#and here comes miss sluttywoozi plucking my delulu fantasies out of my head and writing them down

[ctzenjohnnyreads]

fell to my knees after reading this your honor

After LIKE Part One | smg x f!reader

Posted first on my Patreon

Rating: M | WC: ~4.8k

Mingi has been your plug for nearly three years now. You've always liked him well enough, but something has changed between you. What happens after like?

Notes/Warnings: plug!mingi, weed use, food mention, kissing, stress/anxiety

Grad school is hard. Really hard, you’ve discovered.

You knew it would be, of course, but it’s difficult in ways you didn’t expect. First of all, you have no money. You can afford groceries and rent, thankfully, but luxuries are scarce. You’re also stressed nearly all the time, with your thesis looming over your shoulder and begging you to work on it even when you’re in class. You have friends, but you don’t really get to see them between your work and their own, so you return to an empty apartment most of the time.

You do have a lot of bright spots in your life too, though. You get to study what you love, you have friends to miss, and you can still afford little things that make your life better.

Your phone dings, a tone that means one of those bright spots is especially vibrant today. You just got off work at the coffee shop, a double from 6 AM to 4 PM, and your hair still smells of roasted espresso beans and turmoil but you’re beaming as you throw your uniform off and pull on clean clothes.

Mingi is free for you to come pick up, and after you complained of having trouble last time, he promised to roll your joints for you. He’s an expert and they always burn perfectly, and it also makes you feel a little special. Mingi doesn’t roll for just anybody, and considering that you’re quite literally terrible at it, you really appreciate that you’re somebody to him.

You and Mingi met in junior year of college. You were majoring in Psychology and Mingi was getting his degree in Hospitality, and somehow, you managed to have a shared class nearly every semester. He was cute but your eye was already focused on grad school and you didn’t think you had time for distractions. Then he approached you at San and Yeosang’s party nearly begging for help on the next exam and you decided maybe you did.

You also happened to spot the joints in his t-shirt pocket. You’d been looking for a plug for a while but hadn’t found anyone reliable, and having Mingi in your class would make it incredibly easy to arrange pickups.

Thus, you became Mingi’s tutor and Mingi became your plug, and you kind of sort of became each other’s friends too.

Three years later, you’ve both graduated and moved on; you to a Master’s program in Applied Psychology and Mingi to cooking school. He still deals on the side, but only to a select few as his reputation in the kitchen steadily grows.

The commute to his flat is easy, just a couple stops on the bus and a short walk to his building, and he buzzes you up as soon as you press the intercom button, meaning you only have the elevator ride to the third floor to prepare yourself to interact with him. It’s not that Mingi is intimidating or annoying or hard to deal with, it’s just that he’s so fucking hot you have trouble concentrating sometimes.

He’s always been tall but he’s gotten bigger and bigger over the years, and now the way he fills out his shirts and sweatpants makes you breathless. And, ugh, his smile. It’s so sincere, and kind, and sometimes playful, and sometimes knowing.

He doesn’t know everything though.

He doesn’t know you bought from Wooyoung two weeks ago, and that he smoked you out first.

Mingi always offers; he even offers to pick you up so you can try it before you buy it, but you hardly ever take him up on it because you just can’t get close to him now like you used to. In college, he didn’t affect you this way. He was just the cute guy you bought weed from that could make you laugh, and now, he’s the incredibly hot and caring guy you buy weed from that frequently makes you dizzy.

You needed a break from that, and Wooyoung was available. You can never let Mingi know though, he’ll get too jealous and you won’t be able to handle it.

You arrive at his flat before you’re ready, and you’ve barely knocked when the door unlocks and Mingi and his crooked smile appear in the frame.

“Hey, come in,” he grabs your hand and tugs you inside, your legs working overtime to keep up with his large steps. He leads you to his living room, sitting down on the couch and patting the cushion next to him. You settle a safe distance away, far enough that your thighs don’t touch, and bite back a smile at the way he eyes the space between you.

He leans over to the table next to the couch and pulls a tin from the drawer before opening it and passing it to you. It’s filled with neatly rolled joints, at least ten, and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when he tells you the price.

“That’s way too little, isn’t it?” You respond incredulously, looking between him and the tin.

Mingi just shrugs, plopping a small jar of ground weed on the couch cushion between you and replying, “Includes that, too.”

“Mingi,” you try to hold back the whine that wants to sneak out in your voice, only pouting further when he holds up his hands and says, “It’s competitive pricing.”

Competitive pricing. So he does know.

Wooyoung must have bragged to Mingi about it, knowing his meddlesome nature and proclivity for playing with his friends. He’s harmless at his core but likes to cause trouble sometimes, and this is one of those times.

“I can’t believe you let him smoke you out,” Mingi crosses his arms and leans back against the arm of the couch to turn the full force of his guilt trip on you.

You groan pitifully, folding over to bury your face in your knees so you don’t have to look at him any longer. You don’t really have an excuse to give him, one that doesn’t give you away at least, and you definitely can’t explain yourself.

“Ahhh, it’s okay, babe, I’m just teasing,” Mingi rubs your shoulder with a big hand, pulling you up out of your shame bend. He seems sincere, but his eyes still look a bit dim and you vow to yourself that you won’t pick up from anyone else again.

You squeeze the hand on your shoulder before grabbing your phone and sending him the money he’d requested, plus a little extra. It went straight into his account so he can’t do anything about it, and you know he won’t send you the money back because cooking school is so expensive. He glowers halfheartedly at you when he sees the notification but as you thought, does nothing beyond putting his phone away and scrunching his mouth at you again.

Grinning triumphantly, you close the tin and tuck it in your purse along with the little jar he’d prepared for you. It seems you win this round, and you can only hope you win the next too.

Keyboard clicks and taps of a slipper on hardwood fill your room, the silhouette of your hunched, exhausted form illuminated by the bright light of your computer. You have a meeting with your thesis advisor tomorrow, and there’s still so many changes to make. You procrastinated in making use of her comments, leaving your editing to the last minute as usual, and now you’re paying the price.

You’ve been working for hours now, proofreading and crying and proofreading again, and you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. You need a break, desperately, and your phone pings just as you push away from your desk to go lay on your bed.

You could cry (again).

Texting him back with what you think is an appropriate amount of waterfall-eyed emojis, you hop in the shower and go through your routine quickly.

When you emerge from the bathroom, you feel like a person again, and you’ve just slipped into your clothes when Mingi texts you back.

He’s… outside? You rush to your street-facing window and look down, finding Mingi leaning against his car with a beanie covering his hair and a smile big enough to power the stars covering his face. He spots you easily, waving and cupping his hands around his mouth. You fumble with the lock of the window, pushing it up and poking your head out to hear him yell, “Come on, the food’s getting cold.”

Your stomach grumbles, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since breakfast and it’s now, you swear as you check your watch, eight pm. You’re starving and your brain is still making dial up noises and your back hurts from your terrible posture but none of that matters, because Mingi is outside, waiting for you. With food.

You fly down the stairs, bursting out of your building with tears in your eyes and your arms already open for a hug. He pulls you into the cradle of his chest immediately, smoothing a hand over your hair and rubbing your sore back. “Everything okay?” He asks, pulling away to look down at you, his eyebrows furrowing when he spots the bags under your eyes and your stress-bitten lips.

“Let’s get you over to mine, yeah?”

After opening the door with a flourish, he ushers you in with gentle hands and watches as you click in your seatbelt. He jogs around the front of the car, jumping in and checking his surroundings before pulling away from the curb and starting on the way to his place.

“Here, eat something.”

A searing hot bag gets dropped in your lap, smelling of fresh fries and salvation, and you dig in without a second thought. You catch Mingi’s cheeks curving in a smile out of the corner of your eye and fight back a grin of your own, always charmed by the way your happiness becomes his.

Mingi rolls into his parking space with ease, shutting the car off and turning to you to say, “I think you’ll love this new one, I tried it with Woo last night and it knocked us off our asses.”

That sounds like exactly what you need, and you follow closely at his heels as you traverse the hall to his flat. His body blocks your entire view but you stop at the right door anyway, so used to this walk that you could do it with your eyes closed. He unlocks the door quickly and beckons you in first, a wall of scent hitting you and making your eyes tear up.

They’re not watering out of disgust (as they have in the past in other men’s apartments), they’re watering because you can smell spam fried rice, and you know he’s made it for you.

Mingi speeds past you to the kitchen and you go straight to the living room. He said in the beginning to make yourself at home, so you do. You settle into your preferred corner of the couch, noting with something like dragonflies in your belly that he’s already prepared a coaster, blanket, and the remote for you.

You wonder if all his other clients get this kind of luxury treatment, but find yourself not wanting to think of him having other clients at all. You know he does, obviously, but prefer to think he likes you the best and never need to know otherwise.

When you turn the TV on, it’s set to soccer. You’d love to change the channel but recognize the team as Mingi’s favorite, so you leave it on and bump the volume up. Just as they score a goal, he returns from the kitchen carrying two steaming bowls, a pair of water bottles, and utensils. You bounce in your seat as he carefully sets them down on the coffee table in front of you before leaning over to retrieve his bong and lighter from the end table. He’s already packed it, the angel, and he passes it straight to you.

Mingi raises his hand to light it for you as you bring it up to your mouth, and you look up through your lashes at him while you inhale. He holds your gaze, biting his lip and watching you take the hit with darkened eyes.

The taste is sharp in your mouth, the smoke sitting heavily in your lungs for a second or two before you blow it out with pursed lips. You angle away from Mingi, too polite to blow it straight in his face though you have a sneaking suspicion he just might enjoy it. You can still feel his eyes on you, but you need a second to yourself to let the effects roll in.

When you turn back to Mingi, it’s like everything around you has slowed down. He’s grinning proudly, and you’re not sure whether he’s proud of you or his own weed, but you don’t really care either way. You’re just happy that he’s happy, and you hand him the bong with a smile of your own.

Mingi takes his hit quickly and skillfully, and you let your focus fall to the hot rice waiting for you on the coffee table.

It’s delicious, as his food always is, and the comforting flavor shrinks your stress with each bite. Just the one hit was enough to melt you into the couch and with your free hand, you reach for the blanket. It’s hard to spread it over your legs while holding the bowl, and Mingi sets the bong down to help you.

His hands brush your thighs in the process, and you thank yourself for putting yoga pants on after your shower. You already feel floaty, you don’t need the feeling of Mingi’s hands on your skin adding to that.

You hum, taking another bite and snuggling into your blanket before looking up at Mingi. His eyes are already on you and you can see the tips of his ears turn red as a sheepish smile rises to his face.

Catching him looking at you is one of your favorite things in the world, and it happens oh so often. You’re not sure why you’re so fascinating to him, but you won’t complain about it, especially when it means you often get all of his attention.

It’s something you noticed in uni when you started hanging out with him after picking up at parties instead of just leaving like you used to. He would usually be surrounded by a mix of people when you arrived, and as soon as he set eyes on you, it’s like they’d all disappear.

Mingi grabs the bong and offers it to you, exchanging it for your rice. He sets it on the table next to his and lights the bowl for you, tucking into his own rice as soon as it’s burning enough. You take in more this time, feeling the smoke sear down your throat and into your lungs and letting it stay there before pushing it out away from Mingi again.

You breathe for a while, swallowing down a cough with a mouthful of water before turning to Mingi and saying, “Thank you for this, and for the rice. It’s fucking delicious.”

“Course, babe,” he nudges you affectionately with his elbow. “I know it’s your favorite. How’s your thesis going?”

You grimace thinking of the work waiting for you at home, and Mingi rushes to assure you, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

“No, it’s okay. I just have a meeting with my advisor tomorrow and I left accommodating her comments until the last minute, like a dummy. So I’ve been working on it all day and I’m like, three quarters of the way done but before you texted, I was seriously on my way to losing it.”

Your head falls to rest on Mingi’s bicep, the muscle surprisingly cushy and his smooth skin warm under your cheek.

“You’re not a dummy, you’re a genius. You just procrastinate because you know in your heart that you work best under pressure.”

“No, I just didn’t want to do it,” you reply with a shrug, tilting your head to look up at Mingi.

“Shhhh, my way sounds better,” he places his index finger against your lips and you take a quick breath in, freezing in place. Mingi freezes too, his half-lidded eyes locked on your mouth for one, two, three heartbeats before he pulls away with a forced laugh. He pulls off his beanie to run his fingers through his hair, his attention briefly pulled to the game as his team scores again.

He cheers and bounces in place, flashing a grin at you that turns small, secretive, when he sees the look on your face. You’re still reeling from the moment you just shared, and it’s frustrating that he seems to have completely recovered. Maybe touching you just isn’t that big of a deal to him, maybe he doesn’t feel the distance like you do, or maybe you’re much further gone than he is.

You can believe the first two, but the last one would hurt.

Mingi picks you up this time, takes you for a drive. You think he can tell that you’re not doing the best mentally, because he grins at you softly and squeezes your hand when you get in the car.

You don’t know where you’re going and you don’t care, all you care about is that you’re not staring at your thesis in the quiet dark of your room anymore. It was starting to mock you, the work left undone, and you desperately needed a break.

Mingi texted at the perfect time, just when you were about to officially call it quits. He could somehow tell that you were at the end of your rope, and told you he’d be there in fifteen with something to relax you and a new playlist for you to enjoy.

He arrived in twelve, and your heart fluttered the whole way down the stairs.

Now you’re on the way to a place you don’t know, the street names unfamiliar and the distance growing between your flat and his sedan. You don’t mind it, having needed a getaway for a while, and you settle into your seat with a sigh as the car travels down unrecognizable roads.

An undetermined amount of time passes, your mind going into a soft, relaxed state the further you go. Eventually, you pull up to a deserted park and Mingi turns off the car, looking at you with warm eyes and a charming smile.

“So, I’ve got some blunts for us, and I also went to the convenience store and grabbed your favorite snacks.”

“You sweet, sweet boy,” you breathe, dangerously close to leaning over and kissing him right on those plump lips.

He grins shyly, passing you a blunt and holding up the lighter as you bring it to your mouth. You take in a deep hit, holding the smoke in your lungs for as long as you can take before exhaling away from his face. You feel the haze set in immediately, your combined stress and exhaustion making you that much more susceptible to the high coming over you.

Mingi’s eyes stay on you, feeling like physical weights holding you down as you stifle the rising coughs. You pass him the blunt, watching as he takes in a pull of smoke and blows it out into the vacant backseat.

He holds it out for you, letting go just before you take hold and nearly dropping it in the place of no return that is the gap between the seat and the console. He gasps, fumbling to catch it before it can burn the leather or fall in between the seats.

He grins sheepishly before grabbing your hand in his and wrapping your fingers around the blunt to be sure you’ve got it. You bring it to your lips and take in a breath, feeling the smoke settle in all the crevices of your lungs before you exhale it toward the roof of the car.

Mingi’s eyes are still on you but they feel different, heavier, and when you turn to him to pass the blunt back, his gaze is on your lips.

The hazy air buzzes with electricity, the cab of his sedan suddenly feeling two sizes too small. The blunt burns away where you hold it aloft, just waiting for Mingi to take it. He doesn’t move, seemingly frozen in place as wasted smoke fills the space between you. He finally raises his hand, but instead of the blunt, he reaches for your face, his big palm spanning your whole cheek.

“Y/n, can I kiss you?” he breathes, his voice so full of longing that it takes yours away, leaving you to nod as he leans in. Your eyelids flutter down, your lips just barely puckered and your heart galloping in your chest. It flips when his mouth touches yours, skips when he lets out a wounded noise and presses harder, soars when his fingers slide to the back of your neck and tilt your head to the angle he deems best for kissing you out of your mind.

You sigh into him, melting closer and closer until you’re all but draped over the middle console with just his hand holding you up. He laughs against your mouth, his teeth digging into the plush of your bottom lip just enough to sting. You feel calmer than you ever have kissing someone but you also feel like you could vibrate out of your skin, and it can only be the potent combination of good weed and Mingi.

It’s a cocktail you’ve tried before but never like this, and it only takes a few minutes of his lips pressed to yours for you to know that you can’t go back. You can’t go back to not knowing what it’s like to kiss him, to feel his fingers in your hair, to get this close to him and then have him pull you even closer.

You can’t go back to just being a friend/client, someone who only sees him when they need something.

You want to be more than that to him, and see him all the time, and kiss him all the time, and-

And he’s pulling away. Why is he pulling away?

“Y/n?”

“Hm?” You force your eyes open and lean back far enough to take in his expression. He looks… sad? Regretful? Not exactly what you expected or what you’d like to see after he’s just kissed you for the first time, but you try not to let your feelings get hurt and wait for him to speak.

Except… he doesn’t. He swipes a thumb over your cheekbone and pulls away, reaching into the backseat before setting the bag of treats on your thigh and putting the car in reverse. You’re unsure of what just happened and what to do about it, but you are hungry and you could really use some sugar right now, so you glumly open the bag and start eating.

You chew absentmindedly, your eyes wandering over to Mingi’s face. You can tell he’s focused on driving but he looks stressed, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. You wish you could make him feel better but you don’t actually know what’s wrong, and with your mind still buzzing from weed and the kiss, you think talking may not be the best idea.

You ride in silence for a few minutes, watching the buildings whiz past and bopping along to his playlist. When Mingi’s favorite song comes on and he neglects to sing the opening line, you decide you’ve had enough.

“Mingi, what’s wrong?” You plead, your eyes tracing his side profile and your fingers itching to intertwine with his. He sighs, chewing on his lip and nervously darting his eyes from mirror to windshield to mirror.

“I just… I didn’t want it to happen that way. I know I asked, and that’s my fault, this whole thing is, but I- fuck. I’m doing this all wrong.”

Shaking his head, he clicks the blinker on and pulls carefully into a dimly lit parking lot. He turns the car off and undoes his seat belt, turning to you and fighting to tuck one knee up on the seat.

You’re sure your confusion is clear on your face, as is the small amount of hurt you can’t will away, and Mingi takes both of your hands in his, looking at them instead of you.

“I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that. I mean, we were high, you’re stressed, and you’re buying. I guess I just wanted it to be more… romantic, but I got impatient and ruined everything.”

He wanted your first kiss to be romantic. He’s thought about your first kiss before, and about how he wanted it to be.

You could scream, but you figure you should reassure him first.

“Mingi, that’s so sweet I want to cry, but don’t be so dramatic. We can always kiss again.”

“We can?” He pouts, finally looking up and meeting your eyes, his own swimming with what you fear are unshed tears.

“Yes!” you squeeze his hands emphatically, “Literally any time you want.”

“Like… right now?” His eyes dart down to your lips, lingering there as they stretch in a grin. You nod, still smiling, still freaking out inside that he’s envisioned your first kiss, and still desperately hoping for a second.

He leans in closer, his lashes brushing his cheeks and his lips parting before he presses them softly against yours. You can’t help but hold your breath, somehow more nervous about this kiss than the first. It doesn’t take long for Mingi to relax you though, his fingers sinking into your hair and his air mixing with yours.

You sink into the kiss, sighing out the rest of your worries and cupping his jaw to hold him to you. He makes a soft sound as his whole body tips closer, his fingers tightening in your hair and his teeth digging into your bottom lip again. You can’t help but wonder where else he’d bite if given the chance, and can only hope the answer is all over.

When he pulls away this time, you’re dizzy, the sun has gone down, and you’re inches from launching yourself over the center console to climb in his lap. There’s nothing you want to do more than keep kissing him, but it seems he has other plans.

“I should get you home, you need to rest,” he breathes, his voice ragged and his thumb tracing the darkness under your eye.

“No, you should kiss me some more,” you exhale back, sliding your fingers into his hair and using your hold to tug him back to you. His chuckle sounds more like a sigh but he gives in anyway, pressing his plush lips to yours and letting a big hand cover your thigh. You were feeling warm before but with his calloused fingers brushing over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, you feel hot, like you could melt or burst into flames or combust.

Any one of the three is a possibility so long as Mingi keeps his hands on you, which is why you’re part relieved and part devastated when he pulls away. You lick your lips, chasing his taste but letting him settle back into his seat. Your hand falls from his hair and he catches it, smooching the back with a loud smack and brightly grinning at you.

You giggle freely, feeling lighter than you have in days and barely even dreading returning to your flat. “Can I take you home now?” He asks, squeezing at the flesh of your thigh just because he can.

“Yeah, you can take me home now,” you whisper back with a small, fond smile, covering his hand with yours to keep it there as he turns the headlights on and exits the parking lot. You drift for most of the ride back, Mingi’s soft, low voice lulling you slowly to sleep.

You blink awake as he pulls up to your flat, rubbing at your eyes and at the numb spot on your face where you were resting against the window. You look over with a drowsy smile and lean forward to kiss him goodbye, clumsily unbuckling your seatbelt as you do.

“I would walk you up, but I got towed last time,” he pouts apologetically, making you let out a sleepy laugh and respond, “I know, baby, you called me crying after.”

“I wasn’t crying!” he swears as you climb out of the car and gently shut the door.

What you don’t see as you walk away is him slowly tipping forward to rest his head against the steering wheel and whispering gleefully to himself, “She called me baby.”

AN: written as a commission for a diff idol and reworked to fit mingi!! beta’d by @petrichor-mingi thank you!!

part two will have smut :-)))

pls reblog if you enjoyed! i would love to hear your thoughts 💖

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