crying. He reaches his arms towards you, hesitating, before deciding against it, face caving in at the sight of your heartbreak.

He’s made you cry twice and he hates himself for it. As much as he wants to regret the stunt he pulled, he couldn’t. Not if it meant he didn’t have to see you with somebody else.

The only thing he could do is finally say everything he should’ve from the start.

“I was scared.” He confesses. Your wide-eyes jolt to look at him.

You’ve heard San say many things during your time together, but never this. San had the makings for fearlessness—he wouldn’t be able to do what he does if he did.

The legendary Choi San—scared?

He sighs when he sees your questioning gaze, reaching to turn his engine on standby. “I loved you too much. So I left.”

Your face contorts into immediate disgust—crestfallen at the face of a classic dude response. He fumbles

“No—wait. See, that’s the issue. I never get things right. I drive like I’m trying to end the night in a casket and it feels good to do that. But with you? When I’m on the road, I only think about driving back home to you. I don’t press the gas as hard and don’t take sharp turns that could end with me rolling off the mountain even if I don’t win. It’s just…you. I don’t feel like myself. I feel safe. I feel myself changing.” He tousles his hair, frustrated—clumsy.

“Okay. I’m hearing you. But how does that even add up to what I saw that night?“ You press, trying not to push San to where he’d be back to avoiding the conversation entirely, but not relenting either.

“I wanted to pretend I could do without you by treating it like something I could easily... throw away. Honestly, as shitty as it is, I waited until you were around the corner to hold onto some random chick up for grabs. I wouldn’t be able to break up with you face to face—I’d literally disintegrate. So I avoided every conversation after, because I knew seeing you or hearing your voice would make me crawl right back to you.” The more he says it out loud, the more he realizes how stupidly he went about it.

“That’s…actually so stupid. Take me home.” You deadpan, staring at his face for the first time without forcing yourself to look away. Your eyes stroke his face, like you were saving the memory for later—peering, curious, taking a step back from hatred and into something more…ambiguous and hard to name.

It might sound stupid, but you knew San like the back of your hand. In some ways, the two of you fit together perfectly; in others, you were complete opposites—especially in how you felt things. San’s the living embodiment of an intrusive thought when it comes to his actions, and you were a free flowing emotional powerhouse: rage, love, all that jazz? You felt it and didn’t necessarily shy away from feeling it, even if you didn’t share it with the world. San was brave when it came to where his hands and body went, but never when it came to matters of the heart.

Even though it didn’t make sense to you, it made sense for him.

San leans back against the car door, drawing in a deep breath. His eyes linger on the fabric stretched across the ceiling before he reaches over, opens the glove compartment, and pulls out a small photo to hand over.

A Polaroid.

“I’ve kept this in Sally since the break up. I don’t keep shit I have no need for in here. But I practically prayed to this photo of you everyday, because I didn’t have it in me to go and see you myself.” He confesses. You take the worn Polaroid, gazing down at the creases that’ve formed through time.

You imagine San’s calloused palms grasping it in silence—afraid and alone. Missing you and drowning in his self sabotaging habits.

It was a photo you think Joong took of you when you all were celebrating an all round team win—your face was a far glimmer from its usual confident and bold form, choking mid-laugh, features creasing down into something softer; whole. You looked like a girl happy to be in love.

You were held up by a pair of sturdy, tan arms—and even though he wasn’t directly in the photo, you can still vividly remember the way San looked at you that night, the first time you confessed that you loved him.

He kissed you so hard you almost fell back right after this photo was taken.

For a moment, you bask in the feeling of that bright memory. The photo grows warm in the tightness of your hand. You peer at San and cold sweat starts forming under the sudden heat of your eyes, as he starts backing into the street.

Maybe he’s imagining it.

He turns the music back on, adjusting the knob so that the volume sits at a low drone, and focuses his eyes on the road. The highway is mostly empty, lit only by the headlights of his car and the distant glow of the city, still twenty minutes away.

San barely registers the sound of your seatbelt unbuckling before you lay a small kiss onto his forearm.

His body remembers—but it thought it’d never feel you again. He tries to whip his head to look at you, safety be damned, only to be interrupted by your hand grabbing the back of his neck.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Choi.” Your voice leaves you practiced and pretty, goosebumps blooming on his skin while he strained to stop himself from grabbing you the way his muscle memory demanded him to.

He groans when he feels you curl your mouth around his jugular. A small nip that deepened as you rolled the soft, pliant skin into your mouth—marking him. Your hand stroked down the flat of his abdomen slowly before cupping around the stiffness stuffing his jeans.

“Holy shi—“ San presses the gas a little too hard when he automatically tries to grind into the warmth of your hand. His body involuntarily shakes in anticipation when he feels the tip of your fingers unzip his jeans and pull him out. He hisses at the feeling of your cold hand wrapping around him.

“Sweetie, I’m driving and two seconds away from fucking you on the hood of my car, if you keep pushing it.” You laugh lightly, open mouthed kisses dancing on his jawline and cheek.

“Oh yeah?” You push his forearm up to tuck your head right above his lap, mischievously looking up at him through your lashes.

“Y-yeah.” San’s voice shakes, eyebrows drawn front and center, thinking he might actually crash the damn car.

When the air hits his cock, it’s immediately wrapped nicely by the silk of your cheek and warm saliva. The amber scent of your hair wafts up from the breeze coming in from a cracked window, billowing the strands and for a moment—amidst all the vulgarity—he feels a softness at seeing your shade of hair, on his lap, tasting him familiarly with no relic of your previous coldness.

He hits the back of your throat and feels the sides of your lips stretch to accommodate his intrusion, spit slipping from its corners and onto the fabric of his jeans.

Your hands clutch his thick thighs, holding on when he makes a turn—pussy drenched from the prospect of being caught sucking him off. San caves for a moment, looking over to the shadowy reflection of you bouncing off the passenger seat window before stifling a moan.

There was nothing underneath the pale pink mini you’re wearing.

Despite how dark everything was he could still see how wet you were and immediately detours to the nearest lot.

You were so zoned into the task, you failed to register his hurried movements—harshly shifting his gears into park before threading his hand into your hair and tugging you off. A trail of spit slides off of him and he grabs you by the waist, hoisting and pushing you into the backseat.

It’s cramped but it’s not the first time he’s fucked your brains out in Sally. You were veterans at this point: knowing how to slide back and push the coupe’s seats far upfront, lay back, and hold your spread your legs against the leather.

You gasp into his mouth the moment it greets you, the sensation moving your heart in ways you refused to verbally admit. It’s a sudden clashing of teeth and tongues sliding against each other.

Spit, lust, maybe even a remnant of the sort of love you never managed to shake off.

You missed the roughness of his hands—the ones that were always finicking with trinkets, car parts, and metal—and how they felt when they slid against your lips, rubbing with attempted softness.

“I don’t need prep—“ you’re interrupted by a sloppy kiss, dragging itself right where Seonghwa left a mark. San quickly shrugs off his jacket and throws it over the seat, before grabbing your face. “Shut up.”

He spits on his other hand, and slides it between your legs again—prodding your sopping entrance with his middle and ring fingers. “You don’t need prep? Why’s that?”

You jolt, back arching from the curl of his fingers. Should you be a bitch and admit that Seonghwa fucked you an hour before the meet?

“I’m sure you could read between the lines. Why’d you have to make me your Car Bunny? Someone made you feel threatened enough, yeah?” You opt to dance between humor and danger.

San smirks, slapping your cunt with his palm. “Sure—but he doesn’t seem to be all that big of a threat when you clearly love choking on my cock and the fact that my fingers are hitting your cervix. Thanks for the reassurance, sweetheart.”

You respond by biting on his shoulder hard enough to leave an indentation and scratching his back with your nails. “Fuck you.” San genuinely smiles at that, pulling back and adjusting his hips, before suddenly thrusting inside of you.

“Gladly.” The immediate stretch deliciously burned, welcoming San back home—celebrating your sudden reunion. You choke on a moan and try to wrap your legs around his waist, furrowing your brows when he doesn’t let you.

“Hold your legs, baby.” He’s all sugar and car grease: the heat of your bodies fog up Sally’s windows and he pants into your mouth, sliding in and out of you with newfound sensitivity. For once, you relent—cupping underneath your knees and spreading yourself so he could roll against you. Thick, full, and stars in your eyes. You somehow forgot how good the sex was.

“God, I missed you.” San whimpers against your lips, high pitched yearning leaving his mouth in droves. He pulls your top up with one hand and tugs your bra down with his teeth, flicking and biting around your breasts. The pounding of his pelvis against your thighs sounds sinful, wet, and perverse. Tears fill your eyes when he starts laying it on thick, not holding back anymore, and fucking you hard into the backseat leather. His calloused thumb strokes at your clit, rubbing in soft circles while the other slaps your cheek lightly. You blink up at him, half-lidded eyes clouded and delirious.

“Keep your eyes on me.” His voice is like bourbon. And suddenly you’re twenty one all over again, kissing him in the back of a dimly lit bar with the residue of youth on your tongue. You hated dark liquor, but it was different with San. He tasted like citrus and tobacco, and you loved when your kisses tasted so much like him.

You’re hypersensitive. Feeling the push and pull into your flesh—suddenly full and almost empty with how far he pulls himself out, just to slide back in. His grip on your face forces you to keep your eyes open, trained onto his dark gaze, before falling headfirst into the kind of orgasm only San could give you. He peppers wet kisses onto your cheek, coaxing your body—cooing with adoration and reassurance as you shook from its aftermath. “That’s my girl. Feels good?” He slows his pace into a slow grind and your thighs quake, body jolting at the sensation of being overwhelmed by his sweetness and small thrusts.

He palms at your breast, kneading and giving you a small break before suddenly smacking into you. “Can you be good for me and take it?” Jaw going slack, you only nod—gasping as you pulled him down for a kiss. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you beg sweetly into his ear

“Cum inside. Please.”

The grip on your hips tightened and you welcomed the bruise, as you parted your legs even further—yelping when San pushes your knees to your chest. He stares at the reddening skin, the fat softness of your cunt, and how good you looked with his cock inside of you.

Did you also look like this in front of that greenie?

A silent scream leaves you when he uses his weight on your legs to pummel into you. “You’re my bunny. Promise me you won’t see him again.” He’s panting the possessive words out, glazed eyes pleading.

When you say nothing, he lets his head fall into the dip of your neck—slapping his fingers against your clit, forcing another orgasm out and blindsiding you.

“Say it. Say you won’t see him again.” He slides his wet fingers into your mouth for you to taste.

Your mascara’s smudged and running down your face, hair matted with sweat, lipstick smeared all over the both of your faces. Once he slides out of your mouth, the words tumble out of your mouth “I won’t see him again.”

“Good. Admit that you’re my bunny and you won’t fuck anyone else.” He uses his grip on your waist to propel himself forward, wet skin sticking together, as drops of sweat from his hair fall on your breasts.

“I’m your bunny.” Another thing San missed?

You were only agreeable when he fucked you like this. Any other time or place would’ve resulted in him losing a limb.

“Atta’ girl. You won’t fuck anyone else?”

He almost creams when he sees you reach down to stretch yourself open more, pushing aside your folds so he could see the pink inner flesh pulsing and taking as much of him as it could.

You shake your head coquettishly. “Not if you keep me occupied.” He spanks you lightly, laughing for a moment before moaning against your mouth as he starts losing rhythm.

San fucks into you, punctuating each thrust into you like he was trying to brand his name onto your cervix. The veins on his neck stretch and protrude once release finds him, it’s thick ropes painting your walls.

His languid body draped over yours, his head resting against your heartbeat as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Baby, I miss you.” He admits, breathing heavily against your chest. He strokes at your hip with faraway look in his eyes, thumb caressing and committing the surface to memory.

You stare at the car roof for a couple of seconds. Thinking hard.

“You still got those extra sheets?”

He stills, head flicking up in surprise.

“…still in the same old closet.” He didnt want to get ahead of himself, so he only stared at you with wide eyes and a hanging jaw.

“And the bitches on your phone?” You’re playing nonchalant, but he knows what you’re getting at.

“Consider it done. I’ll wipe my phone and change my number—even wear a chastity belt when you’re not around.” He bolts and kneels on the leather, back hunched because of the cramped space.

“Give me the keys. I’ll drive us home.” San dives to grab his discarded jeans, fumbling with his car keys and handing them over. He gives you a fat kiss, laughing his heart out, and mock saluting

“Aye, Captain!”

Might as well make the most of being a Car Bunny while you’re at it.

A/N: Drabble turned one shot, yuh

[mingisprincxss]

Hi all!

I’m sorry I haven’t posted in a while I’ve been suffering from severe writers block and idk when i’ll post again 😭

[mingisprincxss]

♡ 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖, 𝕚𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕒𝕣𝕞𝕤 ♡

♡ Pairing: best friend!fratboy!mingi x fem!reader, best friend!ateez

♡ Genre: fluff/smut/best friends to lovers

♡ Summary: No one said it'd be easy hiding the feelings you have for your best friend. In fact, it's been one of the hardest things you've ever had to do and it only gets that much worse when your sorority sister confesses she has a crush on him. She asks for your blessing and you hand it over, swearing to her (and yourself) that there's nothing there between you. But when you find yourself crying at a party, garnering Mingi's attention, you realize that you can only lie to yourself for so long.

♡ Word Count: 6.3k

♡ Warnings: drinking, cursing, kissing, oral sex (m receiving), deep throating, fingering, a lil overstimulation, his dick's kinda big, unprotected sex, creampie, low-key breeding kink, hair pulling, hickeys, rough sex, masturbation (f), pet names (pretty, good girl, baby), mingi gets a lil dominant, but otherwise fluffy

♡ A/N: Hi my darlings. This is the first thing I've written after what feels like an eternity of writer's block. I'm such a sucker for Mingi though and best friends to lovers has me in a chokehold lately so I really wanted to write something. I really hope that you like it and if you do please let me know xoxo love you

(also love you to @ikeukiss for beta reading this and helping me believe in myself enough to write something. you're the best ever ♡)

One little lie. That’s all it took to unravel your night. 

“You and Mingi, you aren’t, like, a thing are you?”

Your sorority sister had asked a simple question with two clear answers—yes or no—and you chose the lie. Huddled in the corner of the frat house kitchen, you summoned the weakest smile you could and dismissed the idea as something silly. Mingi’s your best friend, he has been for years. There’s nothing more to it than that. She wanted to make a move on him? Far be it from you to stop her. 

“Good luck with that one. He’s cute but he’s a major pain in the ass” you warned, helping her smooth down a few flyaway hairs in anticipation of her big moment. 

She only giggled, the sincerity of her smile threatening to expose the artificiality of yours. “Trust me. I’ve dealt with guys like him before. This is nothing.”

A sharp pain shot through your stomach, a thousand tiny knives clanking around in a blender. This is nothing. For a girl like Somin it truly is. With the figure of a well trained ballet dancer and the face of an angel, men line up to worship her. History has shown it to be true. She could have any guy on campus but, as luck would have it, she wants yours. Not that Mingi belongs to you. You have no right to be jealous. No claim that you can lay to him. But it hurts all the same. 

It’s been an hour since your little conversation and you’ve spent 30 minutes of it rotting on the couch, trying to keep it together when you’re dying inside. From where you are you’ve got the perfect view of her chatting him up across the room. A party rages around you. Bodies shifting through your line of vision, music muffling their words. Still you don’t miss a thing. Not her hand resting on his arm when she laughs at one of his stupid jokes or him leaning down to whisper in her ear, her cheeks turning rosy from whatever he’s just said. Mingi looks smitten, his eye contact with her so intense that even you feel the heat of it from across the room. 

It really was nothing. Fuck…

“Stare any harder and your eyes will fall out” Jongho teases, playfully pinching one of your cheeks. 

The physical contact brings you back down to earth, the descent making your head spin as you come back to your senses. You were numb to all of it. The friends gathered around you on the couch. The oh too loud conversation buzzing around you. The barely sipped beer resting on your knee, your fingertips wrapped around the neck for dear life. 

Jongho laughs at the startled look on your face, like a deer in headlights. “Why don’t you just tell him?” he asks, low enough to keep the others from hearing.

You take a sip of your beer. It’s room temperature, disgusting, but you shrug it off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Ooh, playing dumb. Classic move. How has that been working for you so far?” 

That deserves a snappy comeback but you can’t dig one up to save your life because you can’t deny the implication. How has that been working for you so far? It hasn’t. 

“You okay, princess?” San asks, cutting into the conversation before Jongho can press the issue any further. 

San’s had one too many drinks, his eyes are low and his ears are beet red, but he’s never too drunk to check on you. None of them are. If you even hint that something’s wrong they’ll all pile in on you and baby you until the sun comes up. As sweet as it is, it’s the last thing you need right now. 

“I’m fine, Sannie” you lie—for the second time tonight. 

San studies you a moment, not quite sure he believes you.

“I promise, I really am okay. I think I just need a second. Yeosang, is it cool if I hang in your room?” 

Without missing a beat, Yeosang nods, not giving it a second thought. “Sure. Whatever you want.” 

“Wait, why Yeosang’s room? What’s wrong with my room?” Wooyoung pouts, jumping at the opportunity to start with you. 

“I don’t know, there’s something zen about Yeosang’s room” you say, already rising to your feet. “It’s always the perfect temperature, his bed’s soft…” 

“It doesn’t smell like 87 different colognes” Seonghwa throws in to kick Wooyoung while he’s down. 

Wooyoung tosses a pillow at Seonghwa who dodges it with perfect timing. “What? Am I lying?” 

Hongjoong laughs, kicking his feet up on the table, “No because I do get a migraine every time I go in there.” 

“Fuck you both…” Wooyoung huffs, prepared to commit to a full blown argument, but when you slip past him his attention switches back to you and he grabs your arm before you can get away. 

“Can I do something for you?” you ask, staring down at him and that glimmer of mischief in his eyes. You don’t like it one bit. 

“If you ever need someone to distract you from him you know you can always call me, right?” he offers, only partially joking. 

“Oh, Woo” you sigh, softly petting his cheek, “Not in a million years.” 

As you turn to walk away a chorus of laughter rings out behind you. Your rejection is just the ammo the guys needed to make fun of him for the rest of the night. In truth, Wooyoung’s one of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen. His bone structure’s to die for and his new switch to platinum blonde hair is enough to make a girl swoon. On no planet would hooking up with him be a less than pleasurable experience but he isn’t Mingi. 

That’s the problem. That’s always the problem. Boyfriends. One night stands. Chem majors. Trust fund babies. You’ve been through your share of boys since Mingi stepped into your life, always chasing that spark you felt in his presence. It’s an electrical charge that leaves those tiny hairs on your arms standing on end. It tethers you to him, no matter whose arms you’re in. You feel it now, even as you disappear up the stairs, traversing a rugged sea of vaguely familiar faces to find solace behind a closed door. 

For the first time in an eternity you aren’t staring at Mingi but that doesn’t mean Mingi’s not staring at you. The same way he’s been watching you all this time. That electrical charge you feel when you’re near him? It’s never crossed your mind that he could feel it too. That in a room full of girls, even the one presently occupying his attention, he can only think of how gorgeous you are in that white mini dress with pink pattern azaleas blooming along your curves. 

You did your makeup to match, a fluff of soft pink adorning your eyelids and a swipe of gloss plumping your lips. It’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Mingi figures you must know this. How visions of you stick in his brain, building billboards in his memories. How the magnolia scent of your perfume still lingers in his lungs, a welcome invasion. You sent another girl over to him knowing it should’ve been you and he can’t rack his brain enough to figure out why but everything in him needs an answer. 

“You’re really beautiful…” Mingi says, taking Somin’s hands into his. His expression’s intense and serious as he says his next few words, deathly careful with each one. “And you’re such a sweet girl but I’m sorry, I have to go.”

Somin deflates, the smile that’s been painted on her face washing away. “Oh, uh, did you wanna meet up later maybe or…” 

“I don’t think I can but please have fun, drink as much as you want. Eat whatever you want. My house is your house, okay?” 

He offers her a tight lipped smile, quietly apologizing as he dips off into the crowd. The others watch from the couch, feeling bad for the poor girl but hoping that something finally comes of this so that they can stop pretending not to see it. At least when the two of you are around.

“Aah, this might not go well” Hongjoong mumbles, his skeptical gaze trailing behind Mingi. 

Yunho knocks back a shot of soju, contemplating the odds. “Don’t be so negative. It could go well. As long as Mingi doesn’t say anything stupid.” 

The boys stare at each other, collectively recalling all the times Mingi’s mouth has gotten them in trouble. Jongho digs $5 out of his pocket and tosses it onto the table. 

“$5 says he talks too much and fucks it up for himself.” 

Wooyoung fishes out money of his own, placing it casually on top of Jongho’s. “$10 says he doesn’t and Yeosang has to wash his sheets in the morning.” 

Money piles up on the table. A friendly bet amongst friends. Will either of you work up the courage to speak on things unspoken? Will Mingi’s trademark cockiness ruin things before they can even get started? Or will it be your inability to accept his affection that does the two of you in? Your hearts hang in the balance of these questions. 

Oh and the integrity of Yeosang’s sheets. 

“Get it together. You cannot do this to me right now” you repeat to your reflection in the mirror mounted to Yeosang’s wall. 

You meant what you said when you called Yeosang’s room zen. In a lot of ways he’s just another gamer boy. Tech scattered on his desk. Game systems tucked away in little nooks. But it’s the small things like the warmth of the twinkle lights bordering his ceiling or the delicate peach scent emitted by his puppy shaped diffuser that just puts a girl at ease. Maybe too much at ease. 

The tears began to fall the second that door shut behind you. With no one to see you fall apart you did just that. You weren’t even sure what you were crying for at first. You’d spent the last hour trying to convince yourself that what you felt for Mingi didn’t mean anything. You did it so well that you almost succeeded in gaslighting yourself enough to believe that you didn’t care if he got with another girl. Only you do care. You always have. 

You’ve become a professional at hiding it so far. You smile in the face of girlfriend after girlfriend, pretending that you’re more than happy for them to take your annoying best friend off your hands when really you’d give anything to be in their spot. 

“Why don’t you just tell him?”

Jongho’s voice echoes in your mind as you dab at your inner eye with the corner of a mascara stained tissue. And how would you do that exactly? What could you even say that wouldn’t risk destroying the friendship you’ve worked so hard to build? None of this was intentional but all those cozy late night study sessions and wholesome early morning cuddles have added up to feelings you’ll never be fast enough to escape. 

“We’ll grab a drink later! I promise!” a voice you know too well calls out as the bedroom door swings open, the noise of the party flooding in to invade your safe space.

You frantically reach for your purse, digging out your lip gloss to pretend you’ve been in here doing anything besides crying your eyes out. You barely acknowledge Mingi when he enters the room. Something his tall stature makes almost impossible. You can’t truly ignore him or how hot he looks tonight. His hair’s pushed back, putting his sharp features and full lips on perfect display. A pair of circle rimmed glasses rests on the bridge of his nose, adding a certain maturity to his look that you find particularly sexy. He wore all black tonight and, as much as you tease him for dressing like a grim reaper, the color suits his body well. So well that you’d be drooling if you hadn’t been a mess of tears five seconds ago. 

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you” he says, swinging the door closed behind him. 

He seems happy to see you and, somewhere in your mess of emotions, you’re happy to see him too. Mingi’s who you run to when you don’t know what to do and the world feels like a scary place. It’s strange not to run to him now, even when he’s the very thing you’re running away from. 

“Looking for me? For what?” you ask, nonchalant as can be. “One of the boys drink too much again?” 

Mingi steps up behind you, watching your reflection as you swipe the gloss back and forth along the bow of your lips. It’s the simplest thing but you manage to look so cute doing it. “You look pretty tonight.” 

“Hmm, I see...you must want something.” 

“Why do I have to want something? Can’t I just think you’re pretty?” he asks, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

He gives you those eyes—like a neglected kitten begging for attention—and you melt right into the palm of his hand. You can’t even be angry about it. Sometimes that’s where you like to be. 

“Thank you, Mingi” you sigh, letting yourself indulge in the compliment but stopping short of fully soaking it in. 

Mingi slips his arms around your waist, bringing your back flush against his chest. When you’re this close nothing goes unnoticed. If one breathes the other will feel it, every rise of his chest kissing your spine. Your muscles tense, bracing you to pull away but something about this feels so right and you’re paralyzed by it. Sparks skate along your skin when he straightens up, his lips skimming the heated skin of your neck to hover by your ear. 

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” he asks, the timbre of his voice vibrating through you. “You were crying. Why were you crying?”

You draw in a breath and he must sense the lie coming with how quickly he shuts you down. 

“And don’t say you weren’t because I can tell. Lie to someone who doesn’t know you.” 

Plan A: Decimated. Ruined before you even got the chance to execute it. Denial’s supposed to be your dirty little secret. Him seeing through it was never supposed to happen. 

“I did something stupid…” you say, “And I knew it was stupid when I did it but, I don’t know, I’m just really good at breaking my own heart I guess.”

Mingi stays quiet, letting the silence linger as he takes his time reading between the lines. With you there’s always something to find there. “I don’t want her if that’s what you’re worried about. She’s not my type” he says, his thumb drawing circles against your hip, “I have this thing for girls who cry at parties. Something about it just…I don’t know, it’s so sexy.” 

“Oh shut up” you giggle, snatching away from him but he drags you back in, making sure you’re face to face this time. 

You’ve made a habit of running away when things get too real but you can’t tonight. He won’t let you. You’re gonna look at him and see it—the way he sees you, the way he wants you. Mingi cups your cheek and your brain goes blank, everything else pushed far away by those brown eyes. 

“You are really good at breaking your own heart,” he says, his lips inching closer to yours, “Especially when you don’t have to.” 

The air between you feels alive, pulsing with tension. A tingling feeling pricks your fingertips. Your heart’s drumming at warp speed. For a moment nothing makes sense then his lips meet yours and suddenly everything comes together. Your eyes fall closed as you lean into the kiss, letting yourself be swept up in the feeling of his tongue swirling around yours.

Mingi’s lips are the softest you’ve ever felt. He tastes like rum and something sweet. Something you want more of. Kissing him is like quicksand. It draws you in and all you can do is sink deeper by the second. His hands find your waist and he moves cautiously at first, applying the slightest pressure as his palms ride the curves of your hips. 

You break from the kiss, breathless. “You can touch me” you whisper, fingertips pressed to his chest through the soft cotton of his shirt, “I want you to touch me.” 

Mingi takes his glasses off, tossing them to the floor. “Why’d you make me wait so long to hear you say that?” 

“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to…” 

His hands are back on you in an instant. His mouth crashing into yours as his hands greedily descend upon your figure. Slipping beneath your dress, his touch does what words can’t. It’s not enough to just tell you how badly he’s wanted this, he has to show you. You can write off anything he says, pretending it’s all in your head, but you can’t ignore the longing in the way he grips your thighs…your hips…your ass.

You can’t keep your own hands from wandering, mindlessly exploring the uncharted territory that awaits behind that shirt. The skin to skin contact only worsens the arousal soaking your panties, your clit already throbbing with need. This is nothing like you imagined. It’s so much more and the intensity is dizzying. 

“How far do you want this to go?” he rasps, trailing kisses down your neck and along your collarbone. 

The thin strap of your dress slips down to your shoulder, the plush meat of your breast peeking out. His tongue darts out, eager to taste you but the last shred of his unraveling self control reels him in. You thread your fingers through his hair, arching to give him more of you, but it’s not enough. He wants more.  His mouth finds yours again and he nips at your bottom lip, teasing you with another kiss. 

“Tell me what you want, baby. If you don’t tell me how will I know?” he asks, his gaze setting your soul on fire, “How was I ever supposed to know?”

You take a deep breath, stroking the nape of his neck, “You really wanna know what I want?” 

Your free hand floats below his waist, effortlessly finding the bulge in his jeans. You roll your palm into it, fingertips tracing the outline of his cock in the material. The sensation forces a sound out of him you’ve only dreamt of hearing and he grinds into your hand, hips stuttering. 

“Mmhmm” he nods, chasing the next wave of pleasure, “Need to hear you say it.”

There’s no reason to hold back. Nothing for you to hide. The thing you wished for is right in front of you now. All you have to do is take it. “I want you…” you hum, skipping over to the bed, “...to come here.” 

Taking a seat on the edge, you kick off your heels and patiently await his arrival. Caught off guard by your request, he doesn’t move from his spot, studying you skeptically instead. You extend your hand to him, fingers twiddling as you sport your first genuine smile of the night. “You won’t find out if you stay over there, will you?”

Mingi takes your hand, letting you reel him in like a fish on a hook and you stop him right where you want him. Between your legs, looking down at you, his clothed cock barely an inch from your lips. You busy yourself undoing his pants, never once peeling your eyes away from his. Not even as it slips out of his underwear, throbbing in your hand, precum dripping from the swollen tip. Mingi takes you by the chin, lust clouding his vision as you lap up his arousal, leaving the head glistening.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Min” you confess, fingers gliding along his length, tracing every vein. “I was just too shy to admit it and I thought if I ignored it it’d go away but I don’t want it to anymore.” 

You feel him stiffen in your grasp, an involuntary but telling reaction. He aches for you, craves you. He’s thought about this moment more times than he should’ve. How your lips would feel wrapped around his cock. How lush and warm it’d be between your cheeks. What your face would look like with him pressed to the back of your throat.

But none of that could’ve prepared him for how perfect it is when your lips first meet the tip. You don’t rush to get it in. You take it little by little, savoring him as the warmth of your mouth welcomes him in. You adjust to it quickly, the thickness—the length. It’s more than you’re used to taking but you’ve seen Mingi naked enough to know it would be. 

“You look so fucking beautiful” he coos, thumbs massaging your puffed out cheeks, “Taking me so, mmph, well, aaah…” 

You relax your throat muscles, easing him in further, forcing his knees to nearly give out. It gives you a sense of satisfaction, a certain pride, that you can make him this weak with the slightest movement. Suctioning your cheeks, you roll your tongue on the underside of his cock, bobbing your head back and forth at a pace so slow it’s akin to torture. You can tell he wants you to move faster, his body’s almost begging for it, but making him wait is so much fun.  

Mingi raises an eyebrow, grabbing you by your hair before you can even make it halfway down to the base. “Are you teasing me, sweetheart?” 

You bat your eyelashes innocently, your tongue still wagging beneath his length as drool pricks the corners of your glossy lips. It’s all you can do to deny it when your mouth’s this full. Sliding your hands up his shirt, you splay your hands out on his toned stomach in time to feel the muscles tense when you triple your speed. It’s anything but ladylike the way you’re sucking the life out of him. It’s slippery and messy, the sound of it so lewd the hum of the music beyond the door does nothing to quiet it. 

There’s not a single complaint from Mingi. The moans leaving his lips are anything but a protest of what you’re doing to him. He whimpers each time your nose meets his pelvis, your throat seeming to take him even deeper than before. His arousal coats your throat, making the stretch all the more satisfying. And when his cock does leave your lips for those few seconds your tongue spends circling the tip, he’s tugging your hair even harder, so needy to get it back in that he can’t control himself. 

Mingi can’t wrap his mind around how you do this so well, how you just seem to know which way to curve your tongue or tilt your head to make him see stars, but you’re perfect. The same way that you always are. No girl’s ever gotten him this close this fast before. He tells himself it’d be embarrassing to come now. He can’t let you know that you’ve got him so tightly wound around your finger that a few minutes is all it takes to make him come undone. You’re just so pretty and now you’re looking at him with the most precious face while you roll the tip against the roof of your mouth. The texture’s so nice and your fingers are working his shaft just right.

“You gonna come for me, Min?” you ask in the softest tone. “Where you wanna come? Here?” You stick your tongue out, teasing his slit. “Mmm, maybe here?” You run a hand over the hills of your breasts. “Or maybe…” You ease your dress up, your thighs deliciously spread to direct his attention to the drenched panties between them. 

Before you can blink, Mingi’s dragging you to your feet, his lips locked onto yours as he claws at your dress, tearing the fabric. “Mingi!” you gasp in offense. This is your favorite dress afterall. 

“I’ll buy you another one” he promises, “Fuck it, I’ll buy you two. I just want you out of it.” 

Your clothes disappear in a flash, his own following close behind, gathering at your feet. This wasn’t how you thought your night would go. Mingi pushing you back onto the bed. Your naked bodies intertwined. One of his hands cradling your neck, the other between your legs teasing your entrance. 

“Fuck, baby. You always this wet or is it just for me?” 

You arch your back, pressing yourself down onto his fingers, “Only for you.” 

Two fingers delve into your core, your walls sucking them in deeper. Mingi’s a man with big hands. A detail that’s slipped your mind before the present moment. They reach so far into you, his knuckles bumping your entrance as his fingertips ride your walls.

“You know, I was always jealous of all your boyfriends” he admits, decorating your chest in the kind of kisses that leave marks. “I hated that they got to have you but you could never be mine.”

You run your nails lightly down his back, clenching around his fingers. “I’ve always been yours, Min. Always…” 

Your words trail off as Mingi’s breath skims your breast, his tongue venturing out to explore what he denied himself of earlier. He takes your bud between his lips, circling it with the tip of his tongue in rhythm with the thumb now making figure eights on your clit. Your body responds like it knows him, like it misses what it’s never had. Pleasure blooms everywhere he touches and it radiates through you. Consumes you. 

Mingi loves the sound of your voice. You could talk to him all day about nothing—sometimes you do—and he’d listen like all that you spoke was sacred. But to hear you moan? It’s a spell that awakens something different in him. He wants it etched into his brain, looping over and over until everything else fades away. It’s so heavenly that it feels like sin when his fingers slip out of you, leaving you whining and clenching around nothing.

When he rises to kiss you, you look like you’re on the verge of a tantrum and he finds it far cuter than he probably should. It’s tempting to hold out just to see how pouty you can really get but he knows he can’t stop himself from giving you what you want. He just needs to know one little thing first. 

“Did you mean what you said to me? That I could come…” he asks, aligning himself with your entrance. He’s not quite inside but you can feel the pressure. One thrust and it’s all yours.

You take his face into your hands, making sure he hears you loud and clear, “Anywhere and, yes, I meant it. Made your choice yet?”

Tucking his hands behind your knees, he pushes them up towards your chest, spreading them wider. “I don’t know, pretty girl. You tell me.” 

Mingi claims you in one fluid motion, filling you up so completely that you can’t even moan. You can’t speak. You open your mouth and nothing comes out. Only faint remnants of a whimper that broke before it could make its way out. The stretch is earth shattering, tiny dots dancing across your irises with every thrust that follows.

“You feel so fucking good, baby” he whispers, your gummy walls clinging to his length. 

He can’t decide what’s more hypnotizing, how your body trembles from the impact or how your pussy feels when you roll your hips back into him. You’re addictive. He’s only been inside you for a minute and knows this time won’t be enough. Tonight he’ll go to sleep thinking about the moisture pooling at the place where your bodies meet. He’ll dream about your cunt quivering around him, taking his cock like that’s all it was made to do. 

“I want you to do something for me” he says, gently taking you by the hand. 

Slowing down, he leans in to kiss your fingertips and flashes you a smile. That sickeningly charming smile that could get you to do anything. You fold under no pressure at all, ready to give into him before you even know what it is. 

“Wh-what is it?” you stutter, your breath still shaky as he rocks into you. 

You understand now why it was hell for Mingi when you moved this slowly. It doesn’t stop the intensity, it only drags it out. It brings time to a crawl so that you feel everything. All the finer details of his cock, the slight curve it has, how the head stimulates your g-spot. Your fingers shiver against his rosy lips, your other hand knotted in the blanket beneath you. Even with his hair in his face his gaze lays heavy on you. It burns hotter than it ever has. You’d do anything for him. 

“Your pussy’s so pretty. Touch it for me.” Mingi lowers your hand to your clit, his fingers resting on your own as you rub the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You don’t hesitate to follow his lead, doing exactly as you’re told. “Aah, oh god…” you gasp, overstimulated by the sensation. Your body writhes and arches to meet your own hand—to meet the cock kissing your cervix. 

“Such a good girl” he praises, “Don’t stop until you come for me.” 

It’s easier said than done. Your pussy’s soaked and the faster he moves the harder it is to keep your fingers from slipping. Grabbing you by your hips, he raises you up from the bed and the new angle has you crying out. You don’t even know for what. For more? Certainly not for less.

You squirm in his grasp but he doesn’t let you go—he can’t. This is so much more than sex. It stretches far beyond the boundaries of lust. It’s about having you…claiming you…keeping you. Giving you all of him so that you never doubt that you should’ve always been his. 

“Min…” you moan, a wave of ecstasy washing over you, “So close.”

“That’s perfect, baby. Keep going. Show me how gorgeous you are when you come.” 

You don’t disappoint. Not that he ever thought you would. You come hard and it’s the most decadent thing he’s ever had the pleasure of watching. Your essence cascades down his length, making a mess of the two of you, soaking the blanket. Mingi licks his lips, some part of him wishing that you were coming on his tongue instead of his cock. You’d be the best thing he ever tasted. He doesn’t even question that. 

Just watching you brings him to the edge of his own high. He tries to hold back, to think of something else besides you spasming around him, but how can he? The pressure’s building and he can’t fight it. Surrender isn’t optional. Warmth spreads through your abdomen as he spills into you, giving your walls a fresh coating of pearly white cum. You’re both disoriented but his hips are still pumping. Your fingers are still going. You drag your highs out so far that by the end of it you’re both nothing but sweaty bodies and ragged breaths. 

Mingi doubles over onto your chest, tucking his arms underneath you to keep you in place. Your limbs are jello and your head’s spinning. You couldn’t get away if you wanted to but there’s comfort in how badly he wants you to stay. A calm falls over the room and the minutes pass without either of you knowing. You’re together and that’s all that matters. You could be here forever. Except, as it suddenly dawns on you, you can’t be.

“Min,” you whisper, patting the back of his head, “We should probably get out of Yeosang’s bed.” 

Mingi shifts a bit but only to get more comfortable, “He can sleep on the couch.” 

“You literally have your own room. Couldn't he just sleep in there?” 

“Eh” he sighs, “Yeah but I don’t like other people in my bed.”

You giggle, trying to sit up, “You’re such an asshole.”  

Mingi holds you tighter, rolling you on top of him. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“To put my clothes back on if that’s okay with you” you say, kissing the bridge of his nose. 

“You can’t. I ruined them, remember?” he gloats, far too proud of himself. “Plus we need to talk.” 

“About what?” 

“About what?” he mocks, lightening his voice to better match yours. “Can we please not go back to doing that?” 

Catching his disappointment, you perk up, “I’m not! I swear. We can talk. Let’s talk. I’m not going anywhere”

Mingi feels you relax and he does too, loosening his hold on you but not by much. “If we leave this room will you pretend this never happened? Cause I can’t. You’re either mine or you aren’t.”

“Then I am” you say without a hint of doubt, “I’m over breaking my own heart. I think I’d rather just give it to you.” 

Mingi kisses you sweetly, intent on quieting any lingering fears, “I promise I’ll take care of it.” 

People make thousands of promises in their lives. Big ones. Small ones. Ones they never intend to keep. Ones they wouldn’t break for anything. For Mingi this is the most important one he’ll ever make. Not to hurt you. Not to make you cry. To protect your heart as fiercely as you have. And nothing could ever make him break it. 

 “We have to figure out how to get these people out of our house” a tipsy Hongjoong whispers to Yunho. 

Yunho throws an arm over Hongjoong’s shoulder, offering him another drink. “Don’t be so uptight. It won’t kill you to have a little fun once in a while.” 

“But it’s loud and we’re almost out of beer and…look at San” he pouts, eyeing his best friend at the other end of the couch. 

San’s slumped to the side, fighting to stay awake, “What about San? I’m good!” 

“Right” Jongho nods, patting him on the back, “Sure you are.”

“Holy shit…” Wooyoung gasps, his attention drifting from his phone over to the stairs. 

Mingi leads you down the stairs, your hand in his, with a smile on his face bigger than they’ve ever seen. Behind him you’re missing the dress you went up in, rocking a t-shirt and sweatpants instead. You stay close to Mingi as you navigate the crowd, your hand resting on the small of his back. 

Seonghwa rubs his eyes, squinting to see better. “I don’t have my contacts in but it looks like…” 

“Like he didn’t fuck up! Give me my money!” Wooyoung shouts, gathering the stack of money from the table.

A deflated Yeosang buries his face in his hands, “They had sex in my bed didn’t they?” 

“Ssh, they’re coming!” Yunho says, hurrying to act normal. 

If there’s one thing your friends have always been bad at, acting normal would be at the top of the list. It’s never been their strong suit. 

“What’s wrong?” Mingi asks, immediately picking up on the fact that something’s off. 

“Nothing,” Jongho grins, making room for the two of you beside him, “One of you looks…different.”

You clear your throat, nervously fidgeting with the string on your sweatpants, “I, uh, I spilled something on my dress.” 

Jongho could let it go but it’s too much fun to press the issue. “Oh really? What’d you spill?” 

You take a seat on the couch and Mingi flops down between you, intercepting the interrogation. “A drink if you really wanna know. Are you done?” 

“Hey, let’s not be hostile, we’re all friends here, aren’t we?” Wooyoung says, “We talk about stuff. Share things. Beds sometimes…”

“I’ll kill you” Mingi mouths to Wooyoung.

On the other side of you San sits up only to lay his head on your shoulder. “You okay, princess? For real this time?” 

You look to Mingi and back at San, relieved that there’s no need to lie anymore, “Yeah, Sannie. For real this time.” 

[mingisprincxss]

What he looks like watching you on top, bouncing on his cock, tits bouncing in his face. His eyes almost roll back in his skull. Fuck-drunk Mingi drowns in the way your pussy squeezes his dick.

[mingisprincxss]

👥 Pairing: Choi San x Fem!Reader

💞 Trope: Fuckboy Falls First, Grumpy x Sunshine (but she's the grump), Slow Burn, Mutual Pining

📚 Genre: College AU, Romance, Angst, Fluff

🌟 Featuring: All ATEEZ members, Original Character (Jisoo – reader’s childhood friend)

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

📖 Summary:

Reserved, logical, and emotionally guarded, Y/N never expected the campus heartbreaker to take interest in her. San wasn’t looking for anything real—until she became the one girl he couldn’t charm.

Masterlist

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

Y/N never understood why people insisted that college was the best time of your life.

To her, university was something to survive — a meticulously calculated path to a stable career, free of distractions, social drama, and especially men who wore cologne strong enough to make your neurons short-circuit. That last category happened to fill most of her general education electives.

She wasn’t there to thrive. She was there to get through it.

The hallways of Seoul National’s pharmacy department were her sanctuary — organized, quiet, logical. Here, her obsession with structure and predictability wasn’t weird. It was respected or at least she had hoped that.

But the school required a handful of non-major classes to “round out” students’ education, which is how Y/N found herself in Interpersonal Communication 101, stuck in the back of a lecture hall with a half-dead highlighter, desperately trying to ignore the group of guys laughing near the front.

Loud guys.

Obnoxiously attractive guys.

“Bro, I swear she winked at you,” one of them said — the one with dimples and way too much energy for 9:00 a.m.

The one beside him, black baseball cap turned backward, just chuckled. “She winks at everyone.”

That voice.

Even without looking, Y/N knew exactly who it belonged to.

Choi San.

Campus heartthrob. Known for switching majors as often as he changed hair color. Rumored to have kissed a senior in the middle of a sociology presentation and gotten a B+ on the same project. Women loved him. Professors were charmed by him. Guys wanted to be him. And he never sat in the same seat twice.

Y/N had learned that by accident.

It wasn’t that she cared.

She just liked routine. And unfortunately, he was allergic to it.

Today, he slid into the empty chair two seats beside her with a loud yawn, stretching his arms overhead like he hadn’t kept half the dorm awake with late-night karaoke.

Y/N flipped her page and pretended not to notice.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

The professor cleared his throat. “All right, class. We’re starting our semester project today. Everyone’s going to work in pairs.”

Y/N blinked.

Pairs?

The word made her stomach twist.

She was used to working alone — methodical, precise, efficient. Group work meant compromise. Delay. Stress.

The professor continued. “You’ll be randomly assigned. This isn’t optional — part of the point is learning to navigate different personalities.”

Y/N groaned inwardly. She could already feel the migraine forming.

“Your names are on the sheet here,” he added, holding up a printed list before handing it off to a TA.

She tried not to panic. She really did.

But the universe clearly hated her today, because two minutes later, the girl sitting beside her peeked over and whispered, “Hey, you’re with… San?”

Y/N froze. “San?”

“Choi San,” the girl confirmed. “Lucky you.”

She blinked, slowly turning toward the front.

San was already looking at her — and smirking.

She gathered her things quickly and approached him at the front of the room. The professor was still talking, but her heart was pounding too loudly to hear it.

San looked up as she neared, tilting his head. “Y/N, right?”

Her throat caught. “How do you…?”

“I remember names.” His voice was smooth. Teasing. He leaned back in his seat like this was just another game. “You always sit two rows behind me. Except Wednesdays, when you come in late and grab the aisle.”

She stared.

Was he serious?

“You... notice where I sit?”

“You have that giant navy-blue backpack with the anime pins. Hard to miss.”

Her face flushed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He smiled. “Didn’t say it did.”

Y/N glanced around. Students were pairing up, chatting, laughing.

She turned back to him. “Look, let’s just agree on a schedule, get the project done, and stay out of each other’s way.”

San raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wow. You don’t like me already, huh?���

“I don’t know you,” she corrected sharply. “And I don’t need to.”

Instead of being offended, San grinned. “You’re interesting.”

“I’m not.”

“See? That’s the kind of thing interesting people say.”

They exchanged contact info — her notes were neatly bullet-pointed in her planner, while San handed her his phone already open to a blank contact screen.

She typed in her number carefully. No emojis. No nickname.

“Do you always look like you’re solving a math equation when you type?” he asked.

“I like precision.”

“You’re a pharmacy major, right?”

She paused. “…How do you know that?”

San gave her a look. “I might’ve asked around.”

She stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

“Why?” she asked.

He shrugged, eyes crinkling. “You seemed interesting.”

She was beginning to really hate that word.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

That night, she got a text.

[Unknown Number]: “Hi, partner 😊 This is San. Let me know when you’re free to meet — I promise I can be focused. Kind of.”

Y/N stared at it for a full minute.

Then replied.

[You]: “Tomorrow at 4 in the library. No distractions.”

[San]: “So serious. I’ll bring snacks 🍪”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t delete the message either.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

The next afternoon, San actually showed up.

On time.

With snacks.

Y/N had expected him to flake, or worse — flirt. But instead, he sat down across from her and looked almost like a real student.

She laid out her notes. San pulled out a notebook that had maybe four words written in it.

“You don’t take notes?” she asked.

“I take pictures of the slides,” he said. “My brain doesn’t like bullet points.”

She sighed. “We’ll start from the top. I already outlined the assignment objectives.”

He watched her carefully, chin resting in his palm.

“You talk like a textbook,” he said after a while.

“You act like one never touched you,” she shot back without looking up.

San laughed. Loudly.

A few students turned to stare.

Y/N’s ears went red. “Can you not?”

“That was the most savage thing anyone’s ever said to me in a library.”

“Then your friends must be too nice.”

He leaned in, voice dropping a little. “You think about me often?”

She looked up, narrowing her eyes. “I think about finishing this project. You just happen to be the obstacle.”

San whistled lowly. “You’re good.”

“I’m efficient.”

He smirked. “You’re cute when you’re irritated.”

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again.

She hated how flustered she felt.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Tomorrow? Same time?” he asked, already packing up his untouched notebook.

She exhaled slowly. “…Fine.”

San paused. “Hey.”

She glanced up.

He smiled — soft this time. “Thanks for not judging me.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“I’m not here to judge,” she said.

He winked. “We’ll see about that.”

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

The sound of the dorm door slamming behind San echoed through the hallway.

“Bro,” Wooyoung called from the kitchen, “you’re actually back before midnight? Who are you and what have you done with our roommate?”

San dropped his backpack onto the couch. “I had a study session.”

Yeosang peered over the back of the couch. “You? Studying? That’s a plot twist.”

“Did you get her number too?” Seonghwa asked, barely looking up from the book he was annotating.

San raised an eyebrow. “We’re literally project partners.”

“Doesn’t answer the question,” Yunho said with a grin, throwing a chip at him.

San caught it in mid-air and ate it. “She gave me her number… professionally.”

“Ohhh,” the others chorused.

“It’s not like that,” San muttered, walking past them toward the fridge.

“So it’s not like the last three ‘study sessions’ you had this semester?” Jongho called.

San paused, bottle of water in hand. “Y/N’s different.”

They all looked up.

That was a word San didn’t use lightly.

“She’s… like, really smart. Organized. Kinda blunt,” he added. “She doesn’t care about social stuff. Or me.”

“That last one’s gotta sting,” Wooyoung smirked.

“It’s weird. Everyone else plays the game. She doesn’t,” San said, more to himself.

Hongjoong, who’d just walked in from his room, threw his bag down and narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Y/N? Like… the one everyone says is scary?”

San blinked. “She’s not scary.”

“Just quiet,” Seonghwa offered.

“And kind of intense,” Yeosang added.

“And maybe a little judgy,” Wooyoung grinned.

San shook his head. “She’s just focused. People don’t get her.”

“But you do?” Yunho asked, half-teasing.

“I want to,” San admitted before realizing how it sounded.

Everyone stared.

He cleared his throat. “We have another session tomorrow. So… yeah.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung echoed, smirking. “Totally professional.”

The next afternoon, Y/N sat under a tree outside the library, a large pharmacology textbook open in her lap. San spotted her from a distance — headphones on, hoodie up, pen tapping lightly against her page.

She didn’t notice him until his shadow blocked the sun.

Her head tilted up, brows furrowing. “You’re early.”

San grinned. “Didn’t want to be late.”

Y/N pulled out her planner. “I bookmarked the sections we need to review. I’ve also outlined possible project frameworks.”

He sat beside her. “Do you ever just… chill?”

She blinked. “This is me chilling.”

He laughed, fully leaning back in the grass beside her.

“You’re gonna crease your notes,” he warned.

“I made a copy,” she replied without missing a beat.

San turned his head to look at her. “Do you always assume people underestimate you?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I assume they don’t care enough to try.”

He was silent.

She glanced up. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just… that was honest.”

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“Don’t be.” His voice was softer than usual. “I liked it.”

Inside the library, they sat in a tucked-away study corner. San kept glancing at her over the edge of his laptop, watching the way she chewed on her pen cap when she concentrated.

The way she didn’t fidget when things went quiet.

The way she spoke so clearly — like every word had been edited in her head before being said.

She caught him staring.

“What?”

He shrugged. “You really don’t care what people think, huh?”

Y/N hesitated. “People already think what they want. Trying to change that takes too much energy.”

He tilted his head. “People say you’re cold.”

“People say you’re a slut.”

Her words hit him square in the chest.

She immediately looked down. “Sorry. That was harsh.”

San just… blinked.

Then he laughed — full and real.

“Okay, ouch, but also fair.”

Y/N looked up, confused.

“You’re not wrong,” he said, still chuckling. “But you didn’t say it like an insult. Just… fact.”

“It is,” she said. “And mine’s a fact too. You think I don’t hear what people say about me?”

He looked at her, suddenly serious. “They’re wrong.”

“I don’t care.”

“I think you do.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

San leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Why do you pretend to be colder than you are?”

She met his eyes. “Why do you pretend to be less serious than you are?”

He froze.

No smile. No teasing comeback.

Just a heartbeat of shared stillness.

Then someone across the aisle hissed, “Look, that’s her. The one who never talks to anyone.”

San looked over.

A group of girls were whispering.

“She’s so rude. She ignored me in lab last week.”

“She acts like she’s better than everyone.”

San frowned.

Y/N’s expression didn’t change, but her hands clenched in her lap.

He stood up.

“Hey,” he said to the group. “Keep it down. Some of us are trying to study.”

The girls blinked.

San turned back to Y/N, grabbing his backpack. “Let’s go.”

She followed without a word.

Outside the library, she finally spoke.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

“I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

She looked down. “People judge what they don’t understand.”

San exhaled. “Yeah. They do.”

They walked in silence.

Until she asked, “Why did you defend me?”

He gave a small smile. “Because I’m starting to understand you.”

She stopped walking.

San stopped too.

Y/N stared at him. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m trying,” he said, voice low. “Isn’t that more than most?”

She didn’t answer. But her silence wasn’t cold — just uncertain.

San smiled. “I’ll text you later?”

She gave a small nod.

As she turned away, he called, “Hey.”

She looked back.

“You’re not cold,” he said. “You’re just… hard to read. And some of us like a challenge.”

She rolled her eyes.

But this time, she was smiling.

That night, San lay on his bed, phone open to their message thread.

No new texts. But the old ones made him grin.

His door creaked open. Yeosang poked his head in. “So? How’d it go with your ice queen?”

San threw a pillow at him.

“She’s not cold,” he said.

“No?” Wooyoung said from the hallway. “Then why are you suddenly warm all the time?”

San ignored them, flipping back to the photo he’d secretly taken of their notes side-by-side.

One line from her planner stood out.

“Control what you can. Accept what you can’t.”

He stared at it for a long time.

And for the first time in months, San wasn’t interested in chasing anyone else.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

San wasn’t used to feeling… second.

He wasn’t even sure that was the right word. But whatever it was, it didn’t feel good.

From the edge of the courtyard, he spotted Y/N standing by the fountain, talking to someone he didn’t recognize — tall, broad-shouldered, sharp jawline. The guy was dressed in athletic gear, logo of the Seoul Tigers stitched onto his jacket sleeve. San recognized it instantly: professional volleyball team. Big deal.

But what really caught San’s attention wasn’t the team logo.

It was the way Y/N smiled.

Not the tight-lipped, polite smile she usually gave in class. Not the quick, practiced smirk she used when San made a joke.

This smile was effortless.

Real.

He hadn’t seen that one before.

San stayed in the shade of the trees, watching without meaning to.

The guy leaned in and said something that made Y/N laugh. Her hand came up to lightly tap his chest — casual, familiar. He flicked her forehead, and she rolled her eyes, still smiling.

It hit San harder than he expected.

“You okay?”

San blinked. Yunho had come up beside him, holding a bag of convenience store snacks and raising a curious brow.

“Yeah,” San muttered, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket.

“You’re staring.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. Hard.”

San looked away. “She’s just with someone.”

“Jisoo?” Yunho asked. “The volleyball guy?”

San’s jaw tensed.

Yunho whistled under his breath. “Damn. He’s, like, model-tier.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” San said flatly.

Yunho laughed, unwrapping a rice cake. “Well, I did. Your girl’s got taste.”

“She’s not my girl.”

“Right,” Yunho said, not bothering to hide the grin.

San watched a moment longer, then muttered, “I’m going back to the dorm.”

Yunho raised a brow. “You’re not gonna say hi?”

“No point,” San said. “She already looks happy.”

Later, at the dorm, San flopped onto the couch and pulled a blanket over his head.

“Drama queen,” Wooyoung said, poking his leg with a water bottle. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s sulking,” Yeosang said from the kitchen. “Like a kicked puppy.”

“I’m fine,” San grumbled under the blanket.

Hongjoong looked up from his laptop. “Is this about Y/N?”

No answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.

“She was with Jisoo,” Yunho explained, dropping onto the couch. “They seemed… close.”

“Who’s Jisoo?” Seonghwa asked.

“Childhood friend,” Yunho replied. “Pro athlete. Basically a K-drama male lead.”

“Ohhh,” the room chorused.

Wooyoung smirked. “So our San is… jealous?”

San groaned from under the blanket. “I’m not jealous.”

“Then why’d you come back early?” Seonghwa asked.

“I didn’t feel like being there.”

“You were literally hiding behind a tree,” Yunho said.

San sat up, hair messy and face flushed. “Shut up.”

Wooyoung leaned in. “Aw, look at him. Flustered.”

“Stop teasing him,” Seonghwa said gently. “Feelings are weird.”

“I don’t have feelings,” San said too quickly.

Silence.

Then Yeosang, deadpan: “Liar.”

San sank back into the cushions with a defeated sigh.

At their next scheduled study session, Y/N was already at the table when San arrived.

She greeted him with a quiet nod and didn’t mention Jisoo.

San sat across from her, pulling out his notebook.

The silence stretched a little longer than usual.

He glanced up.

Y/N looked tired — not in the dark-circle way, but like someone carrying something heavy internally.

“You okay?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She blinked. “I’m fine.”

He nodded. “Cool.”

Back to silence.

They worked without talking for a while — pages turned, pens scratched, screens glowed, until San closed his notebook and glanced over at her.

“So… that guy yesterday,” he said casually, pretending to stretch. “The one by the fountain.”

Y/N looked up. “Jisoo?”

San nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “You two seemed close.”

She blinked. “He’s a childhood friend.”

San hummed, tapping his pen on the table. “Is he studying here now?”

“No. He’s just visiting. He plays for the Seoul Tigers.”

San gave a low whistle. “Big deal.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly. “Why are you asking?”

He shrugged, eyes still on his pen. “Just curious.”

There was a pause.

“Do you always ask about people I talk to?” she asked, not in a defensive tone — just genuinely puzzled.

San froze for a split second, then recovered. “No. I just hadn’t seen you smile like that before.”

Her brows drew together. “Like what?”

“Like you were… comfortable.”

Y/N sat back in her chair. “We grew up together. That’s all it is.”

San didn’t respond right away. Then quietly: “Right.”

She watched him for a moment, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to say more, she returned to her notes.

He stared at the corner of his page, pen motionless in his hand, wondering what the hell he was feeling — and why it wouldn’t go away.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

San didn’t even want to go to the party.

But Wooyoung had dragged him out anyway — practically pulled him out of his hoodie and shoved him into a nicer shirt.

“It’ll get your mind off her,” Wooyoung had said, handing him a soda as they stepped into the neon-hazed chaos of the house party.

“I’m not thinking about anyone,” San had mumbled in return.

Now, thirty minutes in, San stood in the corner of a sweaty living room, clutching a lukewarm drink, eyes scanning the room like he was looking for a fire escape. Music thumped through the floorboards, lights pulsed red and blue, and people pressed too close, laughing and spilling drinks.

He felt out of place. Restless.

Not because the party was bad — it was the same as always. Same crowd. Same playlist. Same Wooyoung dancing in the middle of the room like he owned it.

No, San felt wrong because she wasn’t here.

And worse — she wouldn’t have come, even if he’d asked.

He didn’t notice the girl until she stepped into his line of sight.

Cute. Wavy hair. Confident smile. The kind of person who knew how to own her space.

“Hey,” she said, tipping her cup toward him. “You’re San, right?”

He nodded.

“Pharmacy building’s pretty far from music,” she continued. “But I’ve seen you around.”

He blinked. “How would you—”

“You’re the guy who always brings cold brew into 8 a.m. classes.”

Ah. That tracked.

She smiled again. “Want to dance?”

He hesitated.

But then something bitter bubbled up inside him — frustration, jealousy, the ache of being ignored, overlooked, unwanted.

He nodded and followed her onto the makeshift dance floor.

The music was loud, bodies swaying close.

The girl danced easily, drawing him in with playful glances and brushes of her fingers against his sleeve.

San moved with her, distracted and distant, his mind a hundred miles away. Every time she laughed, he thought of Y/N’s quieter chuckle. When she tugged him closer, he remembered how Y/N always sat just out of reach, even when they were alone.

He didn’t want this girl.

But he let her pull him into a quieter hallway anyway.

Her lips brushed against his.

They were warm. Soft.

But wrong.

So wrong.

San froze.

The girl leaned in again, but this time he gently caught her wrist and stepped back.

“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I… can’t.”

She looked surprised. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, guilt already weighing heavy in his chest. “No. You’re great. It’s not you.”

“Then what is it?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then sighed. “I just can’t stop thinking about someone else.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile and patted his chest. “Fair enough.”

San walked home alone in the cold night air.

The streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional passing car. His jacket wasn’t thick enough, and the wind stung his face, but he barely noticed.

All he could think about was how miserable it had felt to kiss someone who wasn’t her.

Back at the dorm, the lights were low. Most of the others had either gone to sleep or stayed out later. Only Seonghwa was awake, sitting in the kitchen, flipping through a book.

San dropped onto a chair across from him and buried his face in his arms.

“Didn’t go well?” Seonghwa asked softly.

San groaned. “It was a disaster.”

Seonghwa waited.

“I kissed someone,” San mumbled.

Silence.

“Okay,” Seonghwa said slowly. “And? Isn’t that like normal for you?”

“And I couldn’t do it,” San admitted. “I stopped. I walked out.”

Seonghwa set his book down. “Because of Y/N?”

San didn’t answer, which was an answer.

Seonghwa nodded. “You like her.”

“I don’t even know what that means anymore,” San muttered.

“It means you like her.”

“But she’s… She’s quiet. She doesn’t let anyone in.”

“She let you in.”

San hesitated.

“You’ve been the only one who’s seen her, really seen her,” Seonghwa said gently. “You think that’s nothing?”

San stared at the table.

“I don’t know if she feels the same,” he whispered.

“Then talk to her,” Seonghwa replied. “Or don’t. But don’t pretend this is casual anymore.”

Meanwhile, across the city, Y/N sat in a quiet café with Jisoo.

He’d found her after her pharmacy lab, insisting on catching up before he returned to training.

They sipped tea in silence for a while. Jisoo was always like that — unhurried, content to sit with the quiet.

Then, out of nowhere, he said, “You seem distracted lately.”

She blinked. “Do I?“

Jisoo just looked at her.

She bit her lip. “I guess I’m just tired.”

Jisoo tilted his head. “Is it about someone?”

Y/N hesitated.

“Your study partner, maybe?”

She shot him a startled glance.

Jisoo laughed. “You talk about him. Not often. But when you do, your voice changes.”

Y/N flushed. “It’s not like that.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Jisoo said kindly. “But you seem… unsure. Like you’re afraid to want something.”

She looked down at her cup. “He’s not like me.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s loud. Confident. People like him.”

Jisoo smiled softly. “So?”

“So I’m not that kind of person.”

He took a sip of tea. “You’re kind. Smart. Funny, even if no one sees it. If he doesn’t see that, he’s the one who’s not enough.”

Y/N looked up at him.

“Do you like him?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

Jisoo didn’t push. He just smiled and said, “I hope you find someone who makes you feel like being yourself is enough. And I hope you will let that person in.”

Back at the dorm, San sat on his bed, headphones in, scrolling through old photos on his phone.

He had a few saved from group study sessions. A blurry one of Y/N tucking her hair behind her ear. Another of her glancing up with wide eyes mid-note.

He’d never had the courage to send them to her.

He didn’t even know why he’d taken them.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Wooyoung: “You alive?”

San typed back: “Barely.”

Then paused.

And added: “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

The typing bubble appeared.

“100%. But a love-sick one.”

San groaned.

Then typed a new message.

To her.

[San]: Are you free tomorrow?

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

Y/N stared at the message when it came in.

She’d been curled in bed, reading over her chemistry notes, trying to block out the conversation she’d had with Jisoo.

She reread it twice.

It was simple.

Still, she didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because she didn’t know if it would be really okay to hang out with him.

Y/N wasn’t sure why she agreed to hang out.

San had framed it vaguely. Something about relaxing. Something about a reward for finishing their latest round of project drafts early. Her initial instinct was to decline, as usual, but San had asked with that persistent glint in his eyes. The one that told her he wasn’t going to beg, but would probably annoy her about it until she said yes.

„Just a few hours,“ he’d said. „You need fresh air. You’re starting to look like a locked-in alchemist.“

That line alone had made her snort.

Now she stood stiffly outside a noisy arcade and convenience plaza in Hongdae, watching San jog over, hands shoved in his hoodie, looking a little too pleased with himself.

„You didn’t tell me this would involve other people,“ she said flatly.

San grinned, unbothered. „Surprise.“

„I don’t like surprises.“

„Yeah, I figured,“ he said. „But I think you’ll like them. My friends are cool. Loud. But cool.“

Before she could protest, a cluster of guys waved from across the pavement. Seven of them, to be precise.

San gestured. „Come on. You’re already here.“

She rolled her eyes but followed.

„So *this* is the mysterious pharmacy major,“ said Wooyoung, eyeing her with a teasing smirk.

„She’s got a vibe,“ Yeosang added, nudging his glasses up.

„I didn’t know San knew how to be friends with someone so quiet,“ Hongjoong remarked, genuinely curious.

Y/N crossed her arms. „I didn’t know San knew how to be friends with women, period.“

The table of guys burst out laughing. Even Jongho let out a low chuckle.

San looked slightly betrayed. „I’ll have you know I’m very supportive of women.“

„You’re supportive of flirting with them,“ Y/N deadpanned.

Wooyoung cackled. „I like her. She’s terrifying.“

„She’s honest,“ Seonghwa said, amused. „It’s refreshing.“

„She’s blunt as hell,“ Yunho muttered, watching her curiously.

Y/N didn’t try to soften the impression she gave. They could take her or leave her. She wasn’t here to charm anyone. She was here because San wouldn’t shut up until she agreed.

Still, she found the group dynamic surprisingly tolerable. Even… interesting. There was a natural rhythm between them. Chaos, sure, but grounded chaos. They all treated San like he was both their favorite and most exhausting sibling.

And San, in return, was… different around them.

A little softer. A little less performative. Less flirt, more friend.

It unsettled her in a way she couldn’t articulate.

They ended up playing a few arcade games. Y/N didn’t care for the noise, but there was a certain joy in watching Wooyoung yell in disbelief as she casually beat him at a rhythm game on her first try.

„You’re a menace,“ he gasped.

„You just suck,“ she replied simply.

San was laughing behind her, head tilted back, eyes crinkled.

„I told you she’d humble you,“ he said, nudging Wooyoung.

„I didn’t know she’d eviscerate me.“

„She’s like that all the time,“ San replied, fondly.

Y/N glanced at him. That tone again. Like he wasn’t talking about a classmate. Like she was something… closer.

She looked away.

Later, they all sat near the street food vendors, eating snacks and talking over one another.

Y/N picked at her tteokbokki quietly. Listening. Letting their energy pass over her like a tide.

„Y/N?“

She looked up to see a tall figure approaching.

„Jisoo?“

He grinned. „Wow. Didn’t think I would see you here.“

She stood up slightly. „Didn’t know you were on this side of town.“

„Practice let out early. And I’m starving.“

The guys fell into a subtle hush, observing the interaction.

„You can sit if you want,“ Y/N said.

San blinked.

Jisoo sat beside her with a nod to the others. „I’m Jisoo. Old friend.“

„We’re San’s friends,“ Mingi offered. „Well, technically his babysitters.“

That got a few chuckles.

„Y/N and I used to live down the street from each other,“ Jisoo explained. „She was always reading manga under the slide while everyone else played soccer.“

Y/N nodded. „Still do. Just indoors now.“

Jisoo smirked. „She used to threaten to hex people with her chemistry kits.“

„Only you,“ she corrected.

„Still counts.“

San was quiet. Watching. An unfamiliar tension pulled at his jaw.

The ease between them grated on him. That Jisoo had known her first. That he could talk about her like a permanent fixture. That she smiled more during this ten-minute exchange than she had all afternoon.

He hated how much it bothered him.

When Jisoo left, the dynamic shifted.

Y/N went back to quiet, but it was a thoughtful quiet.

San, for once, didn’t speak much. He kept his hands in his hoodie pocket. Kept glancing at her when she wasn’t looking.

Hongjoong noticed. Raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Later, when the group dispersed and it was just the two of them walking back toward the station, Y/N finally broke the silence.

„You’re weird today.“

San didn’t look at her. „Am I?“

„You keep sulking. You didn’t even make fun of Wooyoung’s reaction time.“

„Maybe I’m just tired.“

„Or jealous.“

He stopped.

She turned to face him. Calm. Unbothered. But her eyes searched his face.

He swallowed. „Of what?“

„I don’t know,“ she said plainly. „You tell me.“

He held her gaze for a beat longer, then looked away.

They stood like that for a few seconds too long.

Then she started walking again.

He followed.

That night, Y/N lay awake, staring at her ceiling.

She wasn’t sure what to make of today.

The guys weren’t awful. San was… weird. Not in a bad way. Just less obnoxious than usual. Quieter.

Maybe she threw him off. Maybe Jisoo did.

Either way, she couldn’t stop thinking about the look on his face when she’d teased him about being jealous.

He hadn’t denied it.

Not really.

At the same time, San was pacing his room.

Wooyoung, stretched on the bed, was scrolling through his phone lazily.

„You gonna say something or just walk holes into the floor?“

„She invited him to sit.“

„Who?“

„That guy. Jisoo. The one who knows her manga preferences.“

Wooyoung looked up. „Oh, you’re spiraling.“

„I’m not spiraling.“

„You’re emotionally imploding. Which is cute, honestly.“

San groaned.

„Dude. Just admit it. You like her. A lot.“

„She doesn’t even like people.“

„Yeah, and yet she spent all day with us for *you.* That means something.“

San sat on the edge of the bed.

„I think I messed up.“

„Nah. You’re just not used to having feelings that aren’t ego-driven.“

San threw a pillow at him.

Wooyoung ducked. „Text her.“

San considered it.

Then didn’t.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

Y/N hated rain.

Not for the poetic reasons most people did. Not because it was lonely or moody or reflected some deep metaphor about emotion.

She just hated being wet. She hated soggy clothes, squeaky shoes, and the way her hoodie clung to her arms like a soggy second skin. And she especially hated that she’d stayed late in the lab, missed the last bus, and was now standing under a flickering awning as the Seoul sky dumped buckets of cold water. And to top it all she lost her keys and her grandparents are out of town.

Miserable didn’t begin to cover it.

Her fingers were pale and stiff as she tried to text her grandparents that she was fine. She was used to doing everything alone — the commute, the workload, the errands — but today had pushed her limits.

Then she heard the umbrella.

“Seriously?” a voice called out through the downpour. “You don’t own a single raincoat?”

Y/N turned her head.

Choi San. Hoodie, joggers, sneakers soaked at the toes. Holding an umbrella large enough for two.

“I’m fine,” she said flatly.

“You look like a drowned cat.”

“Again. Fine.”

He ignored that and stepped closer, tilting the umbrella over her without asking.

“I saw you leaving the building while I was walking Wooyoung’s laundry over,” he explained. “He’s too good for wet socks, apparently.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, cheerful despite the cold.

Twenty minutes later, she was at his dorm.

His room was neater than expected — spare, with soft lighting and a few posters, a desk piled with unread textbooks, and one rogue dumbbell by the bed. He handed her an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, then pointed her toward the small attached bathroom.

“Dryer’s on already,” he said.

Y/N changed in silence, grateful for the warm fabric. The hoodie swallowed her frame. It smelled like citrus shampoo and something deeper — like cedarwood and warmth. She tried not to think about it.

When she came out, San was toweling his hair dry. Shirtless.

She blinked. Once. Then turned and made a beeline for the bed, sitting stiffly on the edge. Not trying to think about his abs.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“You’re very ‘fine’ today.”

She folded her arms.

He tossed the towel aside, sat on the floor, and leaned against the bed with a heavy extrying. I tried not to stare at his bare stomache. “It was kind of cool seeing you lose your composure, you know.”

I blinked. “I didn’t lose composure.”

“You were frozen. You looked like you’d slap me if I touched you.”

“You looked… distractingly shirtless.”

That made him pause.

“You think I’m distracting?” he grinned, tilting his head.

“I think I was cold and tired and not in the mood for your abs,” she said, perfectly deadpan.

He snorted. “You are seriously something else.”

Elsewhere, the dorm was alive with noise.

“Where’s San?” Yunho asked, carrying snacks into the living room.

“Probably still sulking,” Mingi offered.

“Or trying to impress pharmacy girl,” Yeosang muttered, not looking up from his laptop.

“Y/N,” Wooyoung corrected. “She has a name.”

“She also scares you.”

“She beat me at rhythm games and roasted my ego. That’s fair.”

“I like her,” Seonghwa added. “She’s straightforward.”

“I think San’s in trouble,” Hongjoong said, voice thoughtful.

Jongho raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because I’ve never seen him act like this about anyone.”

San stretched out on the floor, eyes on the ceiling.

“I was thinking,” he said quietly.

“Dangerous.”

“Do you always deflect when people care about you?”

Y/N tensed.

He didn’t push. Just waited.

Finally, she said, “I don’t like assuming people mean things they don’t.”

“Do you think I’m pretending to care?”

“You don’t even know me.”

He sat up slowly. “I know you read medical case studies for fun. I know you pretend to hate everyone, but you stayed the whole day with my friends even though it drained you. I know you eat strawberry pocky when you’re anxious and you triple-check every experiment before you start. I know you’re lonely, and you don’t know how to let people in.”

Silence.

“You’re wrong about the pocky,” she said quietly.

He smiled.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

The next day, she met Jisoo for coffee.

He raised an eyebrow when he saw her. “You look different.”

“I got caught in the rain,” she said. “San helped.”

“San,” he repeated. “That the guy from the arcade, your study partner ?”

“He’s irritating,” she muttered, stirring her tea.

“Irritating?”

“He doesn’t give up. Most people would.”

Jisoo leaned back. “And that bothers you?”

“I don’t know what he wants.”

“Maybe he just wants you to stop pushing him away.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

“I don’t get him,” she said finally.

“Maybe you’re not supposed to. Maybe you’re supposed to accept his feelings.”

“That’s worse.”

Jisoo laughed.

Later that night, San stood in the dorm kitchen, fiddling with the water kettle. His mind had been racing since Y/N left that afternoon — she’d smiled a little more. Teased him a little more. Still blunt, still unreadable… but somehow different.

He didn’t notice Wooyoung, Seonghwa, and Hongjoong walk in.

“You good?” Seonghwa asked.

San blinked. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

“Spit it out.”

San turned, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes distant.

“I think I’m falling for her.”

Wooyoung choked on his soda. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“You sure?” Seonghwa said gently.

“I know enough. She’s different. She’s not trying to impress anyone. She doesn’t care who I am. She’s blunt and kind and… intriguing.”

Hongjoong leaned against the counter. “Do you think she likes you back?”

“I don’t know,” San admitted. “She looks at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Then don’t rush it,” Seonghwa said. “Let it grow.”

Meanwhile, Y/N lay in bed replaying every second of the day.

San in the rain. San offering his hoodie. San shirtless and smiling like he had nothing to hide.

Her pulse jumped just remembering it.

And the way he looked at her — not like a challenge, not like someone to conquer, but like someone worth knowing.

She hated how much it made her ache. So she decided to distract herself.

Y/N had never been good at parties.

The noise, the forced conversations, the social expectations—it was all exhausting. She had only agreed to join Jisoo and a few of his teammates because he practically begged her after their midterms. „Come on, just one night. You deserve a break,“ he had said, nudging her phone out of her hands.

Now, sitting stiffly at a round table in a private room of a barbecue place near campus, she regretted every decision that led to this point.

Beer bottles clinked. Laughter roared around her. Someone was shouting about chicken gizzards and sauce ratios. She stared at the amber liquid in her cup like it held the secrets of the universe.

„Y/N, you’ve barely touched your drink,“ Jisoo said, nudging her arm. He was already flushed, his easy smile a little looser than usual.

„It tastes like regret,“ she muttered.

Jisoo snorted. „One more sip. If you’re not having fun in fifteen minutes, we leave. Deal?“

She nodded. Deal.

A few sips turned into a few cups, and the buzz came on slowly. Warmth unfurling in her chest, dissolving the walls she usually kept so carefully built.

„Y/N, any romance in your life?“ one of Jisoo’s teammates called out, teasing.

She blinked. „What?“

„You’re always so serious. There’s gotta be someone making you blush.“

A few eyes turned to her, amused and curious. Y/N, still reserved but looser with alcohol, let out a small laugh.

„There might be… an idiot.“

„Oooh,“ they chorused. „Tell us!“

She swirled her drink. „He’s annoying. Always teasing. Never shuts up.“

„Sounds awful.“

„He’s also kind. Way too kind. And he doesn’t know how to give up. He keeps showing up.“

Her cheeks were flushed now, but it wasn’t just the alcohol. She didn’t see Jisoo watching her carefully.

„Y/N,“ Jisoo said gently a few minutes later, after pulling her aside near the entrance. „Do you mean San?“

She groaned, hiding her face in her hands. „I don’t know what I mean. He’s like… some virus that won’t leave my system.“

„So you like him.“

„I think I do. I think I hate that I do.“

She hiccupped.

„Okay, that’s enough soju for you,“ Jisoo said.

A few minutes later, when she couldn’t find her keys, Jisoo did the only thing he could think of: he called San.

San showed up ten minutes later in joggers and a hoodie, hair still damp from a shower.

„She’s a little out of it,“ Jisoo explained.

„What happened?“

„Midterm stress. She needed to blow off steam. I didn’t think she’d drink that much.“

San nodded, then turned to Y/N. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, hood up, eyes sleepy but sharp when they found his face.

„I lost my keys,“ she muttered.

„I’ve got you,“ he said softly.

The ride to the dorm was quiet. Y/N’s head leaned against the window, her breath fogging up the glass.

San stole glances when the lights turned red. Her lashes fluttered. Her hands were tucked into his hoodie sleeves.

She looked small. And kind of heartbreakingly beautiful.

Back at the dorm, he guided her to his room, where she flopped onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

„You’re weird,“ she mumbled.

He laughed. „You’re one to talk.“

She sat up suddenly, eyes focused on him like a laser.

„Why are you so nice to me?“

He blinked. „What do you mean?“

„You keep… trying. And I keep pushing. You’re a flirt. Everyone knows it. But you look at me like… like I matter. Why?“

Her voice cracked on the last word.

„Because you do,“ he said quietly.

Y/N stared at him for a long moment. Then she stood, wobbling slightly.

„I shouldn’t say this,“ she whispered, voice slurred, „but you make it really hard to hate you.“

And then she kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It was clumsy and uncoordinated and sudden. Her hands curled into his hoodie. Her lips were soft but demanding.

For a second, San kissed back. His mind went blank. Just her, her scent, her warmth.

Then he pulled back.

„Y/N,“ he said, breathless. „We can’t. Not like this.“

She blinked slowly, confused. „Why not?“

„Because you won’t remember. Because I want this to mean something.“

She swayed, and he caught her, gently guiding her back onto the bed.

„Sleep,“ he whispered.

She closed her eyes.

„San…“

He froze. But she didn’t say anything else. Just curled into his hoodie and drifted off.

Later that night, San sat in the kitchen, staring into a mug of tea.

Wooyoung padded in, rubbing his eyes. „You look like you’ve seen a ghost.“

„Y/N kissed me.“

That woke Woo up fast.

„She what?“

„She was drunk. I brought her back. She kissed me. And I stopped it.“

„Wow.“

„I think I’m in trouble.“

„Do you want her to kiss you when she’s sober?“

San looked down at the steam curling from the mug.

„Yeah.“

„Then wait for her.“

„I’m trying.“

In the morning, Y/N would wake up with a headache, a faint memory of warmth, and the scent of citrus and cedar still clinging to her.

Y/N pretended she didn’t remember.

When she woke up in San’s dorm the next morning, her head was pounding and her mouth tasted like regret. He had already left the room. The blanket over her had been neatly tucked, a water bottle placed beside her, and her phone charged. But she didn’t ask what happened.

And he didn’t tell her.

She just stood in the doorway with the borrowed hoodie still on her back and mumbled, “Thanks,” before slipping out of the dorm and out of the moment.

Like it had never happened.

Three days later, and San still hadn’t heard from her.

He’d waited for a message. A knock on his door. A sarcastic jab. Anything.

But there was nothing.

It was driving him insane.

“You’re pacing again,” Wooyoung said, tossing a chip into his mouth. “Stop before you wear out the floor.”

“She kissed me, Woo.”

“I know.”

“And now she’s pretending it didn’t happen.”

“Because she’s scared,” Seonghwa said, entering the living room. “She probably thinks it was a mistake.”

San scoffed. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

“You sure?” Yeosang quipped from the kitchen. “You’ve kissed half the campus.”

San turned. “And I’ve never once stopped a kiss before.”

Silence.

“Fair,” Jongho muttereDd.

The next morning, Y/N walked into class like nothing had happened.

She took her usual seat three rows from the front, opened her notes, and stared straight ahead. Her posture was perfect. Her hair was pinned back. Her expression was unreadable.

San sat two rows behind her, struggling to breathe.

He watched her scribble down formulas, the same way she always did — left margin, bullet points, perfect loops. Not even a glance in his direction.

When class ended, he stood quickly.

“Y/N,” he called, catching up to her outside the lecture hall.

She didn’t slow.

“Y/N.”

She turned. Her eyes were tired, sharp. “What?”

“We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You kissed me.”

“I was drunk.”

“So you do remember.”

Silence.

“I don’t see how it matters,” she said, voice clipped.

San’s jaw tightened. “It matters to me.”

She scoffed and took a step back. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because—” he stopped. “Because I do.”

“That’s not a reason, San. You care about everyone. You flirt with everyone. I’m not special.”

“Don’t say that.”

She looked at him then — really looked — and something flickered in her expression.

“I don’t belong in your world,” she said, loud enough for others to start turning their heads. “So stop acting like I do.”

Students paused as they walked by. A few slowed, sensing the tension.

San didn’t care.

“You think I care about that?” he said, his voice rising. “You think this is some game to me?”

Y/N stayed silent.

“I’ve never felt like this before, Y/N!” he shouted, hands clenching. “Not for anyone.”

People were definitely staring now.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t think straight, I can’t even kiss someone else without seeing your face!”

Her mouth parted slightly. Her cheeks flushed.

“I don’t care that you’re quiet, or blunt, or awkward, or that you pretend you don’t feel anything,” he said, softer now. “I see you. I like you. All of you.”

The air felt heavy.

Y/N blinked.

“I never wanted to fall for you,” he said. “But I did. And you can pretend you forgot, but I know you didn’t.”

And then he turned — and walked away, leaving everyone stunned.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

Later that evening, Y/N sat on the floor of her room, her notebook forgotten beside her.

She couldn’t get his voice out of her head.

I’ve never felt like this before.

I can’t sleep.

I see you.

He had said it in front of everyone. No hesitation. No fear.

And she had stood there like an idiot, letting him spill his heart while she said nothing.

Why?

Because she didn’t believe she deserved it?

Because she thought he’d grow bored?

Because she was terrified of being vulnerable?

Her hands trembled.

She had spent her whole life protecting herself. Avoiding emotion. Hiding behind logic and structure and silence.

But San hadn’t just seen through that — he’d embraced it.

Back at the dorm, San sat slouched on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head.

“You okay?” Wooyoung asked.

“No.”

“That was… a bold move.”

San sighed. “She’s going to hate me.”

“Or,” Seonghwa said, “she’s going to finally admit what she’s feeling.”

“Or she’s going to block me and change Cities.”

“You did what you had to,” Jongho offered. “No one else would’ve gotten through to her.”

That night, Y/N stared at her ceiling for hours.

And in the deepest, quietest part of her chest, something cracked.

Because maybe she hadn’t forgotten the kiss.

And maybe she didn’t want to.

°•°°°••••°°♡•••°°°°°°°•••••♡°°•°°•°°°°°♡•••

It had been almost a full day since San’s confession, and Y/N still hadn’t moved past the overwhelming ache in her chest.

She had done what she always did. Pretended nothing happened. Built her wall higher. Said nothing. And he, of all people, had laid himself bare in front of everyone.

„I’ve never felt like this before, Y/N.”

His voice kept replaying in her head like a broken record.

She wanted to run away from it. From the weight of his feelings. From the terrifying possibility that he meant it.

So when Jisoo texted her „You alive?“, she asked if they could talk. Really talk.

They sat on a low bench at their usual spot in a quiet corner of the university courtyard. It was overcast, the kind of gray sky that dulled the noise of the world.

Y/N hunched over, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.

„You heard of it, didn’t you?“

Jisoo tilted his head. „You mean the part where Choi San poured his entire heart out in front of the chemistry department? Yeah, I caught it.“

She groaned and buried her face in her hands. „It was a mess.“

„Only for you. He looked like a drama lead having his main character moment.“

Y/N shot him a look. „Not helping.“

Jisoo softened. „Sorry. But what’s really going on?“

She was quiet for a long time. Then: „I don’t know how to do this.“

„Do what?“

„Open up. Let someone care about me. Especially someone like him.“

Jisoo exhaled. „Y/N, you’re one of the kindest people I know. So what if you’re quiet? So what if you don’t say things easily? You’re not broken. You’re just scared.“

„He kissed me. Or I kissed him. I don’t even know.“

„And?“

„And it felt real. Too real. So I pretended I didn’t remember.“

He gave her a flat look. „That’s cruel.“

„I know.“

„You need to talk to him.“

„He deserves better.“

„Maybe. But he chose you.“

That shut her up.

„And for what it’s worth,“ Jisoo added, nudging her shoulder, „I’ve never seen anyone get under your skin like this.“

She gave him a sideways glance. „You mean besides you.“

„Yeah, but I’m family. He’s… something else.“

Y/N looked down at her lap. Something else. That was exactly the problem.

San had been slamming weights harder than necessary for a full thirty minutes when he noticed someone enter the gym.

Jisoo.

He was in full warm-up gear, towel around his neck, earbuds in.

San tried to ignore him. Focus on his reps. Channel the chaos in his head.

But Jisoo approached anyway.

„You trying to break your back or something?“

San gave him a look. „Not now, man.“

„Tough day?“

San dropped the barbell and sat up. „Let me guess. You’re here to tell me to back off.“

Jisoo blinked. „Why would I do that?“

„ I know you and Y/N are close.“

Jisoo snorted. „Dude. She’s basically my sister.“

San hesitated. „Really?“

„Yes. Always has been. You think I’d let just anyone embarrass her in front of half the campus without punching them?“

San blinked. „So… you’re not mad?“

„I’m protective, not possessive. There’s a difference.“

San let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. „She’s been ignoring me.“

„She’s scared. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care.“

San nodded slowly. „I just… don’t know what else to do.“

„You already did it. You told her. Now you wait. And trust her to come to you.“

That night, Y/N sat curled up in bed, clutching her phone.

She scrolled back through old messages.

San: don’t forget to eat

San: this professor is trying to kill us

San: don’t let them make you feel small

The texts had always seemed like noise at the time. Friendly check-ins. Annoying persistence.

But now, each one felt like a thread in a tapestry she had never bothered to look at closely.

She opened her photo gallery. Found the selfie he’d taken on her phone when she wasn’t looking. Cross-eyed, grinning. A stupid peace sign.

She smiled.

Her thumb hovered over the call button. Then dropped.

Instead, she stood. Changed. Grabbed her coat.

And walked.

When she reached the dorm, her heart was in her throat.

She hesitated in front of the building. The windows glowed softly against the night. Her fingers trembled as she rang the bell.

It took a minute, but the door opened.

Hongjoong blinked at her, surprised. „Y/N?“

She tried to smile. „Is San home?“

He nodded slowly. „Yeah. Come in.“

The dorm was quiet. A soft murmur of music came from one of the rooms.

Hongjoong gestured. „Second door on the right.“

She knocked.

Inside, San called, „Not now, Woo. I’m not in the mood.“

Y/N opened the door anyway.

San sat up in bed, hair messy, hoodie loose. His eyes widened.

„Y/N.“

She took a deep breath.

„I remember everything.“

San stared at her like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Y/N stood just inside his room, the door still slightly ajar behind her. Her voice lingered in the air: „I remember everything.“

She looked nervous, but not unsure. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides, but her eyes didn’t leave his.

„You do?“ he asked, voice soft.

She nodded. „All of it. The kiss. The way you looked at me. How you put me to bed and didn’t take advantage of the moment.“

San let out a shaky breath. „Then why have you been acting like it didn’t happen?“

Y/N stepped further in, closing the door gently behind her. „Because I was scared.“

„Of what?“

She swallowed hard. „Of what it means to fall for someone like you.“

San blinked. His heart kicked against his ribs.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap.

„I’ve never been in a relationship before,“ she admitted. „I always thought… it wasn’t for me. That I was too quiet. Too awkward. Too reserved.“

„You’re not too anything,“ he said immediately.

She smiled, just barely. „But you’re everything I thought I could never have. You’re loud and open and charismatic. Everyone notices you.“

She looked up at him. „And you noticed me.“

San didn’t say anything. He sat next to her instead, close but not touching.

Y/N exhaled. „I don’t know why you would fall for someone like me. I say the wrong things. I overthink. I push people away.“

„And you’re kind,“ he said quietly. „You listen. You care more than you let on. You’re honest when it counts, and you have this quiet strength that makes people underestimate you. But I see it. I see you.“

She blinked back something suspiciously wet in her eyes.

San reached over, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. „I fell for you because you’re real. Because you didn’t pretend to be anyone else around me. And because for the first time in my life, someone saw me too. Not Choi San, the flirt. Not the guy everyone expects things from. Just me.“

The silence between them pulsed with energy.

Then she leaned in.

And so did he.

When their lips met, it wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t experimental.

It was inevitable.

The kiss started soft. A breath shared, a heartbeat held.

San cupped her cheek like she might vanish if he didn’t hold her steady.

But Y/N’s hands curled into his hoodie, pulling him closer.

His lips parted, letting the kiss deepen, and a quiet sound escaped him—a low, unintentional moan that made her shiver.

He pulled back just slightly. „We don’t have to rush this.“

Her fingers tugged at the hem of his hoodie.

„I know,“ she whispered. „But I want to. With you.“

His eyes searched hers. „Are you sure?“

She nodded.

San kissed her again, slower now, savoring it. „I just want to do this right.“

„Then stop thinking,“ she murmured against his mouth. „And stay.“

That was all the permission he needed.

Clothes were shed between breathless kisses. Her skin felt like warmth and want beneath his fingertips. He touched her like she mattered. Like she was precious.

Because she was.

Y/N had never done this before, but it didn’t feel foreign. It felt like trust. Like discovery.

San took his time, even as she guided him with quiet urgency. The air between them was charged but gentle, desire wrapped in reverence.

When it happened, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

And when he held her afterward, bodies tangled in soft sheets and half-whispers, she buried her face into his chest and sighed.

„I think I was falling for you from the beginning,“ she said.

San kissed the top of her head. „Then I’m glad I caught you.“

San lay awake, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting gently on Y/N’s bare shoulder. The early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a pale glow across her features.

She looked peaceful. Vulnerable. Real.

And his.

He couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop memorizing every detail. The way her lashes brushed her cheeks. The slight part in her lips. The steady rise and fall of her breathing.

He reached out and brushed his fingers gently along her jaw.

“You’re the one,” he whispered, barely audible. “I want to build something real with you.”

Then, ever so softly, he leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Careful not to wake her, he slid out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, and padded quietly into the hallway.

He made his way to the kitchen, intending to grab two glasses of water, but was greeted by all seven of his friends sitting at the table, wide awake.

„Well, well, well,“ Wooyoung said, wiggling his eyebrows.

„Look who finally emerged from the love cave,“ Jongho teased, sipping his coffee.

San blinked. „What are you guys even doing up?“

„You weren’t exactly subtle last night,“ Mingi muttered into his cereal.

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. „So? What happened?“

San grinned, cheeks red but smile unstoppable. „She’s my girlfriend . Officially.“

A round of groans and claps echoed across the table.

„Gross,“ Yeosang said, mock gagging.

Just then, a soft voice drifted down the hallway. „San…?“

San turned just as Y/N appeared at the edge of the kitchen entrance, one of his oversized t-shirts draped down to her thighs, bare legs peeking beneath. Her hair was tousled, eyes still sleepy.

All seven boys froze.

San’s eyes widened. He moved fast, practically lunging to block her from their view.

„Hey, hey, hey! No peeking! Go back to bed, I’ll bring you water,“ he said, flustered.

Y/N blinked. „Why is everyone awake?“

„Because fate is cruel,“ Seonghwa said, shielding his eyes.

San wrapped his arms around her protectively, pulling her close and pressing a kiss to her cheek, then her temple, then her forehead. „Ignore them. You look perfect.“

„Oh my God,“ Wooyoung groaned. „Make it stop.“

„Seriously, can’t you wait until we’re not in the same room?“ Jongho muttered.

But San just smiled and kissed her again.

Y/N rolled her eyes but leaned into him, hiding her red face against his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, San felt completely, irreversibly happy.

[mingisprincxss]

ATEEZ ROCKSTAR!AU ── MINGI ⭑.ᐟ

★ introducing song mingi as the bands bassist! featuring you as the bassists hot gf (who everyone’s jealous of)

── matching outfits, stealing his jackets, impulsive late night drives, calloused fingers, him teaching you how to play bass, you doing his makeup before shows, constantly posting each other on social media, him showing you off, good luck kisses before he goes onstage ‘cos he claims he can’t function without one!

[mingisprincxss]

I would let him poison me anytime

[mingisprincxss]

[mingisprincxss]

"Off Limits"

choi san. just your brother’s best friend. off-limits. untouchable. but the tension between you two just doesn’t just disappear—it builds, until one late night... he snaps.. and it gets messy. and your brother seonghwa?? he’s not putting up with it.

wc : 4.9k

tags : explicit content, edging, teasing, overstimulation, softdom!san, cursing possessive behavior, messy creampie, san is thirsty & down bad, brothers bestfriend, protective!seonghwa, possessive!san, aftercare,secret hookup,so much cum, nighttime tension.

genre : smut

a/n : i wanted someone’s best friend fucking oc quiet on the couch while their brother sleeps upstairs. so i wrote it.

It’s past 1AM. The house is dead quiet. You pad down the stairs barefoot, oversized shirt brushing your thighs, craving nothing more than cold water and maybe some silence to soothe your restless mind.

But then—you freeze.

He’s still here.

Crashing on the couch like he always does when he drinks too much with your brother.

Except this time, he’s not bundled under a hoodie or buried under a blanket.

He’s shirtless. One arm slung across his eyes. The other resting on his chest, the veins in his forearm catching the dim moonlight.

Sweats hanging low on his hips.

Your throat goes dry.

And then… a shift.

His hips twitch. A groan escapes him.

You freeze.

Is he…?

No. No way.

You take one step closer. Then another.

And then—your name.

Low. Guttural. Slurred like a dream.

“Y/N…”

You press your lips together, shocked… and a little smug.

So that’s what’s going on.

You tiptoe closer, now definitely playing with fire, and whisper:

“San?”

He stirs, blinks—his eyes open, unfocused. And then they land on you.

“What are you doing?” “Getting water.” You hold up the glass. “What are you doing?”

A beat.

“Trying not to get in trouble.”

You glance down.

Then you see it.

A bulge.

Barely noticeable—but growing.

And then… a twitch. 

He’s trying so hard to cover it with the blanket, but you see the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“You always walk around dressed like that at 1am?”

“You’re one to talk,” you smirk. “Didn’t know you slept with your dick out.”

He sighs. Covers his entire body with the blanket. Face turning red.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he mumbles.

“Oh?” You tilt your head. “So you’re not hard right now?”

“Y/N…” he warns, voice hoarse.

“Did I do that to you? Just me standing here got you hard?”

“Go to bed, Y/N.”

“Is that how you talk to all your best friend’s sisters when they catch you with a boner?”

“You’re not funny.”

“Oh, but I am,” you giggle. “I’ve never seen you so uncomfortable.”

He shifts again, jaw tight. “Y/N, stop.”

“Why? Because I’m your best friend’s little sister?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean in just a little more.

“Poor thing,” you whisper against his ear. “Bet you’ve been jerking off thinking about me for years.”

Silence. Thick. Tense.

Then his voice—low, gravelly:

“Come here.”

You blink. Step back, teasing.

“Why?”

“Just—” he exhales— “I won’t touch you. Just… sit… uh .. Talk to me. I can’t sleep.”

You hesitate. Teasing is one thing, but this? Dangerous. But you sit anyway—not on his lap, not quite. Perched on the edge of the coffee table, facing him.

Your knees brush.

He’s still flushed, trying so hard not to look at your thighs.

“I don’t get it,” you say after a minute.

“Hmm?”

“You. You’ve wanted me for how long now? Months? Years? And you’ve never tried anything.”

He stares at you like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

“Because I can’t try anything,” he says finally. “You know that.”

“But you want to.”

His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to your legs again—bare, close, right there.

“It doesn’t matter.”

You lean forward, drop your voice.

“So.. if I sat on your lap right now, and kissed you, would you stop me?”

No answer.

“San,” you press, “would you?”

And then?

He laughs once—quiet and dark—and you don’t even have time to react before his hand grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in.

Not for a kiss.

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He just brings you so close you can feel his breath. Foreheads almost touching. His other hand wraps around your bare thigh, tight.

“You don’t get it,” he murmurs.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve had to sit across from you and pretend I wasn’t so fucking hard under the table?”

“I’m just–…”

“No,” he cuts in. “You want to play games? Fine. But if you’re gonna sit on me—if you’re gonna whisper shit like that in the dark—you better mean it.”

You go still. The air is so hot you’re dizzy.

“And if I do?” you whisper.

His grip tightens.

“Then don’t ever laugh at me again.”

His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.

It’s not soft. Not gentle. Not even romantic.

But you pull back, and stand up. 

His eyes are locked on you, not looking away.  

“You’re never gonna stop looking at me like that, are you?” you say, voice low, nearly a whisper.

He tilts his head. Smiles faintly.

“Nope.”

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to stay composed even though your heart is about to punch through your ribs.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me.”

“Sorry.”

A pause. Then:

“You’re dangerous.”

“You’re the one still standing there,” he murmurs. “Not me.”

The silence stretches.

“I shouldn’t–,” you murmur.

“Then don’t,” he replies, jaw tight. “I won’t ask again.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

And that’s what breaks you.

Slowly—carefully—you step toward him. Your thighs brush his knees. His breath catches, just barely.

You climb onto his lap with agonizing slowness, straddling him, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips.

He still doesn’t move.

But you feel it. Every muscle in his body is locked and ready, barely held in check.

“Okay..,” you whisper, leaning in just enough that your nose brushes his. “Happy now?”

He swallows hard. His voice is rough when he speaks again:

“If I touch you again, I’m not stopping.”

You pause. Let the weight of that sink in. Your eyes flick to his lips, then back to his eyes.

And then?

One of his hands grips your waist—tight.

The other slides up your back, dragging you flush against him until your lips almost meet, until his forehead presses to yours, and the only sound left is the ragged rhythm of both your breaths.

You can feel him underneath you—hard, hot, straining against the thin fabric of his sweats.

His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.

It’s not soft. Not gentle. Not even romantic.

It’s heat. Years of tension, swallowed feelings, frustrated restraint, finally breaking loose in one chaotic, punishing kiss. Teeth. Tongue.

Hands gripping your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

You gasp into him, your hands curling in his hair. You’re dizzy. 

You feel like you’ve been yanked out of your body and shoved into someone else’s life.

You pull back just enough to whisper—lips brushing his—

“You’ve wanted this that bad, huh?”

His palms are pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you close.

“Don’t start.”

“You’ve thought about this, like, every night?”

“Y/N…”

“Mmm?”

“You really want me to answer that while you’re sitting on me like this?”

“Thought so.”

That’s when he groans—really groans, low and wrecked—and leans back on the couch, dragging you with him. 

Now you’re straddling him completely, your thighs bracketing his, your top pulled tight against his chest.

“Still not gonna touch me?” you whisper, teasing.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Say what?”

“Say I can’t touch you.”

You blink—heart stuttering.

“I… didn’t say—”

“No,” he cuts you off, voice low, dangerous. 

“You didn’t. But you teased me like I couldn’t. Like I wouldn’t. Like I didn’t have the balls.”

You swallow hard.

“You think it was easy? Watching you flirt with every guy who wasn’t me?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Walking into a room knowing you knew what you were doing to me?”

His hands slide up under your shirt, slow, maddening, his rough palms grazing bare skin. You hiss in a breath as they find your waist.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

Because your hips rock forward—just slightly. Just enough for both of you to feel it.

And that’s when he snaps.

His hands grip your hips hard, and he drags you down against him in one sharp pull. Your breath catches—your head tips back.

He’s grinding up against you now, shameless, rough. His mouth finds your neck—kisses, bites, breathless murmurs against your skin

“You wanted this?”

“For a long time, Y/N.”

“You think I haven’t had to jerk off thinking about you in this exact outfit?”

You whimper before you can stop it—and he smirks against your collarbone.

“Thought so.”

He flips you—sudden, fast, hot.

Now you’re on your back. Couch cushions under you. His body over yours.

“I’m done pretending,” he growls.

His mouth finds your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest.

Your shirt and underwear are gone in seconds. His sweats follow.

He drags his hips down and pushes into you with a deep, shuddering groan.

You gasp—back arching, nails digging into his arms.

“Not so cocky now, huh?”

He thrusts again. Deep.

You cry out.

“Still think this is a joke?”

You’re panting. Legs trembling. Your hands scrabble for something to hold.

“I think you’re a fucking brat,” he growls. “And I’m done letting you tease me.”

He doesn’t give you time.

He sets a slow, brutal rhythm.

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

Dragging moans out of you with every inch. He holds your jaw, keeps your eyes on him, makes you feel every second.

And when you try to speak—he slaps a hand over your mouth.

“Shh. If your brother hears, I’m fucked.”

You whimper against his palm.

“And you,” he growls, “aren’t even trying to be quiet.”

His pace picks up. You’re dripping.

Shaking.

Crying into his shoulder.

He whispers in your ear:

“Say it. Say my name. Say it’s mine.”

You barely manage it between gasps. “Yours. Yours. Yours—”

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans. “You’re squeezing me like you need me.”

You try to answer, but it comes out a breathy, broken sound.

“What was that?” he smirks, leaning down. “No more smart remarks?”

You glare through the haze. “You’re cocky for someone who’s about to fall apart.”

He growls—and speeds up.

Now every thrust is heavier. Deeper. The couch creaks beneath you. His hand slips between you, fingers circling your clit, rough and unrelenting.

“Tell me this is what you wanted,” he pants.

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

“Tell me you thought about this,” he rasps against your ear, “when you touched yourself at night.”

“Every time,” you moan. “Always you.”

That breaks him.

He fucks into you harder now—hips snapping, fingers working faster.

You’re right there—right on the edge—but trying so hard to hold out, to tease him one more time.

“Y—you gonna cum first?” you whisper, breath stuttering.

He grits his teeth.

“Fuck no.” he growls, hand clamping over your mouth as you let out a cry. “You are. And you’re gonna make a fucking mess doing it.”

He keeps going—grinding into you now, every inch hitting deep, precise. His lips brush yours, voice ragged:

“Cum for me. Cum on me. I wanna feel it.”

You’re right there—legs trembling, spine arching, thighs clenched tight around his waist. 

He’s deep and relentless, and his fingers haven’t stopped circling your clit in slick, perfect pressure.

It’s building fast—too fast.

“Fuck—wait—”

You gasp, hand flying to his wrist. “I—I’m gonna—just wait—don’t—”

He freezes.

Almost.

Because he doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t stop touching.

He just slows everything down.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, lips dragging over your neck. “Too much?”

You nod, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“You can.”

He kisses you softly, lips barely brushing.

“But you’re not allowed to cum yet.”

Then he pulls out halfway, slow and torturous, dragging the head of his cock over your sensitive walls—then pushes back in so deep you gasp and shudder under him.

“You feel that?” he whispers. “How close you are? How your body’s begging me to let go?”

You whimper. Try to rock your hips, chase it.

He pins you down.

“No, baby,” he breathes, grinding into you just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Not yet.”

You’re sweating. Shaking. Your legs twitch uncontrollably, heart pounding out of your chest.

“Please—please,” you choke. “I was right there, I was so close—”

“I know,” he says, voice all low heat and devilish control. “You’re cute when you beg.”

His fingers return to your clit—but not the way you need. Just feather-light touches. Barely there. Just enough to keep your skin buzzing.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he whispers, watching you unravel. “Tell me how close you are.”

“I—I feel.. It f–feels like like I’m gonna explode,” you breathe. “It hurts. Please, I need to—”

“You’ll take it,” he growls. “Don’t forget how much you've teased me, sweetheart. Made me bite my fucking tongue every time you bent over in front of me.”

He pushes in deeper. Slow. Grinding.

“Now you’re mine, and I’m gonna make you suffer for it.”

Your whole body jerks—your stomach twisting up like a coil pulled too tight.

“You wanna cum?” he murmurs at your throat. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you moan. “I swear—please, let me—please—”

“Nah,” he smirks. “You don’t mean it yet.”

Then—he pulls out completely.

You cry out—frustrated, aching, dripping down your thighs.

“Look at this mess,” he mutters, watching your slick glisten in the low light. “All this for me?”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “I can’t—I can’t take it, please—”

He smirks.

“You will.”

He leans in, strokes himself once, twice, right against your entrance. Just pressing. Not pushing in.

Your hips try to move, chase it. He holds you down by the throat—just enough pressure to make you still.

“You don’t come until I say. You hear me?”

“Y-Yes—yes, please—”

And then he slams back in.

Deep. Full. But still slow.

He fucks you like he wants to destroy you inch by inch. Every time you get close, he eases off. 

Every time you try to beg, he cuts you off with a kiss, or a palm over your mouth, or a whisper that makes your spine arch:

“Not yet.”

“Almost.”

“Hold it.”

“Be good.”

Your body is on fire. Every nerve lit up, throbbing with denied pleasure. You feel like you're going to break.

And all he does is keep you there. Teetering. Shaking. Ruined.

Your body’s gone numb with need—so close for so long that you’re past the point of control, past the edge of thought.

He’s still grinding into you slow, deep, relentless—your legs spread wide around his waist, held there by the iron grip of his hands on your thighs.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants, sweat dripping from his temple. “You gonna fall apart on my cock like the filthy little tease you are?”

You shake your head, but your hips betray you—grinding up to meet him.

“N-No—can’t—can’t take it—”

“Yes you can,” he growls, pressing harder. “You’re gonna cum, and you’re gonna fucking thank me for it.”

He’s right there at your throat, teeth scraping your skin, breath hot.

His fingers slide down again—cruel and practiced—and you lose it.

“F-Fuck—fuck, I’m—”

Your whole body snaps tight, legs seizing, back arched, mouth open in a silent scream—and you cum.

Hard. Violent. Wracking sobs shaking your chest.

“Please,” you whimper, barely conscious, voice trembling. 

“Please, I can’t—stop—please—too much—”

You’re broken. Twisted inside out. Twitching, begging, done.

But he doesn’t stop.

He shifts your legs higher, deeper angle, and it punches a new moan from your lungs.

You sob—gasping, writhing beneath him, so overstimulated it feels like lightning under your skin.

“I’m not done,” he groans. “Not till I fill you. Not till I cum inside this perfect pussy—so you never fucking forget who owns it.”

You’re crying now—quiet, broken little sounds—and still, he keeps going.

You feel that?” he pants. “How your body’s still taking me? Still sucking me in like you need it?”

“I—I c-can’t—”

Your voice cracks. Eyes squeezed shut.

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

“You can. One more. Be good. Cum with me.”

His thrusts grow frantic now—deeper, sharper, completely lost to the feeling. His breath stutters.

You’re still shaking—raw, ruined, stretched too far—

Then he growls, hips jerking as he buries himself to the edge.

“Fuck—I’m cumming..—fucking mine—”

He spills inside you with a shudder so intense he collapses onto your chest, panting into your neck.

And still—he gives one last slow roll of his hips.

You twitch. Gasp.

“S-still… going?” you whisper, weak.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I know. I know, baby. Just… needed to make sure it stuck.”

He kisses your temple, breath still shaking.

And finally—finally—he stops.

–

You’re both drenched in sweat. Your thighs are trembling. Your voice is wrecked. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, holding you tight.

You’re not sure how long you lie there.

Sweaty. Twitching. Barely breathing.

His weight still half on you, cock softening slowly inside you, both of you wrapped in the kind of silence that feels sacred.

You’re shaking. Barely able to keep your eyes open. His chest rises and falls against yours—hot and heavy.

Then, gently, he shifts.

“I’m gonna pull out,” he murmurs near your ear, voice hoarse. “You okay?”

You nod—barely.

But when he finally does, you both hiss—a sharp inhale at the feeling of it. The stretch, even now. The slick sound. The mess.

You gasp.

“Oh my gosh—fuck—”

It’s everywhere.

His cum spills out of you in thick, warm drips, sliding between your thighs, down your ass, soaking the already-damp cushions beneath you.

You blink, dazed. “That’s so much…”

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice full of smug disbelief. “Fuck.”

He sits up slowly, looking down at you—completely wrecked, legs spread, skin flushed, his cum leaking out of you like you were meant for this.

“Stay there,” he says softly, brushing damp hair from your face. “Don’t move.”

You nod. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

He disappears for a second—footsteps padding into the kitchen—and returns with a warm, damp towel. He kneels between your thighs, careful, reverent. His brows are furrowed, jaw tight.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.

You shiver when he touches you—wiping between your legs, cleaning you up as gently as he can.

But it’s still sensitive. Every pass of the towel makes you twitch and whimper.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I know, baby. I know. I got you.”

He kisses your thigh. Then your hip. Then your stomach. The towel’s warm, but his hands are warmer—soft, slow, soothing.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You did so good for me.”

You don’t say anything—you just watch him.

This man, your brother’s best friend .. who just fucked you like an animal, is now kneeling, caring for your body like he’s scared he broke it.

Maybe he did.

When he’s finished, he tosses the towel to the floor and leans over you again.

“Need help getting up?” he asks gently.

You nod, throat too dry to answer.

He lifts you like it’s nothing—arms under your back and thighs, carrying you bridal-style toward the stairs.

“Thought I was walking,” you murmur, head on his shoulder.

“You can barely breathe,” he chuckles softly. “You think I’m letting you crawl back to your room leaking my cum down your legs?”

You groan. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah,” he smirks. “But you’re still dripping for me.”

He walks you down the hall and into your room—dark, quiet, still. Gently lays you on your bed, pulling the blanket back like it’s ritual.

He hesitates before pulling away.

“You want me to stay?” he asks, voice softer now. “I can. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want space.”

You look at him for a long second—shirtless, sweat-damp, hair a mess, looking somehow more beautiful when he’s being gentle.

“No,” you whisper. “Go before I ask you to do.. that again.”

He grins—low and wolfish.

“You say that like I wouldn’t.”

Then he kisses you. Just once. Soft, lazy, familiar.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he murmurs. “I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”

He leaves you there—sore, wrecked, satisfied—slipping out of your room with one last look.

You pull the blanket up.

Bite your lip. And feel every inch of him still inside you, even when he’s gone.

—————

The next morning,

You wake up sore in places that shouldn’t be sore.

Throat raw. Thighs aching. Knees? You don’t even want to talk about your knees.

You sit up, wincing.

“Fuck me…” you whisper. “I can’t even walk straight…”

Every shift of your legs reminds you exactly how deep he was. 

How long he went. How many times you begged—half-lucid—for him to stop, and he just kept ruining you like it was personal.

You shower fast. No time to process anything. Throw on a hoodie, some shorts you barely manage to walk in, and limp your way out of your room.

The smell of breakfast hits first. Bacon. Coffee. Something sizzling. Then—

Voices.

You freeze in the hallway, then peek around the corner.

There he is.

Choi San.

Sitting at the kitchen island, looking dangerously normal.

Shirtless, again. Muscles out. Hair still damp from a shower. Same grey sweatpants he absolutely came in last night.

He doesn’t look tired. You, on the other hand, look like you got thrown off a cliff and crawled back.

Seonghwa’s at the stove. Cooking. Humming. Oblivious.

You walk in like it’s nothing.

“Morning,” you mutter, heading straight for the fridge.

Seonghwa turns, glances at you, and immediately frowns. “Jesus. You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, pulling out the orange juice.

“Didn’t sleep?”

“Eventually.”

“Mmhmm.” He flips a pancake and turns to look at you. “Y/N.”

“What?”

“Are you.. limping?”

You freeze mid-pour.

“No.”

“Pretty sure you’re limping.”

From behind you, a voice:

“She’s definitely limping.”

You whirl around to glare at San.

He’s sipping coffee like he didn’t have you sobbing into a couch cushion six hours ago.

Seonghwa turns back to the stove. “You hurt something?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“You’re walking like someone beat your ass.”

“Well maybe someone should beat yours,” you snap.

Seonghwa raises a brow. “Damn, chill. Just asking.”

From across the island, San’s silently laughing into his mug. You shoot him a glare. He just winks.

You sit down—too fast. A flash of soreness shoots up your spine and you hiss.

“Okay. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Seonghwa asks, genuinely confused now. “Did you get hit by a bike or something?”

“I stretched wrong.”

“Doing what?”

“Yoga.”

Seonghwa squints. “You don’t do yoga.”

“Well maybe I fuckin’ started, Seonghwa.”

“Damn, okay. Shit.”

You shoot a desperate look across the table—and San’s biting his lip, clearly loving this. Eyes flicking down to your bare legs, then back up to your flushed face.

Your thighs are glued shut under the table. 

You’re not even wearing underwear. You were too sore to even try.

Seonghwa slaps a plate of pancakes down in front of you and leans on the counter.

“Eat up. Maybe it’ll help you walk straight again.”

You choke on your coffee. San’s laughing as if nothing happened.

“You good?” he asks sweetly, reaching over to rub your thigh under the table—hidden from Seonghwa’s view.

You jump.

Seonghwa frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Just a leg cramp.”

San’s hand slides higher.

You slap it away under the table.

“What the hell was that?” Seonghwa’s looking between you now, suspicious. “You two are being so weird..”

“We’re always weird,” you say quickly. “You just now noticing?”

“No. This is, like, extra weird. Eye contact. Inside jokes. You’re jumpy. He’s smiling.”

He turns to look directly at his best friend.

“What the fuck are you grinning at?”

“Nothing, man.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “She’s just fun to mess with.”

“Right.. you better not be sneaking out again, Y/N.  I swear, if I catch you with some random dude—”

“I wasn’t.”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill him if I do.”

“And you,” he snaps, pointing his spatula at his best friend, “if you’re smoking in the house again I swear to God—”

“Mmm.. no,” he says smoothly, sipping his coffee. “But sure. Blame the guy who slept on the couch.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck. The couch.

“Seonghwa’s spatula points mid-air. “Yeah, well—don’t think I didn’t see you smoking it last week. You think I’m fuckin’ blind?”

“Clearly not,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Whatever,” Seonghwa huffs. “Just keep your shit outside. My place isn’t a fuckin’ frat house.”

He turns his back again—finally.

You exhale. Barely.

And that’s when he leans in, eyes lazy, voice low so only you can hear.

“Didn’t think you’d still be walking today.”

You blink. Whip your head up. He’s not even looking at you. Just sipping. Like that filthy line didn’t leave his mouth.

Your lips part. “Shut the fuck up.”

His eyes flick toward you—just a glance—and then right back to his mug. Smirking.

“You didn’t say that last night.”

You kick him under the table. Hard.

He grunts. Then chuckles.

Seonghwa turns around with a plate in hand. “What now?”

“Nothing,” you say too fast.

“Y/N’s mad ‘cause she didn’t get her eggs yet,” he offers helpfully.

“I swear to God—” you mutter.

“You swear a lot for someone who couldn’t even form words last night.”

You drop your fork.

Seonghwa freezes. “What?”

“What?” San echoes, totally deadpan. “She was sleep talking.”

You slam your hands on the table. “I hate both of you.”

Seonghwa narrows his eyes. “Okay, what the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing, Seonghwa.”

“You two are acting weird as hell.”

Your brother looks between the two of you—your flushed face, his smug smirk, the way your knees are clearly pressed together under the table like you’re holding in a crime scene.

Seonghwa squints.

“You sure you didn’t sneak out?”

You glare. “Positive.”

He looks at San.

“You sure you didn’t do anything?”

He shrugs, slow and easy. “Define ‘anything.’”

Seonghwa stares. “I will beat your ass.”

“Okay.”

Seonghwa finally turns around to get the toast.

You exhale through your teeth.

Under the table—again—a hand finds your thigh. Squeezes. Not playful. Possessive. Deliberate.

You don’t even look at him.

“You’re gonna get us killed.”

“Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

You turn your head slightly, lips barely moving.

“You left a fucking mess.”

He hums. “You loved it.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You came, like, four times.”

Seonghwa clears his throat, too loud.

You both freeze. He turns, looking at you.

“Y/N. Eat. Before you pass out or stab someone.”

“Okay.. I am...”

Seonghwa eyes you again. “You sure you’re good?”

“Totally fine,” you lie. “Just… sore.”

He nods. “Uh-huh. Well, hydrate. You look like you’re about to faint.”

Across the table, San’s lip twitches.

“She’ll be fine, Seonghwa. Just needs… some rest… she's just grumpy”

Seonghwa squints. “Why?”

“No idea.”

He shoots him a look. “Did you piss her off?”

“Not recently.”

“Right. Because you never piss people off.”

“Not unless they’re asking for it.”

Seonghwa frowns. “..You better not be fucking messing with her, man.”

“I’m not.”

“You sure?”

“Dead serious.”

“Because I swear, if you touched her—”

“Seonghwa,” he cuts in smoothly. “I didn’t touch your sister.”

“Then you better not be sneaking girls in. I’ve let you crash here for how long now?”

“I was on the couch all night!”

Seonghwa scoffs. “Right. Couch. Thats where you were all night?”

“Relax. I wasn’t sneaking around.”

“Right. Then why was my sister coming downstairs at 1am?”

Your fork hits the plate.

Seonghwa looks straight at you. “Yeah. Thought I didn’t notice, huh?”

“I was just getting water,” you mutter.

He tilts his head. “Took you a long-ass time for one glass.”

San jumps in.

“Maybe she couldn’t sleep.”

“And what, you could help her with that?” Seonghwa snaps.

“Not my place.”

“Alright,” he mutters. “You know what? What the fuck happened last night?”

“Okay. After Y/N came downstairs to get some water, she told me she couldn't sleep. So we watched a movie.

“And?”

“And… after the movie.. I went to sleep. On the couch. She went back to her room”

He’s smug. Too smug.

Seonghwa doesn’t blink.

“So why was she walking funny this morning?”

“Maybe she slept weird.”

“Or maybe she got railed. By my best friend. Behind my back,” Seonghwa spits.

You cough — loud — and practically choke on your eggs.

Seonghwa turns to you. “You good?”

“Yeah. Yup. Swallowed wrong.”

He frowns.

“I said I’m fine.”

Across the table, San bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Seonghwa’s eyes flick to him. “You think this is funny?”

“A little.”

“You’re seriously testing me right now.”

“Look, man,” he says, putting his hands up. “I really didn’t touch your sister.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Because I’ve got a sixth sense for this shit, alright? She’s acting off. You’re acting cocky. I know you.”

San just smirks.

“Seonghwa—” you start, trying to soothe.

“Nah,” he cuts you off. “This is some bullshit.”

“You’re paranoid,” San says. Calm. Controlled.

Seonghwa takes a step forward. “Say that again.”

“I said you’re paranoid.”

“You think I won’t fucking hit you?”

“Seonghwa!” you shout, flushing hard.

Seonghwa’s eyes snap to you. “What?! I’m not dumb, Y/N. I see the way he looks at you. You think I don’t notice shit?”

Silence.

You stare at your plate. He stares at your face. San sips his coffee like he’s watching a movie.

“Seonghwa. There's nothing going on. We didn’t do anything.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not—” you try.

“Swear to God, Y/N. If this whole limping thing is about him—”

“It’s not.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

Seonghwa exhales, nostrils flaring.

“Fine. But if I find out either of you are lying to me—”

You push your chair back.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m done.”

Seonghwa watches you limp away from the table and narrows his eyes further. “Yeah, that’s real normal, huh?”

Your back is to them.

And that’s when you hear it.

“You’re playing a dangerous fucking game, man,” Seonghwa mutters under his breath.

“It’s already been played,” San murmurs back

Masterlist Part 2 soon

[mingisprincxss]

250620

[mingisprincxss]

LET HIM SPEAK!

[mingisprincxss]

salivating at the mouth rn bc wdym he's golden honey and dripping wet for my viewing pleasure but isn't letting me watch him stroke himself until he cums all over his stomach for my viewing pleasure 🤨🤨🤨

[mingisprincxss]

Greeeeat more delusions

you can't sit there and tell me he isn't an absolute munch, an absolute fiend for pussy. such a pretty face just waiting to bury it in your pussy and eat you out from the back. spreads you open just to obscenely spit on your wet pussy, watching it trail down to your clit before he licks a fat stripe over your cunt.

[mingisprincxss]

sex tape(s)

pairing: mingi & f!reader

summary: mingi is a damn freak who LOVES to record both of u while u guys have sex

genre: smut

tws: established relationship, pussydrunk mingi, sex tape (??? is that a warning or...), porn video, filming, yeah... connilingus, cursing, fingering, nipple playing.

author's note: u guys don't know how fucking much i wanted to write something about mingi, AND I FINALLY DID IT, ¡¡¡MDNI!!! enjoy :3 (and pls don't tell me about spelling mistakes [if u see any] cause i'll get embarrassed and i'll die)

word count: 1.720

as you already knew, your boyfriend had to leave the country for a few months every so often due to his job as an idol.

and as you already knew, he always missed you a lot, and so did you.

and as you already knew, he needed you, so to speak. mingi used to take pieces of your clothing to remind himself that you were waiting for him, and to jerk off with one of your panties –which he stole– because, hey... he really, really misses you when he's far away from you.

the texts, audios, photos, videos, calls, face times, were no longer enough, he needed something more... for that very reason, one day he started to record both of you.

you still remembered how nervous he was when he asked you if he could do it, and how his eyes lit up when you said yes. he promised you he wouldn't show it to anyone, that it was just for you and him, and it was true, he didn't want anyone else to see you after all. and that's how you started recording videos, short or long, but always together, and saved in a special folder on mingi's phone.

now, mingi had just placed his phone against the nightstand lamp, he was already recording, and after making sure the angle was right, he turned to you, looking at you with that silly, lovelorn face.

“you’re so, so beautiful.” he whispered with a smile as he kissed your cheek, before his lips found yours, and you quickly kissed him back, feeling his hands go to your waist, while he slowly pulled you back until your back hit the headboard.

then, mingi broke the kiss, just to look at your body, half naked, still wearing the cute underwear he had bought you, and that was enough for him to go crazy. his hands went from your waist to your back, unclasping your bra, throwing it somewhere in the room, and he couldn't help but lick his lips when he saw your beautiful tits. mingi leaned towards you, placing small kisses all over your chest, until his lips wrapped around one of your nipples, sucking it gently, making you let out a small sigh as your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. one of his arms wrapped around your waist, while his free hand slid under your panties, his ring and middle finger traced circles around your slightly swollen clit. “god, you're so fucking wet already.” he murmured against your skin before pulling away from your chest, his lips were slightly glossy, and you couldn't help but crash your lips against his, kissing him almost desperately, small moans escaped from your lips as he kept working on your clit.

then, mingi pulled away from the kiss, licking his lips with a smile before he positioned himself between your legs, you could feel his warm breath hitting against your clothed wetness, which made you close your legs a bit, but he quickly gripped your legs, keeping them spread for him so he could have better access.

he started by leaving small kisses on your pussy over the thin fabric of your panties, humming softly as he felt how you squirmed slightly under his touch. he then looked up at you with a small smirk, and before you noticed, your panties were... somewhere in the room.

mingi's mouth watered at the sight of your pussy in front of his face, you were so wet, almost as if you were begging him to devour you. he placed his hands on your inner thighs, spreading your legs a little wider to get better view. mingi started with small kisses on your wet pussy, just like he had before taking off your panties, then gave your slit a lick, moaning as he savored your taste. his moan sent vibrations straight to your needy cunt, making you arch your back slightly.

he pulled away from you just slightly so he could talk, his puffy lips brushed against your clit as he spoke. "you taste amazing, baby." he murmured between your legs before diving back in, his fingers spreading you open even better as he moaned against your wet, needy pussy. he'd make you feel good, even better than last time.

you rose up on your elbows, watchins and appreciating how your boyfriend ate your pussy so eagerly. one of your hands went to his hair, pulling him closer to you. your hips began to grind against his mouth, fucking his face, to which mingi moaned. you looked down at him with a smirk as he closed his eyes, rubbing his nose against your clit while his tongue invaded your wet entrance. you couldn't help but moan as he did so, throwing your head back while tugging his hair, wanting him as close as possible. "god- you're so good, baby." you moaned as you wrapped your legs around his neck, pulling him even closer, and god how he loved when you did that.

mingi moaned into your pussy at the praise, your moans and your words going straight to his head, his cock twitched inside his boxers. he swirled his tongue around your clit, his hands found your ass, giving it a hand squeeze as he pressed his tongue deeper inside of your pussy, and while he kept you close. then, his tongue moved up to your clit, lapping there as he moaned again, his mouth sucked your clit hungrily, eager to make you fall apart.

he didn't even care if he was making a mess. he was. you were wet and warm, and he needed more. he ate you out, like you were the most delicious thing in the world.

and you, you were a mess, you loved it when mingi got like that... pussy drunk.

and the fact that all of this was being documented and you could watch it as many times as you wanted only made you even more turned on.

you looked back down at your boyfriend, who was busy devouring you like you were the last meal he would ever taste in the world. he shifted his position, his hands spreading your legs even more, opening you up for him even further, which made you unwrap your legs from around his neck.

you free hand went to your boyfriend's phone, getting a better angle of your cute boyfriend as he had his face between your legs. the hand that was in his hair pulled him away from your pussy, making him groan. mingi opened his eyes, staring straight into the camera lens of his phone as you stared at him through the screen.

his face was a mess, his chin and lips glistening from your arousal, his eyes shining with love just from looking at you, his hair all messed up from how much you had pulled it... you never got tired of that familiar sight.

"looks like you're enjoying this more than i am." you said with a chuckle, just to tease him, which made him chuckle too.

"enjoying my girlfriend's pussy is a crime?" mingi asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked up at you, his gaze met yours, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes at his words.

"i never said that-" your words were cut off as you felt him slide one of his fingers inside you, curling it, and hitting your g spot as he thrust in and out slowly and torturously.

"baby, don't you understand that i could eat you out all day long?" he murmured just before he buried his face between your legs again. his tongue immediately lapped her clit, flattening it against your bud, circling around it as he inserted another finger inside you, beginning to finger you more quickly.

this man was going to drive you crazy.

you arched your back once more as you started to moan again, your thighs squeezing his head slightly because, god, every touch of his nose, every lick, how his tongue seemed to know every corner of your pussy and the perfect way to make you cum on his face.

mingi was practically devouring you.

noticing your poor state, mingi grabbed his phone, taking it out with his free hand while filming himself, his movements not stopping, on the contrary, he was eating you up like a starved man while looking at the camera with a smug smile, as if he was saying “yeah, only i can make this beautiful girl feel this good,” then returning his gaze to you while resting his wrist on one of your thighs to keep you at least a little still because, shit, you were squirming too much, and you were moaning so loud that it was starting to be damn embarrassing, but for mingi it was simply heaven.

his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on it as his tongue worked wonders on you, tracing circles around your swollen clit, while he slid another finger inside you, moving them faster and making you squirm even more.

his entire face was a mess, and he didn't mind. his moan vibrations against her clit, he was obsessed. you were so tasty. you felt so good. you sounded so good. he simply couldn’t get enough of you.

“i’m– i'm gonna cum soon.” you managed to murmur -miraculously.-

“is that so? are you gonna cum all over my face?” mingi murmured against your pussy, his tongue sliding up to swirl around your clit, again and again. your wetness coating his mouth and chin. he moaned in satisfaction as the taste of her drove him wild. "so good. so damn good." he murmured huskily, his tongue moving back to your needy pussy that was desperately clenching around his fingers.

you felt a familiar tickle in your lower belly, and your moans didn't stop. on the contrary, you started to moan louder while your hips moved almost desperately against your boyfriend's face, and then you finally came.

but mingi didn't stop. instead, he continued licking your pussy, savoring every last drop of your arousal, before finally pulling away from your pussy. he then looked at the camera, sticking out his tongue, showing the mess you had made on his face, and then swallowing it, licking his lips and his fingers.

End recording.