a.k.a 촌놈

It was a blessing and a curse, loving someone equally hellbent on winning. It made you an unstoppable team at backyard sports and drinking games — downright formidable, really — but it also led to both of your mouths writing checks your asses didn’t really want to cash.

A series of bad bets, just for the sake of it.

Just like this one.

“How are you holding up, petal?” 

Soonyoung sounds smug, but he’s asking through gritted teeth. 

“Better than you, I think,” You respond breezily because you’re unbothered, not because your body begs for you to sigh. “Sweet of you to ask.”

He hums in response, amusement so clear that he may as well have laughed instead. Either way, you feel that vibration in your chest, which is all but pressed to his. Arms linked around his neck, you lean in closer until you can nudge the tip of his nose with yours. The tiny shift in your posture makes your breath catch in your throat, but you swallow it back.

Instead, you smirk, “Not thinking of tapping out yet, are you, baby?”

When he lifts himself up to scoot closer to the back of the couch, you know exactly what he’s up to. Shameless, you think, trying to steal territory like this. The sole consolation you get from his movement — apart from the obvious — is that he looks like he’s full of regret for his choices. You are, too, of course.

Among other things.

“Could do this all day.” He smiles his way through a bold-faced lie. His palms run up your thighs, making you shiver; but then he pats them so innocently, you want to scream instead. “‘m perfectly comfortable. I might even fall asleep like this.”

Oh, you bastard.

It kills you to do it, but you refuse to take this dishonesty sitting down — well… — so, you take back the weight you’d balanced on your bent legs and center it. Gravity grabs you by the hips, pulls you down until he has nowhere left to run. Then, like a fucking masochist, you signal every muscle in your body to tense.

To your dismay, Soonyoung cracks, but he doesn’t break. He simply mutters, “Fuck,” and squeezes his eyes shut, sucking in a breath through his teeth that he then releases with a hiss.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Eyes wide and smile coquettish, you’re ready to devastate him whenever he deigns to lift his lids. “Didn’t catch that, baby.”

As it turns out, you’re not at all prepared for the look he gives you when his eyes reopen. There’s dark, and then there’s whatever the fuck has gotten into him to make his pupils dilate like that. Involuntarily, you clench. This time, he doesn’t flinch.

“You act big and bad now,” he drawls, grinning wolfishly. “But if I blink too hard, my cock could kiss your cervix. You know that, right?” Fingers scratch lightly at the goosebumps on your thighs. He knows you know; he’s buried too deep not to. “That if I have a sudden… coughing fit, for example, I could wind up rearranging your guts?”

You do your best to ignore the way his words make your pulse race. After all, you have an endgame to focus on. Only two options remain: fight nobly and risk him winning, or take him down with you. 

Fuck it.

He gave you the idea himself, didn’t he?

You sniffle for a moment, eyes flashing with mischief for even less time, and then you unwrap one arm from around his neck. With the crook of your elbow freed, you fake a sneeze; cunt clenching hard around his length while your hips jerk forward, dragging him along with you.

It was a calculated risk on your part. Unfortunately for you, you’ve never been great at math. That delicious friction is enough to grab you tight and fling you off the cliff without reservation. You tremble as you float, whole body alight with the orgasm you’d been fighting for the fifteen minutes since you sank down onto him.

Thankfully, Soonyoung isn’t any better off. He cums hard, hips jolting up to meet the underside of your thighs. Cock twitching and spilling, he groans like you’d done far more than just keep him warm. And despite the lack of physical exertion, you’re both panting — embarrassingly so.

“I fucking win,” he cheers faintly. Fist raised, weakly and triumphantly, he drops his head back against the couch. In an instant, his eyes flutter shut; he doesn’t see the way your nostrils flare.

You snort, “In what world?”

“Don’t be a sore loser, petal.” He chides you. He cracks one eye open and hits you with a lopsided grin. “I held out a full second longer.”

“You did not!” You gasp, smacking his chest with a muted thump. “The nerve of you, Soonyoung — the absolute gall!”

He flattens his mouth into a straight line. His eyes narrow the same way, unimpressed. “I only came because you did. Might’ve been a domino effect, but you fell first.”

“So, we both lost, then,” you huff, crossing your arms indignantly.

He flattens his palms against the cushion below, sits up properly, and steals a kiss from your pouty lips. 

“Nah,” he hums. Unsatiated, he steals another. “Think we both won.”

The worst part about it all is that you look so unbothered by it all. You’re laughing through conversation with your parents, who sit on the opposite side of the table, like Mingyu isn’t on the brink of passing the fuck out beside you. Like his slacks aren’t squeezing the life out of him in the same torturous way your hand is. 

You’re moving so slowly that the table cloth doesn’t even flutter with your secret ministrations.

He knew you were a devil, but what fresh hell is this?

“— feeling okay?”

Mingyu has to blink himself back into reality to realize he’d been spoken to. Your father, who Mingyu had thankfully met before tonight — and made a positive, sustainable first impression on — looks concerned. His eyebrows furrow the same way yours do when you’re worried.

“Sorry,” Mingyu starts by clearing his throat. He flashes a smile that makes your mother blush, not unlike the way you usually do. “I was daydreaming about that galbi jjim from earlier. Don’t know if I’ll ever eat better.”

That’s a lie, he thinks immediately. Dessert is one seat over, fingertips whispering over his inseam, and Mingyu’s mouth is already watering at the thought. But he’s stuck. You’re untouchable as long as the pair of you are at this table, and you’re untouchable upstairs for more reasons than one. 

Your mother is flustered — so is Mingyu, but for an entirely different reason — and she glances up at your father. His smile is a flat line, but it reads like approval. She elbows him gently.

“See, yeobo?” She quips, “I told you he was charming.” 

Then, she turns to look at you with a firm nod. “You picked well.”

“To be clear, Mingyu picked me,” You laugh, waving your free hand dismissively.  “With the amount of girls queuing up for his attention, he had options — a lot of them. I just lucked out.”

At this, he short-circuits, so much so that he nearly sprays the wine he’s sipping all over the table and your unsuspecting parents. 

“Oh, no, no. Not even close,” He sputters, earning a surprised giggle from your mother. Faked offense pulls the corners of his mouth down, puckers his lips into an pout around his words. “I had to beg for your phone number, if I recall —”

“Did you really?” Your mother gasps. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, as if she’s watching one of the daytime dramas she’s always talking about.

Your father looks smug as he reaches his arm out over the table, fingers closed over his palm. The hand you aren’t using to commit unspeakable crimes lifts to meet his fist over the acorn jelly, knuckles tapping lightly. 

Your father smirks, “That’s my girl.”

You look at Mingyu fully now, not from the corner of your eye the way you had been. It’s downright spooky how your face can look that innocent at a time like this. That is, until you bite down on your plush lower lip.

Fuck.

Is he about to faint? He really might faint.

“Okay, fine. You’re right,” You demur with a shrug.

That sweet smile of yours is unbelievably misleading, but goddamn, does it look good on you.

“I didn’t make it very easy for you, did I?” 

He tries not to clench his jaw when you flatten your palm and squeeze the highest, innermost part of his thigh. He fails miserably. After all, you’re running out of real estate; and Mingyu’s running out of resolve. 

This is it for me, he thinks. Remember me as I was: a fucking simp.

Thankfully, both of your parents stand up to carry dishes off to be washed. They cross the threshold into the kitchen and miss the way Mingyu’s head slumps back against his chair. So desperate and defeated, he ignores the way his skull aches after colliding with the oak backrest.

He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the sweet release of death.

When their footfalls are no longer audible, Mingyu assumes they’re out of sight. You shift, but he doesn’t crack his eyes open until he feels the heat of your breath on the shell of his ear. His gaze locks on the ceiling when you whisper, “Can you blame me? It’s so cute when you beg.”

If his dick strains any harder against his pants, the zipper may break.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Mingyu gulps. He shakes his head, voice wavering. “Baby, I’m gonna drop dead in your childhood home — on Christmas, no less — and it’s gonna be all your fault.”

The tip of your nose nudges the side of his face as you place a kiss on his earlobe. The white knuckle grip he holds on the edge of the table is the only thing keeping him together, and you know it. Still, the feather-light touch of your fingertips finds what it’s after. They trace the outline of his bulge through his slacks, and before he can stop himself, Mingyu audibly sighs.

He’d tell you to stop if he could jumpstart his brain. That’s a lie, he corrects himself. He doesn’t want you to stop; he just wants you. Wants you so badly that it hurts.

“Attempted murder,” Mingyu mumbles helplessly.

God, he’s pathetic.

Head slumped to the side, he finally allows himself to look at you. Immediately, he has to wonder: is there anyone who wouldn’t beg for you? He’d be on his knees in a heartbeat if your parents weren’t loading a dishwasher, several meters away. He’d clear the table himself, too,  if sweeping his arm overtop and sending silverware to the ground counted for anything.

Unbothered by the internal crisis you’ve started in him, you stroke him slowly, like you have all the time in the world to end him; and not a care at all that you might get caught in the process. The kiss you leave on his jaw is so soft — and so laughably chaste, all things considered — that he’s not sure it even happened. To keep from pleading out loud, he grinds his teeth even more harshly together.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Mingyu.

His prayers are answered immediately, which makes him a little bit suspicious — and a lot more feral.

You hum, amusement downright musical, and he shivers. “I’m going to help them finish down here. Wait for me upstairs?”

When Mingyu shoots up to his feet, the force of his thighs against the underside of the table threatens to flip it. The remaining wine glasses wobble in place, but thankfully, you’d all killed the bottle some time ago; no drop is left to be spilled. He still cringes at the close call, though. With a grimace, he mutters rapid-fire apologies — whether to you, the glassware, or the God of Dirty Thoughts, he’s not sure. 

You trap your bottom lip between your teeth to keep from laughing, which Mingyu appreciates. His clumsiness would have been embarrassing if he wasn’t so incomprehensibly horny. All that blood flow has been redirected away from his brain, though, and his dirty mind can’t focus on how not cool he’s being about all of this. 

Just you, that little smirk on your lips, and the million ways he wants your mouth on him.

Once he steadies himself, it only takes a second for Mingyu to race towards the stairs. Any and all chill he might’ve had is left behind him in a cloud of dust.

It’s downright cartoonish, the way he scrambles up the steps — stumbling, knees colliding with the hardwood as he goes — but it’s effective. He reaches the landing in record time, then all but kicks open the door to your childhood bedroom. As soon as the doorknob collides with the wall behind it, Mingyu freezes in place.

That wall, he realizes, is the only barrier between your room and your parents’. Worse, your old bed is set longways against that very wall. And because the hits just keep on coming, it’s a twin bed. 

With a frilly purple duvet and shockingly minimal surface area, no less.

Horrified, Mingyu steps forward and places his hand flat against the small mattress. It doesn’t take much pressure to make the bed springs squeak — when has anything ever gone his way? — and that revelation nearly has him screaming obscenities at the ceiling.

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

How is he supposed to fuck you under these conditions?

Frantic, he closes the door behind him, shuffles forward, and drops to his knees next to the bed. At his height, the frame barely reaches his midriff. Clearly, his life is a fucking joke.

Elbows now resting on the mattress, Mingyu clasps his hands together and leans forward to rest his forehead against his knuckles.

He’s never tried this before — not earnestly, anyway — and he doesn’t know where to start. Whatever the reason, he’s sure he can’t pray to any listening deity to let him get his dick wet. Anyone who hears his cry would smite him on the spot, he thinks, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Before he can settle on a prayer, footsteps sound off on the stairs just outside the door. The words are muffled; but there are multiple voices, which tells him that one or both of your parents have joined you on your journey upstairs. Suddenly, Mingyu is overcome with guilt. 

He’s in their home, having eaten their food — and now he’s a full-blown heretic, wanting nothing more than to devour their daughter like a man starved. But he can’t because, if he does, they’ll hear every dirty detail and —

Mingyu is many things, but he is not quiet.

You are, however, and he can barely make it out when you say, “Thank you, again, for dinner. And for letting us stay overnight.”

“Oh, don’t you dare!” Your mother peeps. Mingyu freezes, knowing in the rational part of his brain she can’t see him, but unable to stop himself. “It’s our pleasure! Really, it’s a long drive back for you two —”

Your father interjects, “— and Mingyu must be exhausted if he’s already in bed.”

For personal reasons, he thinks as he squeezes his eyes shut, I will be passing away.

There’s a moment of silence in which you must be hugging your parents goodnight, then there’s the quiet creak of the door opening. Footsteps, then more silence — you pausing for a moment, likely taking in the sight of him, then the door shutting softly behind you.

He can’t hear your approach over the hammering pulse in his ears, but he can feel the warmth of your body when you stand closely behind him. On instinct, he leans back onto his heels. A reflex of your own, you card your fingers through his hair and turn him into putty.

As embarrassing as it is to reckon with the fact, Mingyu acknowledges that the massage of your fingers might make him cum in his trousers.

“Were you praying?” You whisper, giggle evident despite the hushed tone. Your fingernails rake gently over his scalp; he swallows hard.

Mingyu is past the point of attempting nonchalance, so he confesses immediately. “Need divine intervention at a time like this. A twin bed? Parents? I’m doomed.”

“Maybe.” You lean down over his shoulder to purr into his ear. “Doomed or not, you look so perfect on your knees.”

That comment reverberates down his spine, ricochets off every vertebrae as it goes. He has to bite down on his fist to keep from groaning. It sure as shit doesn’t stop his eyes from rolling back in his head.

You drop your hand from his hair to trail your fingers down the length of his neck, then across the top of his shoulder. As you do, you step out from behind him and into his line of sight. You, illuminated only by a small, butterfly-shaped lamp, confirm his suspicions:

Ariana Grande was right all along. God is a woman.

You maintain eye contact as you reach behind your back and begin unzipping your dress. The burgundy fabric pools at your bare feet, having slipped right over the silkiness of your thighs without issue. If he wasn’t already in his knees, Mingyu would’ve dropped the same way.

“How confident are you that you can be quiet?” You ask softly. “Stakes are high, and you’re normally so vocal.”

Right out of the gate, he trips.

Mingyu responds with bravado and without whispering, “I can do it.”

Then, he slaps his hand over his big fucking mouth.

Biting back a smile, you reach out for the collar of his shirt. The buttons are undone with care, like any and every decibel is too much of a risk. You hum as you continue your work, “We can make it a challenge, then. If you can stay quiet, I’ll let you cum.” 

He lets you slide his shirt off his frame as soon as you’re finished with it. It lands where your dress did, wrinkling white on top of red.

“If you can’t  —” You pause and gesture down to his belt buckle, which he’s already gripping tightly to. It’s undone before you can blink, which causes the side of your mouth to twitch upwards. “— I’ll stop.”

Mingyu nods, more determined than he’s ever been, and pushes himself to his feet. Less nimbly than you, he fumbles desperately with the button and zipper at the top of his trousers. Eventually, he frees himself and they drop, too. They land with a muffled sound before being kicked blindly aside.

Your gaze drops to his briefs, pupils dilating when you see the mess you’ve made of him. The dark grey fabric is close to black at the tip of his dick, arousal seeping into the fibers and tattling on him. That is, if the blatantly thick imprint of his length hadn’t sold him out already.

His knees threaten to buckle all over again when he sees a flash of pink swipe over your lips, wetting them as your eyes grow even darker.

No, he really might cum on the spot.

You step over your discarded clothes. Closing the distance, you flatten your palms against his bare chest, push up on your toes, and kiss him properly for the first time in hours. His only instinct is to whine like a fucking baby when his lips part and you lick into his mouth, but he refuses to break this close to the starting whistle.

No, Mingyu will keep his shit together. He has to keep his shit together — even as you suck his bottom lip into your mouth and release it swollen with a pop.

“What do you want, baby?”

He doesn’t know if it’s his chest or your hands that are burning up, but a wildfire spreads as you run your palms down from his pectorals to his abdomen. Every muscle in his body tenses as your touch lowers. His lungs seem to, too, because he struggles to keep his breaths even.

Your fingers hook under the waistband of his briefs, knuckles tickling against the sensitive skin underneath his hip bones. You continue your questioning, as if he trusts himself to answer.

“My mouth?”

Oh god.

He wants it all, always and every which way, but he knows he won’t last a goddamn second in your throat — and you know it, too, even before he furiously shakes his head. 

Eyes laser focused on you, he does his best to beg without words. The puppy-dog eyes win you over every time.

When you smile at him like that — petal soft, still so devilish — he audibly sighs. There’s no helping him, he knows it. It’s a reflex, a rubber mallet to the knee. Thankfully, you let that breathy concession slide; let his briefs slide, too, until they drop unwanted around his ankles.

Mingyu is so hard that it hurts.

He’s a throbbing, leaking mess when your hand finally — fucking finally — wraps around his cock. Experimentally, you give him a light squeeze while you work the length. Your gaze flicks upwards to gauge his reaction, wrist rolling when you reach the crown.

If he had to guess, Mingyu would bet that he’s turned purple with the effort it’s taking to keep his needy mouth shut. But your eyes twinkle up at him and you tell him that he’s beautiful; and suddenly, his chest and cheeks go a shy shade of pink.

“Lay down, pretty boy,” you whisper, nodding your head towards that shitty little bed.

As he stretches out onto his back — to the best of his ability, with his heels nearly dangling off the end — he swears on his life that his friends can never know how weak he gets when you call him that.

You place your hands on his chest to keep your balance, lifting one leg over his until you’re straddling him. Your right knee settles uncomfortably between his leg and the wall, but you don’t complain. Instead, you look him dead in the eye and pull your fatal, black thong to the side.

Even in this piss-poor lighting, Mingyu can see the way your darkened eyes glint. He’s spellbound — there’s no other word to describe it.

One hand takes hold of his cock and lines it up to your cunt. The other raises to your lips, index finger extended. You tease him without saying a word, and he hears it loud and clear.

Oh, he’s going to be so good for you.

That’s what he tells himself until your arousal makes contact with the tip of his cock. That’s what he repeats in his head, over and over, when you sink down and gush around him, slick dripping to coat the centimeters that don’t quite fit inside of you. What he says out loud, elongated and definitely above a whisper, is:

“Fuuuuck.”

You quickly lean over his chest to cover his mouth with your hand. Though your pulses are both racing, he’s less focused on his total, abject embarrassment than he is on the amusement that causes your mouth to curve.

Keeping your hand where it is — for the good of everyone, really — you nip at his earlobe. He waits for the inevitable consequence of his actions.

Goddamn it. How stupid does he have to be to forfeit a prize like you?

“You don’t listen very well, baby,” Your hushed tone drips like honey into his ear. Involuntarily, his hips jerk upwards, pushing further into your wet heat.

Any distance is too much.

“But you feel so fucking good —”

Again, he ruts against you when your teeth graze his earlobe. Under your palm, his whimpering is unintelligible, but that doesn’t stop him. You catch his groan in your hand before it can hit the air.

“— might have to bend the rules for you.”

It’s torture. 

Mingyu knows you’re moving this slowly to avoid upsetting the box springs below, but whether or not there’s method to the madness, it’s still unbearable.

You swirl your hips in a way that makes his vision go white at the edges, grind down into his lap with quiet precision. He can feel that soft, spongy spot hiding behind your front wall; and he can hear those delicate little sighs as you fuck yourself deliberately.

He can feel his mind go blank, too, moments before your cunt milks him for all he’s worth. You don’t stop once he spills himself inside of you — you won’t, he hopes.

“Oh, shit,” you whimper, almost inaudibly. “I’m so close.”

The hand not covering his mouth disappears between your legs. If the way your eyes roll back is any indication, you’ve found what you were looking for. 

The sight of you is too much for Mingyu to handle. Nipples peaking through the translucent fabric of your bralette, wrist moving in the opposite direction of your hips, eyelashes fluttering while you rub spirals into your clit. Perfect, top to bottom.

Mingyu cums again when you do, refractory period be damned.

And when you collapse down onto his chest, walls still fluttering around him, he encircles you with his arm so tightly that he can feel you trembling through the aftershocks. With your face now nuzzled into the crook of his neck, the tables turn.

“Fuck,” you mutter. The sound is mostly lost against his skin, but there’s enough volume to make you both start to snicker.

You kiss his neck, nudge him with the tip of your nose. Whispering, you ask, “Not bad for a twin bed, huh?”

Mingyu snorts. “Kinda feels like high school. You know, parents on the other side of the wall, cute little bedspread,” His voice trails off so he can press his lips against your temple. Voice low in your ear, he smirks, “Nutting within thirty seconds.”

Your muffled laughter shakes his shoulders, too. Then, you fall into a silence so easy he’s sure you’ve fallen asleep on top of him. To his surprise, you peep, “I didn’t think this through.”

He hums inquisitively in response. You crane your neck to meet his eyes. 

You inhale deeply, then sigh, “I have to waddle down the hallway of my childhood home to the bathroom — right past my parents’ door — and pretend like we didn’t just do what we did.”

Mingyu flashes you a wolfish grin that catches you off guard. Your eyebrows raise in anticipation.

“Need some divine intervention, sounds like. Maybe if you pray about it —” 

Tonight may have slipped away from him, but it’s not his fault — it’s yours. If you hadn’t squeezed his forearm while laughing at one of his jokes, Jihoon would be home free by now. But you did, and he’s not, and he’s somehow finding it difficult to categorize this as a failure.

No, the way you get the tiniest bit more affectionate when you’re tipsy feels a hell of a lot like success. Just for a little while, Jihoon can let you tuck yourself under his arm; and he can pretend he’s not trapped in the silent hell that is yearning — and oh, god, does he yearn. You, however, come with a price tag. 

For the astronomical cost of the most meaningful friendship he has, he could clue you in on the pining. Check the temperature, see if your heart sounds like a cartoonish, old-timey car horn whenever you see him. That’s a bigger risk than Jihoon’s willing to take, and even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t know where the fuck to start.

“I ah-wooga you”? 

Absolutely fucking not.

Jihoon doesn’t realize he’s gazing at you until you toss a crinkled-up chopstick wrapper at him. It bounces off of his unsuspecting chin, drops down into his lap. He blinks while he buffers, then he stares at you with an incredulousness that’s entirely manufactured, mouth hanging open. More than anything, he’s impressed by your aim in this state.

“Since when can you astral project, Jihoonie?” You ask with a laugh that’s likely a lot louder than you realize.

He’s impassive on the outside, but on the inside, he’s a puddle of goo. When you’re buzzed, he’s not oppa anymore — just Jihoonie — and it makes his knees wobble. To distract himself, Jihoon picks up the ball of paper and fires it back at you with shocking precision. Your eyes cross, almost in slow motion, as you watch it hit the tip of your nose.

Bullseye.

Pretending to be chill about any of this, Jihoon shrugs and says, “None of your business,” just to see if you’ll pout — and you do, you do, you do. He’s doomed, he realizes with a smile he can’t fight off. Oh, well.

You pick up your drink and down what little’s left of it before gesturing his way. The ice cubes clink against the glass. Uninhibited, he thinks, just like you. Donning puppy-dog eyes, you announce, “I think I need to go home now.”

There’s no question included because there’s no reality in which you’d ever have to ask. Jihoon is on his feet before you can punctuate that statement, hand held out to haul you up to yours. You squeak — an acceptance of his offer, he dares to presume — and then you take his hand.

You don’t let go once you stand up, which he attributes to your unsteadiness. Still, it doesn’t make him any less grateful for the way your fingers take up residency in the space between his. 

Even if it’s all he can be, he’ll be your anchor. If it means physically steering you towards the train station and hovering nearby when you attempt to befriend every living being — human or otherwise — that you encounter along the way, so be it. If he winds up loving you harder with every staggered step you take in the wrong direction, well… What else is new?

“Ready?” He asks with a tilt of his head towards the bar’s front door.

“Set, go!” You shout, and you sure as shit do.

At a rate of speed he could’ve never predicted, no less.

It’s a mad dash to the exit — one he wasn’t ready for, and one that nearly makes him fall over — but he keeps pace with you, like always. His foot crosses the threshold first, as a matter of fact, so he turns his head to brag to you about it. You’re already looking at him, grin beaming like a fucking spotlight, and he doesn’t need to state the obvious.