SWEET AS HONEY

You love your new apartment. At least, you love it in comparison to your last place, a nightmarish shoebox with horrific neighbours and peeling walls. But even your friends took care to fawn over your new digs while helping you move in, Wooyoung making sure that you understood how big of a moment this was for you. He even spied out the eye candy that lives just next door; he told you all about your new neighbour who smiled and waved awkwardly at him and San as they were hoisting your couch through the door. 

And he wasn't wrong– the man is beanstalk-tall and so fucking wide. A braver woman than you certainly would have hit on him by now, drawn in by the wide smile he gives you as he shoulders into the elevator behind you and exchanges good-natured, earnest pleasantries with you. You hope you answer his how's your week been with a smooth nonchalance that distracts him from the way you're smiling way too big to be passed off as anything near casual. He tells you silly stories about his job as a dance coach at the local studio and looks genuinely satisfied when he gets a laugh out of you. The pair of you comfortably settle into a place somewhere between 'just neighbours' and 'friends' lined with a flirtatious tension neither of you dares to bring up– and it works.

You even get to share some gentle mornings together, each of you out on your own balconies. You, with your cup of homemade iced latte and him rolling a joint on the too-tiny table he stuck out there for that sole purpose, his knees knocking against the underside of it nearly every time he shifts his legs. The first time you catch him, tongue halfway across the rolled paper, he has the wherewithal to at least look sheepish and he lets out a visible sigh of relief when you just laugh and take your own seat. You steal furtive glances over whatever book you brought out to watch him as he smokes, gradually sinking into his seat and you let yourself fantasize about him sneaking looks over at you in between tokes. It's fun to have a cute little puppy crush, you decide, even if it doesn't go anywhere, and Mingi's a great recipient. 

So of course he has to go and ruin it.

"When did you start smoking weed again?" Wooyoung wrinkles his nose as he pulls off his parka and lets you lock the door behind him. "Don't think I've seen you smoke since college. You’d better share, that's so-" 

You interrupt him with a frustrated groan. "I didn't Wooyoung- that's from next door," you stomp petulantly to your kitchen, leaving your friend to follow in your frustrated wake. "I didn't realize when he kept it to the balcony but whatever fucked up strain he smokes is seeping into the walls, I swear."

Wooyoung places the Chinese takeout he brought on the kitchen counter, shaking excess snow out of his hair. You hand him a plate and a pair of chopsticks and he lets out a faux-contemplative puff of air before he replies, "Well… he had to have like a flaw right? Inconsiderate stoner is annoying sure, but I bet I can whip him into shape." He grins wickedly and punctures his sentence by snapping his chopsticks at you. "Still hot, unfortunately. Saw him heading out on my way up and he manages to be enticing even in an extra-long puffer coat."

"Ugh, whatever," except it's not whatever because you know the coat Wooyoung's talking about and Mingi doeslook so adorable in it, especially because it's oversized and he pulls up the hood and smiles at you until his eyes disappear and nuzzles his face into the pulled up collar. "Whatever," you repeat, shaking your head like it'll shake out the image of Mingi all bundled up in his Winter get up. "It doesn't matter how cute he is-"

"Okay, so I said hot."

"It doesn't matter!" Maybe if you say it a couple dozen more times it'll come true. "Because there is nothing cute or hot about being an inconsiderate jackass. It's starting to get into my clothes, Wooyoung. I have a job where I need to maintain like, a modicum of professionalism. I can't show up smelling like weed."

"We're slipping into old man shakes fist at cloud territory here, princess," Wooyoung is gentle with you even in his teasing, knowing first hand how you can work yourself into a frenzy with little encouragement– or, on your worst days, no encouragement at all. "Like, you're not wrong, but let's reel it back before you commit full on arson on the building you're also living in."

The two of you have gradually migrated to the couch, letting episodes of a familiar sitcom drone on in the background. And having Wooyoung around is so lovely because no one else would let you whine like this, and before you know it the cups of hot and sour soup are empty and you're bitching and moaning about Mingi again. It doesn't help that it's nearing the time of night when he tends to spark up again, so you know the smell that had somewhat faded since this morning is about to come back with a dank vengeance. 

"I know it's lame or whatever to complain about someone lighting up in their own home," you mumble out around a bite of springroll, its crispiness doing wonders to settle you down. "I thought he was like a thoughtful guy though, you know? It's kinda disappointing. He really is just a man."

Wooyoung scoffs out a laugh, "Well, I could've told you that. I've definitely seen him scratch his balls in the elevator."

"Ew, stop, the illusion's already been shattered."

He only laughs as he grabs the two fortune cookies from the takeout bag and tosses one at you. He doesn't bother to apologize when you don't react quick enough to catch it, the crinkly wrapping paper hitting you square in the forehead. He's already munching away at his cookie, cheeks puffed out. "Mine says that beauty is often mistakenly valued above wisdom… so. A lie. Does yours say anything about fucking your sexy neighbour and stealing his weed?"

The air outside has settled at a bitter, bone-chilling cold. You've taken to wearing two pairs of socks most days in hope of conserving the heat as you trudge to the subway every morning. The scarf you knit last year that made you officially abandon your knitting needles has made a surprise reappearance in your daily rotation. And Mingi is still huffing away next door more days than not, stinking up your apartment like the worst Bath & Body Works candle imaginable. 

San suggested going to your landlord- and he nodded solemnly when you said absolutely not because you're no snitch. But you hate, hate, hate the way you still reek with the stuff even when you're blocks away, overpowering any perfume you own. You’ve also wasted a lot of your favourite perfumes.

You have to say something to Mingi. Directly. Direct confrontation. Oh god.

Your feet carried you to his door before you can reconsider. The door is normal, unassuming. Why wouldn't it be? It’s the same as yours, just six feet to the left. Did you expect it to look different? An evil, anxious bug in the back of your mind wonders if he's watching you just stare at his door through his peephole, wondering why his skittish neighbour is lurking outside his apartment. The visual is so harrowing that you finally commit to knocking before it can become a reality.

There's a moment of quiet– then, distantly, a crash, a cough and heavy footsteps that creep closer. And then he's opening the door, and there he is, tall but not quite imposing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion that only serves to make him even more endearing.

His expression brightens when he realizes it's you. You wonder, fleetingly, if he's doing this on purpose, because gosh, that smile nearly makes you forgive him right then and there. "Neighbour!" he chirps, like he really is excited to see you. Earnest, he’s really very earnest."This is new."

Right, you're crossing into untreated territory here and for a moment you feel a sense of embarrassment– but that fades quickly into indignation. He crossed that boundary first. His stink is in your home! "Yes, right, hi," terrible start. "Mingi, hi. Hi." Woof.

"…Hi?" If there is a god, he'd strike you with lightning and take you out with a swiftness.

"Hi, sorry," you shake your head at yourself like it'll physically snap you back to reality. "I hope you're not, like, busy or anything, I can totally come back later or tomorrow, even."

He's still smiling at you like that and he cocks his head at your words. "No, not busy. Just, y'know, winding down after work, yeah?" he says it like it's an inside joke. He settled into familiarity with you so quickly, you’ve allowed yourself to wonder before if that’s just what he’s like or if that’s what he’s like with you.

"Yeah," your hands busy themselves in the pocket of your oversized sweater- he brought it up himself, perfect, now you just have to commit. "Winding down, right- look, Mingi, I don't wanna be a shitty neighbour, really-"

"You're a great neighbour," he interrupts, not realizing he's super not helping.

"Oh! Oh, thanks, you've been… swell," swell?! "Except, there's just, it's really just this one thing, and I really wouldn't bring this up otherwise, and I'm not, like, judging or anything-"

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No! No, well not really it's just…" you're scrambling, that much is clear.

"Hey, I'm really sorry if I did something to upset you, I mean it, It’s just, I don't even know-"

"Mingi, you stink!"

Not great. He's staring at you in genuine shock, mouth in a little 'O' shape. You'd think he was actually frozen if it weren't for the shock of bright red that creeps up his ears. "Not like you stink," oh god, you've fucked this. Like really, actually fucked it. Royally. "Like, when you smoke. Inside. It stinks. It stinks up everything. It gets into my clothes. It gets into my hair, Mingi," you're whining now, a petulant child insisting she's right. But you are, of course, right, is the thing. "And I don't mind it, like, fundamentally and I meant it, I'm not judging you but god your shit's loud and I can't deal with it all the time, you know?" Your hands have come up to cover your eyes. Maybe when you take them down, Mingi will have disappeared and he'll have been a projection of your single, horny brain all these months.

And then Mingi starts giggling. Honest to god, giggling. "Oh, little neighbour," he coos at you and his hands, massive but purposely gentle, come up to grasp at your wrists and pull them away from your face. And he's still there. Obviously. "Shit," he sighs. "I'm sorry, little neighbour. I just– I run so cold, yeah? I'm real sensitive– like, when it's this nasty cold outside." You nod along and pretend not to notice that he hasn't let go of your wrists. His hands are warm. 

"I guess I'm a little nose blind to my own shit though, I really didn't think it'd be so bad," he chuckles at himself. "My friends joke about me reeking of the stuff but I thought they were just being assholes. Huh… guess I was the asshole the whole time, huh?"

You shake your head, almost on instinct. "No, really it's fine– I mean, I was getting mildly annoyed, sure," holy understatement. "But I wasn't about to rat you out or anything. Just... I don't know…" You're running out of gas now, turning sheepish and wrinkling your nose at yourself.

"Hey, hey," he lets go of your wrists and uses one big hand to ruffle at your hair like a cranky kitten. "You've every right to your annoyance, neighbour. I really am sorry. Listen, I'll uh, I'll start smoking like on the way to the grocery store and shit like that. Or I'll get a vape. Something, I don't know," he laughs out a breath and leans against the doorframe. "Really, I've been trying to be the perfect neighbour for you this whole time– turns out all I had to do to get you to finally knock is stink up the whole place, huh?"

You… you think that he might be flirting with you now. You can't be sure because you're still kind of reeling from your own faux pas. "The smell's not that bad," you concede. "I mean it's… a lot. I used to smoke kinda regularly, like, in college. It's just the sheer amount- I mean, my god, Mingi, you're a fucking chimney."

This time when he laughs, you let yourself laugh with him. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," he's smiling that bright, sunshiney, power the city for generations smile again. "Okay-" he claps his hands and you startle at the noise, making him laugh again. 

"An idea! I have an idea." You give him a worried look and he lays a hand on your shoulder that you think he means to settle you, but you feel heat spread all over. Was he always this touchy? "I owe you an apology, obviously," you go to interrupt but he carries on. "No, no, I do, you can't change my mind about this." The firey determination that sparks up in his expressive eyes all but confirms this. "So– let's stink up this floor one more time. I smoke you out, you can raid my fridge for whatever snacks you want and I'll even order you some candles to clear out the lingering scent. And then I commit to smoking out in the cold for the rest of my mortal, pathetic life."

Turns out Mingi is a very difficult person to say no to. Not that you tried very hard, of course. One glance at those puppy eyes and you crumbled. He's got a classic mid-2000's comedy on– he said it was one of his favourites and you wished you'd taken a picture of the way his eyes lit up when you quoted it back to him. You'd bonded over your favourite stupid bits from stupid movies. He's kinda nerdy, you've realized as he recites full scenes from movies you've not seen in over a decade. 

"Your couch is comfier than mine," you muse absentmindedly, head propped up by your hands, elbows on your knees. You're watching Mingi roll two joints in succession– the action not necessarily a new sight to you, but you've never had blanket permission to sit and stare at him while he does it. It's mesmerizing, like pretty much everything else he does.

"Yeah? Well, get as comfy as you'd like, little neighbour," his smiles are always so genuine for you. "Hope everything else is to your liking?" There's a twinkle in his eye too, a secret ask behind his words.

"Everything's good, Mingi."

"Only good?" He's pouting now. His most devious trick yet. You don't respond, you can't fall into his trap this early. Instead you take a sip from the canned iced tea you stole from his well-stocked fridge. He hums petulantly at your silence, and places one of the two spliffs into the ashtray shaped like an eight ball. He pops the other one into his mouth and rises to his full, staggering height. He's so tall he casts a shadow over you by way of the the sun setting through the window behind him. He stretches his arms over his head with an exaggerated grunt and the fabric of his t-shirt slides up at the waist, teasing you with a slutty sliver of skin. He's a little bit evil you're pretty sure now. You lean back and properly settle into the couch to shamelessly enjoy the view while he isn't looking at you.

He flops onto the- very large, very comfortable- couch next to you with a shocking level of grace. He's not quite close enough that any part of you is touching but he's certainly not far away. He fished into the deep pocket of a cargo pants for a lighter and he makes a slow purposeful show of flicking it on and bringing it to the jay lazily hanging out of his pouty lips. He breaths in deep, chest expanding and he lights it properly, eyes sliding closed.

He takes a few more slow pulls, smoke billowing out of pursed lips– and you let him because, wow, what a show. You do scramble to gain control yourself eventually. "You're smoking my apology."

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, meeting your gaze again. You nearly gasp. He's already heavily lidded, a sluggish smile working it's way across his mouth. "Shit, my bad, pretty," he calls you pretty like it's no big deal. So you carry on, no big deal.

He finally gives up the joint for you and you feel very watched. He's following your every move now. He watches as you bring it up to your lips, pursing them, sucking in a deep breath and– heaving a deep, dry cough. He laughs heartily at your pain and you continue to nearly hack up a lung. The iced tea helps.

"Shut up," you full on whine at him, thrusting out a hand to shove at his chest and god dammit, it's rock hard. "It's been a bit, okay?"

He's still laughing but he puts his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, sorry," he sighs dramatically and leans his head against your shoulder as you, very bravely, you might add, go to take another drag. "I'm really botching this aren't I, little neighbour? Hogging the weed, laughing at you, I didn’t even let you choose the movie." He pouts and nuzzles into your shoulder and if you knew any better you'd say he's making himself as pathetic as possible.

"Don't be pathetic, Mingi." He grins.

"I can make it up to you though," his voice has dropped, even lower than his usual bassy timber. "Just wanna be a perfect neighbour, y'know? Lemme make it up to you."

"You already apologized, Min. Nothing to make up."

"Please?" He mutters the single word into your shoulder and blood rushes in your ears.

"Hah–" you breath out a laugh you think makes you sound unaffected. You hope. "Thought you'd have a better tolerance than this." The quiet moment passes like wind through an open window, but the intimacy lingers in the air still, refusing to leave entirely.

He snickers like you're just that amusing to him. "Yeah– that's why I buy the strong shit. So careful with it, yeah? You're littler too. G'nna fuck you up waaay faster." He shifts so his head is in your lap, fully lounging against you like an Emperor in his throne. His long legs don't quite fit onto the rest of the couch like this, one is bent at the knee, the other off the plush sofa completely.

"You're good at making yourself comfortable quick, huh?" you say as you take another drag, almost doing it just to prove him wrong. But he's not wrong, it is, in fact, strong shit. You know you have to slow down if you don't want to be totally flying. 

He grins up at you. "Mm-hm," he nods. "We're friends now. Giving you a crash course in being my friend. This is a lot of it." He grabs at your wrist that isn't holding the spliff, his grip becoming familiar to you now, and brings your hand to his hair. You let yourself tangle your fingers into the dark locks and he visibly relaxes under the touch.

You know if you smoke any more of this space-age weed you won't recover before Monday so you lower it down to his lips– you don't quite understand this instinct, why you don't hand it to him instead but he doesn't so much as flinch. He wraps his plush lips around the filter but makes no move to grab it so you just have to carry on holding it as he inhales. 

"Careful, tiny," he's using that low, quiet timbre again. He clicks his tongue at you chidingly–"Can't have you burning yourself." The ember has crept only centimeters away from your fingers without you noticing and he, with a life-ruining gentleness, plucks it away and leaves the bud to burn in the ashtray. 

The smell is heavier here, because of course it is– you've followed it to the source, after all. Mingi was absolutely right, though, you're more sensitive to the stuff than you remember and you've settled into the high so nicely. It's floaty and warm, familiar like a family recipe. You're sinking into the couch, the weight of Mingi's head in your lap grounding you, tethering you directly to him.

You open your eyes not long after you realize you let them slip close at one point, lazily blinking as you struggle to readjust to even the low light of the cute lamps he has in multiple different spots of the living room. In the back of your hazy mind you register a mild gratitude for the fact that he too clearly understands the evils of Big Light. More than just a pretty face, you surmise.

You cast your gaze down to see how your neighbour is faring to find him already watching you, red-rimmed eyes almost too alert for your liking. He doesn't look away when you catch him– an eyebrow quirks in an unspoken challenge, daring you to look away, to cower first. You don't, not this time. Your fingers, once absentmindedly combing through his hair still. His eyes flicker to your lips, slow enough that you know you were meant to see it, leaving no room for you to misread his intentions now.

"All good?" he still manages to sound casual but only just– like his control is slipping, threatening to break free entirely.

“Yeah,” your voice is softer still, desperate to not disturb this precious little moment. The moment before… something. “All good.”

He studies you for another moment, searching for hesitation or something worse and when he can’t find it he hauls himself up in a gentle glide. You’ve noticed this about him– he’s consistently graceful for someone his size. He’s never abrupt, never jerky. There’s a composure to him that makes you ache to see it crumble and break. He’s next to you now, angled towards you, caging you in with his arms on the plush of the sofa cushions. “Tell me,” he pauses to wet his lips with his tongue and a smirk dances across his face when your eyes follow. Tease. “Tell me if I read this all wrong.”

You don’t need to answer verbally as your chin tilts towards him, an open invitation if ever there was one. His breath catches.

That first kiss is slow and deliberate, every movement drawing you into him more and more. There’s a distant thought that it feels like he’s trying to prove something to you but he steals it away. You’re leaning into each other with a neediness that shocks your hands into moving– one into his hair, already familiar with the touch and the other to a toned forearm.His own hands have found their way to you at some point, magnetized, to your waist. They grip without being harsh, your back arching into the touch only slightly, because you’re still consciously holding onto those last bits of sanity.

His lips press against yours even firmer then, a reward for wanting him as much as he wants you, control slipping away, strand by strand. Your hand tightens in his hair and he exhales against you, fingers gripping you tighter without crossing the line into harshness. He pulls away, only for a second, quick enough that you’re not sure it was even real, because his hand grips onto you before you can even process it, shifting you so his back is against the couch and your thighs are splayed across his, straddling him. You register with a barely contained shiver how thick his thighs are under you. 

He stills then for a second and you’ve parted from him just far enough to take this version of him in. Hair mussed (your doing), eyes red and glossy (half your doing, you choose to believe) and chest rising and falling in deep, purposeful breaths (definitely your doing, thank you). You freeze there, shocked by just how gorgeous he is like this, under you, lowlit and desperate and warm.

You bring a hand up to his jaw before reconnecting your lips to his, needier than before. Your lips work in tandem with each other as your tongues finally meet, delving the both of you into something that can only be described as hungry. His hands wander, as greedy as his mouth is against you, touching every bit of your back and waist he can, sending shocks of heat wherever they manage to brush against bare skin. Your teeth nip softly at his bottom lip in a challenge that you’ll later insist was an accident and you can practically hear his composure begin to splinter. He keens, whines against your mouth and you swallow the sound greedily and his palm flattens against your back to bring you close, close, closer. Your hips shift against his and the friction makes you lightheaded.

He pulls away with a petulant reluctance, forehead against yours, not willing to be any further away than that. He swallows and and sighs against you, hands planted firmly on your hips. His eyes are darker now, heavily lidded and gazing into yours with a fire you don’t recognize but you’re sure is mirrored in your own eyes. He huffs a laugh, half disbelief, half pride.

“Look at you,” you think he means to tease but he’s still breathless enough that it comes out straight up whiny.

“Me?” You smile wickedly and rock your hips against his– the firmness beneath the rough denim erases any doubt in your mind. He wants this, wants you. His own hips stutter, chasing you as his breath catches. “Look at you.”

He bites at his bottom lip, head falling back against the couch. His hands grip at your hips, more desperate than controlling, pulling you against him, closer still. He’s holding back as best he can, teeth still digging into his lip but these little grunts and whines are still escaping, taunting you.

You gasp as he surges forwards, hips properly and roughly rutting up into yours– the seam of your own jeans dig into you and you gasp, head dipping back. He takes this opportunity, lips against your neck with that same hunger, nipping, kissing, biting, surely leaving marks that you can’t possibly bring yourself to worry about now. No one will question a turtleneck in this weather anyway. You let him bite away, your hand finding it’s home in his hair once more in encouragement. Neither of you bother to pretend to have any semblance of control anymore and it’s so much more delicious this way; no more pretending, you’ve decided as you let a wanton moan out. He groans low in response and pulls away– you almost don’t let him, tugging at his hair in retaliation and his groan turns into a whimper. 

Before you have time to react he plants you back onto the couch, moving with newfound determination now, as he gets you to lie down, him kneeling between your spread legs. Your vision has blurred at the edges but he’s glowing, center-stage. He’s a mess. You can’t imagine you’re faring much better. 

Pupils blown, his hands grip at the meat of your thighs– he’s scowling at your jeans like they’re scheming against him. He’s half feral now, you think. He glides his hands up, pulling the fabric of your loose shirt shirt with them and he leans forward to press his forehead against your stomach. “You’re killing me I think,” he huffs, pressing devastating, gentle kisses against your skin and nosing against the plush of your stomach. You laugh, breathless but genuine all the same and brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Good way to go though, right?” you giggle and watch as he toys with the waistband of your jeans.

He looks up at you, eyes shining, pleading in an unspoken question, fingers inching toward the button. You nod minutely but he sees it all the same and wastes no more time. He’s frantic, fingers fumbling against the hardware as he undoes them, yanking them down until they hit the rug with a soft thump. Only your panties are between you and him now but he can’t seem to think that far. 

“Fuck, she’s wet,” he says, nearly to himself, eyes gleaming. His hands are on your thighs again, kneading incessantly. “Can I-” he starts, pausing to palm himself over his jeans, can’t help himself. “You gotta let me taste her. She’s begging for it. Need it.” He’s already lowered himself, half off the couch, spreading your legs even wider and nosing at your underwear. “Need it–” he repeats himself, half mindless before pressing an open mouthed kiss to your pussy through the fabric. He moans as soon as he gets that first taste of you, immediately addicted. 

You gasp and your hips jump up at the contact, chasing his mouth and he doesn’t fight it, chases you right back, hands at your hips not to control you but to ground himself. Your hand, still in his hair, it’s second home now, tugs gently at the strands, while your other hand finds purchase on the pillow next to you. He mouths at you, still over your panties, tongue out, practically drooling over you, soaking them through. “Tastes so good,” he hums against you, hands wrapping themselves around your thighs. “So good, fuck. So wet.” 

He pulls back, acting like it pains him to do so but he wants unfettered access to you, might really die if he can’t get it– he yanks your underwear down and doesn’t bother to spare them a second glance as they join your pants on the ground, too in awe, enraptured by your unobscured cunt to even consider looking away. His mouth is back on you before you can take a proper breath in, lips finally, mercifully, wrapped around your clit. You stutter out his name, begging for something– more, less, something that doesn’t even exist yet, you don’t know. 

“Holy fuck, Mingi,” you finally manage out somewhat clearly, around your own whines and whimpers. He hums in response, the vibrations cruel against your clit in a way the makes your head pitch back. He hips have a life of their own, grinding against the couch with abandon, can’t help himself. He pulls back and smiles listlessly at the whine you let out.

“S’good, yeah?” He soaks in your reaction, bites his lip as your hand tries to tug him back. He resists, barely, hands coming to your soaked pussy– he can practically hear her purring for him– to spread your lips wide for him. “She’s so pretty, baby, god–” Only then does he dive back in, one long lick against you that has you squirming. He’s focused on your entrance now, giving those wet, messy kisses again, tongue delving into you and his nose bumps against your clit in a way that has your head spinning. 

“So good, Mingi, it’s so good–” you babble absently but the praise gets to him still, hips grinding against the couch without his permission. You’re not sure who’s louder at this point, you or him. He brings his mouth back to your clit, suckling on it, freeing up space to tease you as with his fingers only brushing against your entrance, gathering the wetness there. He seems to be content to make you into as much of a mess as possible, revelling in every moan, every movement. “Please–” the word’s barely left your swollen lips when he plunges two fingers into your desperate, weeping pussy. 

The initial stretch from two fingers sends a shockwave through you and he has to use his other hand to properly hold your hips down. They’re skilled in their exploration, delving deeper than your own fingers could ever hope to. He’s on a mission, scissoring them inside you, stretching your gummy walls and finding those spots that make you keen. His mouth has travelled, never stopping, biting meanly against your thighs. “So fucking messy, baby,” he takes a moment just to watch; watch his own fingers diving in and out of you, nearly drooling at the sight. “Is that just for me? She loves me, huh?” He keeps talking directly to your pussy– it would be endearing if you weren’t so desperate to cum. 

You nod in response, not even totally sure what the question was, but he won’t break eye contact with your cunt. “Uh-huh,” you’re delirious but conscious enough to know that you’re delirious and that counts for something. Mingi is equally far gone, thankfully, wondering, hoping, that he’ll still be able to taste you hours from now. “S’all for you, Min.”

Another harsh bite on the inside of your thigh, soothed by his tongue and a kiss in that same spot. “You gotta come, okay? Gotta come for me, please, need it, need you to come on my face,” he’s babbling now, on the dangerous side of crazed, please’s and cum for me’s, even as he brings his tongue back to your clit. You’re faring no better, pieces of his name broken up by whines escaping and mounting in volume. Your thighs are pressed against the sides of his head and he thinks that this must be what heaven feels like– buried in pussy, suffocated by thighs. Perfection.

He knows you’re close, so close he can quite literally taste it. He hears it too, your sounds mounting higher and louder still. You know it too, can’t ignore it, with his tongue lapping at your clit and his fingers prodding at that spongy spot that makes you see stars. He wants it bad, working at you with a terrifying vigour. It only took a few more moments, a few more expert swipes of his tongue until you were there, cresting over that edge, your hand fisting in his hair and cumming with a broken wail. He works you through it, refuses to let up. Still pumping, licking, grinding. You’ve never had an orgasm last this long and Mingi is determined to keep it going, going, going– until you’re whining weakly and tugging his hair away from your poor, soaked pussy. Your eyes fill with tears at the overstimulation, a few slipping through and down your cheeks. When he finally does pull away it’s slowly, with one last kiss against your twitching clit like a goodbye. You’d laugh if you weren’t busy trying to remember how to breath like a regular human being. 

He crawls back on top of you, kissing against every bit of skin he can on the way back up– your thighs, hips, stomach, breasts, neck, until he’s face-to-face with you, noses brushing against each other. His eyes are half lidded and still hungry, the bottom half of his face shining, sparkling even with your own wetness, making him look like a sexed up kind of fairy. He brings his similarly soaked fingers up to tap against your bottom lip and you open your mouth without a word, not breaking eye contact as he slides them in, gliding against your tongue, the taste of you heavy. He smiles drunkenly as he watches you suck his fingers, tongue lapping at them and he lets a deep moan out from his chest. His forehead falls to your cheek and he lets his hips grind against you, your oversensitive pussy meeting rough denim and making you whimper around his fingers and gag slightly as they delve deeper. A dribble of spit leaks out from the corner of your lips and Mingi, nasty and unbidden, licks at it, licks all the way up your cheek, along the tracks your tears left, just tasting all of you.

He pulls back abruptly to strip away his own clothes, mostly because he think he might really, actually explode if these fucking jeans stay on for another second. His jeans and shirt are off, boxers halfway down when it registers to him that you’ve followed suit, sitting up with your shirt and bra gone and he can’t not be drawn to your tits. He’s only human. 

He’s kneeling between your legs again, knees digging into the carpet uncomfortably but he can’t begin to care about that as he kneads at your tits, mouth attached to a nipple, sucking and gently biting at it. You wonder, momentarily, how his jaw isn’t cramping up yet. “Mingi, baby, c’mon,” you pull at his roots until he lets your nipple go. He doesn’t quite move away– just looks up at you, resting against your chest, wet mouth still slightly agape and eyes shiny, wet with unshed tears. God. “C’mon.”

You pull him up to lay on the couch and he goes now without question, finally getting his boxers all the way off on the way– you could probably ask anything of him right now and he’d do it. And shit, he’s so hard you realize and he lays there. It’s massive, too– rock hard, throbbing to the point you think it must be painful. He’s leaking an absolute mess of precum against his stomach, his cock already slicked with it from when he was rutting himself into a frenzy in his jeans. “Oh, baby,” you coo at him as you kneel between his thighs, mirroring his spot from when he drove you to a mind blowing orgasm not even minutes ago. You wrap a hand around him and feel dizzy at the realization that your fingers don’t quite touch each other. 

He might have been designed in a lab specifically to drive you insane, you’re pretty sure. How else could a man like this exist, just walking the earth?

Your pussy throbs at the mere idea of his dick stretching your walls but you’re desperate for just a taste first, it’s too enticing; you lean forward and give the slick head a tentative, experimental lick, moaning lightly at the salty taste of him. His cock jumps at the sensation and in the back of your head you remember him saying that he’s sensitive when he was justifying not smoking in the cold– at least you know now he wasn’t bullshitting you. You suck at the head so very gently, just to rile him up and you know it works as he throws his head back and mewls. “Please, baby, just-please, you’re-you can’t,” he’s babbling again, near panicking at the idea of blowing his load before having you properly on his cock. 

You go to straddle him properly, for your own sake as much as his because you want it just as bad– you know you’ll have your mouth back on him one day, you promise yourself that much. Maybe even within the hour, who’s to say. “Oh, Mingi, you’re so hard,” you pout down at him teasingly because you can’t help it– he’s so pretty laid out like this, hands grabbing at you, plush lips kiss bitten and red.

He nods quickly– “So hard, need t’fuck you, baby.” And you know he’s not lying, he needs it, really needs it. “G’nna make you feel so good, yeah? You know I will, I will, I promise–please.”

You either take pity on him or his begging is driving you crazy, either way you use one hand to steady his dick as you drag your wetness along the tip of him and tease his dick along your entrance, your other hand steadying you against his toned chest. You last through a few more of his pleads before you truly can’t take it anymore and begin to sink down on him– the initial stretch of his ridiculous girth is maddening, your mouth dropping open as you take him deeper and deeper.

He’s panting heavily, using every inch of his barely there willpower to not buck up into you and make you take all of him– he lets you take him inch by agonizing inch, every movement making his eyes roll back into his head because fuck, you feel like actual heaven. He might cry. He’s probably actually going to cry, he realizes as you’ve taken just more than half of him, because you’re too warm, too tight, too perfect, what the fuck. And you’re still sinking down, taking more, more, ignoring the slight burn in your thighs because it’s worth it, he fills you so perfectly. You take more, a little more until he’s fully buried inside of you and you both let out synchronized, shuddering groans at the realization.

“Oh, god, god, pretty,” he wraps his thick arms around you all the way, noses at your neck because he needs to be as close to you as humanly possible. “Fuck you’re so wet, so tight, huh? I did that, yeah? Worked you up so good, needed my cock, didn’t you?”

He’s not really asking you questions, some small part of you understands that but you nod along to his words all the same, half because he’s right and half because you can’t think, mind wiped by his cock seated inside you, stretching you out to fit him perfectly, moulding you to him. “Yeah, so full, Mingi, baby, so good–” His hips twitch helplessly against you, begging silently for something, anything. And mercifully, you deliver. 

You pitch your own hips up just barely, just so, the mild movement already sending sparks up your body, a live-wire. He grinds back against you because he truly can’t not anymore, his hips tilting to yours, chasing in anguish and you gasp as the tip of him kisses against that spot deep inside you that makes you gush around him. 

He responds in kind, groaning his loudest groan yet, the sound wrapping around you and you don’t even recognize just how much you’re drowning in everything Mingi, every sense overtaken by him. It’s only those strong arms, hands gripping your waist again that anchor you against pure hysteria.

You start to grind against him, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that has him hitting spots in you that had previously remained untouched. He grinds up into you in tandem, can’t help it, his hands gripping at your waist with a bruising tenderness. His eyes are wet, a few tears rolling down his cheeks now and you feel an evil sense of vindication– it’s nice to know you can make each other cry. And he’s such a pretty crier, eyes wide, face flushed and eyebrows tilted up, he’s just so pretty. There’s not a lot of them, the tears, and you know you’d like to make him really cry one day– but fuck, you’re dripping around him now, as desperate for him as he is for you at this point.

So you have no more restraint left as you go to properly fuck yourself on him, the stretch delicious as you slide him in and out of you, hands on his shoulders to brace yourself but also feel up his built shoulders. “F-fuck,” he has you stuttering and crying out now, damn him, because he can’t just lie there and take it, it’s out of his control now, his hips canting up and chasing you every time you bounce or grind or tilt. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, god, you’re so big, so good,” and you mean it, every word– he is, in fact, so big and so good. So good that he does deserve you truly bouncing on him, you figure and you’re sure he’s ruined you for any other man now, as he buries his head in your tits, keening every time you land, burying him to the hilt. It’s delicious and it’s messy, he’s basically drooling against you as he mouths at your nipples until you know they’ll be sore tomorrow.

“Yeah, good for you,” clearly he agrees. “Made for you, I think– never felt so good, y’r stretched perfectly around me, pretty, just need you to ngh–” his eyes shut tightly as you clench around him, like he’s nearly at his breaking point. “Need it–” he insists, lost in the warmth of you, fully thrusting back up into you.

“Need what Mingi?” your words are breathless, whiny, desperate. “What do you need, baby? Tell me– anything, it– give you anything.”

Both of you are falling apart but desperately grasping at any modicum of control you can over each other; you mock him, he bites at your nipples; you clench around him, he uses his grip on you to slam you down further. The push and pull, the sick game becomes, eventually, little more than two messes, wet and sweaty, fucking into each other, pleading into each others mouths, looking for something, anything, neither of you understand what you need anymore.

“So fine, y’r so good,” he’s mumbling out incoherent praises into your mouth, as everything becomes tighter, hotter, wetter. “Fuck. Fuck.” His hips stutter as they thrust up into yours, grinding in this new cruel way on the up swing and your eyes nearly roll back into you head. “Fuck.”

“Are-” you start, then immediately stop as his hand comes back to your clit, already overworked and weeping, to rub it in precise circles. He doesn’t need to say it out loud but he’s close, rising to this insurmountable peak and he needs, more than anything he’s ever needed before, to bring you there along with him. “You’re nearly there, yeah?” he nods along, little yeah, yeah, yes’s escaping his spit soaked lips. “Me too, me too- need it, need you to make me come, make me feel so good, please Mingi, please, don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t stop, probably can’t at this point. His mouth, aimlessly kissing, biting, whatever against your tits and shoulders and neck, is letting out a nonstop stream of noises and mumblings– you make out a few of his praises, the good girls and the perfect pussys in the mix of it all.

“Can-” he struggles to speak, managing words only between these pathetic, high pitched whines. “Need’ta come, baby, need it, need it,” one thought of him coming inside of you, filling you in every way makes you cream around him, clench around him even more, before he even gets to properly ask, making his eyes nearly roll back into his head. “Can I? Please– inside? Inside you? Need to fill you up, make you feel so good, it’ll feel so good– pussy’s so good, so good it’s driving me crazy, really, really– c’mon.”

He might keep going forever if you don’t stop him, so you bring your hands from his shoulders to cup his face, that pretty, pretty face, trusting him and his strong arms to keep pace, dropping you up and down on his cock. “Want it, Mingi–” it’s whispered, an intimate promise, because you need him to know you need this as much as he does right now. “Want your cum, Mingi.”

And then you’ve lost any semblance of control over him, because now he’s thrusting up into with abandon, using his strong arm to bring you back down on him every time– one hand is still busying itself on your pulsating clit. His dick is kissing your g-spot with an almost cruel consistency too, he knows your body with a scary accuracy already, and a wicked, almost unrecognizable smirk spreads across his lips when he realizes you’re as close as he is. 

“Yeah,” and oh fuck, he’s growling as his thrusts grow sloppier and out of rhythm, but never shallow or unsatisfactory. If anything, the mindless state you’re both in has let him in even deeper on these thrusts. “Yeah, it’s good, yeah? And you want it, you need it– need my cum, need it in you, so deep in you, ‘s so deep– I need it too baby, I do, need it.”

Your legs are nearing a gelatin state, but motivation and his actual, physical help are keeping you going– and that pulsating, growing need in the deepest recesses of you. The primal, base need is growing– both to come all over him and make him come, to see him truly unravel.

You’re both so close, close enough to taste it, to know it’s already the best either of you have ever had, weed or no. And you’re both begging too, both begging each other to bring you right there, to the crest, both warbling out combinations of baby and please and need and cum and perfect and more and good and–

It happens in one moment, a chain reaction kind of moment, he bites down on your shoulder, hard, bruising, which, in turn has you clench around his cock, which makes him thrust into you, hitting you just right and your back arches, a bow pulled tight– and you cum in tandem, a rare phenomenon, satisfying in a way you’d never be able to describe. You’re shaking through your orgasm, the unreal pleasure sending shockwaves through your legs to your toes, enlongated by the feeling of Mingi flooding your cunt with wave after wave of his own cum, as he lets out a long, unbroken, almost melodic groan into your shoulder. He carries on with a few meeker thrusts, insistent on fucking his cum as deep into as possible in this deeply primal mindset you’ve taken him to. It’s unfair how good it feels, this warmth that reaches into you. He send a few more feeble jabs into you, whimpering meekly as he does, utterly undone. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s muttering into your skin. You’d make fun of him if your thoughts weren’t made up of much of the same. “Fuck. Shit.

“Hah,” you huff. “Yeah. Fuck, shit and all that.” You can feel him softening inside of you but he makes no effort to move, and is still holding you tight. You don’t try to move either. He presses his forehead against yours, and you’re acutely aware of how sweaty you both are, of your weed-thick, heavy breaths mingling, but you can’t find an inkling of yourself disgusted by him. 

He smiles at you and it’s the same as before you thought you even had a chance with him– wide and distinctly Mingi. 

“Fuck. Really thought I needed the second joint before I’d be able to do that..” he giggles, rocking you back and forth like he’s not literally currently inside you. “Yunho owes me twenty bucks.”

“I don’t know who Yunho is,” you pull back to look at him properly, his pupils still blown, hair an absolute mess. “But please don’t say some other guys name when you’ve just cum in me, yeah?”

You love your new apartment. At least, you love it in comparison to your last place, a nightmarish shoebox with horrific neighbours and peeling walls. But even your friends took care to fawn over your new digs while helping you move in, Wooyoung making sure that you understood how big of a moment this was for you. He even spied out the eye candy that lives just next door; he told you all about your new neighbour who smiled and waved awkwardly at him and San as they were hoisting your couch through the door. 

And he wasn't wrong– the man is beanstalk-tall and so fucking wide. A braver woman than you certainly would have hit on him by now, drawn in by the wide smile he gives you as he shoulders into the elevator behind you and exchanges good-natured, earnest pleasantries with you. You hope you answer his how's your week been with a smooth nonchalance that distracts him from the way you're smiling way too big to be passed off as anything near casual. He tells you silly stories about his job as a dance coach at the local studio and looks genuinely satisfied when he gets a laugh out of you. The pair of you comfortably settle into a place somewhere between 'just neighbours' and 'friends' lined with a flirtatious tension neither of you dares to bring up– and it works.

You even get to share some gentle mornings together, each of you out on your own balconies. You, with your cup of homemade iced latte and him rolling a joint on the too-tiny table he stuck out there for that sole purpose, his knees knocking against the underside of it nearly every time he shifts his legs. The first time you catch him, tongue halfway across the rolled paper, he has the wherewithal to at least look sheepish and he lets out a visible sigh of relief when you just laugh and take your own seat. You steal furtive glances over whatever book you brought out to watch him as he smokes, gradually sinking into his seat and you let yourself fantasize about him sneaking looks over at you in between tokes. It's fun to have a cute little puppy crush, you decide, even if it doesn't go anywhere, and Mingi's a great recipient. 

So of course he has to go and ruin it.

"When did you start smoking weed again?" Wooyoung wrinkles his nose as he pulls off his parka and lets you lock the door behind him. "Don't think I've seen you smoke since college. You’d better share, that's so-" 

You interrupt him with a frustrated groan. "I didn't Wooyoung- that's from next door," you stomp petulantly to your kitchen, leaving your friend to follow in your frustrated wake. "I didn't realize when he kept it to the balcony but whatever fucked up strain he smokes is seeping into the walls, I swear."

Wooyoung places the Chinese takeout he brought on the kitchen counter, shaking excess snow out of his hair. You hand him a plate and a pair of chopsticks and he lets out a faux-contemplative puff of air before he replies, "Well… he had to have like a flaw right? Inconsiderate stoner is annoying sure, but I bet I can whip him into shape." He grins wickedly and punctures his sentence by snapping his chopsticks at you. "Still hot, unfortunately. Saw him heading out on my way up and he manages to be enticing even in an extra-long puffer coat."

"Ugh, whatever," except it's not whatever because you know the coat Wooyoung's talking about and Mingi doeslook so adorable in it, especially because it's oversized and he pulls up the hood and smiles at you until his eyes disappear and nuzzles his face into the pulled up collar. "Whatever," you repeat, shaking your head like it'll shake out the image of Mingi all bundled up in his Winter get up. "It doesn't matter how cute he is-"

"Okay, so I said hot."

"It doesn't matter!" Maybe if you say it a couple dozen more times it'll come true. "Because there is nothing cute or hot about being an inconsiderate jackass. It's starting to get into my clothes, Wooyoung. I have a job where I need to maintain like, a modicum of professionalism. I can't show up smelling like weed."

"We're slipping into old man shakes fist at cloud territory here, princess," Wooyoung is gentle with you even in his teasing, knowing first hand how you can work yourself into a frenzy with little encouragement– or, on your worst days, no encouragement at all. "Like, you're not wrong, but let's reel it back before you commit full on arson on the building you're also living in."

The two of you have gradually migrated to the couch, letting episodes of a familiar sitcom drone on in the background. And having Wooyoung around is so lovely because no one else would let you whine like this, and before you know it the cups of hot and sour soup are empty and you're bitching and moaning about Mingi again. It doesn't help that it's nearing the time of night when he tends to spark up again, so you know the smell that had somewhat faded since this morning is about to come back with a dank vengeance. 

"I know it's lame or whatever to complain about someone lighting up in their own home," you mumble out around a bite of springroll, its crispiness doing wonders to settle you down. "I thought he was like a thoughtful guy though, you know? It's kinda disappointing. He really is just a man."

Wooyoung scoffs out a laugh, "Well, I could've told you that. I've definitely seen him scratch his balls in the elevator."

"Ew, stop, the illusion's already been shattered."

He only laughs as he grabs the two fortune cookies from the takeout bag and tosses one at you. He doesn't bother to apologize when you don't react quick enough to catch it, the crinkly wrapping paper hitting you square in the forehead. He's already munching away at his cookie, cheeks puffed out. "Mine says that beauty is often mistakenly valued above wisdom… so. A lie. Does yours say anything about fucking your sexy neighbour and stealing his weed?"

The air outside has settled at a bitter, bone-chilling cold. You've taken to wearing two pairs of socks most days in hope of conserving the heat as you trudge to the subway every morning. The scarf you knit last year that made you officially abandon your knitting needles has made a surprise reappearance in your daily rotation. And Mingi is still huffing away next door more days than not, stinking up your apartment like the worst Bath & Body Works candle imaginable. 

San suggested going to your landlord- and he nodded solemnly when you said absolutely not because you're no snitch. But you hate, hate, hate the way you still reek with the stuff even when you're blocks away, overpowering any perfume you own. You’ve also wasted a lot of your favourite perfumes.

You have to say something to Mingi. Directly. Direct confrontation. Oh god.

Your feet carried you to his door before you can reconsider. The door is normal, unassuming. Why wouldn't it be? It’s the same as yours, just six feet to the left. Did you expect it to look different? An evil, anxious bug in the back of your mind wonders if he's watching you just stare at his door through his peephole, wondering why his skittish neighbour is lurking outside his apartment. The visual is so harrowing that you finally commit to knocking before it can become a reality.

There's a moment of quiet– then, distantly, a crash, a cough and heavy footsteps that creep closer. And then he's opening the door, and there he is, tall but not quite imposing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion that only serves to make him even more endearing.

His expression brightens when he realizes it's you. You wonder, fleetingly, if he's doing this on purpose, because gosh, that smile nearly makes you forgive him right then and there. "Neighbour!" he chirps, like he really is excited to see you. Earnest, he’s really very earnest."This is new."

Right, you're crossing into untreated territory here and for a moment you feel a sense of embarrassment– but that fades quickly into indignation. He crossed that boundary first. His stink is in your home! "Yes, right, hi," terrible start. "Mingi, hi. Hi." Woof.

"…Hi?" If there is a god, he'd strike you with lightning and take you out with a swiftness.

"Hi, sorry," you shake your head at yourself like it'll physically snap you back to reality. "I hope you're not, like, busy or anything, I can totally come back later or tomorrow, even."

He's still smiling at you like that and he cocks his head at your words. "No, not busy. Just, y'know, winding down after work, yeah?" he says it like it's an inside joke. He settled into familiarity with you so quickly, you’ve allowed yourself to wonder before if that’s just what he’s like or if that’s what he’s like with you.

"Yeah," your hands busy themselves in the pocket of your oversized sweater- he brought it up himself, perfect, now you just have to commit. "Winding down, right- look, Mingi, I don't wanna be a shitty neighbour, really-"

"You're a great neighbour," he interrupts, not realizing he's super not helping.

"Oh! Oh, thanks, you've been… swell," swell?! "Except, there's just, it's really just this one thing, and I really wouldn't bring this up otherwise, and I'm not, like, judging or anything-"

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No! No, well not really it's just…" you're scrambling, that much is clear.

"Hey, I'm really sorry if I did something to upset you, I mean it, It’s just, I don't even know-"

"Mingi, you stink!"

Not great. He's staring at you in genuine shock, mouth in a little 'O' shape. You'd think he was actually frozen if it weren't for the shock of bright red that creeps up his ears. "Not like you stink," oh god, you've fucked this. Like really, actually fucked it. Royally. "Like, when you smoke. Inside. It stinks. It stinks up everything. It gets into my clothes. It gets into my hair, Mingi," you're whining now, a petulant child insisting she's right. But you are, of course, right, is the thing. "And I don't mind it, like, fundamentally and I meant it, I'm not judging you but god your shit's loud and I can't deal with it all the time, you know?" Your hands have come up to cover your eyes. Maybe when you take them down, Mingi will have disappeared and he'll have been a projection of your single, horny brain all these months.

And then Mingi starts giggling. Honest to god, giggling. "Oh, little neighbour," he coos at you and his hands, massive but purposely gentle, come up to grasp at your wrists and pull them away from your face. And he's still there. Obviously. "Shit," he sighs. "I'm sorry, little neighbour. I just– I run so cold, yeah? I'm real sensitive– like, when it's this nasty cold outside." You nod along and pretend not to notice that he hasn't let go of your wrists. His hands are warm. 

"I guess I'm a little nose blind to my own shit though, I really didn't think it'd be so bad," he chuckles at himself. "My friends joke about me reeking of the stuff but I thought they were just being assholes. Huh… guess I was the asshole the whole time, huh?"

You shake your head, almost on instinct. "No, really it's fine– I mean, I was getting mildly annoyed, sure," holy understatement. "But I wasn't about to rat you out or anything. Just... I don't know…" You're running out of gas now, turning sheepish and wrinkling your nose at yourself.

"Hey, hey," he lets go of your wrists and uses one big hand to ruffle at your hair like a cranky kitten. "You've every right to your annoyance, neighbour. I really am sorry. Listen, I'll uh, I'll start smoking like on the way to the grocery store and shit like that. Or I'll get a vape. Something, I don't know," he laughs out a breath and leans against the doorframe. "Really, I've been trying to be the perfect neighbour for you this whole time– turns out all I had to do to get you to finally knock is stink up the whole place, huh?"

You… you think that he might be flirting with you now. You can't be sure because you're still kind of reeling from your own faux pas. "The smell's not that bad," you concede. "I mean it's… a lot. I used to smoke kinda regularly, like, in college. It's just the sheer amount- I mean, my god, Mingi, you're a fucking chimney."

This time when he laughs, you let yourself laugh with him. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," he's smiling that bright, sunshiney, power the city for generations smile again. "Okay-" he claps his hands and you startle at the noise, making him laugh again. 

"An idea! I have an idea." You give him a worried look and he lays a hand on your shoulder that you think he means to settle you, but you feel heat spread all over. Was he always this touchy? "I owe you an apology, obviously," you go to interrupt but he carries on. "No, no, I do, you can't change my mind about this." The firey determination that sparks up in his expressive eyes all but confirms this. "So– let's stink up this floor one more time. I smoke you out, you can raid my fridge for whatever snacks you want and I'll even order you some candles to clear out the lingering scent. And then I commit to smoking out in the cold for the rest of my mortal, pathetic life."

Turns out Mingi is a very difficult person to say no to. Not that you tried very hard, of course. One glance at those puppy eyes and you crumbled. He's got a classic mid-2000's comedy on– he said it was one of his favourites and you wished you'd taken a picture of the way his eyes lit up when you quoted it back to him. You'd bonded over your favourite stupid bits from stupid movies. He's kinda nerdy, you've realized as he recites full scenes from movies you've not seen in over a decade. 

"Your couch is comfier than mine," you muse absentmindedly, head propped up by your hands, elbows on your knees. You're watching Mingi roll two joints in succession– the action not necessarily a new sight to you, but you've never had blanket permission to sit and stare at him while he does it. It's mesmerizing, like pretty much everything else he does.

"Yeah? Well, get as comfy as you'd like, little neighbour," his smiles are always so genuine for you. "Hope everything else is to your liking?" There's a twinkle in his eye too, a secret ask behind his words.

"Everything's good, Mingi."

"Only good?" He's pouting now. His most devious trick yet. You don't respond, you can't fall into his trap this early. Instead you take a sip from the canned iced tea you stole from his well-stocked fridge. He hums petulantly at your silence, and places one of the two spliffs into the ashtray shaped like an eight ball. He pops the other one into his mouth and rises to his full, staggering height. He's so tall he casts a shadow over you by way of the the sun setting through the window behind him. He stretches his arms over his head with an exaggerated grunt and the fabric of his t-shirt slides up at the waist, teasing you with a slutty sliver of skin. He's a little bit evil you're pretty sure now. You lean back and properly settle into the couch to shamelessly enjoy the view while he isn't looking at you.

He flops onto the- very large, very comfortable- couch next to you with a shocking level of grace. He's not quite close enough that any part of you is touching but he's certainly not far away. He fished into the deep pocket of a cargo pants for a lighter and he makes a slow purposeful show of flicking it on and bringing it to the jay lazily hanging out of his pouty lips. He breaths in deep, chest expanding and he lights it properly, eyes sliding closed.

He takes a few more slow pulls, smoke billowing out of pursed lips– and you let him because, wow, what a show. You do scramble to gain control yourself eventually. "You're smoking my apology."

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, meeting your gaze again. You nearly gasp. He's already heavily lidded, a sluggish smile working it's way across his mouth. "Shit, my bad, pretty," he calls you pretty like it's no big deal. So you carry on, no big deal.

He finally gives up the joint for you and you feel very watched. He's following your every move now. He watches as you bring it up to your lips, pursing them, sucking in a deep breath and– heaving a deep, dry cough. He laughs heartily at your pain and you continue to nearly hack up a lung. The iced tea helps.

"Shut up," you full on whine at him, thrusting out a hand to shove at his chest and god dammit, it's rock hard. "It's been a bit, okay?"

He's still laughing but he puts his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, sorry," he sighs dramatically and leans his head against your shoulder as you, very bravely, you might add, go to take another drag. "I'm really botching this aren't I, little neighbour? Hogging the weed, laughing at you, I didn’t even let you choose the movie." He pouts and nuzzles into your shoulder and if you knew any better you'd say he's making himself as pathetic as possible.

"Don't be pathetic, Mingi." He grins.

"I can make it up to you though," his voice has dropped, even lower than his usual bassy timber. "Just wanna be a perfect neighbour, y'know? Lemme make it up to you."

"You already apologized, Min. Nothing to make up."

"Please?" He mutters the single word into your shoulder and blood rushes in your ears.

"Hah–" you breath out a laugh you think makes you sound unaffected. You hope. "Thought you'd have a better tolerance than this." The quiet moment passes like wind through an open window, but the intimacy lingers in the air still, refusing to leave entirely.

He snickers like you're just that amusing to him. "Yeah– that's why I buy the strong shit. So careful with it, yeah? You're littler too. G'nna fuck you up waaay faster." He shifts so his head is in your lap, fully lounging against you like an Emperor in his throne. His long legs don't quite fit onto the rest of the couch like this, one is bent at the knee, the other off the plush sofa completely.

"You're good at making yourself comfortable quick, huh?" you say as you take another drag, almost doing it just to prove him wrong. But he's not wrong, it is, in fact, strong shit. You know you have to slow down if you don't want to be totally flying. 

He grins up at you. "Mm-hm," he nods. "We're friends now. Giving you a crash course in being my friend. This is a lot of it." He grabs at your wrist that isn't holding the spliff, his grip becoming familiar to you now, and brings your hand to his hair. You let yourself tangle your fingers into the dark locks and he visibly relaxes under the touch.

You know if you smoke any more of this space-age weed you won't recover before Monday so you lower it down to his lips– you don't quite understand this instinct, why you don't hand it to him instead but he doesn't so much as flinch. He wraps his plush lips around the filter but makes no move to grab it so you just have to carry on holding it as he inhales. 

"Careful, tiny," he's using that low, quiet timbre again. He clicks his tongue at you chidingly–"Can't have you burning yourself." The ember has crept only centimeters away from your fingers without you noticing and he, with a life-ruining gentleness, plucks it away and leaves the bud to burn in the ashtray. 

The smell is heavier here, because of course it is– you've followed it to the source, after all. Mingi was absolutely right, though, you're more sensitive to the stuff than you remember and you've settled into the high so nicely. It's floaty and warm, familiar like a family recipe. You're sinking into the couch, the weight of Mingi's head in your lap grounding you, tethering you directly to him.

You open your eyes not long after you realize you let them slip close at one point, lazily blinking as you struggle to readjust to even the low light of the cute lamps he has in multiple different spots of the living room. In the back of your hazy mind you register a mild gratitude for the fact that he too clearly understands the evils of Big Light. More than just a pretty face, you surmise.

You cast your gaze down to see how your neighbour is faring to find him already watching you, red-rimmed eyes almost too alert for your liking. He doesn't look away when you catch him– an eyebrow quirks in an unspoken challenge, daring you to look away, to cower first. You don't, not this time. Your fingers, once absentmindedly combing through his hair still. His eyes flicker to your lips, slow enough that you know you were meant to see it, leaving no room for you to misread his intentions now.

"All good?" he still manages to sound casual but only just– like his control is slipping, threatening to break free entirely.

“Yeah,” your voice is softer still, desperate to not disturb this precious little moment. The moment before… something. “All good.”

He studies you for another moment, searching for hesitation or something worse and when he can’t find it he hauls himself up in a gentle glide. You’ve noticed this about him– he’s consistently graceful for someone his size. He’s never abrupt, never jerky. There’s a composure to him that makes you ache to see it crumble and break. He’s next to you now, angled towards you, caging you in with his arms on the plush of the sofa cushions. “Tell me,” he pauses to wet his lips with his tongue and a smirk dances across his face when your eyes follow. Tease. “Tell me if I read this all wrong.”

You don’t need to answer verbally as your chin tilts towards him, an open invitation if ever there was one. His breath catches.

That first kiss is slow and deliberate, every movement drawing you into him more and more. There’s a distant thought that it feels like he’s trying to prove something to you but he steals it away. You’re leaning into each other with a neediness that shocks your hands into moving– one into his hair, already familiar with the touch and the other to a toned forearm.His own hands have found their way to you at some point, magnetized, to your waist. They grip without being harsh, your back arching into the touch only slightly, because you’re still consciously holding onto those last bits of sanity.

His lips press against yours even firmer then, a reward for wanting him as much as he wants you, control slipping away, strand by strand. Your hand tightens in his hair and he exhales against you, fingers gripping you tighter without crossing the line into harshness. He pulls away, only for a second, quick enough that you’re not sure it was even real, because his hand grips onto you before you can even process it, shifting you so his back is against the couch and your thighs are splayed across his, straddling him. You register with a barely contained shiver how thick his thighs are under you. 

He stills then for a second and you’ve parted from him just far enough to take this version of him in. Hair mussed (your doing), eyes red and glossy (half your doing, you choose to believe) and chest rising and falling in deep, purposeful breaths (definitely your doing, thank you). You freeze there, shocked by just how gorgeous he is like this, under you, lowlit and desperate and warm.

You bring a hand up to his jaw before reconnecting your lips to his, needier than before. Your lips work in tandem with each other as your tongues finally meet, delving the both of you into something that can only be described as hungry. His hands wander, as greedy as his mouth is against you, touching every bit of your back and waist he can, sending shocks of heat wherever they manage to brush against bare skin. Your teeth nip softly at his bottom lip in a challenge that you’ll later insist was an accident and you can practically hear his composure begin to splinter. He keens, whines against your mouth and you swallow the sound greedily and his palm flattens against your back to bring you close, close, closer. Your hips shift against his and the friction makes you lightheaded.

He pulls away with a petulant reluctance, forehead against yours, not willing to be any further away than that. He swallows and and sighs against you, hands planted firmly on your hips. His eyes are darker now, heavily lidded and gazing into yours with a fire you don’t recognize but you’re sure is mirrored in your own eyes. He huffs a laugh, half disbelief, half pride.

“Look at you,” you think he means to tease but he’s still breathless enough that it comes out straight up whiny.

“Me?” You smile wickedly and rock your hips against his– the firmness beneath the rough denim erases any doubt in your mind. He wants this, wants you. His own hips stutter, chasing you as his breath catches. “Look at you.”

He bites at his bottom lip, head falling back against the couch. His hands grip at your hips, more desperate than controlling, pulling you against him, closer still. He’s holding back as best he can, teeth still digging into his lip but these little grunts and whines are still escaping, taunting you.

You gasp as he surges forwards, hips properly and roughly rutting up into yours– the seam of your own jeans dig into you and you gasp, head dipping back. He takes this opportunity, lips against your neck with that same hunger, nipping, kissing, biting, surely leaving marks that you can’t possibly bring yourself to worry about now. No one will question a turtleneck in this weather anyway. You let him bite away, your hand finding it’s home in his hair once more in encouragement. Neither of you bother to pretend to have any semblance of control anymore and it’s so much more delicious this way; no more pretending, you’ve decided as you let a wanton moan out. He groans low in response and pulls away– you almost don’t let him, tugging at his hair in retaliation and his groan turns into a whimper. 

Before you have time to react he plants you back onto the couch, moving with newfound determination now, as he gets you to lie down, him kneeling between your spread legs. Your vision has blurred at the edges but he’s glowing, center-stage. He’s a mess. You can’t imagine you’re faring much better. 

Pupils blown, his hands grip at the meat of your thighs– he’s scowling at your jeans like they’re scheming against him. He’s half feral now, you think. He glides his hands up, pulling the fabric of your loose shirt shirt with them and he leans forward to press his forehead against your stomach. “You’re killing me I think,” he huffs, pressing devastating, gentle kisses against your skin and nosing against the plush of your stomach. You laugh, breathless but genuine all the same and brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Good way to go though, right?” you giggle and watch as he toys with the waistband of your jeans.

He looks up at you, eyes shining, pleading in an unspoken question, fingers inching toward the button. You nod minutely but he sees it all the same and wastes no more time. He’s frantic, fingers fumbling against the hardware as he undoes them, yanking them down until they hit the rug with a soft thump. Only your panties are between you and him now but he can’t seem to think that far. 

“Fuck, she’s wet,” he says, nearly to himself, eyes gleaming. His hands are on your thighs again, kneading incessantly. “Can I-” he starts, pausing to palm himself over his jeans, can’t help himself. “You gotta let me taste her. She’s begging for it. Need it.” He’s already lowered himself, half off the couch, spreading your legs even wider and nosing at your underwear. “Need it–” he repeats himself, half mindless before pressing an open mouthed kiss to your pussy through the fabric. He moans as soon as he gets that first taste of you, immediately addicted. 

You gasp and your hips jump up at the contact, chasing his mouth and he doesn’t fight it, chases you right back, hands at your hips not to control you but to ground himself. Your hand, still in his hair, it’s second home now, tugs gently at the strands, while your other hand finds purchase on the pillow next to you. He mouths at you, still over your panties, tongue out, practically drooling over you, soaking them through. “Tastes so good,” he hums against you, hands wrapping themselves around your thighs. “So good, fuck. So wet.” 

He pulls back, acting like it pains him to do so but he wants unfettered access to you, might really die if he can’t get it– he yanks your underwear down and doesn’t bother to spare them a second glance as they join your pants on the ground, too in awe, enraptured by your unobscured cunt to even consider looking away. His mouth is back on you before you can take a proper breath in, lips finally, mercifully, wrapped around your clit. You stutter out his name, begging for something– more, less, something that doesn’t even exist yet, you don’t know. 

“Holy fuck, Mingi,” you finally manage out somewhat clearly, around your own whines and whimpers. He hums in response, the vibrations cruel against your clit in a way the makes your head pitch back. He hips have a life of their own, grinding against the couch with abandon, can’t help himself. He pulls back and smiles listlessly at the whine you let out.

“S’good, yeah?” He soaks in your reaction, bites his lip as your hand tries to tug him back. He resists, barely, hands coming to your soaked pussy– he can practically hear her purring for him– to spread your lips wide for him. “She’s so pretty, baby, god–” Only then does he dive back in, one long lick against you that has you squirming. He’s focused on your entrance now, giving those wet, messy kisses again, tongue delving into you and his nose bumps against your clit in a way that has your head spinning. 

“So good, Mingi, it’s so good–” you babble absently but the praise gets to him still, hips grinding against the couch without his permission. You’re not sure who’s louder at this point, you or him. He brings his mouth back to your clit, suckling on it, freeing up space to tease you as with his fingers only brushing against your entrance, gathering the wetness there. He seems to be content to make you into as much of a mess as possible, revelling in every moan, every movement. “Please–” the word’s barely left your swollen lips when he plunges two fingers into your desperate, weeping pussy. 

The initial stretch from two fingers sends a shockwave through you and he has to use his other hand to properly hold your hips down. They’re skilled in their exploration, delving deeper than your own fingers could ever hope to. He’s on a mission, scissoring them inside you, stretching your gummy walls and finding those spots that make you keen. His mouth has travelled, never stopping, biting meanly against your thighs. “So fucking messy, baby,” he takes a moment just to watch; watch his own fingers diving in and out of you, nearly drooling at the sight. “Is that just for me? She loves me, huh?” He keeps talking directly to your pussy– it would be endearing if you weren’t so desperate to cum. 

You nod in response, not even totally sure what the question was, but he won’t break eye contact with your cunt. “Uh-huh,” you’re delirious but conscious enough to know that you’re delirious and that counts for something. Mingi is equally far gone, thankfully, wondering, hoping, that he’ll still be able to taste you hours from now. “S’all for you, Min.”

Another harsh bite on the inside of your thigh, soothed by his tongue and a kiss in that same spot. “You gotta come, okay? Gotta come for me, please, need it, need you to come on my face,” he’s babbling now, on the dangerous side of crazed, please’s and cum for me’s, even as he brings his tongue back to your clit. You’re faring no better, pieces of his name broken up by whines escaping and mounting in volume. Your thighs are pressed against the sides of his head and he thinks that this must be what heaven feels like– buried in pussy, suffocated by thighs. Perfection.

He knows you’re close, so close he can quite literally taste it. He hears it too, your sounds mounting higher and louder still. You know it too, can’t ignore it, with his tongue lapping at your clit and his fingers prodding at that spongy spot that makes you see stars. He wants it bad, working at you with a terrifying vigour. It only took a few more moments, a few more expert swipes of his tongue until you were there, cresting over that edge, your hand fisting in his hair and cumming with a broken wail. He works you through it, refuses to let up. Still pumping, licking, grinding. You’ve never had an orgasm last this long and Mingi is determined to keep it going, going, going– until you’re whining weakly and tugging his hair away from your poor, soaked pussy. Your eyes fill with tears at the overstimulation, a few slipping through and down your cheeks. When he finally does pull away it’s slowly, with one last kiss against your twitching clit like a goodbye. You’d laugh if you weren’t busy trying to remember how to breath like a regular human being. 

He crawls back on top of you, kissing against every bit of skin he can on the way back up– your thighs, hips, stomach, breasts, neck, until he’s face-to-face with you, noses brushing against each other. His eyes are half lidded and still hungry, the bottom half of his face shining, sparkling even with your own wetness, making him look like a sexed up kind of fairy. He brings his similarly soaked fingers up to tap against your bottom lip and you open your mouth without a word, not breaking eye contact as he slides them in, gliding against your tongue, the taste of you heavy. He smiles drunkenly as he watches you suck his fingers, tongue lapping at them and he lets a deep moan out from his chest. His forehead falls to your cheek and he lets his hips grind against you, your oversensitive pussy meeting rough denim and making you whimper around his fingers and gag slightly as they delve deeper. A dribble of spit leaks out from the corner of your lips and Mingi, nasty and unbidden, licks at it, licks all the way up your cheek, along the tracks your tears left, just tasting all of you.

He pulls back abruptly to strip away his own clothes, mostly because he think he might really, actually explode if these fucking jeans stay on for another second. His jeans and shirt are off, boxers halfway down when it registers to him that you’ve followed suit, sitting up with your shirt and bra gone and he can’t not be drawn to your tits. He’s only human. 

He’s kneeling between your legs again, knees digging into the carpet uncomfortably but he can’t begin to care about that as he kneads at your tits, mouth attached to a nipple, sucking and gently biting at it. You wonder, momentarily, how his jaw isn’t cramping up yet. “Mingi, baby, c’mon,” you pull at his roots until he lets your nipple go. He doesn’t quite move away– just looks up at you, resting against your chest, wet mouth still slightly agape and eyes shiny, wet with unshed tears. God. “C’mon.”

You pull him up to lay on the couch and he goes now without question, finally getting his boxers all the way off on the way– you could probably ask anything of him right now and he’d do it. And shit, he’s so hard you realize and he lays there. It’s massive, too– rock hard, throbbing to the point you think it must be painful. He’s leaking an absolute mess of precum against his stomach, his cock already slicked with it from when he was rutting himself into a frenzy in his jeans. “Oh, baby,” you coo at him as you kneel between his thighs, mirroring his spot from when he drove you to a mind blowing orgasm not even minutes ago. You wrap a hand around him and feel dizzy at the realization that your fingers don’t quite touch each other. 

He might have been designed in a lab specifically to drive you insane, you’re pretty sure. How else could a man like this exist, just walking the earth?

Your pussy throbs at the mere idea of his dick stretching your walls but you’re desperate for just a taste first, it’s too enticing; you lean forward and give the slick head a tentative, experimental lick, moaning lightly at the salty taste of him. His cock jumps at the sensation and in the back of your head you remember him saying that he’s sensitive when he was justifying not smoking in the cold– at least you know now he wasn’t bullshitting you. You suck at the head so very gently, just to rile him up and you know it works as he throws his head back and mewls. “Please, baby, just-please, you’re-you can’t,” he’s babbling again, near panicking at the idea of blowing his load before having you properly on his cock. 

You go to straddle him properly, for your own sake as much as his because you want it just as bad– you know you’ll have your mouth back on him one day, you promise yourself that much. Maybe even within the hour, who’s to say. “Oh, Mingi, you’re so hard,” you pout down at him teasingly because you can’t help it– he’s so pretty laid out like this, hands grabbing at you, plush lips kiss bitten and red.

He nods quickly– “So hard, need t’fuck you, baby.” And you know he’s not lying, he needs it, really needs it. “G’nna make you feel so good, yeah? You know I will, I will, I promise–please.”

You either take pity on him or his begging is driving you crazy, either way you use one hand to steady his dick as you drag your wetness along the tip of him and tease his dick along your entrance, your other hand steadying you against his toned chest. You last through a few more of his pleads before you truly can’t take it anymore and begin to sink down on him– the initial stretch of his ridiculous girth is maddening, your mouth dropping open as you take him deeper and deeper.

He’s panting heavily, using every inch of his barely there willpower to not buck up into you and make you take all of him– he lets you take him inch by agonizing inch, every movement making his eyes roll back into his head because fuck, you feel like actual heaven. He might cry. He’s probably actually going to cry, he realizes as you’ve taken just more than half of him, because you’re too warm, too tight, too perfect, what the fuck. And you’re still sinking down, taking more, more, ignoring the slight burn in your thighs because it’s worth it, he fills you so perfectly. You take more, a little more until he’s fully buried inside of you and you both let out synchronized, shuddering groans at the realization.

“Oh, god, god, pretty,” he wraps his thick arms around you all the way, noses at your neck because he needs to be as close to you as humanly possible. “Fuck you’re so wet, so tight, huh? I did that, yeah? Worked you up so good, needed my cock, didn’t you?”

He’s not really asking you questions, some small part of you understands that but you nod along to his words all the same, half because he’s right and half because you can’t think, mind wiped by his cock seated inside you, stretching you out to fit him perfectly, moulding you to him. “Yeah, so full, Mingi, baby, so good–” His hips twitch helplessly against you, begging silently for something, anything. And mercifully, you deliver. 

You pitch your own hips up just barely, just so, the mild movement already sending sparks up your body, a live-wire. He grinds back against you because he truly can’t not anymore, his hips tilting to yours, chasing in anguish and you gasp as the tip of him kisses against that spot deep inside you that makes you gush around him. 

He responds in kind, groaning his loudest groan yet, the sound wrapping around you and you don’t even recognize just how much you’re drowning in everything Mingi, every sense overtaken by him. It’s only those strong arms, hands gripping your waist again that anchor you against pure hysteria.

You start to grind against him, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that has him hitting spots in you that had previously remained untouched. He grinds up into you in tandem, can’t help it, his hands gripping at your waist with a bruising tenderness. His eyes are wet, a few tears rolling down his cheeks now and you feel an evil sense of vindication– it’s nice to know you can make each other cry. And he’s such a pretty crier, eyes wide, face flushed and eyebrows tilted up, he’s just so pretty. There’s not a lot of them, the tears, and you know you’d like to make him really cry one day– but fuck, you’re dripping around him now, as desperate for him as he is for you at this point.

So you have no more restraint left as you go to properly fuck yourself on him, the stretch delicious as you slide him in and out of you, hands on his shoulders to brace yourself but also feel up his built shoulders. “F-fuck,” he has you stuttering and crying out now, damn him, because he can’t just lie there and take it, it’s out of his control now, his hips canting up and chasing you every time you bounce or grind or tilt. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, god, you’re so big, so good,” and you mean it, every word– he is, in fact, so big and so good. So good that he does deserve you truly bouncing on him, you figure and you’re sure he’s ruined you for any other man now, as he buries his head in your tits, keening every time you land, burying him to the hilt. It’s delicious and it’s messy, he’s basically drooling against you as he mouths at your nipples until you know they’ll be sore tomorrow.

“Yeah, good for you,” clearly he agrees. “Made for you, I think– never felt so good, y’r stretched perfectly around me, pretty, just need you to ngh–” his eyes shut tightly as you clench around him, like he’s nearly at his breaking point. “Need it–” he insists, lost in the warmth of you, fully thrusting back up into you.

“Need what Mingi?” your words are breathless, whiny, desperate. “What do you need, baby? Tell me– anything, it– give you anything.”

Both of you are falling apart but desperately grasping at any modicum of control you can over each other; you mock him, he bites at your nipples; you clench around him, he uses his grip on you to slam you down further. The push and pull, the sick game becomes, eventually, little more than two messes, wet and sweaty, fucking into each other, pleading into each others mouths, looking for something, anything, neither of you understand what you need anymore.

“So fine, y’r so good,” he’s mumbling out incoherent praises into your mouth, as everything becomes tighter, hotter, wetter. “Fuck. Fuck.” His hips stutter as they thrust up into yours, grinding in this new cruel way on the up swing and your eyes nearly roll back into you head. “Fuck.”

“Are-” you start, then immediately stop as his hand comes back to your clit, already overworked and weeping, to rub it in precise circles. He doesn’t need to say it out loud but he’s close, rising to this insurmountable peak and he needs, more than anything he’s ever needed before, to bring you there along with him. “You’re nearly there, yeah?” he nods along, little yeah, yeah, yes’s escaping his spit soaked lips. “Me too, me too- need it, need you to make me come, make me feel so good, please Mingi, please, don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t stop, probably can’t at this point. His mouth, aimlessly kissing, biting, whatever against your tits and shoulders and neck, is letting out a nonstop stream of noises and mumblings– you make out a few of his praises, the good girls and the perfect pussys in the mix of it all.

“Can-” he struggles to speak, managing words only between these pathetic, high pitched whines. “Need’ta come, baby, need it, need it,” one thought of him coming inside of you, filling you in every way makes you cream around him, clench around him even more, before he even gets to properly ask, making his eyes nearly roll back into his head. “Can I? Please– inside? Inside you? Need to fill you up, make you feel so good, it’ll feel so good– pussy’s so good, so good it’s driving me crazy, really, really– c’mon.”

He might keep going forever if you don’t stop him, so you bring your hands from his shoulders to cup his face, that pretty, pretty face, trusting him and his strong arms to keep pace, dropping you up and down on his cock. “Want it, Mingi–” it’s whispered, an intimate promise, because you need him to know you need this as much as he does right now. “Want your cum, Mingi.”

And then you’ve lost any semblance of control over him, because now he’s thrusting up into with abandon, using his strong arm to bring you back down on him every time– one hand is still busying itself on your pulsating clit. His dick is kissing your g-spot with an almost cruel consistency too, he knows your body with a scary accuracy already, and a wicked, almost unrecognizable smirk spreads across his lips when he realizes you’re as close as he is. 

“Yeah,” and oh fuck, he’s growling as his thrusts grow sloppier and out of rhythm, but never shallow or unsatisfactory. If anything, the mindless state you’re both in has let him in even deeper on these thrusts. “Yeah, it’s good, yeah? And you want it, you need it– need my cum, need it in you, so deep in you, ‘s so deep– I need it too baby, I do, need it.”

Your legs are nearing a gelatin state, but motivation and his actual, physical help are keeping you going– and that pulsating, growing need in the deepest recesses of you. The primal, base need is growing– both to come all over him and make him come, to see him truly unravel.

You’re both so close, close enough to taste it, to know it’s already the best either of you have ever had, weed or no. And you’re both begging too, both begging each other to bring you right there, to the crest, both warbling out combinations of baby and please and need and cum and perfect and more and good and–

It happens in one moment, a chain reaction kind of moment, he bites down on your shoulder, hard, bruising, which, in turn has you clench around his cock, which makes him thrust into you, hitting you just right and your back arches, a bow pulled tight– and you cum in tandem, a rare phenomenon, satisfying in a way you’d never be able to describe. You’re shaking through your orgasm, the unreal pleasure sending shockwaves through your legs to your toes, enlongated by the feeling of Mingi flooding your cunt with wave after wave of his own cum, as he lets out a long, unbroken, almost melodic groan into your shoulder. He carries on with a few meeker thrusts, insistent on fucking his cum as deep into as possible in this deeply primal mindset you’ve taken him to. It’s unfair how good it feels, this warmth that reaches into you. He send a few more feeble jabs into you, whimpering meekly as he does, utterly undone. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s muttering into your skin. You’d make fun of him if your thoughts weren’t made up of much of the same. “Fuck. Shit.

“Hah,” you huff. “Yeah. Fuck, shit and all that.” You can feel him softening inside of you but he makes no effort to move, and is still holding you tight. You don’t try to move either. He presses his forehead against yours, and you’re acutely aware of how sweaty you both are, of your weed-thick, heavy breaths mingling, but you can’t find an inkling of yourself disgusted by him. 

He smiles at you and it’s the same as before you thought you even had a chance with him– wide and distinctly Mingi. 

“Fuck. Really thought I needed the second joint before I’d be able to do that..” he giggles, rocking you back and forth like he’s not literally currently inside you. “Yunho owes me twenty bucks.”

“I don’t know who Yunho is,” you pull back to look at him properly, his pupils still blown, hair an absolute mess. “But please don’t say some other guys name when you’ve just cum in me, yeah?”

You love your new apartment. At least, you love it in comparison to your last place, a nightmarish shoebox with horrific neighbours and peeling walls. But even your friends took care to fawn over your new digs while helping you move in, Wooyoung making sure that you understood how big of a moment this was for you. He even spied out the eye candy that lives just next door; he told you all about your new neighbour who smiled and waved awkwardly at him and San as they were hoisting your couch through the door. 

And he wasn't wrong– the man is beanstalk-tall and so fucking wide. A braver woman than you certainly would have hit on him by now, drawn in by the wide smile he gives you as he shoulders into the elevator behind you and exchanges good-natured, earnest pleasantries with you. You hope you answer his how's your week been with a smooth nonchalance that distracts him from the way you're smiling way too big to be passed off as anything near casual. He tells you silly stories about his job as a dance coach at the local studio and looks genuinely satisfied when he gets a laugh out of you. The pair of you comfortably settle into a place somewhere between 'just neighbours' and 'friends' lined with a flirtatious tension neither of you dares to bring up– and it works.

You even get to share some gentle mornings together, each of you out on your own balconies. You, with your cup of homemade iced latte and him rolling a joint on the too-tiny table he stuck out there for that sole purpose, his knees knocking against the underside of it nearly every time he shifts his legs. The first time you catch him, tongue halfway across the rolled paper, he has the wherewithal to at least look sheepish and he lets out a visible sigh of relief when you just laugh and take your own seat. You steal furtive glances over whatever book you brought out to watch him as he smokes, gradually sinking into his seat and you let yourself fantasize about him sneaking looks over at you in between tokes. It's fun to have a cute little puppy crush, you decide, even if it doesn't go anywhere, and Mingi's a great recipient. 

So of course he has to go and ruin it.

"When did you start smoking weed again?" Wooyoung wrinkles his nose as he pulls off his parka and lets you lock the door behind him. "Don't think I've seen you smoke since college. You’d better share, that's so-" 

You interrupt him with a frustrated groan. "I didn't Wooyoung- that's from next door," you stomp petulantly to your kitchen, leaving your friend to follow in your frustrated wake. "I didn't realize when he kept it to the balcony but whatever fucked up strain he smokes is seeping into the walls, I swear."

Wooyoung places the Chinese takeout he brought on the kitchen counter, shaking excess snow out of his hair. You hand him a plate and a pair of chopsticks and he lets out a faux-contemplative puff of air before he replies, "Well… he had to have like a flaw right? Inconsiderate stoner is annoying sure, but I bet I can whip him into shape." He grins wickedly and punctures his sentence by snapping his chopsticks at you. "Still hot, unfortunately. Saw him heading out on my way up and he manages to be enticing even in an extra-long puffer coat."

"Ugh, whatever," except it's not whatever because you know the coat Wooyoung's talking about and Mingi doeslook so adorable in it, especially because it's oversized and he pulls up the hood and smiles at you until his eyes disappear and nuzzles his face into the pulled up collar. "Whatever," you repeat, shaking your head like it'll shake out the image of Mingi all bundled up in his Winter get up. "It doesn't matter how cute he is-"

"Okay, so I said hot."

"It doesn't matter!" Maybe if you say it a couple dozen more times it'll come true. "Because there is nothing cute or hot about being an inconsiderate jackass. It's starting to get into my clothes, Wooyoung. I have a job where I need to maintain like, a modicum of professionalism. I can't show up smelling like weed."

"We're slipping into old man shakes fist at cloud territory here, princess," Wooyoung is gentle with you even in his teasing, knowing first hand how you can work yourself into a frenzy with little encouragement– or, on your worst days, no encouragement at all. "Like, you're not wrong, but let's reel it back before you commit full on arson on the building you're also living in."

The two of you have gradually migrated to the couch, letting episodes of a familiar sitcom drone on in the background. And having Wooyoung around is so lovely because no one else would let you whine like this, and before you know it the cups of hot and sour soup are empty and you're bitching and moaning about Mingi again. It doesn't help that it's nearing the time of night when he tends to spark up again, so you know the smell that had somewhat faded since this morning is about to come back with a dank vengeance. 

"I know it's lame or whatever to complain about someone lighting up in their own home," you mumble out around a bite of springroll, its crispiness doing wonders to settle you down. "I thought he was like a thoughtful guy though, you know? It's kinda disappointing. He really is just a man."

Wooyoung scoffs out a laugh, "Well, I could've told you that. I've definitely seen him scratch his balls in the elevator."

"Ew, stop, the illusion's already been shattered."

He only laughs as he grabs the two fortune cookies from the takeout bag and tosses one at you. He doesn't bother to apologize when you don't react quick enough to catch it, the crinkly wrapping paper hitting you square in the forehead. He's already munching away at his cookie, cheeks puffed out. "Mine says that beauty is often mistakenly valued above wisdom… so. A lie. Does yours say anything about fucking your sexy neighbour and stealing his weed?"

The air outside has settled at a bitter, bone-chilling cold. You've taken to wearing two pairs of socks most days in hope of conserving the heat as you trudge to the subway every morning. The scarf you knit last year that made you officially abandon your knitting needles has made a surprise reappearance in your daily rotation. And Mingi is still huffing away next door more days than not, stinking up your apartment like the worst Bath & Body Works candle imaginable. 

San suggested going to your landlord- and he nodded solemnly when you said absolutely not because you're no snitch. But you hate, hate, hate the way you still reek with the stuff even when you're blocks away, overpowering any perfume you own. You’ve also wasted a lot of your favourite perfumes.

You have to say something to Mingi. Directly. Direct confrontation. Oh god.

Your feet carried you to his door before you can reconsider. The door is normal, unassuming. Why wouldn't it be? It’s the same as yours, just six feet to the left. Did you expect it to look different? An evil, anxious bug in the back of your mind wonders if he's watching you just stare at his door through his peephole, wondering why his skittish neighbour is lurking outside his apartment. The visual is so harrowing that you finally commit to knocking before it can become a reality.

There's a moment of quiet– then, distantly, a crash, a cough and heavy footsteps that creep closer. And then he's opening the door, and there he is, tall but not quite imposing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion that only serves to make him even more endearing.

His expression brightens when he realizes it's you. You wonder, fleetingly, if he's doing this on purpose, because gosh, that smile nearly makes you forgive him right then and there. "Neighbour!" he chirps, like he really is excited to see you. Earnest, he’s really very earnest."This is new."

Right, you're crossing into untreated territory here and for a moment you feel a sense of embarrassment– but that fades quickly into indignation. He crossed that boundary first. His stink is in your home! "Yes, right, hi," terrible start. "Mingi, hi. Hi." Woof.

"…Hi?" If there is a god, he'd strike you with lightning and take you out with a swiftness.

"Hi, sorry," you shake your head at yourself like it'll physically snap you back to reality. "I hope you're not, like, busy or anything, I can totally come back later or tomorrow, even."

He's still smiling at you like that and he cocks his head at your words. "No, not busy. Just, y'know, winding down after work, yeah?" he says it like it's an inside joke. He settled into familiarity with you so quickly, you’ve allowed yourself to wonder before if that’s just what he’s like or if that’s what he’s like with you.

"Yeah," your hands busy themselves in the pocket of your oversized sweater- he brought it up himself, perfect, now you just have to commit. "Winding down, right- look, Mingi, I don't wanna be a shitty neighbour, really-"

"You're a great neighbour," he interrupts, not realizing he's super not helping.

"Oh! Oh, thanks, you've been… swell," swell?! "Except, there's just, it's really just this one thing, and I really wouldn't bring this up otherwise, and I'm not, like, judging or anything-"

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No! No, well not really it's just…" you're scrambling, that much is clear.

"Hey, I'm really sorry if I did something to upset you, I mean it, It’s just, I don't even know-"

"Mingi, you stink!"

Not great. He's staring at you in genuine shock, mouth in a little 'O' shape. You'd think he was actually frozen if it weren't for the shock of bright red that creeps up his ears. "Not like you stink," oh god, you've fucked this. Like really, actually fucked it. Royally. "Like, when you smoke. Inside. It stinks. It stinks up everything. It gets into my clothes. It gets into my hair, Mingi," you're whining now, a petulant child insisting she's right. But you are, of course, right, is the thing. "And I don't mind it, like, fundamentally and I meant it, I'm not judging you but god your shit's loud and I can't deal with it all the time, you know?" Your hands have come up to cover your eyes. Maybe when you take them down, Mingi will have disappeared and he'll have been a projection of your single, horny brain all these months.

And then Mingi starts giggling. Honest to god, giggling. "Oh, little neighbour," he coos at you and his hands, massive but purposely gentle, come up to grasp at your wrists and pull them away from your face. And he's still there. Obviously. "Shit," he sighs. "I'm sorry, little neighbour. I just– I run so cold, yeah? I'm real sensitive– like, when it's this nasty cold outside." You nod along and pretend not to notice that he hasn't let go of your wrists. His hands are warm. 

"I guess I'm a little nose blind to my own shit though, I really didn't think it'd be so bad," he chuckles at himself. "My friends joke about me reeking of the stuff but I thought they were just being assholes. Huh… guess I was the asshole the whole time, huh?"

You shake your head, almost on instinct. "No, really it's fine– I mean, I was getting mildly annoyed, sure," holy understatement. "But I wasn't about to rat you out or anything. Just... I don't know…" You're running out of gas now, turning sheepish and wrinkling your nose at yourself.

"Hey, hey," he lets go of your wrists and uses one big hand to ruffle at your hair like a cranky kitten. "You've every right to your annoyance, neighbour. I really am sorry. Listen, I'll uh, I'll start smoking like on the way to the grocery store and shit like that. Or I'll get a vape. Something, I don't know," he laughs out a breath and leans against the doorframe. "Really, I've been trying to be the perfect neighbour for you this whole time– turns out all I had to do to get you to finally knock is stink up the whole place, huh?"

You… you think that he might be flirting with you now. You can't be sure because you're still kind of reeling from your own faux pas. "The smell's not that bad," you concede. "I mean it's… a lot. I used to smoke kinda regularly, like, in college. It's just the sheer amount- I mean, my god, Mingi, you're a fucking chimney."

This time when he laughs, you let yourself laugh with him. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," he's smiling that bright, sunshiney, power the city for generations smile again. "Okay-" he claps his hands and you startle at the noise, making him laugh again. 

"An idea! I have an idea." You give him a worried look and he lays a hand on your shoulder that you think he means to settle you, but you feel heat spread all over. Was he always this touchy? "I owe you an apology, obviously," you go to interrupt but he carries on. "No, no, I do, you can't change my mind about this." The firey determination that sparks up in his expressive eyes all but confirms this. "So– let's stink up this floor one more time. I smoke you out, you can raid my fridge for whatever snacks you want and I'll even order you some candles to clear out the lingering scent. And then I commit to smoking out in the cold for the rest of my mortal, pathetic life."

Turns out Mingi is a very difficult person to say no to. Not that you tried very hard, of course. One glance at those puppy eyes and you crumbled. He's got a classic mid-2000's comedy on– he said it was one of his favourites and you wished you'd taken a picture of the way his eyes lit up when you quoted it back to him. You'd bonded over your favourite stupid bits from stupid movies. He's kinda nerdy, you've realized as he recites full scenes from movies you've not seen in over a decade. 

"Your couch is comfier than mine," you muse absentmindedly, head propped up by your hands, elbows on your knees. You're watching Mingi roll two joints in succession– the action not necessarily a new sight to you, but you've never had blanket permission to sit and stare at him while he does it. It's mesmerizing, like pretty much everything else he does.

"Yeah? Well, get as comfy as you'd like, little neighbour," his smiles are always so genuine for you. "Hope everything else is to your liking?" There's a twinkle in his eye too, a secret ask behind his words.

"Everything's good, Mingi."

"Only good?" He's pouting now. His most devious trick yet. You don't respond, you can't fall into his trap this early. Instead you take a sip from the canned iced tea you stole from his well-stocked fridge. He hums petulantly at your silence, and places one of the two spliffs into the ashtray shaped like an eight ball. He pops the other one into his mouth and rises to his full, staggering height. He's so tall he casts a shadow over you by way of the the sun setting through the window behind him. He stretches his arms over his head with an exaggerated grunt and the fabric of his t-shirt slides up at the waist, teasing you with a slutty sliver of skin. He's a little bit evil you're pretty sure now. You lean back and properly settle into the couch to shamelessly enjoy the view while he isn't looking at you.

He flops onto the- very large, very comfortable- couch next to you with a shocking level of grace. He's not quite close enough that any part of you is touching but he's certainly not far away. He fished into the deep pocket of a cargo pants for a lighter and he makes a slow purposeful show of flicking it on and bringing it to the jay lazily hanging out of his pouty lips. He breaths in deep, chest expanding and he lights it properly, eyes sliding closed.

He takes a few more slow pulls, smoke billowing out of pursed lips– and you let him because, wow, what a show. You do scramble to gain control yourself eventually. "You're smoking my apology."

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, meeting your gaze again. You nearly gasp. He's already heavily lidded, a sluggish smile working it's way across his mouth. "Shit, my bad, pretty," he calls you pretty like it's no big deal. So you carry on, no big deal.

He finally gives up the joint for you and you feel very watched. He's following your every move now. He watches as you bring it up to your lips, pursing them, sucking in a deep breath and– heaving a deep, dry cough. He laughs heartily at your pain and you continue to nearly hack up a lung. The iced tea helps.

"Shut up," you full on whine at him, thrusting out a hand to shove at his chest and god dammit, it's rock hard. "It's been a bit, okay?"

He's still laughing but he puts his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, sorry," he sighs dramatically and leans his head against your shoulder as you, very bravely, you might add, go to take another drag. "I'm really botching this aren't I, little neighbour? Hogging the weed, laughing at you, I didn’t even let you choose the movie." He pouts and nuzzles into your shoulder and if you knew any better you'd say he's making himself as pathetic as possible.

"Don't be pathetic, Mingi." He grins.

"I can make it up to you though," his voice has dropped, even lower than his usual bassy timber. "Just wanna be a perfect neighbour, y'know? Lemme make it up to you."

"You already apologized, Min. Nothing to make up."

"Please?" He mutters the single word into your shoulder and blood rushes in your ears.

"Hah–" you breath out a laugh you think makes you sound unaffected. You hope. "Thought you'd have a better tolerance than this." The quiet moment passes like wind through an open window, but the intimacy lingers in the air still, refusing to leave entirely.

He snickers like you're just that amusing to him. "Yeah– that's why I buy the strong shit. So careful with it, yeah? You're littler too. G'nna fuck you up waaay faster." He shifts so his head is in your lap, fully lounging against you like an Emperor in his throne. His long legs don't quite fit onto the rest of the couch like this, one is bent at the knee, the other off the plush sofa completely.

"You're good at making yourself comfortable quick, huh?" you say as you take another drag, almost doing it just to prove him wrong. But he's not wrong, it is, in fact, strong shit. You know you have to slow down if you don't want to be totally flying. 

He grins up at you. "Mm-hm," he nods. "We're friends now. Giving you a crash course in being my friend. This is a lot of it." He grabs at your wrist that isn't holding the spliff, his grip becoming familiar to you now, and brings your hand to his hair. You let yourself tangle your fingers into the dark locks and he visibly relaxes under the touch.

You know if you smoke any more of this space-age weed you won't recover before Monday so you lower it down to his lips– you don't quite understand this instinct, why you don't hand it to him instead but he doesn't so much as flinch. He wraps his plush lips around the filter but makes no move to grab it so you just have to carry on holding it as he inhales. 

"Careful, tiny," he's using that low, quiet timbre again. He clicks his tongue at you chidingly–"Can't have you burning yourself." The ember has crept only centimeters away from your fingers without you noticing and he, with a life-ruining gentleness, plucks it away and leaves the bud to burn in the ashtray. 

The smell is heavier here, because of course it is– you've followed it to the source, after all. Mingi was absolutely right, though, you're more sensitive to the stuff than you remember and you've settled into the high so nicely. It's floaty and warm, familiar like a family recipe. You're sinking into the couch, the weight of Mingi's head in your lap grounding you, tethering you directly to him.

You open your eyes not long after you realize you let them slip close at one point, lazily blinking as you struggle to readjust to even the low light of the cute lamps he has in multiple different spots of the living room. In the back of your hazy mind you register a mild gratitude for the fact that he too clearly understands the evils of Big Light. More than just a pretty face, you surmise.

You cast your gaze down to see how your neighbour is faring to find him already watching you, red-rimmed eyes almost too alert for your liking. He doesn't look away when you catch him– an eyebrow quirks in an unspoken challenge, daring you to look away, to cower first. You don't, not this time. Your fingers, once absentmindedly combing through his hair still. His eyes flicker to your lips, slow enough that you know you were meant to see it, leaving no room for you to misread his intentions now.

"All good?" he still manages to sound casual but only just– like his control is slipping, threatening to break free entirely.

“Yeah,” your voice is softer still, desperate to not disturb this precious little moment. The moment before… something. “All good.”

He studies you for another moment, searching for hesitation or something worse and when he can’t find it he hauls himself up in a gentle glide. You’ve noticed this about him– he’s consistently graceful for someone his size. He’s never abrupt, never jerky. There’s a composure to him that makes you ache to see it crumble and break. He’s next to you now, angled towards you, caging you in with his arms on the plush of the sofa cushions. “Tell me,” he pauses to wet his lips with his tongue and a smirk dances across his face when your eyes follow. Tease. “Tell me if I read this all wrong.”

You don’t need to answer verbally as your chin tilts towards him, an open invitation if ever there was one. His breath catches.

That first kiss is slow and deliberate, every movement drawing you into him more and more. There’s a distant thought that it feels like he’s trying to prove something to you but he steals it away. You’re leaning into each other with a neediness that shocks your hands into moving– one into his hair, already familiar with the touch and the other to a toned forearm.His own hands have found their way to you at some point, magnetized, to your waist. They grip without being harsh, your back arching into the touch only slightly, because you’re still consciously holding onto those last bits of sanity.

His lips press against yours even firmer then, a reward for wanting him as much as he wants you, control slipping away, strand by strand. Your hand tightens in his hair and he exhales against you, fingers gripping you tighter without crossing the line into harshness. He pulls away, only for a second, quick enough that you’re not sure it was even real, because his hand grips onto you before you can even process it, shifting you so his back is against the couch and your thighs are splayed across his, straddling him. You register with a barely contained shiver how thick his thighs are under you. 

He stills then for a second and you’ve parted from him just far enough to take this version of him in. Hair mussed (your doing), eyes red and glossy (half your doing, you choose to believe) and chest rising and falling in deep, purposeful breaths (definitely your doing, thank you). You freeze there, shocked by just how gorgeous he is like this, under you, lowlit and desperate and warm.

You bring a hand up to his jaw before reconnecting your lips to his, needier than before. Your lips work in tandem with each other as your tongues finally meet, delving the both of you into something that can only be described as hungry. His hands wander, as greedy as his mouth is against you, touching every bit of your back and waist he can, sending shocks of heat wherever they manage to brush against bare skin. Your teeth nip softly at his bottom lip in a challenge that you’ll later insist was an accident and you can practically hear his composure begin to splinter. He keens, whines against your mouth and you swallow the sound greedily and his palm flattens against your back to bring you close, close, closer. Your hips shift against his and the friction makes you lightheaded.

He pulls away with a petulant reluctance, forehead against yours, not willing to be any further away than that. He swallows and and sighs against you, hands planted firmly on your hips. His eyes are darker now, heavily lidded and gazing into yours with a fire you don’t recognize but you’re sure is mirrored in your own eyes. He huffs a laugh, half disbelief, half pride.

“Look at you,” you think he means to tease but he’s still breathless enough that it comes out straight up whiny.

“Me?” You smile wickedly and rock your hips against his– the firmness beneath the rough denim erases any doubt in your mind. He wants this, wants you. His own hips stutter, chasing you as his breath catches. “Look at you.”

He bites at his bottom lip, head falling back against the couch. His hands grip at your hips, more desperate than controlling, pulling you against him, closer still. He’s holding back as best he can, teeth still digging into his lip but these little grunts and whines are still escaping, taunting you.

You gasp as he surges forwards, hips properly and roughly rutting up into yours– the seam of your own jeans dig into you and you gasp, head dipping back. He takes this opportunity, lips against your neck with that same hunger, nipping, kissing, biting, surely leaving marks that you can’t possibly bring yourself to worry about now. No one will question a turtleneck in this weather anyway. You let him bite away, your hand finding it’s home in his hair once more in encouragement. Neither of you bother to pretend to have any semblance of control anymore and it’s so much more delicious this way; no more pretending, you’ve decided as you let a wanton moan out. He groans low in response and pulls away– you almost don’t let him, tugging at his hair in retaliation and his groan turns into a whimper. 

Before you have time to react he plants you back onto the couch, moving with newfound determination now, as he gets you to lie down, him kneeling between your spread legs. Your vision has blurred at the edges but he’s glowing, center-stage. He’s a mess. You can’t imagine you’re faring much better. 

Pupils blown, his hands grip at the meat of your thighs– he’s scowling at your jeans like they’re scheming against him. He’s half feral now, you think. He glides his hands up, pulling the fabric of your loose shirt shirt with them and he leans forward to press his forehead against your stomach. “You’re killing me I think,” he huffs, pressing devastating, gentle kisses against your skin and nosing against the plush of your stomach. You laugh, breathless but genuine all the same and brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Good way to go though, right?” you giggle and watch as he toys with the waistband of your jeans.

He looks up at you, eyes shining, pleading in an unspoken question, fingers inching toward the button. You nod minutely but he sees it all the same and wastes no more time. He’s frantic, fingers fumbling against the hardware as he undoes them, yanking them down until they hit the rug with a soft thump. Only your panties are between you and him now but he can’t seem to think that far. 

“Fuck, she’s wet,” he says, nearly to himself, eyes gleaming. His hands are on your thighs again, kneading incessantly. “Can I-” he starts, pausing to palm himself over his jeans, can’t help himself. “You gotta let me taste her. She’s begging for it. Need it.” He’s already lowered himself, half off the couch, spreading your legs even wider and nosing at your underwear. “Need it–” he repeats himself, half mindless before pressing an open mouthed kiss to your pussy through the fabric. He moans as soon as he gets that first taste of you, immediately addicted. 

You gasp and your hips jump up at the contact, chasing his mouth and he doesn’t fight it, chases you right back, hands at your hips not to control you but to ground himself. Your hand, still in his hair, it’s second home now, tugs gently at the strands, while your other hand finds purchase on the pillow next to you. He mouths at you, still over your panties, tongue out, practically drooling over you, soaking them through. “Tastes so good,” he hums against you, hands wrapping themselves around your thighs. “So good, fuck. So wet.” 

He pulls back, acting like it pains him to do so but he wants unfettered access to you, might really die if he can’t get it– he yanks your underwear down and doesn’t bother to spare them a second glance as they join your pants on the ground, too in awe, enraptured by your unobscured cunt to even consider looking away. His mouth is back on you before you can take a proper breath in, lips finally, mercifully, wrapped around your clit. You stutter out his name, begging for something– more, less, something that doesn’t even exist yet, you don’t know. 

“Holy fuck, Mingi,” you finally manage out somewhat clearly, around your own whines and whimpers. He hums in response, the vibrations cruel against your clit in a way the makes your head pitch back. He hips have a life of their own, grinding against the couch with abandon, can’t help himself. He pulls back and smiles listlessly at the whine you let out.

“S’good, yeah?” He soaks in your reaction, bites his lip as your hand tries to tug him back. He resists, barely, hands coming to your soaked pussy– he can practically hear her purring for him– to spread your lips wide for him. “She’s so pretty, baby, god–” Only then does he dive back in, one long lick against you that has you squirming. He’s focused on your entrance now, giving those wet, messy kisses again, tongue delving into you and his nose bumps against your clit in a way that has your head spinning. 

“So good, Mingi, it’s so good–” you babble absently but the praise gets to him still, hips grinding against the couch without his permission. You’re not sure who’s louder at this point, you or him. He brings his mouth back to your clit, suckling on it, freeing up space to tease you as with his fingers only brushing against your entrance, gathering the wetness there. He seems to be content to make you into as much of a mess as possible, revelling in every moan, every movement. “Please–” the word’s barely left your swollen lips when he plunges two fingers into your desperate, weeping pussy. 

The initial stretch from two fingers sends a shockwave through you and he has to use his other hand to properly hold your hips down. They’re skilled in their exploration, delving deeper than your own fingers could ever hope to. He’s on a mission, scissoring them inside you, stretching your gummy walls and finding those spots that make you keen. His mouth has travelled, never stopping, biting meanly against your thighs. “So fucking messy, baby,” he takes a moment just to watch; watch his own fingers diving in and out of you, nearly drooling at the sight. “Is that just for me? She loves me, huh?” He keeps talking directly to your pussy– it would be endearing if you weren’t so desperate to cum. 

You nod in response, not even totally sure what the question was, but he won’t break eye contact with your cunt. “Uh-huh,” you’re delirious but conscious enough to know that you’re delirious and that counts for something. Mingi is equally far gone, thankfully, wondering, hoping, that he’ll still be able to taste you hours from now. “S’all for you, Min.”

Another harsh bite on the inside of your thigh, soothed by his tongue and a kiss in that same spot. “You gotta come, okay? Gotta come for me, please, need it, need you to come on my face,” he’s babbling now, on the dangerous side of crazed, please’s and cum for me’s, even as he brings his tongue back to your clit. You’re faring no better, pieces of his name broken up by whines escaping and mounting in volume. Your thighs are pressed against the sides of his head and he thinks that this must be what heaven feels like– buried in pussy, suffocated by thighs. Perfection.

He knows you’re close, so close he can quite literally taste it. He hears it too, your sounds mounting higher and louder still. You know it too, can’t ignore it, with his tongue lapping at your clit and his fingers prodding at that spongy spot that makes you see stars. He wants it bad, working at you with a terrifying vigour. It only took a few more moments, a few more expert swipes of his tongue until you were there, cresting over that edge, your hand fisting in his hair and cumming with a broken wail. He works you through it, refuses to let up. Still pumping, licking, grinding. You’ve never had an orgasm last this long and Mingi is determined to keep it going, going, going– until you’re whining weakly and tugging his hair away from your poor, soaked pussy. Your eyes fill with tears at the overstimulation, a few slipping through and down your cheeks. When he finally does pull away it’s slowly, with one last kiss against your twitching clit like a goodbye. You’d laugh if you weren’t busy trying to remember how to breath like a regular human being. 

He crawls back on top of you, kissing against every bit of skin he can on the way back up– your thighs, hips, stomach, breasts, neck, until he’s face-to-face with you, noses brushing against each other. His eyes are half lidded and still hungry, the bottom half of his face shining, sparkling even with your own wetness, making him look like a sexed up kind of fairy. He brings his similarly soaked fingers up to tap against your bottom lip and you open your mouth without a word, not breaking eye contact as he slides them in, gliding against your tongue, the taste of you heavy. He smiles drunkenly as he watches you suck his fingers, tongue lapping at them and he lets a deep moan out from his chest. His forehead falls to your cheek and he lets his hips grind against you, your oversensitive pussy meeting rough denim and making you whimper around his fingers and gag slightly as they delve deeper. A dribble of spit leaks out from the corner of your lips and Mingi, nasty and unbidden, licks at it, licks all the way up your cheek, along the tracks your tears left, just tasting all of you.

He pulls back abruptly to strip away his own clothes, mostly because he think he might really, actually explode if these fucking jeans stay on for another second. His jeans and shirt are off, boxers halfway down when it registers to him that you’ve followed suit, sitting up with your shirt and bra gone and he can’t not be drawn to your tits. He’s only human. 

He’s kneeling between your legs again, knees digging into the carpet uncomfortably but he can’t begin to care about that as he kneads at your tits, mouth attached to a nipple, sucking and gently biting at it. You wonder, momentarily, how his jaw isn’t cramping up yet. “Mingi, baby, c’mon,” you pull at his roots until he lets your nipple go. He doesn’t quite move away– just looks up at you, resting against your chest, wet mouth still slightly agape and eyes shiny, wet with unshed tears. God. “C’mon.”

You pull him up to lay on the couch and he goes now without question, finally getting his boxers all the way off on the way– you could probably ask anything of him right now and he’d do it. And shit, he’s so hard you realize and he lays there. It’s massive, too– rock hard, throbbing to the point you think it must be painful. He’s leaking an absolute mess of precum against his stomach, his cock already slicked with it from when he was rutting himself into a frenzy in his jeans. “Oh, baby,” you coo at him as you kneel between his thighs, mirroring his spot from when he drove you to a mind blowing orgasm not even minutes ago. You wrap a hand around him and feel dizzy at the realization that your fingers don’t quite touch each other. 

He might have been designed in a lab specifically to drive you insane, you’re pretty sure. How else could a man like this exist, just walking the earth?

Your pussy throbs at the mere idea of his dick stretching your walls but you’re desperate for just a taste first, it’s too enticing; you lean forward and give the slick head a tentative, experimental lick, moaning lightly at the salty taste of him. His cock jumps at the sensation and in the back of your head you remember him saying that he’s sensitive when he was justifying not smoking in the cold– at least you know now he wasn’t bullshitting you. You suck at the head so very gently, just to rile him up and you know it works as he throws his head back and mewls. “Please, baby, just-please, you’re-you can’t,” he’s babbling again, near panicking at the idea of blowing his load before having you properly on his cock. 

You go to straddle him properly, for your own sake as much as his because you want it just as bad– you know you’ll have your mouth back on him one day, you promise yourself that much. Maybe even within the hour, who’s to say. “Oh, Mingi, you’re so hard,” you pout down at him teasingly because you can’t help it– he’s so pretty laid out like this, hands grabbing at you, plush lips kiss bitten and red.

He nods quickly– “So hard, need t’fuck you, baby.” And you know he’s not lying, he needs it, really needs it. “G’nna make you feel so good, yeah? You know I will, I will, I promise–please.”

You either take pity on him or his begging is driving you crazy, either way you use one hand to steady his dick as you drag your wetness along the tip of him and tease his dick along your entrance, your other hand steadying you against his toned chest. You last through a few more of his pleads before you truly can’t take it anymore and begin to sink down on him– the initial stretch of his ridiculous girth is maddening, your mouth dropping open as you take him deeper and deeper.

He’s panting heavily, using every inch of his barely there willpower to not buck up into you and make you take all of him– he lets you take him inch by agonizing inch, every movement making his eyes roll back into his head because fuck, you feel like actual heaven. He might cry. He’s probably actually going to cry, he realizes as you’ve taken just more than half of him, because you’re too warm, too tight, too perfect, what the fuck. And you’re still sinking down, taking more, more, ignoring the slight burn in your thighs because it’s worth it, he fills you so perfectly. You take more, a little more until he’s fully buried inside of you and you both let out synchronized, shuddering groans at the realization.

“Oh, god, god, pretty,” he wraps his thick arms around you all the way, noses at your neck because he needs to be as close to you as humanly possible. “Fuck you’re so wet, so tight, huh? I did that, yeah? Worked you up so good, needed my cock, didn’t you?”

He’s not really asking you questions, some small part of you understands that but you nod along to his words all the same, half because he’s right and half because you can’t think, mind wiped by his cock seated inside you, stretching you out to fit him perfectly, moulding you to him. “Yeah, so full, Mingi, baby, so good–” His hips twitch helplessly against you, begging silently for something, anything. And mercifully, you deliver. 

You pitch your own hips up just barely, just so, the mild movement already sending sparks up your body, a live-wire. He grinds back against you because he truly can’t not anymore, his hips tilting to yours, chasing in anguish and you gasp as the tip of him kisses against that spot deep inside you that makes you gush around him. 

He responds in kind, groaning his loudest groan yet, the sound wrapping around you and you don’t even recognize just how much you’re drowning in everything Mingi, every sense overtaken by him. It’s only those strong arms, hands gripping your waist again that anchor you against pure hysteria.

You start to grind against him, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that has him hitting spots in you that had previously remained untouched. He grinds up into you in tandem, can’t help it, his hands gripping at your waist with a bruising tenderness. His eyes are wet, a few tears rolling down his cheeks now and you feel an evil sense of vindication– it’s nice to know you can make each other cry. And he’s such a pretty crier, eyes wide, face flushed and eyebrows tilted up, he’s just so pretty. There’s not a lot of them, the tears, and you know you’d like to make him really cry one day– but fuck, you’re dripping around him now, as desperate for him as he is for you at this point.

So you have no more restraint left as you go to properly fuck yourself on him, the stretch delicious as you slide him in and out of you, hands on his shoulders to brace yourself but also feel up his built shoulders. “F-fuck,” he has you stuttering and crying out now, damn him, because he can’t just lie there and take it, it’s out of his control now, his hips canting up and chasing you every time you bounce or grind or tilt. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, god, you’re so big, so good,” and you mean it, every word– he is, in fact, so big and so good. So good that he does deserve you truly bouncing on him, you figure and you’re sure he’s ruined you for any other man now, as he buries his head in your tits, keening every time you land, burying him to the hilt. It’s delicious and it’s messy, he’s basically drooling against you as he mouths at your nipples until you know they’ll be sore tomorrow.

“Yeah, good for you,” clearly he agrees. “Made for you, I think– never felt so good, y’r stretched perfectly around me, pretty, just need you to ngh–” his eyes shut tightly as you clench around him, like he’s nearly at his breaking point. “Need it–” he insists, lost in the warmth of you, fully thrusting back up into you.

“Need what Mingi?” your words are breathless, whiny, desperate. “What do you need, baby? Tell me– anything, it– give you anything.”

Both of you are falling apart but desperately grasping at any modicum of control you can over each other; you mock him, he bites at your nipples; you clench around him, he uses his grip on you to slam you down further. The push and pull, the sick game becomes, eventually, little more than two messes, wet and sweaty, fucking into each other, pleading into each others mouths, looking for something, anything, neither of you understand what you need anymore.

“So fine, y’r so good,” he’s mumbling out incoherent praises into your mouth, as everything becomes tighter, hotter, wetter. “Fuck. Fuck.” His hips stutter as they thrust up into yours, grinding in this new cruel way on the up swing and your eyes nearly roll back into you head. “Fuck.”

“Are-” you start, then immediately stop as his hand comes back to your clit, already overworked and weeping, to rub it in precise circles. He doesn’t need to say it out loud but he’s close, rising to this insurmountable peak and he needs, more than anything he’s ever needed before, to bring you there along with him. “You’re nearly there, yeah?” he nods along, little yeah, yeah, yes’s escaping his spit soaked lips. “Me too, me too- need it, need you to make me come, make me feel so good, please Mingi, please, don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t stop, probably can’t at this point. His mouth, aimlessly kissing, biting, whatever against your tits and shoulders and neck, is letting out a nonstop stream of noises and mumblings– you make out a few of his praises, the good girls and the perfect pussys in the mix of it all.

“Can-” he struggles to speak, managing words only between these pathetic, high pitched whines. “Need’ta come, baby, need it, need it,” one thought of him coming inside of you, filling you in every way makes you cream around him, clench around him even more, before he even gets to properly ask, making his eyes nearly roll back into his head. “Can I? Please– inside? Inside you? Need to fill you up, make you feel so good, it’ll feel so good– pussy’s so good, so good it’s driving me crazy, really, really– c’mon.”

He might keep going forever if you don’t stop him, so you bring your hands from his shoulders to cup his face, that pretty, pretty face, trusting him and his strong arms to keep pace, dropping you up and down on his cock. “Want it, Mingi–” it’s whispered, an intimate promise, because you need him to know you need this as much as he does right now. “Want your cum, Mingi.”

And then you’ve lost any semblance of control over him, because now he’s thrusting up into with abandon, using his strong arm to bring you back down on him every time– one hand is still busying itself on your pulsating clit. His dick is kissing your g-spot with an almost cruel consistency too, he knows your body with a scary accuracy already, and a wicked, almost unrecognizable smirk spreads across his lips when he realizes you’re as close as he is. 

“Yeah,” and oh fuck, he’s growling as his thrusts grow sloppier and out of rhythm, but never shallow or unsatisfactory. If anything, the mindless state you’re both in has let him in even deeper on these thrusts. “Yeah, it’s good, yeah? And you want it, you need it– need my cum, need it in you, so deep in you, ‘s so deep– I need it too baby, I do, need it.”

Your legs are nearing a gelatin state, but motivation and his actual, physical help are keeping you going– and that pulsating, growing need in the deepest recesses of you. The primal, base need is growing– both to come all over him and make him come, to see him truly unravel.

You’re both so close, close enough to taste it, to know it’s already the best either of you have ever had, weed or no. And you’re both begging too, both begging each other to bring you right there, to the crest, both warbling out combinations of baby and please and need and cum and perfect and more and good and–

It happens in one moment, a chain reaction kind of moment, he bites down on your shoulder, hard, bruising, which, in turn has you clench around his cock, which makes him thrust into you, hitting you just right and your back arches, a bow pulled tight– and you cum in tandem, a rare phenomenon, satisfying in a way you’d never be able to describe. You’re shaking through your orgasm, the unreal pleasure sending shockwaves through your legs to your toes, enlongated by the feeling of Mingi flooding your cunt with wave after wave of his own cum, as he lets out a long, unbroken, almost melodic groan into your shoulder. He carries on with a few meeker thrusts, insistent on fucking his cum as deep into as possible in this deeply primal mindset you’ve taken him to. It’s unfair how good it feels, this warmth that reaches into you. He send a few more feeble jabs into you, whimpering meekly as he does, utterly undone. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s muttering into your skin. You’d make fun of him if your thoughts weren’t made up of much of the same. “Fuck. Shit.

“Hah,” you huff. “Yeah. Fuck, shit and all that.” You can feel him softening inside of you but he makes no effort to move, and is still holding you tight. You don’t try to move either. He presses his forehead against yours, and you’re acutely aware of how sweaty you both are, of your weed-thick, heavy breaths mingling, but you can’t find an inkling of yourself disgusted by him. 

He smiles at you and it’s the same as before you thought you even had a chance with him– wide and distinctly Mingi. 

“Fuck. Really thought I needed the second joint before I’d be able to do that..” he giggles, rocking you back and forth like he’s not literally currently inside you. “Yunho owes me twenty bucks.”

“I don’t know who Yunho is,” you pull back to look at him properly, his pupils still blown, hair an absolute mess. “But please don’t say some other guys name when you’ve just cum in me, yeah?”

You love your new apartment. At least, you love it in comparison to your last place, a nightmarish shoebox with horrific neighbours and peeling walls. But even your friends took care to fawn over your new digs while helping you move in, Wooyoung making sure that you understood how big of a moment this was for you. He even spied out the eye candy that lives just next door; he told you all about your new neighbour who smiled and waved awkwardly at him and San as they were hoisting your couch through the door. 

And he wasn't wrong– the man is beanstalk-tall and so fucking wide. A braver woman than you certainly would have hit on him by now, drawn in by the wide smile he gives you as he shoulders into the elevator behind you and exchanges good-natured, earnest pleasantries with you. You hope you answer his how's your week been with a smooth nonchalance that distracts him from the way you're smiling way too big to be passed off as anything near casual. He tells you silly stories about his job as a dance coach at the local studio and looks genuinely satisfied when he gets a laugh out of you. The pair of you comfortably settle into a place somewhere between 'just neighbours' and 'friends' lined with a flirtatious tension neither of you dares to bring up– and it works.

You even get to share some gentle mornings together, each of you out on your own balconies. You, with your cup of homemade iced latte and him rolling a joint on the too-tiny table he stuck out there for that sole purpose, his knees knocking against the underside of it nearly every time he shifts his legs. The first time you catch him, tongue halfway across the rolled paper, he has the wherewithal to at least look sheepish and he lets out a visible sigh of relief when you just laugh and take your own seat. You steal furtive glances over whatever book you brought out to watch him as he smokes, gradually sinking into his seat and you let yourself fantasize about him sneaking looks over at you in between tokes. It's fun to have a cute little puppy crush, you decide, even if it doesn't go anywhere, and Mingi's a great recipient. 

So of course he has to go and ruin it.

"When did you start smoking weed again?" Wooyoung wrinkles his nose as he pulls off his parka and lets you lock the door behind him. "Don't think I've seen you smoke since college. You’d better share, that's so-" 

You interrupt him with a frustrated groan. "I didn't Wooyoung- that's from next door," you stomp petulantly to your kitchen, leaving your friend to follow in your frustrated wake. "I didn't realize when he kept it to the balcony but whatever fucked up strain he smokes is seeping into the walls, I swear."

Wooyoung places the Chinese takeout he brought on the kitchen counter, shaking excess snow out of his hair. You hand him a plate and a pair of chopsticks and he lets out a faux-contemplative puff of air before he replies, "Well… he had to have like a flaw right? Inconsiderate stoner is annoying sure, but I bet I can whip him into shape." He grins wickedly and punctures his sentence by snapping his chopsticks at you. "Still hot, unfortunately. Saw him heading out on my way up and he manages to be enticing even in an extra-long puffer coat."

"Ugh, whatever," except it's not whatever because you know the coat Wooyoung's talking about and Mingi doeslook so adorable in it, especially because it's oversized and he pulls up the hood and smiles at you until his eyes disappear and nuzzles his face into the pulled up collar. "Whatever," you repeat, shaking your head like it'll shake out the image of Mingi all bundled up in his Winter get up. "It doesn't matter how cute he is-"

"Okay, so I said hot."

"It doesn't matter!" Maybe if you say it a couple dozen more times it'll come true. "Because there is nothing cute or hot about being an inconsiderate jackass. It's starting to get into my clothes, Wooyoung. I have a job where I need to maintain like, a modicum of professionalism. I can't show up smelling like weed."

"We're slipping into old man shakes fist at cloud territory here, princess," Wooyoung is gentle with you even in his teasing, knowing first hand how you can work yourself into a frenzy with little encouragement– or, on your worst days, no encouragement at all. "Like, you're not wrong, but let's reel it back before you commit full on arson on the building you're also living in."

The two of you have gradually migrated to the couch, letting episodes of a familiar sitcom drone on in the background. And having Wooyoung around is so lovely because no one else would let you whine like this, and before you know it the cups of hot and sour soup are empty and you're bitching and moaning about Mingi again. It doesn't help that it's nearing the time of night when he tends to spark up again, so you know the smell that had somewhat faded since this morning is about to come back with a dank vengeance. 

"I know it's lame or whatever to complain about someone lighting up in their own home," you mumble out around a bite of springroll, its crispiness doing wonders to settle you down. "I thought he was like a thoughtful guy though, you know? It's kinda disappointing. He really is just a man."

Wooyoung scoffs out a laugh, "Well, I could've told you that. I've definitely seen him scratch his balls in the elevator."

"Ew, stop, the illusion's already been shattered."

He only laughs as he grabs the two fortune cookies from the takeout bag and tosses one at you. He doesn't bother to apologize when you don't react quick enough to catch it, the crinkly wrapping paper hitting you square in the forehead. He's already munching away at his cookie, cheeks puffed out. "Mine says that beauty is often mistakenly valued above wisdom… so. A lie. Does yours say anything about fucking your sexy neighbour and stealing his weed?"

The air outside has settled at a bitter, bone-chilling cold. You've taken to wearing two pairs of socks most days in hope of conserving the heat as you trudge to the subway every morning. The scarf you knit last year that made you officially abandon your knitting needles has made a surprise reappearance in your daily rotation. And Mingi is still huffing away next door more days than not, stinking up your apartment like the worst Bath & Body Works candle imaginable. 

San suggested going to your landlord- and he nodded solemnly when you said absolutely not because you're no snitch. But you hate, hate, hate the way you still reek with the stuff even when you're blocks away, overpowering any perfume you own. You’ve also wasted a lot of your favourite perfumes.

You have to say something to Mingi. Directly. Direct confrontation. Oh god.

Your feet carried you to his door before you can reconsider. The door is normal, unassuming. Why wouldn't it be? It’s the same as yours, just six feet to the left. Did you expect it to look different? An evil, anxious bug in the back of your mind wonders if he's watching you just stare at his door through his peephole, wondering why his skittish neighbour is lurking outside his apartment. The visual is so harrowing that you finally commit to knocking before it can become a reality.

There's a moment of quiet– then, distantly, a crash, a cough and heavy footsteps that creep closer. And then he's opening the door, and there he is, tall but not quite imposing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion that only serves to make him even more endearing.

His expression brightens when he realizes it's you. You wonder, fleetingly, if he's doing this on purpose, because gosh, that smile nearly makes you forgive him right then and there. "Neighbour!" he chirps, like he really is excited to see you. Earnest, he’s really very earnest."This is new."

Right, you're crossing into untreated territory here and for a moment you feel a sense of embarrassment– but that fades quickly into indignation. He crossed that boundary first. His stink is in your home! "Yes, right, hi," terrible start. "Mingi, hi. Hi." Woof.

"…Hi?" If there is a god, he'd strike you with lightning and take you out with a swiftness.

"Hi, sorry," you shake your head at yourself like it'll physically snap you back to reality. "I hope you're not, like, busy or anything, I can totally come back later or tomorrow, even."

He's still smiling at you like that and he cocks his head at your words. "No, not busy. Just, y'know, winding down after work, yeah?" he says it like it's an inside joke. He settled into familiarity with you so quickly, you’ve allowed yourself to wonder before if that’s just what he’s like or if that’s what he’s like with you.

"Yeah," your hands busy themselves in the pocket of your oversized sweater- he brought it up himself, perfect, now you just have to commit. "Winding down, right- look, Mingi, I don't wanna be a shitty neighbour, really-"

"You're a great neighbour," he interrupts, not realizing he's super not helping.

"Oh! Oh, thanks, you've been… swell," swell?! "Except, there's just, it's really just this one thing, and I really wouldn't bring this up otherwise, and I'm not, like, judging or anything-"

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No! No, well not really it's just…" you're scrambling, that much is clear.

"Hey, I'm really sorry if I did something to upset you, I mean it, It’s just, I don't even know-"

"Mingi, you stink!"

Not great. He's staring at you in genuine shock, mouth in a little 'O' shape. You'd think he was actually frozen if it weren't for the shock of bright red that creeps up his ears. "Not like you stink," oh god, you've fucked this. Like really, actually fucked it. Royally. "Like, when you smoke. Inside. It stinks. It stinks up everything. It gets into my clothes. It gets into my hair, Mingi," you're whining now, a petulant child insisting she's right. But you are, of course, right, is the thing. "And I don't mind it, like, fundamentally and I meant it, I'm not judging you but god your shit's loud and I can't deal with it all the time, you know?" Your hands have come up to cover your eyes. Maybe when you take them down, Mingi will have disappeared and he'll have been a projection of your single, horny brain all these months.

And then Mingi starts giggling. Honest to god, giggling. "Oh, little neighbour," he coos at you and his hands, massive but purposely gentle, come up to grasp at your wrists and pull them away from your face. And he's still there. Obviously. "Shit," he sighs. "I'm sorry, little neighbour. I just– I run so cold, yeah? I'm real sensitive– like, when it's this nasty cold outside." You nod along and pretend not to notice that he hasn't let go of your wrists. His hands are warm. 

"I guess I'm a little nose blind to my own shit though, I really didn't think it'd be so bad," he chuckles at himself. "My friends joke about me reeking of the stuff but I thought they were just being assholes. Huh… guess I was the asshole the whole time, huh?"

You shake your head, almost on instinct. "No, really it's fine– I mean, I was getting mildly annoyed, sure," holy understatement. "But I wasn't about to rat you out or anything. Just... I don't know…" You're running out of gas now, turning sheepish and wrinkling your nose at yourself.

"Hey, hey," he lets go of your wrists and uses one big hand to ruffle at your hair like a cranky kitten. "You've every right to your annoyance, neighbour. I really am sorry. Listen, I'll uh, I'll start smoking like on the way to the grocery store and shit like that. Or I'll get a vape. Something, I don't know," he laughs out a breath and leans against the doorframe. "Really, I've been trying to be the perfect neighbour for you this whole time– turns out all I had to do to get you to finally knock is stink up the whole place, huh?"

You… you think that he might be flirting with you now. You can't be sure because you're still kind of reeling from your own faux pas. "The smell's not that bad," you concede. "I mean it's… a lot. I used to smoke kinda regularly, like, in college. It's just the sheer amount- I mean, my god, Mingi, you're a fucking chimney."

This time when he laughs, you let yourself laugh with him. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," he's smiling that bright, sunshiney, power the city for generations smile again. "Okay-" he claps his hands and you startle at the noise, making him laugh again. 

"An idea! I have an idea." You give him a worried look and he lays a hand on your shoulder that you think he means to settle you, but you feel heat spread all over. Was he always this touchy? "I owe you an apology, obviously," you go to interrupt but he carries on. "No, no, I do, you can't change my mind about this." The firey determination that sparks up in his expressive eyes all but confirms this. "So– let's stink up this floor one more time. I smoke you out, you can raid my fridge for whatever snacks you want and I'll even order you some candles to clear out the lingering scent. And then I commit to smoking out in the cold for the rest of my mortal, pathetic life."

Turns out Mingi is a very difficult person to say no to. Not that you tried very hard, of course. One glance at those puppy eyes and you crumbled. He's got a classic mid-2000's comedy on– he said it was one of his favourites and you wished you'd taken a picture of the way his eyes lit up when you quoted it back to him. You'd bonded over your favourite stupid bits from stupid movies. He's kinda nerdy, you've realized as he recites full scenes from movies you've not seen in over a decade. 

"Your couch is comfier than mine," you muse absentmindedly, head propped up by your hands, elbows on your knees. You're watching Mingi roll two joints in succession– the action not necessarily a new sight to you, but you've never had blanket permission to sit and stare at him while he does it. It's mesmerizing, like pretty much everything else he does.

"Yeah? Well, get as comfy as you'd like, little neighbour," his smiles are always so genuine for you. "Hope everything else is to your liking?" There's a twinkle in his eye too, a secret ask behind his words.

"Everything's good, Mingi."

"Only good?" He's pouting now. His most devious trick yet. You don't respond, you can't fall into his trap this early. Instead you take a sip from the canned iced tea you stole from his well-stocked fridge. He hums petulantly at your silence, and places one of the two spliffs into the ashtray shaped like an eight ball. He pops the other one into his mouth and rises to his full, staggering height. He's so tall he casts a shadow over you by way of the the sun setting through the window behind him. He stretches his arms over his head with an exaggerated grunt and the fabric of his t-shirt slides up at the waist, teasing you with a slutty sliver of skin. He's a little bit evil you're pretty sure now. You lean back and properly settle into the couch to shamelessly enjoy the view while he isn't looking at you.

He flops onto the- very large, very comfortable- couch next to you with a shocking level of grace. He's not quite close enough that any part of you is touching but he's certainly not far away. He fished into the deep pocket of a cargo pants for a lighter and he makes a slow purposeful show of flicking it on and bringing it to the jay lazily hanging out of his pouty lips. He breaths in deep, chest expanding and he lights it properly, eyes sliding closed.

He takes a few more slow pulls, smoke billowing out of pursed lips– and you let him because, wow, what a show. You do scramble to gain control yourself eventually. "You're smoking my apology."

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, meeting your gaze again. You nearly gasp. He's already heavily lidded, a sluggish smile working it's way across his mouth. "Shit, my bad, pretty," he calls you pretty like it's no big deal. So you carry on, no big deal.

He finally gives up the joint for you and you feel very watched. He's following your every move now. He watches as you bring it up to your lips, pursing them, sucking in a deep breath and– heaving a deep, dry cough. He laughs heartily at your pain and you continue to nearly hack up a lung. The iced tea helps.

"Shut up," you full on whine at him, thrusting out a hand to shove at his chest and god dammit, it's rock hard. "It's been a bit, okay?"

He's still laughing but he puts his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, sorry," he sighs dramatically and leans his head against your shoulder as you, very bravely, you might add, go to take another drag. "I'm really botching this aren't I, little neighbour? Hogging the weed, laughing at you, I didn’t even let you choose the movie." He pouts and nuzzles into your shoulder and if you knew any better you'd say he's making himself as pathetic as possible.

"Don't be pathetic, Mingi." He grins.

"I can make it up to you though," his voice has dropped, even lower than his usual bassy timber. "Just wanna be a perfect neighbour, y'know? Lemme make it up to you."

"You already apologized, Min. Nothing to make up."

"Please?" He mutters the single word into your shoulder and blood rushes in your ears.

"Hah–" you breath out a laugh you think makes you sound unaffected. You hope. "Thought you'd have a better tolerance than this." The quiet moment passes like wind through an open window, but the intimacy lingers in the air still, refusing to leave entirely.

He snickers like you're just that amusing to him. "Yeah– that's why I buy the strong shit. So careful with it, yeah? You're littler too. G'nna fuck you up waaay faster." He shifts so his head is in your lap, fully lounging against you like an Emperor in his throne. His long legs don't quite fit onto the rest of the couch like this, one is bent at the knee, the other off the plush sofa completely.

"You're good at making yourself comfortable quick, huh?" you say as you take another drag, almost doing it just to prove him wrong. But he's not wrong, it is, in fact, strong shit. You know you have to slow down if you don't want to be totally flying. 

He grins up at you. "Mm-hm," he nods. "We're friends now. Giving you a crash course in being my friend. This is a lot of it." He grabs at your wrist that isn't holding the spliff, his grip becoming familiar to you now, and brings your hand to his hair. You let yourself tangle your fingers into the dark locks and he visibly relaxes under the touch.

You know if you smoke any more of this space-age weed you won't recover before Monday so you lower it down to his lips– you don't quite understand this instinct, why you don't hand it to him instead but he doesn't so much as flinch. He wraps his plush lips around the filter but makes no move to grab it so you just have to carry on holding it as he inhales. 

"Careful, tiny," he's using that low, quiet timbre again. He clicks his tongue at you chidingly–"Can't have you burning yourself." The ember has crept only centimeters away from your fingers without you noticing and he, with a life-ruining gentleness, plucks it away and leaves the bud to burn in the ashtray. 

The smell is heavier here, because of course it is– you've followed it to the source, after all. Mingi was absolutely right, though, you're more sensitive to the stuff than you remember and you've settled into the high so nicely. It's floaty and warm, familiar like a family recipe. You're sinking into the couch, the weight of Mingi's head in your lap grounding you, tethering you directly to him.

You open your eyes not long after you realize you let them slip close at one point, lazily blinking as you struggle to readjust to even the low light of the cute lamps he has in multiple different spots of the living room. In the back of your hazy mind you register a mild gratitude for the fact that he too clearly understands the evils of Big Light. More than just a pretty face, you surmise.

You cast your gaze down to see how your neighbour is faring to find him already watching you, red-rimmed eyes almost too alert for your liking. He doesn't look away when you catch him– an eyebrow quirks in an unspoken challenge, daring you to look away, to cower first. You don't, not this time. Your fingers, once absentmindedly combing through his hair still. His eyes flicker to your lips, slow enough that you know you were meant to see it, leaving no room for you to misread his intentions now.

"All good?" he still manages to sound casual but only just– like his control is slipping, threatening to break free entirely.

“Yeah,” your voice is softer still, desperate to not disturb this precious little moment. The moment before… something. “All good.”

He studies you for another moment, searching for hesitation or something worse and when he can’t find it he hauls himself up in a gentle glide. You’ve noticed this about him– he’s consistently graceful for someone his size. He’s never abrupt, never jerky. There’s a composure to him that makes you ache to see it crumble and break. He’s next to you now, angled towards you, caging you in with his arms on the plush of the sofa cushions. “Tell me,” he pauses to wet his lips with his tongue and a smirk dances across his face when your eyes follow. Tease. “Tell me if I read this all wrong.”

You don’t need to answer verbally as your chin tilts towards him, an open invitation if ever there was one. His breath catches.

That first kiss is slow and deliberate, every movement drawing you into him more and more. There’s a distant thought that it feels like he’s trying to prove something to you but he steals it away. You’re leaning into each other with a neediness that shocks your hands into moving– one into his hair, already familiar with the touch and the other to a toned forearm.His own hands have found their way to you at some point, magnetized, to your waist. They grip without being harsh, your back arching into the touch only slightly, because you’re still consciously holding onto those last bits of sanity.

His lips press against yours even firmer then, a reward for wanting him as much as he wants you, control slipping away, strand by strand. Your hand tightens in his hair and he exhales against you, fingers gripping you tighter without crossing the line into harshness. He pulls away, only for a second, quick enough that you’re not sure it was even real, because his hand grips onto you before you can even process it, shifting you so his back is against the couch and your thighs are splayed across his, straddling him. You register with a barely contained shiver how thick his thighs are under you. 

He stills then for a second and you’ve parted from him just far enough to take this version of him in. Hair mussed (your doing), eyes red and glossy (half your doing, you choose to believe) and chest rising and falling in deep, purposeful breaths (definitely your doing, thank you). You freeze there, shocked by just how gorgeous he is like this, under you, lowlit and desperate and warm.

You bring a hand up to his jaw before reconnecting your lips to his, needier than before. Your lips work in tandem with each other as your tongues finally meet, delving the both of you into something that can only be described as hungry. His hands wander, as greedy as his mouth is against you, touching every bit of your back and waist he can, sending shocks of heat wherever they manage to brush against bare skin. Your teeth nip softly at his bottom lip in a challenge that you’ll later insist was an accident and you can practically hear his composure begin to splinter. He keens, whines against your mouth and you swallow the sound greedily and his palm flattens against your back to bring you close, close, closer. Your hips shift against his and the friction makes you lightheaded.

He pulls away with a petulant reluctance, forehead against yours, not willing to be any further away than that. He swallows and and sighs against you, hands planted firmly on your hips. His eyes are darker now, heavily lidded and gazing into yours with a fire you don’t recognize but you’re sure is mirrored in your own eyes. He huffs a laugh, half disbelief, half pride.

“Look at you,” you think he means to tease but he’s still breathless enough that it comes out straight up whiny.

“Me?” You smile wickedly and rock your hips against his– the firmness beneath the rough denim erases any doubt in your mind. He wants this, wants you. His own hips stutter, chasing you as his breath catches. “Look at you.”

He bites at his bottom lip, head falling back against the couch. His hands grip at your hips, more desperate than controlling, pulling you against him, closer still. He’s holding back as best he can, teeth still digging into his lip but these little grunts and whines are still escaping, taunting you.

You gasp as he surges forwards, hips properly and roughly rutting up into yours– the seam of your own jeans dig into you and you gasp, head dipping back. He takes this opportunity, lips against your neck with that same hunger, nipping, kissing, biting, surely leaving marks that you can’t possibly bring yourself to worry about now. No one will question a turtleneck in this weather anyway. You let him bite away, your hand finding it’s home in his hair once more in encouragement. Neither of you bother to pretend to have any semblance of control anymore and it’s so much more delicious this way; no more pretending, you’ve decided as you let a wanton moan out. He groans low in response and pulls away– you almost don’t let him, tugging at his hair in retaliation and his groan turns into a whimper. 

Before you have time to react he plants you back onto the couch, moving with newfound determination now, as he gets you to lie down, him kneeling between your spread legs. Your vision has blurred at the edges but he’s glowing, center-stage. He’s a mess. You can’t imagine you’re faring much better. 

Pupils blown, his hands grip at the meat of your thighs– he’s scowling at your jeans like they’re scheming against him. He’s half feral now, you think. He glides his hands up, pulling the fabric of your loose shirt shirt with them and he leans forward to press his forehead against your stomach. “You’re killing me I think,” he huffs, pressing devastating, gentle kisses against your skin and nosing against the plush of your stomach. You laugh, breathless but genuine all the same and brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Good way to go though, right?” you giggle and watch as he toys with the waistband of your jeans.

He looks up at you, eyes shining, pleading in an unspoken question, fingers inching toward the button. You nod minutely but he sees it all the same and wastes no more time. He’s frantic, fingers fumbling against the hardware as he undoes them, yanking them down until they hit the rug with a soft thump. Only your panties are between you and him now but he can’t seem to think that far. 

“Fuck, she’s wet,” he says, nearly to himself, eyes gleaming. His hands are on your thighs again, kneading incessantly. “Can I-” he starts, pausing to palm himself over his jeans, can’t help himself. “You gotta let me taste her. She’s begging for it. Need it.” He’s already lowered himself, half off the couch, spreading your legs even wider and nosing at your underwear. “Need it–” he repeats himself, half mindless before pressing an open mouthed kiss to your pussy through the fabric. He moans as soon as he gets that first taste of you, immediately addicted. 

You gasp and your hips jump up at the contact, chasing his mouth and he doesn’t fight it, chases you right back, hands at your hips not to control you but to ground himself. Your hand, still in his hair, it’s second home now, tugs gently at the strands, while your other hand finds purchase on the pillow next to you. He mouths at you, still over your panties, tongue out, practically drooling over you, soaking them through. “Tastes so good,” he hums against you, hands wrapping themselves around your thighs. “So good, fuck. So wet.” 

He pulls back, acting like it pains him to do so but he wants unfettered access to you, might really die if he can’t get it– he yanks your underwear down and doesn’t bother to spare them a second glance as they join your pants on the ground, too in awe, enraptured by your unobscured cunt to even consider looking away. His mouth is back on you before you can take a proper breath in, lips finally, mercifully, wrapped around your clit. You stutter out his name, begging for something– more, less, something that doesn’t even exist yet, you don’t know. 

“Holy fuck, Mingi,” you finally manage out somewhat clearly, around your own whines and whimpers. He hums in response, the vibrations cruel against your clit in a way the makes your head pitch back. He hips have a life of their own, grinding against the couch with abandon, can’t help himself. He pulls back and smiles listlessly at the whine you let out.

“S’good, yeah?” He soaks in your reaction, bites his lip as your hand tries to tug him back. He resists, barely, hands coming to your soaked pussy– he can practically hear her purring for him– to spread your lips wide for him. “She’s so pretty, baby, god–” Only then does he dive back in, one long lick against you that has you squirming. He’s focused on your entrance now, giving those wet, messy kisses again, tongue delving into you and his nose bumps against your clit in a way that has your head spinning. 

“So good, Mingi, it’s so good–” you babble absently but the praise gets to him still, hips grinding against the couch without his permission. You’re not sure who’s louder at this point, you or him. He brings his mouth back to your clit, suckling on it, freeing up space to tease you as with his fingers only brushing against your entrance, gathering the wetness there. He seems to be content to make you into as much of a mess as possible, revelling in every moan, every movement. “Please–” the word’s barely left your swollen lips when he plunges two fingers into your desperate, weeping pussy. 

The initial stretch from two fingers sends a shockwave through you and he has to use his other hand to properly hold your hips down. They’re skilled in their exploration, delving deeper than your own fingers could ever hope to. He’s on a mission, scissoring them inside you, stretching your gummy walls and finding those spots that make you keen. His mouth has travelled, never stopping, biting meanly against your thighs. “So fucking messy, baby,” he takes a moment just to watch; watch his own fingers diving in and out of you, nearly drooling at the sight. “Is that just for me? She loves me, huh?” He keeps talking directly to your pussy– it would be endearing if you weren’t so desperate to cum. 

You nod in response, not even totally sure what the question was, but he won’t break eye contact with your cunt. “Uh-huh,” you’re delirious but conscious enough to know that you’re delirious and that counts for something. Mingi is equally far gone, thankfully, wondering, hoping, that he’ll still be able to taste you hours from now. “S’all for you, Min.”

Another harsh bite on the inside of your thigh, soothed by his tongue and a kiss in that same spot. “You gotta come, okay? Gotta come for me, please, need it, need you to come on my face,” he’s babbling now, on the dangerous side of crazed, please’s and cum for me’s, even as he brings his tongue back to your clit. You’re faring no better, pieces of his name broken up by whines escaping and mounting in volume. Your thighs are pressed against the sides of his head and he thinks that this must be what heaven feels like– buried in pussy, suffocated by thighs. Perfection.

He knows you’re close, so close he can quite literally taste it. He hears it too, your sounds mounting higher and louder still. You know it too, can’t ignore it, with his tongue lapping at your clit and his fingers prodding at that spongy spot that makes you see stars. He wants it bad, working at you with a terrifying vigour. It only took a few more moments, a few more expert swipes of his tongue until you were there, cresting over that edge, your hand fisting in his hair and cumming with a broken wail. He works you through it, refuses to let up. Still pumping, licking, grinding. You’ve never had an orgasm last this long and Mingi is determined to keep it going, going, going– until you’re whining weakly and tugging his hair away from your poor, soaked pussy. Your eyes fill with tears at the overstimulation, a few slipping through and down your cheeks. When he finally does pull away it’s slowly, with one last kiss against your twitching clit like a goodbye. You’d laugh if you weren’t busy trying to remember how to breath like a regular human being. 

He crawls back on top of you, kissing against every bit of skin he can on the way back up– your thighs, hips, stomach, breasts, neck, until he’s face-to-face with you, noses brushing against each other. His eyes are half lidded and still hungry, the bottom half of his face shining, sparkling even with your own wetness, making him look like a sexed up kind of fairy. He brings his similarly soaked fingers up to tap against your bottom lip and you open your mouth without a word, not breaking eye contact as he slides them in, gliding against your tongue, the taste of you heavy. He smiles drunkenly as he watches you suck his fingers, tongue lapping at them and he lets a deep moan out from his chest. His forehead falls to your cheek and he lets his hips grind against you, your oversensitive pussy meeting rough denim and making you whimper around his fingers and gag slightly as they delve deeper. A dribble of spit leaks out from the corner of your lips and Mingi, nasty and unbidden, licks at it, licks all the way up your cheek, along the tracks your tears left, just tasting all of you.

He pulls back abruptly to strip away his own clothes, mostly because he think he might really, actually explode if these fucking jeans stay on for another second. His jeans and shirt are off, boxers halfway down when it registers to him that you’ve followed suit, sitting up with your shirt and bra gone and he can’t not be drawn to your tits. He’s only human. 

He’s kneeling between your legs again, knees digging into the carpet uncomfortably but he can’t begin to care about that as he kneads at your tits, mouth attached to a nipple, sucking and gently biting at it. You wonder, momentarily, how his jaw isn’t cramping up yet. “Mingi, baby, c’mon,” you pull at his roots until he lets your nipple go. He doesn’t quite move away– just looks up at you, resting against your chest, wet mouth still slightly agape and eyes shiny, wet with unshed tears. God. “C’mon.”

You pull him up to lay on the couch and he goes now without question, finally getting his boxers all the way off on the way– you could probably ask anything of him right now and he’d do it. And shit, he’s so hard you realize and he lays there. It’s massive, too– rock hard, throbbing to the point you think it must be painful. He’s leaking an absolute mess of precum against his stomach, his cock already slicked with it from when he was rutting himself into a frenzy in his jeans. “Oh, baby,” you coo at him as you kneel between his thighs, mirroring his spot from when he drove you to a mind blowing orgasm not even minutes ago. You wrap a hand around him and feel dizzy at the realization that your fingers don’t quite touch each other. 

He might have been designed in a lab specifically to drive you insane, you’re pretty sure. How else could a man like this exist, just walking the earth?

Your pussy throbs at the mere idea of his dick stretching your walls but you’re desperate for just a taste first, it’s too enticing; you lean forward and give the slick head a tentative, experimental lick, moaning lightly at the salty taste of him. His cock jumps at the sensation and in the back of your head you remember him saying that he’s sensitive when he was justifying not smoking in the cold– at least you know now he wasn’t bullshitting you. You suck at the head so very gently, just to rile him up and you know it works as he throws his head back and mewls. “Please, baby, just-please, you’re-you can’t,” he’s babbling again, near panicking at the idea of blowing his load before having you properly on his cock. 

You go to straddle him properly, for your own sake as much as his because you want it just as bad– you know you’ll have your mouth back on him one day, you promise yourself that much. Maybe even within the hour, who’s to say. “Oh, Mingi, you’re so hard,” you pout down at him teasingly because you can’t help it– he’s so pretty laid out like this, hands grabbing at you, plush lips kiss bitten and red.

He nods quickly– “So hard, need t’fuck you, baby.” And you know he’s not lying, he needs it, really needs it. “G’nna make you feel so good, yeah? You know I will, I will, I promise–please.”

You either take pity on him or his begging is driving you crazy, either way you use one hand to steady his dick as you drag your wetness along the tip of him and tease his dick along your entrance, your other hand steadying you against his toned chest. You last through a few more of his pleads before you truly can’t take it anymore and begin to sink down on him– the initial stretch of his ridiculous girth is maddening, your mouth dropping open as you take him deeper and deeper.

He’s panting heavily, using every inch of his barely there willpower to not buck up into you and make you take all of him– he lets you take him inch by agonizing inch, every movement making his eyes roll back into his head because fuck, you feel like actual heaven. He might cry. He’s probably actually going to cry, he realizes as you’ve taken just more than half of him, because you’re too warm, too tight, too perfect, what the fuck. And you’re still sinking down, taking more, more, ignoring the slight burn in your thighs because it’s worth it, he fills you so perfectly. You take more, a little more until he’s fully buried inside of you and you both let out synchronized, shuddering groans at the realization.

“Oh, god, god, pretty,” he wraps his thick arms around you all the way, noses at your neck because he needs to be as close to you as humanly possible. “Fuck you’re so wet, so tight, huh? I did that, yeah? Worked you up so good, needed my cock, didn’t you?”

He’s not really asking you questions, some small part of you understands that but you nod along to his words all the same, half because he’s right and half because you can’t think, mind wiped by his cock seated inside you, stretching you out to fit him perfectly, moulding you to him. “Yeah, so full, Mingi, baby, so good–” His hips twitch helplessly against you, begging silently for something, anything. And mercifully, you deliver. 

You pitch your own hips up just barely, just so, the mild movement already sending sparks up your body, a live-wire. He grinds back against you because he truly can’t not anymore, his hips tilting to yours, chasing in anguish and you gasp as the tip of him kisses against that spot deep inside you that makes you gush around him. 

He responds in kind, groaning his loudest groan yet, the sound wrapping around you and you don’t even recognize just how much you’re drowning in everything Mingi, every sense overtaken by him. It’s only those strong arms, hands gripping your waist again that anchor you against pure hysteria.

You start to grind against him, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that has him hitting spots in you that had previously remained untouched. He grinds up into you in tandem, can’t help it, his hands gripping at your waist with a bruising tenderness. His eyes are wet, a few tears rolling down his cheeks now and you feel an evil sense of vindication– it’s nice to know you can make each other cry. And he’s such a pretty crier, eyes wide, face flushed and eyebrows tilted up, he’s just so pretty. There’s not a lot of them, the tears, and you know you’d like to make him really cry one day– but fuck, you’re dripping around him now, as desperate for him as he is for you at this point.

So you have no more restraint left as you go to properly fuck yourself on him, the stretch delicious as you slide him in and out of you, hands on his shoulders to brace yourself but also feel up his built shoulders. “F-fuck,” he has you stuttering and crying out now, damn him, because he can’t just lie there and take it, it’s out of his control now, his hips canting up and chasing you every time you bounce or grind or tilt. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, god, you’re so big, so good,” and you mean it, every word– he is, in fact, so big and so good. So good that he does deserve you truly bouncing on him, you figure and you’re sure he’s ruined you for any other man now, as he buries his head in your tits, keening every time you land, burying him to the hilt. It’s delicious and it’s messy, he’s basically drooling against you as he mouths at your nipples until you know they’ll be sore tomorrow.

“Yeah, good for you,” clearly he agrees. “Made for you, I think– never felt so good, y’r stretched perfectly around me, pretty, just need you to ngh–” his eyes shut tightly as you clench around him, like he’s nearly at his breaking point. “Need it–” he insists, lost in the warmth of you, fully thrusting back up into you.

“Need what Mingi?” your words are breathless, whiny, desperate. “What do you need, baby? Tell me– anything, it– give you anything.”

Both of you are falling apart but desperately grasping at any modicum of control you can over each other; you mock him, he bites at your nipples; you clench around him, he uses his grip on you to slam you down further. The push and pull, the sick game becomes, eventually, little more than two messes, wet and sweaty, fucking into each other, pleading into each others mouths, looking for something, anything, neither of you understand what you need anymore.

“So fine, y’r so good,” he’s mumbling out incoherent praises into your mouth, as everything becomes tighter, hotter, wetter. “Fuck. Fuck.” His hips stutter as they thrust up into yours, grinding in this new cruel way on the up swing and your eyes nearly roll back into you head. “Fuck.”

“Are-” you start, then immediately stop as his hand comes back to your clit, already overworked and weeping, to rub it in precise circles. He doesn’t need to say it out loud but he’s close, rising to this insurmountable peak and he needs, more than anything he’s ever needed before, to bring you there along with him. “You’re nearly there, yeah?” he nods along, little yeah, yeah, yes’s escaping his spit soaked lips. “Me too, me too- need it, need you to make me come, make me feel so good, please Mingi, please, don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t stop, probably can’t at this point. His mouth, aimlessly kissing, biting, whatever against your tits and shoulders and neck, is letting out a nonstop stream of noises and mumblings– you make out a few of his praises, the good girls and the perfect pussys in the mix of it all.

“Can-” he struggles to speak, managing words only between these pathetic, high pitched whines. “Need’ta come, baby, need it, need it,” one thought of him coming inside of you, filling you in every way makes you cream around him, clench around him even more, before he even gets to properly ask, making his eyes nearly roll back into his head. “Can I? Please– inside? Inside you? Need to fill you up, make you feel so good, it’ll feel so good– pussy’s so good, so good it’s driving me crazy, really, really– c’mon.”

He might keep going forever if you don’t stop him, so you bring your hands from his shoulders to cup his face, that pretty, pretty face, trusting him and his strong arms to keep pace, dropping you up and down on his cock. “Want it, Mingi–” it’s whispered, an intimate promise, because you need him to know you need this as much as he does right now. “Want your cum, Mingi.”

And then you’ve lost any semblance of control over him, because now he’s thrusting up into with abandon, using his strong arm to bring you back down on him every time– one hand is still busying itself on your pulsating clit. His dick is kissing your g-spot with an almost cruel consistency too, he knows your body with a scary accuracy already, and a wicked, almost unrecognizable smirk spreads across his lips when he realizes you’re as close as he is. 

“Yeah,” and oh fuck, he’s growling as his thrusts grow sloppier and out of rhythm, but never shallow or unsatisfactory. If anything, the mindless state you’re both in has let him in even deeper on these thrusts. “Yeah, it’s good, yeah? And you want it, you need it– need my cum, need it in you, so deep in you, ‘s so deep– I need it too baby, I do, need it.”

Your legs are nearing a gelatin state, but motivation and his actual, physical help are keeping you going– and that pulsating, growing need in the deepest recesses of you. The primal, base need is growing– both to come all over him and make him come, to see him truly unravel.

You’re both so close, close enough to taste it, to know it’s already the best either of you have ever had, weed or no. And you’re both begging too, both begging each other to bring you right there, to the crest, both warbling out combinations of baby and please and need and cum and perfect and more and good and–

It happens in one moment, a chain reaction kind of moment, he bites down on your shoulder, hard, bruising, which, in turn has you clench around his cock, which makes him thrust into you, hitting you just right and your back arches, a bow pulled tight– and you cum in tandem, a rare phenomenon, satisfying in a way you’d never be able to describe. You’re shaking through your orgasm, the unreal pleasure sending shockwaves through your legs to your toes, enlongated by the feeling of Mingi flooding your cunt with wave after wave of his own cum, as he lets out a long, unbroken, almost melodic groan into your shoulder. He carries on with a few meeker thrusts, insistent on fucking his cum as deep into as possible in this deeply primal mindset you’ve taken him to. It’s unfair how good it feels, this warmth that reaches into you. He send a few more feeble jabs into you, whimpering meekly as he does, utterly undone. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s muttering into your skin. You’d make fun of him if your thoughts weren’t made up of much of the same. “Fuck. Shit.

“Hah,” you huff. “Yeah. Fuck, shit and all that.” You can feel him softening inside of you but he makes no effort to move, and is still holding you tight. You don’t try to move either. He presses his forehead against yours, and you’re acutely aware of how sweaty you both are, of your weed-thick, heavy breaths mingling, but you can’t find an inkling of yourself disgusted by him. 

He smiles at you and it’s the same as before you thought you even had a chance with him– wide and distinctly Mingi. 

“Fuck. Really thought I needed the second joint before I’d be able to do that..” he giggles, rocking you back and forth like he’s not literally currently inside you. “Yunho owes me twenty bucks.”

“I don’t know who Yunho is,” you pull back to look at him properly, his pupils still blown, hair an absolute mess. “But please don’t say some other guys name when you’ve just cum in me, yeah?”