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⣠ೠcw: explicit sexual content ¡ graphic sex ¡ rough sex ¡ orgasm denial ¡ dom/sub dynamics ¡ dirty talk ¡ aftercare ¡ possessiveness ¡ emotional vulnerability ¡ toxic ex / abusive relationship (past) ¡ physical assault ¡ violence ¡ blood ¡ protective behavior ¡ minor alcohol mention ¡ language
notes: in which your regular bartender minho lets you stay at his apartment when your toxic ex-situationship gets physical â and things spiral from there.
The bar doesnât have a sign. Just a brass door with no handle and a button that glows red when you press it. Inside, itâs all velvet and shadowsâlow jazz crooning from invisible speakers, smoke curling from too-expensive cigars. The kind of place that smells like secrets and old money.
You donât belong here. But you come anyway.
Mostly for him.
Minhoâs behind the bar like always. Shirt black, sleeves rolled just once, collar stiff against the sharp line of his neck. He doesnât look up when you walk in, doesnât smile. He never does.
You donât need him to.
It starts like most nights doâlow lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasyâs velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.
He always notices you.
Minhoâs already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesnât do small talkâjust glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.
He slides a drink toward you without asking.
Tonight itâs something amber and sharpâneat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.
âYouâre learning,â you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.
âYouâre predictable,â he says, but thereâs a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. Itâs hard to tell with him.
You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.
âGonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?â
He doesnât miss a beat.
âWhy canât I do both?â
You raise an eyebrow. Heâs in a mood.
Good.
You lean in a little, voice dipping low. âIf I didnât know better, Iâd think you liked me.â
Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.
âIf I liked you,â he says, smooth as glass, âyouâd know.â
The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.
You shouldnât be surprised. Youâve been playing this game for weeksâweeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he wonât answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.
But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.
You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didnât answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.
Youâre tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.
So maybe thatâs why youâre here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see whatâs underneath.
âI think you like me,â you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.
He uncaps it without a word. Pours slowâlike heâs buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the barâs dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.
Youâve never seen him fluster. Not once. Thatâs part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin controlâyou want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.
But Minho doesnât rattle. Doesnât rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything elseâhis knives, his words, his hands.
âI think you like being watched,â he says finally, without looking at you. âThatâs not the same thing.â
Your lips curl. âIs that what you do? Watch me?â
He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chestâdark, steady, measuring.
âOnly when you want me to.â
You swallow. Hard.
Thereâs nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isnât banter anymore.
Itâs foreplay.
Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently nowâhotter, deeper.
Minho sees itâhow your legs shift, how your breath stuttersâbut he doesnât gloat. He doesnât need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.
You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They donât come.
He leans forwardâjust slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.
âYou always drink faster when youâre upset,â he murmurs. âDidnât think heâd blow you off again.â
Your stomach flips.
You didnât tell him that.
Not out loud.
But youâve mentioned him in passing beforeâyour almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when heâs bored and shows up when heâs drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. Youâve never named him. You never had to.
Minhoâs too observant for that.
You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.
âI donât want to talk about him.â
Minho hums like he understands. Not kindlyâaccurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.
âDidnât think you would.â
His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesnât carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.
You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but donât drink. Youâre stalling. He knows it.
âIs this where you offer comfort?â you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. âTell me I deserve better?â
Minho chucklesâquiet, sharp-edged. âYou know you deserve better.â
He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.
You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I wonât.
Not yet.
His fingers flex against the barâs edge. Itâs the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You donât think he even notices itâbut you do.
Because thatâs what this has always been, hasnât it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.
You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like youâre not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.
Minho isnât looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond youâon a bottle that doesnât need touching, a thought that doesnât need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like heâs giving himself rules to follow.
Donât reach for her.
Donât say her name.
Donât touch unless she begs.
You can feel itâhow close he is to undoing himself. How heâs fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.
And that makes you reckless.
âWhy havenât you?â you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. âIf youâve thought about itâwhich you have. Why havenât you done anything?â
You lick your lipsâsubtle, involuntaryâand his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.
âYouâre not going to offer comfort,â you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. âThatâs not your game.â
Minho doesnât deny it.
âI donât comfort girls who let men treat them like that,â he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. âI fuck it out of them.â
Your breath catches.
You canât help it.
It punches the air straight from your lungsâjust for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.
You shouldâve known thatâs where heâd take it. You shouldâve seen it coming. But hearing itâfeeling itâlow and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?
Itâs something else entirely.
Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the roomâs shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.
He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.
Just Minhoâstaring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision thatâs never been louder than it is now.
He knows what he just did.
Knows youâre squirming. Knows youâre soaking. Knows exactly where your mindâs goneâand he hasnât even touched you.
Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.
And thatâs when he leans in.
Not by muchâjust enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.
âIâd start with your mouth,â he says, barely louder than the jazz, like heâs confessing something obscene to a priest. âBecause I know youâd still try to be smart with it. Even while youâre choking.â
Your stomach drops.
Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but itâs no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold
Minho doesnât linger.
He doesnât let the silence stretch into tension, doesnât wait for your reply, doesnât press a single inch further into the ache heâs just created.
He simply pulls away.
Smooth, unbothered, like he didnât just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides arenât still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and thenâcasually, almost boredâslides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.
Your bill.
Back to business.
Itâs maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didnât just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didnât just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.
Your hand moves on autopilot.
Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like youâre not unraveling at the seams. Like youâre not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.
The reader beeps.
Declined.
You blink.
Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.
Declined.
The air shifts.
You donât look up. Canât. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasnât inevitable. Like you havenât been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.
You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. âSorry,â you mutter, trying for nonchalant. âGuess itâs been a week.â
Minho doesnât move.
You finally glance upâand heâs already looking at you.
Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.
Then he takes the bill back without a word.
Folds it in half.
Tucks it beneath the register.
âItâs okay,â he says, and his voice is different nowâsofter, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. âIâve got it.â
You hesitate. âNo, really. I can come back tomorrowââ
âI said itâs okay.â
The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you donât quite recognize yet.
You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition.
But there isnât one.
And thatâthatâs what undoes you more than anything else.
Because itâs not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.
Itâs just kindness.
Uncomplicated. Unexpected.
From him of all people.
You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you donât.
You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didnât expect.
âIâll pay you back,â you say quietly. âNext time.â
Minho doesnât respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.
âYouâre not a charity case,â he says finally. âI know youâll settle.â
You nod again. This time it lands.
He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.
âYou staying a while?â he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just⌠offering.
And you want to say yes.
But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonightâtoo raw, too full, too loud.
So you say, âThink Iâll head out,â and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like youâre asking permission.
Minho nods. Doesnât question it. Doesnât try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like heâs already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.
You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.
He doesnât say anything at first. But you feel him watching youânot your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like youâre guarding something.
And thenâ
âDid he grab you?â
Your spine stiffens.
Like someone cracked ice down your back.
You donât turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.
âExcuse me?â you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.
Minho doesnât flinch.
He doesnât repeat himself, either. Just waits.
You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tiltâthe one you wear like armor, the one youâve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.
âI donât need you psychoanalyzing my love life,â you say flatly. âItâs none of your business.â
Minho says nothing.
Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you canât stop talking.
You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. âJesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think youâre my therapist?â
Still nothing.
Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.
And maybe thatâs why it stings. Because heâs not wrong.
You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. âHe didnât mean to,â you finally mutter.
Minhoâs voice is quiet. Even.
âBut he did.â
You look away.
Itâs not a fight. Heâs not raising his voice. Heâs not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says itâflat, factual, calmâmakes you feel like youâve been caught doing something shameful.
You shake your head. âItâs not that simple.â
His expression doesnât change. âIt never is.â
You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You donât like feeling cornered like thisâespecially not by someone like him. Someone who doesnât play pretend
Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.
âIâm not some broken girl who needs saving,â you snap.
âI know.â
And againâitâs not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.
That disarms you more than anything else.
He knows.
He knows youâre angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows youâre clawing your way through something you donât want to name yet. He knowsâand still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.
You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.
âIâm fine,â you say. Softer now. âOkay? Iâm fine.â
Minho doesnât agree. Doesnât argue. Just nods like heâs filing it away for later.
And then, gently:
âText me when youâre home.â
You look at him.
Really look at him.
The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag heâs holdingâlike heâs grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.
âI donât have your number,â you say, quiet again.
He doesnât even blink.
Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like itâs nothing.
You take it with fingers that donât feel like yours.
The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind youâd expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.
You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.
Like if you memorize them now, maybe you wonât have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.
âIâm not going to cry in the cab,â you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.
Minhoâs mouth twitchesâtoo fast to call it a smile. âGood. They charge extra for that.â
You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.
Almost.
You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like itâs fragile, like itâs worth something, like it matters. You donât say thank you. Canât. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor youâre trying to put back on.
He doesnât press. Just nods onceâfinal, quietâand goes back to polishing the same glass heâs been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.
You walk away before you can change your mind.
Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows youâre not broken. Like ask if heâs ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.
The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.
You step into it anyway.
That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.
Youâve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.
Minhoâs number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldnât be allowed to keep.
Eventually, you type:
[you]: home.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Then nothing.
Then:
[bartender]: good. sleep.
You stare at it for longer than you should.
Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.
You can almost hear his voice in itâlow, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.
You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.
But itâs too late for pretending now. And maybeâjust maybeâyou like that he didnât say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.
Because itâs not.
You set the phone on your nightstand.
And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.
The bass is too loud.
It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sidesâsweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.
You wish you were having fun.
You should be having fun. Itâs Mayaâs birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.
And for a whileâit worked.
Until he showed up.
You feel him before you see him. Isnât that always the way?
That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.
You turn. And there he is.
Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesnât look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.
Your heart drops anyway.
Itâs been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.
Not after the last timeânot after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet⌠it never seemed to matter.
You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you donât see him.
It works for ten minutes.
Then a hand slides around your waist.
âYou look good tonight.â
You freeze.
His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.
You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. âDonât.â
âDonât what?â he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. âSay hi to my favorite girl?â
Your throat tightens. âIâm not your anything.â
âCouldâve fooled me.â His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like youâve already lost something.
You shove his hand off. Step back.
âI said donât.â
He laughsâsoft and cruel. âYouâve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.â
Youâre not sure what breaks firstâthe fear or the fury.
But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enoughâenough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.
He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesnât falter. If anything, it widens.
âOh, sheâs got teeth tonight.â
You hate that he says it like heâs proud. Like he likes it when you push backâbecause it means he gets to push harder.
âDonât touch me,â you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.
A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.
He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. âCalm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?â
You take a step back.
He follows.
His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waistâbut for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.
You gasp.
Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.
âI said donât fucking touch me!â Your voice breaksâsharp, raw, realâand for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.
He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. âYou think youâre better than me now?â he snarls, voice low and mean. âIs that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?â
The blood drains from your face.
Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.
It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your earâbut what he said.
That little bartender.
Minho.
He knows.
You donât know how. Donât know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at allâbut the fact that he said it means heâs been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didnât even know you were leaving behind.
Your stomach lurches.
âI saidââ you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage ââget off me!â
This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.
His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like youâve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.
But he recovers fast.
Too fast.
And now heâs pissed.
âYou fucking slut,â he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. âYou think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think heâs any different?â
You donât stay to hear the rest.
You turn.
You run.
You donât care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels werenât meant for this kind of escape.
You just run.
Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, heâll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like youâll never feel clean again if you donât keep moving.
Youâre breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like itâs trying to break out of your chest.
You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.
And before you even know where youâre going, your feet are taking you there.
You donât remember making the turn. Donât remember crossing the street. You just blinkâand suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.
And heâs there.
Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulsesâhis cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and thereâs a smear of something on his forearm.Â
He hasnât seen you yet.
Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.
Thenâhe lifts his head.
And his whole body goes still.
You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.
But he doesnât comment. Doesnât move.
Just watches you.
The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietlyâ
âDid something happen?â
Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.
Low. Measured. But not indifferent.
Thereâs something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.
He doesnât take a step toward you.
Doesnât reach out.
Minho can read a room better than anyone youâve ever met, and right now, youâre a room filled with alarmsâflashing, screaming, crumbling.
He sees it.
âIâŚâ Your voice falters. âNo.â
You mean yes. You mean everything.
But the syllables wonât fit in your mouth.
He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didnât say.
The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.
You donât realize youâve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.
Minhoâs eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesnât move.
Instead, his voice softensâsomehow quieter than before, like heâs afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.
âIâm just down the block.â
You blink at him, still catching your breath.
âMy place,â he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. âNothing weird. Just⌠quieter. Warmer. No one else there.â
You hesitate.
Not because you donât trust himâyou do, in ways you probably shouldnâtâbut because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.
Minho sees it.
He doesnât rush to reassure you. Doesnât over-explain or fumble for comfort.
Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, âI have cats.â
Of all the things he couldâve said. âCats,â you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesnât belong in a night like this. Like itâs too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.
Minho nods. âThree of them.â
You raise an eyebrowâwary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. âThree?â
âSoonie. Doongie. Dori,â he says. âThey're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.â His tone doesnât change. Still calm. Still flat. But thereâs something careful behind it. Like heâs offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesnât smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.
You nod. Just once. And somehow, thatâs enough.
His apartment is small. Not cramped, not coldâjust lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.
And the cats⌠the cats are waiting.
One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the placeâwhich, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like youâve personally offended him by existing.
You blink again.
âTheyâre boys,â Minho explains as he hangs his keys. âBut they act like little old ladies. Doriâs the mouthy one.â
The meowing continues. A chorus now. Youâre too stunned to respond at first. But thenâDoongie, maybe?âpads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like itâs his god-given right.
Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides itâs safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch downâslow, carefulâand let your fingers curl into his fur.
You donât even realize youâre crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didnât ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.
Minho doesnât say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind youâsetting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then⌠he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like youâre made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.
You stay curled there on the floor for a whileâknees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongieâs side like it might anchor you to something solid.
The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minhoâs presence without looking at him. He doesnât crowd you. Doesnât try to fix it. Just staysâclose enough that you donât feel alone, far enough that you donât feel trapped.
Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, heâs still thereâarms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.
âSorry,â you murmur, voice rough. âI didnât mean toâfall apart all over your cat.â
Minho shrugs. âHe probably liked it.â
You snort, exhausted. âHeâs purring.â
âDoongieâs kind of a slut for attention.â
You laughâa real one this time, hoarse and softâand drag your fingers through Doongieâs fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.
Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, heâs back, holding a folded bundle in his armsâwhat looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn itâs probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.
âShowerâs through there,â he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. âFirst door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.â
You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesnât tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.
The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. Itâs the first time all night you feel like youâre breathing in something clean. Like maybe thereâs still space in your skin for something that isnât fear.
You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.
And then you see it.
The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say itâs fine now.
You stare for a second. Because itâs not just that he made up the couch. Itâs that he didnât assume. Didnât point you toward his bed. Didnât insist. Didnât press. He just knew.
You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.
Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed downâblack joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. âYou good if I kill this?â
You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesnât say goodnight. Doesnât do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.
And for a moment, you let him go.
For a moment, you think itâs fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skinânot loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.
You sit up. âMinho?â
A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. Heâs already halfway back into the living room when he says, âYeah?â
Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. âCan you stay?â
He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tellâhe knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows itâs not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. Itâs about safety. Itâs about knowing the world canât get to you if heâs there. He doesnât ask questions. Doesnât make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.
The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneathâclinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.
You donât mean to stare.
But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoralâblack lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.
Minho doesnât notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe heâs just too tiredâor too graciousâto call you on it.
He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.
You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quietâstill. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You donât sleep. You canât. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.
So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesnât look away. You donât flinch.
âDidnât know you had a tattoo,â you whisper.
He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. âMm.â
His gaze flicks down brieflyâto where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. Thereâs no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. âWanna see it?â
The question isnât loaded. Itâs not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.
The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chestâblack ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isnât a compass. Itâs a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wingâfractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like itâs alive beneath his skin.
You stare.
Not because itâs beautifulâthough it isâbut because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.
Your hand moves before you can stop it.
Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you donât meet resistance, you touch him.
Just a single point at firstâyour fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.
Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like youâre learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesnât move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like youâre holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavyâdense with something neither of you are ready to name.
When your finger glides over the highest peakâinked mountain just above his heartâhis head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesnât bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quietâlike his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.
His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open againâslow, measured. He looks at you like youâve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like heâs seen too many things break when touched too fast.
He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jawâlight enough to be mistaken for air. He doesnât go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.
You donât give it.
So he shiftsâjust slightlyâuntil his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like heâs afraid to hurt you, like he doesnât know how to hold something unless heâs sure it wonât shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.
âFuckerâs lucky I wasnât there,â he murmurs.
You inhaleâslow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like itâs thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minhoâs hand starts to pull back. And maybe thatâs why you speak. Maybe thatâs why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.
âSo,â you say, voice barely above a whisper, âthat tattoo.â
Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what youâre doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anywayâlets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.
âWhat about it?â he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.
âThe wing,â you say after a beat. âIn the center. Whatâs it mean?â
Heâs quiet for a second.
Then: âFreedom.â
You blink. âItâs broken.â
His mouth quirksâbarely a smile, not quite bitter. âYeah. It usually is.â
You donât know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just havenât read all the pages yet.
Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.
âYou can ask,â he says softly.
âAbout the tattoo?â
âAbout anything.â
You humâsoft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. Youâre tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.
âThat sounds dangerous.â
Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.
"Maybe.â
Your gaze slips to his againâhis eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.
You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because itâs there. Because it feels like the thing to do.
Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shiftsâjust slightlyâso his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.
Itâs not a kiss. Itâs not a confession.
But it feels like both.
You donât speak for a while. Donât need to.
The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.
Minho doesnât move. Doesnât breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor thereâyour hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.
But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:
âYou have a nice voice.â
You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.
âYeah?â he says, and itâs quieter than anything else heâs said tonightârough around the edges like he doesnât quite know what to do with the compliment.
You nod against the pillow. âMhm.â
Thereâs a beat.
âYouâve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.â
A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. âHave I?â
He huffs a breathânot quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.
âDonât play innocent,â he murmurs. âYou remember.â
You do.
Of course you do.
Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.
You remember all of them.
But youâre tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled nowâfaded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.
So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. âThey didnât sound fucked-up at the time.â
Minhoâs quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.
You can feel it in the space between your bodiesâhow the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you havenât said and the things you probably never will.
âThatâs the problem,â he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it.Â
Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easyâhalf-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.
You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like heâs caught between restraint and regret. Heâs not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe itâll answer for him this time.
âYou say that like youâre proud of it,â you murmur.
He doesnât smile. Doesnât smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.
âNo,â he says. âI say it like I donât know how to stop.â
That hurts in a way you didnât expect. Not because of what he saidâbut because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.
You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.
âYou donât have to stop,â you say quietly. âJust donât lie about what you mean.â
That gets him.
His gaze flicks to yoursâfast, sharp. Like he wasnât expecting that. Like no oneâs ever said it to him quite like that before.
âI never lied,â he says.
You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. âNo. But you hide.â
Minho doesnât answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.
And then, almost too soft to hear:
âI donât want to scare you.â
That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.
âYou donât.â
Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.
âNot yet.â
You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone nowânothing but a breath. âI think Iâm harder to scare than you think.â
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.
âYeah,â he murmurs, âIâm starting to believe that.â
The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.
You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of himâhis hand, his presence, his voiceâpress into all the places that still feel fragile.
âDonât stop talking,â you whisper.
He blinks. âWhat?â
âYour voice,â you murmur, already half gone. âItâs nice. It helps.â
And when you drift off like thatâquiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of himâMinho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.
Still talking.
Just in case you can still hear him.
You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savoryâgarlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.
For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.
Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.
The club. The hands. The words.
The running.
And thenâMinho.
His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. Thereâs music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.
You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. Heâs at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. Thereâs a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.
He doesnât turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, âMorninâ.â
His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.
You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothesâhis hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.
âYou didnât have toââ
âMaking breakfast,â he says, cutting you off with casual finality. âYou still eat, right?â
You blink. âI⌠yeah.â
âGood.â He turns back to the pan. âThen sit.â
You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.
He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.
When he does speak again, his voice is softer.
âYou donât have to go back.â
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.
âWhat?â
Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.
âIâm serious. If you donât feel safe thereâŚâ He trails off, jaw tensing. âStay here.â
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
He doesnât let the silence stretch far.
âIâve got room,â he adds. âCats already like you. You donât snore.â
That last part earns the smallest smile from you. âYou donât know that.â
âI was up half the night,â he says, mouth twitching. âIâd know.â
You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like thatâll somehow buy you time to think. But the wordsâstay hereâtheyâve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.
And terrifying.
âI donât want to be a burden,â you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, youâll ruin the softness of it all.
Minho sets his fork down.
The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, heâs watching you again. Really watchingâlike he does when heâs about to say something thatâll cut deeper than you expect.
âYouâre not.â
Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldnât be questioned.
You want to believe him.
You almost do.
But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharperâpulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling thatâs bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.
But Minho doesnât let you.
He moves around the counter slowly, like heâs trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin againâfingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.
âLet me see.â
You donât pull away.
You donât want to.
His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom thatâs bloomed overnight. His brow furrowsânot in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury heâs learned how to wear like armor.
His voice is low when it comes.
âI hate that he touched you.â
You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.
âI hate that I didnât find you first.â
That hits you harder than it should.
You try to speakâbut your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.
Minho doesnât let goânot yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. Youâre not sure if he realizes how close heâs gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.
âI want you to stay,â he says again, steady now. âNot because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.â
Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.
His thumb moves againâjust a gentle stroke along your jaw.
âSay something,â he murmurs.
You breathe in once, shaky and thin. âOkay.â
The corners of his mouth pullâslow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.
He lets your face go with that same careâlike heâs afraid itâll leave a mark if heâs not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didnât just hand you the softest kind of shelter.
You take another bite of your eggs.
They taste better than they should.
You donât move in all at once.
Thereâs no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of thingsâyour toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you donât remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morningâlow, rough, coffee-lacedâand ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking youâre asleep.
You never are.
The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.
Minho doesnât comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like itâs never been separate.
And youâyou watch him fall into it as easy as breath.
He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways youâve never been used to. Thereâs no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, itâs because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, itâs because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, itâs because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.
One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. Youâre curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps insideâshoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to himâyou donât say anything at first.
Just watch him.
He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like heâs not sure how to be here yet.
Then he grabs the pack from the counter.
You sit up.
âMinho.â
He pauses. Doesnât look at you.
You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.
âYou said you were trying to quit.â
âI am.â
âYouâre also lighting a cigarette at midnight.â
He exhales through his nose. Tired. âRough night.â
You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.
âWant to talk about it?â you ask softly.
âNo,â he says.
Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.
Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motionâtwo fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.
You wrap your arms around yourself.
He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like itâs part of his skin.
You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.
But you hate more that you canât reach him.
âWas it something at the bar?â
His lips twitch. He doesnât answer.
You step closer, voice gentler now. âYou donât have to carry it alone, you know.â
âIâm not,â he says. Still not looking at you. âIâm carrying it just fine.â
You frown.
âMinhoââ
âI said Iâm fine,â he snaps.
And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you thenâeyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.
The silence that follows is cold.
You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. âOkay.â
Minhoâs jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesnât know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.
He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.
Then, quieter: âItâs not you.â
âI know.â
He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like heâs trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at youâreally looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.
His voice breaks a little on the next part.
âHad a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those typesâsmiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.â
You say nothing. Just listen.
Minho swallows. âHe called me a cockblock. Said I mustâve been jealous.â His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. âSaid I looked like the kind of guy who watches.â
You donât interrupt.
âHe grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldnât let go."
The words hang there. Not just what heâs sayingâbut why heâs saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.
You walk the last few feet.
He doesnât stop you this time.
Your hand finds his wristâwarm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.
âYouâre not that kind of man.â
âI know,â he says. âBut I wanted to be.â
That makes you pause.
He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.
âI wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?â A breathless laugh. âI wouldâve enjoyed it.â
âI know,â you whisper. âBut you didnât.â
âYeah, well. Doesnât mean I didnât want to.â
You squeeze his hand.
Itâs quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.
He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.
Then, suddenly: âHe looked at her the same wayââ
He stops himself. His jaw locks.
You swallow.
He doesnât need to finish the sentence. You know.
And he knows you know.
So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him inâsmoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.
âCome to bed,â you murmur.
He doesn't move.
You tug on his hand again. âPlease.â
Minho glances at youâeyes a little too tired, a little too darkâbut he lets you guide him.
He doesnât say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest againâthe wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.
You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.
But when you settle under the blanket, heâs already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.
Heâs quiet for a long time. And then:
âI hate that I couldnât stop it. What happened to you.â
You close your eyes.
His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.
âI think about it more than I should,â he murmurs. âWhat Iâd do if I saw him again.â
You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differentlyâlike your movement catches him off guard, like he wasnât expecting you to respond. But you donât turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.
âWhat would you do?â
Thereâs a beat of silence.
Then another.
His breath ghosts across your shoulder. âDonât ask me that.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause Iâd scare you.â
His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like heâs spent all night filing it down.
You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind youâwarm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.
âTell me anyway,â you whisper.
He doesnât move.
Doesnât exhale.
And just when you think he might pretend he didnât hear you, Minho speaks.
âIâd wait,â he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. âWouldnât say anything. Wouldnât warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.â
Your breath catches.
His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.
âThen Iâd take his hand,â Minho murmurs, âthe one he used on you, and Iâd break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.â
A chill snakes down your spine.
Not fear.
Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you werenât allowed to say out loud. That it wasnât okay. That it would never be okay.
âAnd when he screamed,â Minho continues, voice almost tender now, âI wouldnât stop. Iâd make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.â
You turn in his arms.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Face to face now.
His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because heâs violent. But because heâs loyal. Because he means every word and thereâs no drama in his voiceâjust truth. Cold and clean.
You reach for him without thinking.
Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like youâre trying to soothe something in himâor maybe in yourself. And Minho⌠he doesnât flinch. He doesnât soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasnât stopped ringing.
âYou wouldnât scare me,â you whisper.
His brow twitches, just slightly. âYou should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.â
âNo.â You shake your head. âIâve been scared before. Youâre not that kind of man.â
His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shiftsâsomething cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.
âYou donât know what Iâd do,â he murmurs.
You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.
âI donât need to,â you whisper. âI know what youâve already done.â
His brow furrows, but you go onâsoft and steady, the words falling between you like theyâve been waiting for a place to land.
âYou made space. You listened. You held me when I couldnât hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.â Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. âThatâs enough. Thatâs more than anyone else ever did.â
Minhoâs eyes darkenânot with lustâbut with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.
His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like heâs checking for something he missed.
âI donât deserve that,â he says, voice raw.
âMaybe not,â you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. âBut you have it.â
And thatâs what breaks him.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just enough to make him move.
Minho kisses you like heâs falling. Like heâs been holding himself upright for so long, he doesnât remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and thereâs no hesitation in itâonly heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.
You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesnât crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.
He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.
His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests thereâstill beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worseâwaiting for you to pull away.
You donât.
Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You donât break eye contact. Donât speak.
You just offer.
And Minho accepts.
He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like youâre made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.
His voice is wrecked when he says itâyour name, cracked and reverent like heâs saying it for the first time. Like itâs a word he isnât worthy of.
âFuck, look at you.â His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like heâs trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nippleâno restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he canât help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like heâs already losing it. âIâm not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.â
You smileâlazy, wrecked, already warm all overâand tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. âIâm not looking at you like anything,â you whisper.
Minhoâs breath stuttersâone of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesnât believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like thatâhalf-lidded, dark, shining with something heâs not sure he deserves.
âYeah,â he mutters, voice rough. âKeep lying to me.â
But he doesnât pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like youâre not sure yetâlike he has any say in it anymore.
Minho goes still. Not because he doesnât want it. God, he does. Heâs so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But thereâs something in his faceâtightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarboneâsoft, reverentâand whisper, âLet me.â
Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.
âJesus,â you murmur, fingers curling around the base. âYouâre so hardâŚâ
âBecause of you,â he rasps. âYou lying, teasing little thingââ
You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.
You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through youâlow and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like heâs on the verge of snapping.
âYouâre shaking,â you whisper, almost teasing. âWhat happened to all that control?â
Minho laughsâjust barely. Just a breath.
âKeep talking like that,â he mutters, âand Iâll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.â
But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. âHahâfuckââ Heâs panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs somethingâanythingâto hold onto.
You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.
âYou gonna beg for it?â
He freezes. His eyes snap open, and thereâs something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.
âDo you want me to?â he whispers.
You smile, smug and slow. âWouldnât hate it.â
He groansâdeep, guttural, wreckedâand it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you donât.
âIâd get on my fucking knees if you told me to,â he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. âIâd crawl. Iâd beg. Iâd say pleaseâis that what you want?â
You donât answer. You just stroke him againâslow, tight, deliberateâand feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.
âMmâ baby, slow downâfuckââ He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.
âIâll give it to you,â he murmurs. âAnything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.â
You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. âI think I like you pathetic.â
Minho groansââFuck, youâre evil,ââbut he doesnât pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.
You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.
âShitâdonâtâf-fuckââ
âYou gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?â you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. âGonna come like this? Without even being inside me?â
He growls. âNo.â
You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. âNo?â
Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. Heâs trying so fucking hard not to lose it.
âIâm not coming until Iâm inside you,â he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. âUntil Iâm fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?â
He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. âIâd beg for the chance to do it right.â
You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.
âThen beg.â He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.
âPlease.â
Just one wordâbut fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like itâs scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.
âPlease, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.â
You exhale shakily.
He presses another kiss higher. âLet me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.â
Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nodâbarely, breathlessâhe tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.
Minho drags your underwear down your legs like itâs the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something heâs been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. Youâre already soaked.
He sees itâfeels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless âfuck me.â His knuckles tremble.
He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesnât falterânot even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.
âFuck me,â he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.
âLook at you,â he mutters, like he canât help it. âSo wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?â
Youâre panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like youâre something sacred and ruined all at once.
âTouch me,â you whisper. âPlease.â
Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth strokeâslow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like itâs something holy.
âSo fucking tight,â he grits out, voice wrecked. âHow the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if youâre already this tight around my fingers?â
The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groansâlong, drawn out, wrecked.
âOh, you like that,â he breathes. âYou want me to stretch you open, donât you?â
Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than wordâyour hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like heâs the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.
âFuck,â he hisses, and then heâs lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds onceâslow, deliberateâletting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.
âJesusângh, fuckâyouâre tight,â he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. âGonna ruin me.â
He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like itâs been caged in his throat for weeks.
You cry outâsharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.
âMinhoââ
âShh,â he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like heâs trying to etch himself into them. âYou can take it. I know you can. Look at youâfuckâmade for this.â
The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like heâs afraid youâll slip away if he doesnât keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayerâwrecked, endless, real.
âJust like that,â he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. âLet me fuck it into youâlet me make you feel me.â
But thenâ Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you againâslower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.
He fucks into you slow, deepâeach thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. Youâre clinging to him nowâarms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says itâlow, ragged, right in your ear.
âFeel good?â
You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless âYes.â
He humsâa soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. âYeah?â he pants. âHow good? Tell me."
You tryâbut your voice catches. Itâs just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: âSoâfuckâso goodâŚâ
And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lipsâmessy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, âThat all youâve got for me, baby?â
You dig your nails inâfuck him, he knows what heâs doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there
You whimper his nameâsoft, ruinedâlike itâs the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.
âGod, you feelââ he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. âYou feel so fucking good, baby. Youâre so tight, so warm, youâfuck, you ruin me.â
Another thrustâslow, deep, devastatingâand your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.
âIâshitâI think Iâm in love with you.â
It slips out like a sin. Like he didnât mean to say it out loud. Like he couldnât hold it in one second longer.
Your whole body goes still beneath himâjust for a moment. Like your brainâs catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.
And then you whisper, broken and trembling: âSay it again.â
Minho doesnât hesitate this time. âI love you.â
He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.
âI fucking love you,â he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.
âYou hear me? Youâre not just someone I fuck, youâreâgod, youâre everything.â
Your lips partâwords rising up like breath, like instinctâbut you donât get the chance.
Minho kisses you before you can speak.
Not soft. Not tentative. Itâs all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like heâs been starving for itâlike heâs still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.
You gasp into him, and he drinks it downâtongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.
And then itâs all friction.
The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it nowâlike every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.
âM-MinâhahâMinhoââ
He pulls back just long enough to look at youâjust long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.
âYouâre mine,â he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. âYou hear me? Say it.â
You nod, broken. âYoursâfuck, Iâm yoursââ
And thatâs all he needed.
He groansâloud, gutturalâand buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and youâre barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.
Youâre both so close. So close.
And when you come againâtight and soaked and shaking all around himâhe feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he canât hold back anymore.
He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.
âI love youâfuckâI love you, I love youââ
Itâs not gentle when he comes.
Itâs everything.
And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesnât let you speak.
Not yet.
He just kisses you.
And kisses you.
And kisses you.
You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seemsâcool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tonguesâwhen he gets going, he doesnât stop. Not until youâre crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your bodyâs too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.
You lose track of how many times.
The night runs long and slow and moltenâfucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.
Now, the room is quiet again. Still.
Youâre sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvetâs been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.
Minho is goneâbut only for a second.
You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, heâs shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and heâs holding out a glass of water like itâs some sacred offering.
âDrink,â he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at firstâand then you see them.
The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel⌠Shy.
You didnât beforeâwhen his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didnât spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.
Minho sees. Of course he sees.
And he smiles.
That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesnât show teeth but somehow says everything.
âOh?â he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. âNow youâre shy?â
You donât answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anywayâdoesnât give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like heâs trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.
âI like the marks,â he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. âWish youâd left more.â
You blink at him. He just keeps goingâslow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he canât bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then heâs half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.
He tucks his face into your neck like itâs the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks againâlow, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.
âGonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.â
You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. âBecause of me?â
âMm.â He kisses your jaw. âUnless I want to get fired.â
You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."
âYeah,â Minho hums, lazy and amused. âBut people tip more when Iâm unmarked.â
The words slip out casual, offhandâlike a throwaway comment he doesnât mean anything by.
But your smile falters anyway.
Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.
You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You donât say anythingânot right awayâbut your silence says enough.
Minho stills.
Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.
âHey.â
You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.
âDoes it bother you?â he asks, tone low. Honest. âBecause Iâll quit.â
Your heart stutters.
âWhat?â
âI mean it.â His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. âIf you donât like itâme working there, people flirting, whateverâIâll quit. I donât give a fuck about the tips.â
You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.
âI only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But youââ His brow furrows. âYouâre not something Iâm willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.â
You swallow hard.
He watches you.
Your eyes search his faceâhis furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyesâand thereâs no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.
âIâd rather be yours than anyoneâs favorite bartender,â he says, quieter this time.
Your throat tightens.
And for a second, you canât speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jawâlike you might vanish if he lets go.
You whisper, âI donât want you to quit.â
He waits.
You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. âI just didnât like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.â
Minhoâs expression shiftsâbarely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.
âNo one else gets to,â he says simply. âNot anymore.â
You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. âYeah?â
âYeah.â He leans down, brushes his lips against yoursâso soft, so sure. âThey can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.â
Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.
And then he flops on top of you.
Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.
You laugh, startled. âMinho!â
âMmm,â he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. âToo early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.â
You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. âWe canât be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.â
He hums again. Doesnât move.
Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like heâs never been more at peace. âShhh,â he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. âYou love it.â
You do.
You really, really do.
You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretchesâsoft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.
Minho doesnât say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.
Eventually, you murmur, âYouâre not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?â
He snorts into your chest. âHell no.â
âGood,â you whisper.
He hums again, content. Almost purring.
Then, after a beat: âMight even go shirtless.â
You raise an eyebrow. âOh yeah?â
âMmhmm.â His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. âLet âem see everything. Let âem know Iâm taken. Ruined. Whipped.â
You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. âYouâre not whipped,â you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.
Minho doesnât move. Doesnât even lift his head.
âBabe,â he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, âI let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the juryâs in.â
Your face heats instantly. âOh my godââ
He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. âShouldâve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.â
âYouâre not serious.â
âIâm so serious.â He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. âCaption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.â
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. âYouâre insane.â
He chuckles. âIâm in love.â
The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casualâcomfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.
You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though thereâs nowhere left for him to go. âYouâre still insane,â you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.
âAnd youâre stuck with me.â
The truth of it rings out between youânot heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.
His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.
âGo to sleep,â he murmurs, already halfway there. âWe can fall in love more tomorrow.â
You close your eyes.
And you do.
Itâs been a few weeks.
A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeksâwhere everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.
Minho had asked you properlyâbooked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.
He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to askânot casually, not like it was assumedâif youâd be his girlfriend.
You said yes.
Of course you did.
And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.
And then it happens fast.
One moment, youâre walking up the blockâhands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.
[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like
[Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu
The barâs glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. Youâre already rehearsing the way youâll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill matâ
You werenât expecting him.
The ex.
Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought youâd buried for good.
And for a second, it startles you. Not because youâre afraidâno, not anymore. But because how dare he.
How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didnât matter. Like the scars he left didnât teach you how to fight.
You meet his stare.
Voice steady. âGet out of my way.â
âOh, now youâve got a mouth?â he slurs, taking a step forward. âWhat, dick that good it grew you a backbone?â
You don't flinch.
Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.
It doesn't.
"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."
But he doesn't. He laughs insteadâugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.
Now it just makes you angry.
âYou always thought you were better than me,â he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. âActing like you're some fucking saint now, just âcause you got a new dick to suckââ
You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots outâgrabbing your wrist, hard.
Too hard.
You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.
"Letâgo of meâ"
He doesn't.
His grip tightens.
âDonât fucking walk away from meââ
And then it happens in a blink.
A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.
Minho steps between you.
Calm.
Controlled.
Lethal.
Minhoâs voice is low. Measured.
âYou have until the count of three.â
Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. âThe fuck are you gonnaââ
âThree.â
No warning. No buildup.
Just violence.
Minhoâs fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumblesâoff-balance, stunnedâbut Minho doesnât let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.
Your ex hits the ground hard.
But Minhoâs not done.
He drops to one knee beside himâprecise, deliberateâand grabs his hand.
The hand he used on you.
You freeze, breath caught in your throat.
Because you remember.
âThen Iâd take his hand, the one he used on you, and Iâd break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.â
And nowâ
Now you watch it unfold in real time.
Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses downâhardâuntil your ex screams.
âNoâno, fuckâstopâ!â
Minhoâs grip doesnât waver.
He curls his fingers around one of your exâs.
âFirst one,â he muttersâalmost gently. Like heâs naming something, not destroying it.
Then he bends.
The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfiredâbrief and brutal and final.
Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minhoâs knee, but it doesnât matter. Minho doesnât move. Doesnât flinch.
Just shifts to the next finger.
âSecond.â
Another break. Another scream.
You donât look away.
You shouldâmaybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembersâremembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tileâthat part of you watches.
And breathes.
Minho leans closer.
Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.
âThird.â
Crack.
Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spitâheâs babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.
âStopâpleaseâI didnâtâfuck, I didnât meanââ
Minho grabs the fourth finger. âYou meant it every time.â
âFourth,â he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.
He pulls.
The snap is quieter this timeâdeeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no oneâs coming to save him.
Minho still hasnât raised his voice.
Hasnât needed to.
Because this isnât rage. It isnât revenge.
Itâs justice.
Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anywayâespecially because you survived them.
Minho shifts again.
âFifth.â
âNo,â your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he mustâve bitten through them. âNoâno more, Iâplease, please, Iââ
But Minhoâs hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.
And this time, he doesnât say anything.
He just looks at himâright in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.
Then he snaps it clean.
The sound is sickening.
The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.
âTouch her again,â Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, âand Iâll break your fucking spine next.â
And finallyâfinallyâMinho lets go.
He rises slowly, like heâs not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands donât healâthey answer.
He turns to you.
And all of itâthe sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spineâit bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.
He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.
And he moves to youânot with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.
âYou okay?â he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.
You nodâbut itâs shallow. Fragile.
So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.
âLook at me,â he says. âYouâre safe. Youâre safe now.â
a.n: I have a favorite hobby of disrespecting my beta reader đ¤đ¤ so here's another Chan drabble... Please send requests if you want other readers!! I want to write for the others!!!
Summary: you love to torture your boyfriend Chan and push him to his limits
Word Count: 2131
Warnings: SMUT MDNI 18+, ROUGH sex, anal, oral, unprotected sex (let's be smart y'all), bdsm, cock ring usage, creampies, multiple orgasms, m/f, m/m, dom!afab reader, sub!Chan, switch!Changbin, pet names, slight degradation, aftercare.... (I think I got everything...)
You had been at this for over an hour. Watching your poor boyfriend cum over and over. He had a ring around his cock and was rock hard despite having cum five times - once down your throat, once across your bare chest, and once in your pussy. The last two were dry orgasms but you knew he was holding out. He always had more cum for you, and three times was not enough to milk him dry.
Whether or not he was enjoying himself was questionable. He stopped talking a good bit ago. Now he just moans, whines, or mumbles incoherently. He was a mess all thanks to you. Tears fell down his cheeks, his lips glistening with your essence.Â
You had already come three times thanks to that expert tongue and big, beautiful nose of his. Even with his hands tied behind him, he could still please you just how you liked. It was impressive actuallyâŚ.
You climbed off of your boyfriend, pecking his lips before helping him off the bed.
âMoreâŚâ He pleaded - coherently this time - as his body trembled.Â
He was now standing in front of you in the spare room of your shared apartment. Untying him, you moved his arms to cuff them above his head. You locked his wrists in the cuffs connected to the chain dangling from the ceiling.
âMore?â you ask, tilting your head at him.
âYes please..â His glassy eyes were locked onto you. The stare was intense despite the obvious exhaustion. Sweat beaded his forehead and neck, dripping down his temples. And his face was flush as he panted.Â
âYou don't need a break?â you test him.Â
Will he break? No, of course not. Heâs too good for that.
âNoâŚjustâŚmore please!â He begged breathlessly.
âOkayâŚâ you shrug. âBinnie, you heard him. Your turn.â
Changbin, who had been watching the whole time as you played with your boyfriend, moved to stand. He had been stroking himself and already came once. But the sight of his hyung cumming over and over had him still so hard.Â
He stood behind Chan, lined up with Chan's entrance, and pushed himself inside. Chan was already stretched out from the dildo you had used to make him cum the second time. He secretly loved when you stretched him out, massaging his prostate just right. And you loved watching him crumble and break under your control.
Changbin pushed past the slight resistance and pounded him from behind. He was gripping his hips tight as he kept tempo despite Chanâs legs threatening to buckle underneath him. The stimulation felt good - so good - it was nearly too much. He could feel his orgasm building as he took every thick inch of his memberâs cock.
His own thick cock was still so hard, veiny and red-tipped. You watched in awe, circling the two. Chan was such a good boy and so eager to please you. When you told him about this fantasy of him being stretched by Changbin, he pushed aside his worries and agreed. You were elated and insisted that he talk to Changbin that night.
Two days later, and they finally had enough free time to play.
Groaning, he pulled against his restraints and moaned. Changbin grunted, the sound of skin smacking filling the room as you watched. Chan whined.
âWhatâs the matter, Channie?â You coo, stroking his cheek.
He leans into your touch. âNeed tâcum.â
âBinnie fucking you so good?â
âMmmâ he nodded weakly.
You smack him across the face. âWords.â
He winces. âYes, maâamâ
âGood.â you step back.
âLet me breed you. PleaseâŚâ Chan whined, raising his head to look at you.
âNo.â
âPleaseâŚâ the desperation in the way his voice cracked tugged at your heartstrings but you didnât cave. He knew better. No means no.
âBinnie, pull out.â you demand.
Changbin stutters, but reluctantly obeys. With a groan, he pulls out of Chanâs tight heat. He was close⌠Why does he have to suffer too?
âNo...â Chan whines, trying to clench and hold Changbin in place.
But it was no use. Changbin slipped out and stood out of reach.
âPleaseâŚ.y/nâŚâ Chan drops his head, tears pooling in his eyes.
âYouâre not listening, ChannieâŚâ You gesture Changbin over to you. âNow you get to watch Binnie breed me.â
Changbinâs cock twitches at the idea, eager to fill you up. You crawl on the bed and lay on your side, facing Chan. Changbin pushes your legs up towards your chest, kneeling at your bottom and lining up with your entrance. He buries himself inside you with a grunt and begins pounding into you.
Chan whines, hanging his head. The sound of skin smacking fills the room and you relish in the feel of Changbin stretching you out.
âEyes up, Channie. You have to watch.â you say.
He looks up with hooded eyes, trying to focus on you and watching as Changbin takes what should be his.Â
âFuckâŚIâm close.â Changbin grunts.
âThatâs it baby. Fill me up.â
âYeah? Want me to breed you?â
âPlease, Binnie.âÂ
A few thrusts later and Changbin is holding you flush with him as his cock twitches inside you, releasing globs of cum into your womb. He leans down, buried balls deep as he gropes your breasts. His hand slides down and begins to rub circles on your clit.
âMmmmâŚfuck Binnie.â you throw your head back as he continues.
Changbin slowly moves in and out of you, overstimulating himself as the coil inside you tightens and threatens to snap.Â
âCum for me darling.â Changbin says.Â
With that, you snap, coming hard around his cock and milking him dry. You could feel how full of cum you were as you caught your breath. Finally looking back over to Chan, you smirk as you see him biting his lip. He had tears in his eyes as his cock twitched beneath him.Â
There was cum dripping from his reddened tip, a little splatter on the floor beneath him. Changbin slipped out with a groan and fell back on the bed. You slip off the bed, doing your best to keep the cum from slipping out.
âChannieâŚâ you say, walking over to him
âIâm sorryâŚsorry..so sorryâŚâ he blurts out in a mumble.
âDid I say you could cum?â you cross your arms.
Chan whines.
You move swiftly, grabbing him by the balls harshly. âAnswer me.â
âNo.â he says with a wince. Sniffling, he shakes his head.
âNo, what?â
âNo maâam.â he takes a shaky breath.
You pull on the ring around his cock and he hisses.
âSince you want to cum so badâŚyouâre gonna cum over and over until I tell you to stop.â
âIâm sorryâŚ.â he says.
âNope. Too late. Binnie, bring me the vibrator. And some lube.â
Changbin moves swiftly, his cock fully hard once more. Chan sighs, worried about the rest of the night. It was already close to midnight. At least he thought so. Frankly, he was losing track of time with all the orgasms fogging his brain.
You step behind him, smacking his ass harshly. Five times in the same spot and you were seeing a red mark in the shape of your hand. His body started to shake as he grunted. His arms were hurting and he was tired of standing but he didnât complain - he was already in enough trouble.
You kneel down behind him, prodding his hole with your finger. He lets out a moan as you push two in.Â
âFuckâŚ.â he groans.
You curl your fingers to massage his prostate and he is seeing stars. He squirms against the restraints, too sensitive from all the orgasms. You motion for Changbin to use the vibrator so he turns it on and places it on Chan's cock.
âMmmmmâŚ.y/n,â he moans.
âCum for me, slut.â You demand.
âI canâtâŚâ he whines.
âYou wanted to cum so badlyâŚso come on. Give me another one.â you say, inserting three fingers.
Chan whines, pulling at the restraints.Â
âLetâs go, we donât have all night.â you say as if annoyed.
Taking the lube, you apply a little on your hand and push your whole fist inside.
Chanâs eyes pop open as he squirms. âAhhâŚfuck.â
âCum.â you demand, thrusting your hand in his tight hole.
With a grunt, Chanâs body shakes as an orgasm washes over him. Another dry orgasm. A little cum beads at his tip but thatâs all. You keep massaging his prostate, making him fight the restraints in efforts of getting away from your touch. Smirking, you slip your hand out.
âIs that all you got, hyung?â Changbin shakes his head.
âOh ChannieâŚI know you can do better than that.â you say, licking the bead from his tip. He shivers at your tongue and you take his entire length in your mouth.
âAhhâŚâ he squirms harder.
When you stop and stand up, his head drops, his body going slack. You loved him like this - all fucked out and barely there. He was probably one orgasm away from blacking out.
âSo sensitive.â you smile, lifting his head to look into his eyes.
He groans, mumbling incoherently as his eyes try to focus on you. It was pathetic really.
âOne more.â you say.
His brows furrowed as he whined, his eyes closing.Â
âBe a good boy for me, yeah?â
His lip pouts but he nods.
âChannieâŚâ you warn.
âYes maâam.â
âGood boy.â
Changbin moves behind him and slips inside once more. A pained whine escapes Chan. He was reaching his limit.
You watch as Changbin loses himself in the feel of Chan wrapped around him. He pounds into him, practically holding Chan up. Tears fall down Chanâs cheeks, the sensations too much.
âPleaseâŚâ he whines.
This is it. Heâs breaking. He made it farther than last time.
âNo.â you say. âChangbin isnât even done. And I saidâŚ.One. More.âÂ
You grip his chin and make him look at you. The sad, pitiful look on his face tugged at your heartstrings. But he never used the safeword. You doubt he ever wouldâŚ. So you stay strong.
Changbin lifts him by the hips, pounding into him as his feet no longer touch the floor. Chanâs back was more arched and Changbin was hitting deeper in this position. It also put more strain on Chanâs wrists, making him moan louder.
You knelt down, taking Chanâs cock into your mouth. Craving his taste, you suck and bob your head.
âAhhhâŚfuck..â Chanâs body trembles as the orgasm is being pulled from him.
âFuckâŚIâm gonna cum.â Changbin grunts.
You reach between Chanâs legs and massage Changbinâs balls, pushing him over the edge with a groan.
âFuck..â he hisses, cock twitching inside of Chan as he fills him up.
Chanâs eyes roll back as his own orgasm washes over him. His whole body was shaking violently. He moaned loudly, his cum hitting the back of your throat. You suck, milking him dry as his cock finally begins to soften.Â
His chest heaves as his eyes close. You stand and kiss his lips, a ghost of a smile appears before heâs truly gone.
âFuck.â Changbin says, wiping his forehead.Â
You reach up and undo the handcuffs, only for him to nearly fall on you. Changbin helps you carry him to the bed, laying him on his back. He spreads Chanâs legs, looking at the poor boyâs abused hole.Â
âLook at that.â Changbin smiles triumphantly as a glob of cum drips out. He takes his finger and pushes it back in, Chan squirming weakly.
You lay next to Chan, brushing his hair from his sweaty forehead. You pepper his face with kisses, loving how good he was for you - how much he trusted you.
âIâm gonna shower. Want to join me?â Changbin asks.
âYou go ahead. Iâm gonna wait for him to wake.â you say.
Changbin goes into the bathroom, insisting on cleaning you up before his shower. After he does, you lay on Chanâs chest for a bit until he finally comes to.Â
âHow you feeling?â you ask.
âSore.â he chuckles.
âToo much?â
âNope. Too good.â he smiles, kissing your forehead.
âWe should shower.â
âIn the morning. I canât move.â
âFine. At least let me clean you up.â You say, hurrying off into the bathroom.
You return with a warm washcloth and begin wiping him down. He jerks slightly, still sensitive from the shenanigans. You giggle when some of Changbinâs cum drips out. You push it back in, making him moan.
âY/nâŚâ he cautions.
âWell donât let it drip out.â you say.
You toss the washcloth into the hamper and snuggle back up with your boyfriend. It didnât take long for you both to fall asleep. You both would definitely be sleeping in the next morning.
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if you havenât read pt1 & pt2 please go read those first!
Summary:
Youâre just roommatesâbest friends, nothing more. But when you admit no man has ever made you cum, Minho and Jisung take it as a challenge. What starts as teasing turns into denial, control, and desperation as they make you beg for every touchâexcept the one thing you want most.
Content Warning:
Explicit sexual content, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, spanking, light humiliation, power dynamics, dominance/submission themes, possessiveness, psychological play, polyamory (m/m/f), bxb content, emotional manipulation in a sexual context, and intense teasing. All acts are fully consensual but heavily rooted in delayed gratification and power control.
His thumb brushes your lip.
And thenâ
He leans in.
Slow. Careful.
And finally kisses you.
Jisungâs lips brush yours like heâs afraid you might break.
Youâre still so close, tucked under Minhoâs shirt, curled into his side, fingers resting on the faint outline of ink across his ribs.
His hand holds your face now â cradling your cheek with such care it makes your chest ache. His thumb strokes slowly across your skin, grounding you. Silencing everything else.
And then?
He kisses you again.
This time fully.
Soft.
Real.
Thereâs no rush in it. No teeth, no tongue, no hunger.
Just his lips against yours â warm and gentle, like heâs giving you something sacred.
You breathe into it.
Melt into it.
One hand drifts up to his chest, fingers curling into the soft curve of his collarbone.
He tilts his head, deepening it just slightly â his nose brushing yours, his lips parting a little more now, not to devour, but to taste.
And you kiss him back.
Slow.
Long.
Each pass of his mouth over yours feels like the kind of thing people donât talk about out loud. Like something secret. Something quiet. Something⌠safe.
You sigh into him.
He kisses you again.
This one lingers longer.
He lets it drag.
Lets your bottom lip catch between his for just a second before pulling back â only to kiss you again, slower this time, like heâs memorizing you.
You feel his hand slip to your waist.
His thumb rubs soft circles under the hem of the shirt â his shirt now, technically â skin on skin, warm and lazy.
You hum into him, eyes closed, heart fluttering.
Then the kiss shifts.
Just slightly.
A little more pressure.
Your lips part more willingly now, and his tongue just barely flicks between â not enough to start something, but enough to remind you who he is.
Who you are.
Who youâve both been holding back from being.
His hand presses gently at the base of your spine now, pulling you a bit closer.
And you let him.
You kiss him deeper â slower â your fingers curling tighter into the fabric over his chest, your knee nudging between his legs without even realizing it.
He exhales shakily.
Pulls back just enough to whisper, âYou okay?â
You nod, lips brushing his as you speak. âMhm. Just donât stop.â
He smiles against your mouth.
And kisses you again.
Longer.
Softer.
Hotter.
The air between you thickens.
Youâre practically laying over him now, his leg slotted between yours, your hand resting just over his heart as it races against your palm.
Your mouth opens more for him, and he kisses you like heâs wanted to for hoursâlike heâs still afraid heâll have to stop, but canât help himself.
Your hips shift slightly, instinctively grinding down.
You both moan.
Quiet.
Soft.
Barely there.
But thenâ
Click.
The sound of the shower turning off breaks through the silence.
You freeze.
Both of you do.
Jisung blinks at you, lips swollen, cheeks pink.
Your chest rises and falls against his, your mouth still hovering close to his, still tingling from his warmth.
He swallows.
You whisper, âJust one kiss, huh?â
Jisung laughs breathlessly.
But neither of you move.
Not yet.
Because your lips still remember.
And so do his.
The second the water shuts off, itâs like your whole body forgets how to move.
Youâre still pressed against Jisung â your face tucked into his neck, his hand warm under the hem of Minhoâs shirt on your waist, both of you dazed and quiet.
Your lips are swollen.
His are too.
You blink.
Reality crashes back.
Jisung whispers first, voice low and tight, âShitâshitâokayââ
You scramble off of him, rolling onto your side and grabbing the edge of the comforter to pull over yourself like it could somehow hide the guilt.
Jisung shifts too, adjusting his position under the blanket, laying back and throwing an arm over his forehead like heâs always been relaxing.
You both try to breathe normal.
But the air between you still hums.
And thenâ
Footsteps.
Heavy. Confident. Getting closer.
The bedroom door creaks open.
Minho walks in, towel around his hips, damp hair pushed back, a few drops of water still trailing down his chest.
He stops just inside the doorway.
And looks.
At you.
At Jisung.
At the way the blanketâs a little too rumpled.
At your flushed cheeks.
At how Jisung wonât meet his eyes.
At how still you suddenly are.
He doesnât say anything for a second.
Just shuts the door behind him.
And smiles.
Slow. Dangerous. Knowing.
âWellâŚâ
His voice is deep and quiet, and it cuts right through you.
âDid you behave while I was gone?â
You donât answer right away.
Your heartâs pounding.
Jisung lets out a weak little breath that sounds like it wants to be a laugh but fails halfway through.
Minho walks closer.
You shift under the blanket, forcing yourself to sit up as casually as possible.
âI⌠yeah,â you lie softly.
Minho tilts his head. âYeah?â
He stops at the edge of the bed.
Leans down.
Face inches from yours.
âSo if I kiss you right nowâŚâ he murmurs, voice silk-wrapped steel. âI wonât taste anything Iâm not supposed to?â
Your stomach drops.
Jisung turns his face to the wall.
Minho smirks.
âThought so.â
Minhoâs face is so close itâs almost cruel.
His mouth is right there â the mouth youâve been chasing all night â and still, he doesnât give it to you.
Instead, he just looks at you.
âDid you kiss him?â
Your breath catches.
âIââ
Minho tilts his head, eyes narrowing. âYes or no?â
You fidget under his gaze, your fingers curling into the edge of the blanket. âItâit wasnât like thatââ
His brow lifts. âSo you did.â
You shake your head. âIâheânoââ
He lets out a low chuckle.
Itâs not funny.
Itâs dangerous.
Minho stands straight again, dragging one hand through his damp hair, still watching you like a cat watches a mouse trying to lie.
âYou really gonna sit there in my shirt,â he says slowly, âon my bed, after I let you ride my cock like thatâand lie to my face?â
You bite your lip.
âMinhoâŚâ
âSay it.â
His voice drops lower. Firmer. Unmovable.
âDid you kiss him?â
You glance toward Jisung, whoâs still turned slightly away, silent but clearly listening.
You clench the blanket tighter in your fists.
And you whisper, âYes.â
Minho hums. No surprise. No anger.
Just that fucking look.
âGood girl,â he says softly.
You blink.
But then he leans closer againâcloser than beforeâhis breath brushing your lips.
And stillâŚ
He doesnât kiss you.
You whimper. âMinhoâŚâ
He brushes his nose against yours. âWhat?â
Youâre squirming now, voice tight, body hot all over again. âItâs not fair.â
âMm?â
âIâve been so good,â you whisper, breath shaking. âYou said if I worked for itâif I earned itâplease, I just want oneâŚâ
Minho just watches you.
Thenâ
âDo you really think you deserve it?â
You nod frantically. âYes. Pleaseâ*pleaseâ*just oneââ
He leans in so close you feel his lips brush yours.
Then turns his head.
And kisses your cheek instead.
You let out a strangled sob of frustration. âMinhoâ!â
âYou kissed him first,â he murmurs against your skin. âNow you get to wait.â
Minhoâs breath ghosts over your cheek where he just kissed you.
Youâre still frozen, wide-eyed, lips parted like theyâre waitingâlike maybe if you donât move, heâll still change his mind and give it to you.
He doesnât.
You let out a soft, broken sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. âMinho⌠please.â
He doesnât pull back.
Just stays there. Inches away. His eyes flick down to your mouthâonce, slowlyâand then back up to your eyes.
âDonât cry,â he murmurs, brushing his thumb gently beneath your eye. âYou brought this on yourself.â
âI was good,â you whisper. âI did everything. I came when you told me to, I begged, Iââ
âYou also kissed someone else.â
You look down, voice crumbling. âBecause you wouldnât.â
Minho lets out a soft humâthoughtful, not angry. He brushes your hair back behind your ear and looks at you like heâs trying to decide what to do with you.
âI know what you want,â he says gently.
âThen give it to me,â you plead.
âI will,â he murmurs, fingers stroking under your jaw. âEventually.â
Your body deflatesâshoulders dropping, lips wobbling, tears still hot behind your eyes.
âYouâre cruel.â
He leans in again.
This time his mouth brushes just below your ear, lips barely grazing your skin.
âNo,â he says quietly. âIâm patient. You? You still need to learn.â
Your throat tightens as he shifts, sitting up straighter. He glances at Jisung, whoâs been silent but wide-eyed through the whole exchange, still laid back against the pillows.
âCome here,â Minho says, voice smooth again.
Jisung blinks. âMe?â
Minho nods. âSheâs been acting like sheâs starving. Let her watch while I remind you what a kiss feels like.â
And just like thatâ
Minho pulls Jisung in.
And kisses him.
Full.
Deep.
Jisung gasps against his mouth before melting into it instantly, their bodies sliding together under the sheets as their hands start to roam again. Itâs slower than before now, more deliberate, hotter, somehow more intimate.
You watch.
Frozen.
Soaked.
Eyes wide and aching.
Because once againâŚ
Itâs not you.
(to be continued maybeâŚ)
A/N: ok but like i kinda ran out of ideas on what to write after this⌠ngl so idk if i should end it on this cliffhanger or do another part. if i get some good ideas on how to continue from here maybe i will continue it đĽ¸
Youâre just roommatesâbest friends, nothing more. But when you admit no man has ever made you cum, Minho and Jisung take it as a challenge. What starts as teasing turns into denial, control, and desperation as they make you beg for every touchâexcept the one thing you want most.
Content Warning:
Explicit sexual content, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, spanking, light humiliation, power dynamics, dominance/submission themes, possessiveness, psychological play, polyamory (m/m/f), bxb content, emotional manipulation in a sexual context, and intense teasing. All acts are fully consensual but heavily rooted in delayed gratification and power control.
Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3
âThis Is Why We Canât Have Nice Thingsâ
You donât even flinch when a pillow smacks you dead in the face.
âYouâve paused this movie three times now,â Jisung groans from where heâs sprawled across the couch like a tired housecat. âAt this point we might as well just reenact it ourselves.â
âYou wanna play the role of âGuy Who Dies in the First Five Minutesâ?â you mutter, flinging popcorn at his forehead.
Minho snorts from the kitchen. âHeâd overact and cry for no reason. The director would kill him off faster.â
âExcuse you,â Jisung gasps, sitting up indignantly, his hair a disaster and his sweatpants even worse. âI am a natural-born thespian. Right, babe?â
You blink at him. âDonât call me babe.â
âYou let Minho call you babe,â he whines, pouting now. âThis is favoritism.â
âHe doesnât call me babe,â you say, just as Minho strolls in and casually drops into the seat next to you.
âBabe, you want the last can of cider?â he asks, already handing it to you.
You take it, muttering, âI hate both of you.â
Itâs always like this â loud, stupid, a little too close. No boundaries. No filters. Just the three of you, the weirdest little trio to ever share a rent bill.
Jisung throws his leg over yours without asking, warm skin brushing yours where your shorts ride up. Minho leans into your side like itâs the most natural thing in the world, arm slung lazily along the back of the couch. No part of this should feel abnormal. It never used to.
But then again, youâre pretty sure Minhoâs hand just grazed the top of your thigh when he shifted.
And youâre definitely not thinking about the way Jisungâs bare knee is pressed between yours, or how his voice goes lower when he talks like that.
You crack open the can and take a long sip.
Nope. Not thinking about it at all.
âMen Are Actually So Uselessâ
You shut the apartment door as quietly as you can, slipping your shoes off with a sigh. Itâs almost 1 a.m. Your date ended forty-five minutes ago, and youâve been walking off the frustration ever since.
Youâd shaved. Youâd worn perfume. Youâd even sat through two hours of small talk with a man who thought astrology was âgirl math.â And for what?
To get railed like a fleshlight and left hanging.
Pathetic.
Youâre halfway to your room when a voice calls out from the couch.
âWell, well, well. Look who finally decided to come home.â
You groan internally. Of course theyâre still up.
Minhoâs half-asleep on one end of the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, blanket up to his chin. Jisung is sitting cross-legged on the floor, munching on leftover dumplings and looking way too smug.
âDonât,â you warn, not even turning around.
âAw, come on,â Jisung says through a mouthful of rice. âHow was your date? Did he whine about the check or just show you his Spotify Wrapped?â
You pivot slowly, arms crossed. âHe came in under two minutes.â
Minho lifts his head. âLike⌠into the date?â
âNo,â you say flatly. âInto me.â
Jisung chokes on his food.
Thereâs a beat of stunned silence. Thenâ
âBro.â
âWhat the fuckââ
âAre you serious?â
You walk to the kitchen, ignoring their reactions, and grab a cold bottle of water. The twist of the cap feels like violence. âI shouldâve known when he asked if foreplay was like, optional.â
Minho groans. âOh my God.â
âHe literally said â and I quote â âI usually skip it unless itâs their birthday.ââ
Jisung drops his chopsticks like the dramatics he is. âMen are actually a crime. A war crime. I want names.â
You sit on the counter and take a swig of water, swinging your legs. âItâs fine. Iâm just gonna start pretending sex doesnât exist. Like birds.â
Minho narrows his eyes. âBirds do exist.â
âNot to me.â
Jisung stares at you for a second. âWait, are you telling me you didnât finish?â
âJisung.â You stare back, deadpan. âIâve never finished. Not from another person. I genuinely think the female orgasm is a myth. Like⌠Santa. Or straight men who actually eat pussy.â
Minho visibly winces.
âDonât look at me like that,â you snap, pointing at him. âTell me Iâm wrong.â
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Looks away.
Exactly.
Jisung throws his hands up. âNo, youâre right. Weâre hopeless. Iâve seen porn and I still donât know what the clit looks like.â
You snort. âItâs okay. Neither does anyone Iâve ever dated.â
Thereâs another pause. One of those loaded, too-quiet ones.
Then Minho mutters under his breath, âMaybe youâre just dating the wrong people.â
You blink.
Jisung slowly turns toward him, eyebrows raised.
âWhat was that?â you ask.
âNothing,â he says immediately. âForget it.â
But you donât. And neither does Jisung.
Because something about the way he said itâ
The quiet.
The certainty.
âmakes something in your chest stir.
Youâre still perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, water bottle in hand. The silence after Minhoâs little comment sits heavy in the air, even with the distant hum of the fridge and Jisungâs abandoned dumplings growing cold on the coffee table.
Then, casually â like heâs talking about the weather â Minho speaks again.
âIâve never left anyone high and dry.â
You raise an eyebrow. âExcuse me?â
âIâm just saying,â he shrugs, leaning back into the couch. âIâve never been that guy. They always finish. Every single time.â
You snort. âYeah. Okay.â
âIâm serious.â
âOh, I know youâre serious,â you say, sliding off the counter. âYou just sound dumb.â
Minho blinks. âWhy?â
âBecause they were acting, dumbass.â
His jaw twitches.
You wave your hand dramatically. âMoaning, shaking, saying your name like youâre the second coming of Christ? All fake. Peak performance. Women deserve Oscars.â
âI know the difference between fake and real.â
You laugh in his face. âOh my God.â
âI do.â
âNo, you donât.â
âYes, I do.â
Jisung raises a finger. âOkay, hold on. I always let the girl finish before me, tooââ
âYou think you do,â you say.
He stops mid-sentence, blinking. âWait. What if they faked it too?â
âExactly,â you mutter. âMen always assume theyâre Godâs gift toââ
âNo, no, no, donât do this to me,â Jisung says, pointing at his own heart. âI give effort. I go in with a strategy. I pace myself. Iâve got rhythm. I ask questions.â
Minho laughs into his blanket. âYou sound like youâre planning a heist.â
âThis is a heist. Stealing orgasms. Successfully.â Jisung looks at you, distressed. âWait, what if Iâm just mid?â
Minho wipes a tear of laughter from his eye. âDo they leave right away?â
âWhat?â
âThe girls youâre with. Do they get up and ghost right after, or do they cling? Text you later? Try to come back for more?â
Jisung pauses.
Thinks.
ââŚThey cling.â
Minho raises his brows, smug. âExactly.â
âSo⌠Iâm good?â
âYouâre welcome.â
Jisung looks weirdly proud of himself now, arms crossed and chin up like heâs just been knighted.
You just stare at them both, blinking slowly.
âThis is the dumbest conversation Iâve ever heard,â you mutter.
Minho turns his attention back to you, eyes lazy, voice casual. âI know when itâs real. Donât lump me in with your trash date.â
You open your mouth to say something. Maybe to argue. Maybe to mock.
But then you remember the way heâd said it the first timeâquiet, certain, calmâand the way heâs looking at you now.
And for some reasonâŚ
You say nothing at all.
âYou Two Are All Talkâ
Youâre sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by greasy takeout boxes, scattered shot glasses, and half-finished bottles of soju and beer. The air smells like sweet alcohol and fried food, and someone â probably Jisung â spilled peach soju on the remote, which means youâre now stuck watching a dating show that none of you care about.
The TVâs playing in the background, but youâre more focused on watching Jisung reenact one of the over-the-top breakup scenes using a piece of fried chicken as a microphone.
ââand then she goes, âI just feel like youâre not emotionally available,ââ he says in a fake high-pitched voice, holding the drumstick dramatically to his chest. âGirl, he ghosted his own mom! Of course heâs not available!â
Minhoâs snorting into his beer bottle, lounging on the couch with one arm thrown lazily behind his head.
Youâre sipping straight from a bottle of plum wine, blinking slowly. âStill more emotionally satisfying than my date.â
âOkay, we get it,â Jisung sighs, tossing the chicken bone onto a napkin. âYour sex lifeâs a horror movie. Weâve been hearing about this manâs 45-second sprint for days.â
âOh, please,â you scoff. âYou two act like youâre walking sex ed posters.â
Minho glances at you lazily. âBecause we are.â
You laugh â hard. âRight. You two probably watched one moaning compilation and decided youâre gifted by the gods.â
âI do my research!â Jisung insists, sitting up straighter. âI study. I prepare.â
âYeah? So youâre publishing a thesis now? âWomen Are Easy: A Straight Manâs Journey Through Delusionâ?â
Minho lifts his beer, grinning. âYouâre just mad because your date couldnât find the clit with GPS.â
You gesture at him with your wine. âPlease. You probably think the clit is a setting on a washing machine.â
âIâve had people shaking,â Minho says, smug.
âFrom disappointment?â
He smirks. âFrom pleasure, kitten.â
You groan. âStop calling me that.â
âShe looks like sheâs gonna throw something,â Jisung mutters.
âIâm fine,â you say sweetly, taking another long swig. âJust dying of secondhand embarrassment.â
âNever have I everâ
An hour later, Jisung announces shots like itâs a public service.
Thereâs a dangerous mix of bottles on the table â soju, tequila, beer, someoneâs emergency stash of rum Minho âaccidentallyâ found in your closet. Youâre all way past tipsy and deep into dangerously oversharing territory.
âI swear to God,â Jisung slurs, trying to stack the bottle caps like a tower, âif this one doesnât count, Iâm doing a truth round.â
You just laugh and refill your cup. âYouâre already three truths deep. Itâs called Never Have I Ever, not Tell All My Kinks and Cry About It.â
Minho raises his half-empty glass. âNever have I ever⌠had sex in a moving vehicle.â
You drink.
They both stare at you.
You shrug. âBackseat. Wasnât great. Windows fogged up. Whole Titanic reenactment. Zero payoff.â
Minho smirks. âYou really do have hidden talents, kitten.â
âI swear to God if you say that one more timeââ
âWhat? It suits you.â
âYouâre literally projecting a furry kink onto me.â
âNo, Iâm projecting cutie with claws energy onto you.â
You take another drink just to avoid screaming.
âOkay, okayâmy turn,â Jisung says, pointing dramatically. âNever have I ever⌠choked someone during sex.â
You and Minho both drink.
Jisung makes a noise. âWait, you?!â
You shrug. âIâve had a weird phase or two.â
âSheâs so mysterious,â Minho teases, leaning in. âWhat else donât we know?â
âThat I regret agreeing to this game.â
âLiar,â he says, grinning. âYou live for the drama.â
Jisung grins, drunk and delighted. âNever have I ever had a kink I was scared to tell someone.â
Minho drinks.
You raise your brow. âSpill.â
He just licks his lips and smiles. âWouldnât you like to know⌠kitten.â
You throw a napkin at his face. âGet a new personality.â
âIâm gonna get it printed on a t-shirt,â he says proudly.
âMake it two,â Jisung adds.
You groan.
Jisung turns to you, squinting. âOkay, what about you? Be real. Whatâs your weirdest kink?â
âI donât have one.â
Minho snorts. âLiar.â
âI donât!â
âYouâre too aggressive to be vanilla. I donât buy it.â
âI will fight both of you in the street.â
âIâd still call you kitten.â
âIâll put you in a headlock.â
âStill hot.â
You down the rest of your drink.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
â
The bottle of tequila is almost empty, which means the decisions being made now are⌠unsupervised at best.
Someone â probably you, but youâll deny it later â suggested switching to dares after Jisung confessed he once cried mid-blowjob because the girl played a Taylor Swift song in the background and it âunlocked a core memory.â
Thereâs no music anymore. Just laughter, slurred speech, and the occasional crash of something being knocked over as Minho tries to do yoga in jeans for a dare.
âIâm literallyââ he wheezes, stuck in a sad downward dog, ââso flexible.â
âYouâre gonna snap your spine,â you say, lying sideways on the couch, cheeks flushed from alcohol and laughter.
âYou love it,â he grins, not even getting up. âDonât act like you donât wanna see me in this position.â
âWhy are you like this?â
âBorn this way, kitten.â
âI swear to God.â
Jisung downs a shot. âAlright! My turn again. Truth or dare, baby girl?â
You throw a pillow at his face. âYou call me that again and Iâm putting your toothbrush in the toilet.â
He giggles. âDare it is.â
You groan. âFine. Hit me.â
Jisung lights up with pure evil. âI dare you to send a âyou up?â text to the last person you matched with.â
Your soul leaves your body. âAbsolutely not.â
Minho sits up with interest. âDo it.â
âIâm blocking both of you.â
Jisung leans in. âCome on, you said you wanted someone with actual experience, remember?â
âI also said I wanted to be hit by a bus.â
âSame vibe.â
You groan louder, but you grab your phone anyway. âIf I get ghosted or proposed to, itâs your fault.â
âI accept full responsibility,â Jisung says, raising his glass.
You fire off the message, toss your phone face-down, and collapse dramatically across Minhoâs lap, already regretting everything.
âOw,â he says, not even trying to push you off. âYouâre heavier than you look.â
âYouâre skinnier than your attitude,â you mutter into his thigh.
He just laughs, brushing a strand of hair off your face. âStill comfy though?â
You flip him off without looking.
âStill cute though,â he says, way too casually.
You groan. âDonât start.â
âDonât act like you donât love being called kitten.â
âI donât!â
âKeep lying to yourself, sweetheart.â
You dramatically slide off his lap and onto the floor like a melting popsicle. âIâm gonna actually lose it.â
âToo late,â Jisung says. âYou lost it three shots ago.â
You throw another pillow at him.
He throws one back.
Minho just watches, sipping his drink and smiling like heâs hosting a sitcom.
âAlright,â you say, slurring a little, âwhoâs next before I start throwing hands?â
âYou just went,â Minho smirks from the couch, legs spread, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. âItâs my turn.â
âOh no,â Jisung groans. âThis is how we die.â
Minho lifts his shot glass, looking far too pleased with himself. âJisung. I dare you to reenact the most dramatic porn line youâve ever heard.â
Jisung doesnât even blink. âChallenge accepted.â
He clears his throat like heâs prepping for a Shakespearean monologue.
Then, in the most unhinged, breathy voice youâve ever heard:
âDoctor⌠I think my clothes are allergic to me. They just keep falling off.â
You choke on your drink. Minho lets out an actual wheeze.
âNo, no waitââ Jisung holds up a hand, getting into position. âLet me set the scene.â
He kicks over a chair pretending itâs a hospital gurney and drops to one knee dramatically.
âOh no, step-sir⌠Iâm stuck. In my own feelings. For you.â
Youâre crying. Actually crying. There are tears in your eyes.
âStep-sir!?â you gasp between laughs. âI hate you so much!â
Minhoâs laughing so hard heâs gone silent.
âYouâre welcome,â Jisung says with a bow, then promptly stands up and starts grinding to the faint beat of a TikTok sound someone left playing on a loop.
âWhy does he dance like a drunk worm?â you mutter.
âHe is a drunk worm,â Minho replies, refilling his glass.
âYou love it!â Jisung yells mid-body roll, nearly falling over.
âI love you less every second.â
You all spiral again.
Once the laughter dies down and Jisung finally collapses into a heap, panting from his own twerk attempt, he raises his hand like heâs back in school.
âOkay. New round,â he says, breathing hard. âEveryone says their real kink. No lies.â
You groan. âThis again?â
Minho leans in. âYou scared, kitten?â
âYouâre obsessed with me.â
âTell me something I donât know.â
You flip him off but stay seated.
âFine,â Jisung says. âIâll go first. Praise kink. But likeâgenuine praise. Not condescending.â
Minho raises a brow. âYou want someone to pat your head and go âGood boy?ââ
Jisung shrugs. âIf the shoe fits.â
You snort into your glass.
Minho gestures at himself. âControl. Domination. Tying people up. Making them beg.â
You look at him. âYou sound too confident.â
âIâm not trying to impress anyone. I just know what I like.â
Everyone looks at you next.
You hesitate.
Then sigh. ââŚProbably power play. Like, being told what to do. But not in a creepy way.â
Minho smirks. âSo you do have a thing.â
You hold your drink up. âShut up and cheers me.â
He clinks glasses with you, looking way too smug.
You roll your eyes and look back at Jisung. âThat enough horny for you?â
He doesnât answer right away.
Then, quieter than expected, he asks:
âHave you ever actually felt⌠safe during sex?â
The room stills.
Like, really stills.
Even the soft music from your phone feels too loud all of a sudden.
You glance over. Minhoâs not smiling. Jisungâs staring at the floor. You donât say anything right away, because you donât know what to say.
And for the first time all night, it doesnât feel like a joke.
Just a very real, very honest question hanging in the air.
No one answers.
But no one laughs either.
And somehow, that feels like enough.
But then Jisung lets out a breath and laughs â not a bitter laugh, just a tired, tipsy one.
âShit,â he mutters, running a hand through his hair. âSorry. That was a buzzkill.â
You shake your head. âNah. Itâs valid.â
Minho finally speaks, voice low but easy. âAlright. Thatâs enough emotional intimacy for one night.â
You glance over at him. He stretches his arms above his head, his hoodie riding up slightly, revealing the sharp line of his waist.
He catches you looking and smirks. âUnless you wanna unpack your trauma some more, kitten.â
You groan. âIâll smother you with a couch cushion.â
âYouâd have to reach me first.â
Jisung raises his hand from where heâs lying like a corpse on the rug. âI vote we move this party to Minhoâs room.â
Minho blinks. âExcuse me?â
âYou have a big-ass bed and a TV. Your roomâs the final boss of sleepover vibes.â
âHeâs right,â you yawn. âYour mattress is practically luxury. My back still hurts from that Ikea piece of shit in my room.â
âWow,â Minho says, offended. âShe insults my kindness and wants to steal my bed. Incredible.â
âYou love us,â you say, already standing. âShut up and move.â
âFine,â he mutters, grabbing his phone and the last bottle. âBut if any of you hog the blanket, Iâm throwing hands.â
Ten minutes later, youâre all tangled up on Minhoâs bed â limbs draped across one another, the soft buzz of a random movie playing on the mounted TV. Itâs dark, but the screen casts a glow across the room, painting Jisungâs half-asleep face in soft blue light as he mumbles something about how good Minhoâs sheets smell.
âBecause I wash them like a civilized human,â Minho mutters, shifting so heâs not lying directly on someoneâs foot.
Youâre curled on your side, head half on a pillow, half on Minhoâs chest, too drunk and tired to move. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.
âIâm never going back to my room,â you mumble.
âSame,â Jisung adds, already half snoring.
Minhoâs voice is quiet but amused. âYouâre like stray cats. I let you in once and now you live here.â
You donât reply. Youâre too busy letting your eyelids fall shut, body warm, brain fuzzy, surrounded by the two people who somehow make everything feel a little easier â even the hard stuff.
And in that moment, with the movie humming softly and the bed full of slow, sleepy breathing, the world feels⌠safe.
Maybe not perfect.
But safe.
â
âToo Hot to Be Wingmannedâ
The apartment smells like toasted bagels, fabric softener, and regret.
You sit at the kitchen table, hair in a messy bun, oversized t-shirt barely covering your shorts, sipping the worldâs strongest coffee while Jisung pops Advil like candy.
âI donât remember falling asleep,â he mumbles, face buried in his arms.
âYou didnât,â Minho says, already fully dressed in sweatpants and a smug expression. âYou just faceplanted into my mattress and made dolphin noises until you passed out.â
âIâm a delight,â Jisung groans.
You stretch, sore but oddly content. âWell, that was the most fun Iâve had in weeks.â
âSee?â Jisung says, perking up. âAnd now we keep the energy going. Thereâs a party tonight.â
You blink. âYouâre kidding.â
âNope.â He downs the rest of his orange juice and slaps the counter. âWeâre going. Weâre getting dressed. Weâre finding someone to ruin your life for the weekend.â
Minho frowns. âWhy would we do that?â
âTo get her laid,â Jisung says proudly.
âIâm standing right here,â you deadpan.
âSorry, get her emotionally and physically fulfilled.â
Minho looks at you. âDo you actually want to go?â
You shrug. âWhy not?â
He raises an eyebrow. âBecause parties are loud, sweaty, and full of men who say âvibesâ unironically.â
You smirk. âSounds like your dating history.â
Jisung chokes on his bagel.
âFine,â Minho sighs. âBut I reserve the right to judge every person you talk to.â
âAnd I reserve the right to ignore you.â
One Hour Later:
âOkay, thoughts on this one?â you ask, stepping out of your room in a strappy red dress thatâs half the size of your confidence.
Minho looks up from the couch, squints. âToo⌠Valentineâs. Like youâre about to hand out chocolates and trauma.â
You scowl. âThatâs literally my personality.â
Jisung gives it a seven out of ten. âItâs giving accidentally slept with the DJ.â
âNext one,â you sigh.
They sit through six more dress changes â everything from âbored trophy wifeâ to âchurch girl who commits tax fraudâ â all met with critiques like:
âToo prom.â
âToo goth girl on her fifth rebirth.â
âToo nun, but like a bitter nun.â
âThat oneâs straight-up whore vibes â which, to be clear, I support.â
Finally, you step out in the final dress.
Jet black. Tight. Short.
Backless, clinging to your curves like it was made for you.
Your thigh tattoo â the bow on the back of your leg â peeks out with every step.
And your back tattoo trails upward from your lower spine, delicate and dark and sexy as hell, disappearing under the high collar and reappearing again at your nape.
You donât even speak. You just do a slow spin.
The room is silent.
Jisungâs mouth is open.
Minho blinks.
You raise an eyebrow. âWell?â
Minho swallows. âYouâre not wearing that.â
You smirk. âOh? Why not?â
He gestures vaguely. âBecause⌠itâs⌠a lot.â
âThatâs the point,â you say, admiring yourself in the mirror. âIf a manâs gonna ruin my night, he better at least be speechless first.â
Jisung finally exhales. âNo, but like⌠why does this feel illegal? I feel like Iâm watching something I need permission to see.â
Minhoâs still staring, brows furrowed. âI just thinkâmaybe you could wear a jacket.â
You laugh. âThe fact youâre malfunctioning means itâs the perfect pick.â
Jisungâs already getting his shoes. âWeâre so dead.â
Minho mutters something under his breath as you walk past to grab your lipstick.
It sounds suspiciously like âfuck meâ â but you pretend not to hear it.
âLook Hot, Regret Nothingâ
The partyâs already in full swing by the time the three of you walk through the door â bass thrumming in the floorboards, lights low and hazy, the scent of perfume, alcohol, and way too much cologne clouding the air.
Heads turn as you step in.
Not because youâre doing anything special.
Just existing.
Looking like that.
Jisung whistles low under his breath. âGoddamn, weâre not even ten feet in and people are already eyeing you like youâre a buffet.â
You shrug, pretending not to notice the way a few people pause mid-conversation to check you out. âGood. Iâm starving too.â
Minhoâs next to you, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. âThis place smells like frat boy sweat and bad decisions.â
âThatâs the vibe,â Jisung grins. âCome on, letâs find the drinks and a corner to watch the world burn.â
The three of you weave through the crowd â a tangle of neon lights and pulsing music, people dancing, bodies swaying too close, laughter rising like steam.
You make it to the makeshift bar, where Jisung immediately takes on the role of overenthusiastic bartender, pouring shots like youâre all 19 again.
âTo bad choices and worse men,â he says, handing you a glass.
You raise yours. âAnd to thighs that donât chafe.â
Minho reluctantly clinks his glass with yours. âAnd to someone trying to flirt with you so I can judge them relentlessly.â
You grin. âAw, you do care.â
âI just donât want to have to fight someone,â he mutters. âThese pants are too tight for kicking.â
You toss the shot back, and the burn in your throat barely registers â the musicâs too loud, the energy too electric, and you look too damn good to care.
And apparently, so does the guy walking up to you.
Heâs tall. Sharp jaw, smirky lips, a little too confident.
âHey,â he says smoothly. âSaw you walk in and had to come over before I lost my chance.â
You blink. Bold.
Minho, beside you, doesnât say anything. Just sips his drink. But you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.
âNameâs Theo,â the guy says, offering his hand. âYou look⌠dangerous.â
You raise a brow, taking his hand just long enough to keep it polite. âAnd you look like you use that line a lot.â
He laughs. âGuilty. But Iâm charming enough to get away with it, right?â
You open your mouth to respond, but Jisung beats you to it.
âSheâs got a low tolerance for bullshit,â he says, grinning wide. âBut if youâre lucky, she might let you buy her a drink before crushing your ego.â
Theo glances between you and your two best friends, then locks back onto you. âIs this the part where they give me a shovel and tell me to start digging my own grave?â
Minho finally speaks.
âNo. This is the part where we see how long you last before she figures out you donât know where the clit is.â
You nearly choke on your drink.
Theo laughs, a little less confident this time. âYouâre the protective type, huh?â
Minhoâs smile is cold. âNo. Iâm the honest type.â
You nudge him with your elbow, shooting him a look. âBe nice.â
âI am,â he says, deadpan. âThat was me being nice.â
Despite the tension, Theo stays â talking, flirting, clearly trying to impress. You humor him for a while, laughing at some jokes, sipping another drink, even swaying a little when the music gets good.
He leans in close when he talks. Too close.
His hand brushes your lower back once. You ignore it.
Minho doesnât.
Jisung, sensing the vibe shift, quickly drags Minho to the other side of the dance floor under the excuse of âbro I love this song,â giving you space.
You dance a little. Just enough to tease. Just enough to feel good.
But when Theo leans in, breath warm against your ear, and whispers, âWanna get out of here?â â you freeze.
You donât answer.
Because before you can even think of a reply, a hand curls around your wrist and pulls you back.
âNo,â Minho says, tone sharp. âIâm her reality check.â
Theo snorts. âYeah? And what reality is that?â
âThe one where sheâs too good for you, and youâre a ten-minute detour she wonât even remember tomorrow.â
You donât say anything.
Because you donât have to.
Theo holds your gaze for a beat longer, then shrugs and walks off without another word.
The music swells again.
You and Minho stand there in the middle of it â the lights, the noise, the crowd â and for once, he doesnât say something smug or sarcastic.
He just looks at you.
Like maybe heâs not entirely sure what just happened either.
You swallow.
âThanks,â you say, trying to keep it light. âFor cockblocking my one shot at mediocre disappointment.â
He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh.
âYou deserve better than that.â
And then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd before you can answer.
â
After Theo disappears into the crowd â bruised ego and all â you take a second to breathe, letting the music thrum through your veins and clear your head.
You spot Jisung dancing near the kitchen, doing some chaotic combination of body rolls and finger guns that should be illegal. You walk over, slide in beside him, and match his rhythm just enough to make him grin.
âThereâs my girl,â he yells over the music. âYou good?â
You nod. âMinho scared off my fan club.â
âTragic.â He leans closer. âBut also⌠not mad about it.â
You laugh, shake it off, and grab another drink. Jisung disappears toward the bar to flirt with someone wearing leather pants and absolutely no shame.
Youâre left standing near the edge of the dance floor when a girl approaches you.
Sheâs pretty. Glitter under her eyes, drink in hand, tipsy smile already half-formed.
âHey,â she says, swaying slightly. âSorry â I just have to ask. Are you, like⌠poly?â
You blink. âWhat?â
She giggles. âLike, are you dating both of them?â
You tilt your head. âBoth of who?â
She gestures vaguely toward the party. âYour two boyfriends. The tall chaotic one and the one with the resting murder face. Theyâve been glued to you all night.â
You pause.
Then it clicks.
Minho. Jisung.
She thinks⌠oh.
You stifle a laugh, glancing across the room where Jisung is now dramatically flipping his hair at someone and Minho is leaning against a wall like it personally offended him.
âOh,â you say, trying not to wheeze. âNo. Theyâre just my roommates.â
The girl blinks. âSeriously?â
You nod, sipping your drink.
She leans in conspiratorially. âGirl. I canât even find one man to text me back. Youâve got two hot ones wrapped around your finger like a romcom. Thatâs not fair.â
You smile. âWhat can I say? I cook frozen dumplings and never wear pants around the house.â
She stares for a beat. âYeah. Iâd fall in love with you too.â
You laugh out loud this time.
Hard.
But when she keeps looking at you like youâre the luckiest bitch on Earth, you just raise your cup and say, âYou know what? Sure. Theyâre both mine. Full-time emotional support boyfriends.â
She gasps. âIconic.â
You clink drinks with her, still grinning.
Because honestly? Explaining the chaos that is your friendship with Minho and Jisung would take too long.
And at this point?
Youâre not even gonna fix her.
â
You find them near the balcony, Jisung sipping a mixed drink thatâs definitely 90% sugar and 10% vodka, and Minho leaned against the railing like heâs about to deliver a monologue from a noir film.
They both look over as you walk up, still chuckling from your last conversation.
âWhatâs so funny?â Jisung asks.
You grin. âSome girl just came up to me and asked if I was poly.â
Minho raises an eyebrow. âBecause of us?â
You nod. âApparently Iâm dating both of you. She said she couldnât even get one man to text her back, and Iâve got two stuck to me like glue.â
Jisung beams. âWow. She gets it.â
Minho just groans. âThatâs it. Weâre changing our group chat name to âGay Boyfriends United.ââ
Youâre mid-sip when a voice interrupts you â confident, a little too loud, and already annoying.
âExcuse me,â a guy says, stepping in far too close. âI just had to sayâyou are absolutely gorgeous.â
You glance over.
Heâs tall. Overdressed. The kind of guy who thinks holding a drink in a wine glass makes him sophisticated.
âI mean, damn,â he says, eyes raking over you like youâre inventory. âFace, body, those tattoos⌠justâperfect.â
Minho straightens up behind you.
The guy keeps going. âI donât know how your two gay boyfriends are letting you walk around like this without putting a ring on it.â
You blink. âExcuse me?â
âCome on,â the guy smirks. âTheyâre obviously just your fashion advisors. Let me take you out sometimeâproperly. You deserve a real man.â
You donât even get the chance to respond.
Because Minho moves.
Slowly.
Calmly.
His hand finds your waist from behind, warm and solid, and he steps right up to your back. His head rests gently on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear as he speaks low.
âLetâs go home, babe.â
The word babe lands like a gunshot.
Your heart stutters. Your mouth goes dry.
The guy in front of you falters. Blinks. Then scoffs.
âSeriously? That guyâs not even into girls.â
Minho tightens his grip slightly. Doesnât say a word.
And thatâs when Jisung steps in, looping his arm around both you and Minho with a blinding smile that somehow doesnât reach his eyes.
âYeah,â Jisung says lightly. âWe were just about to leave. Werenât we, babe?â
Youâre completely frozen now.
Minhoâs breath is warm against your neck.
Jisungâs grin sharpens.
And both of them?
Staring this man down like theyâll bury him behind the venue without breaking a sweat.
The guy looks between the three of you â the way youâre pressed together, how theyâre practically wrapped around you like theyâre daring him to speak again.
He raises his hands in surrender. âYikes. Alright. Didnât realize it was that serious.â
He backs away, muttering something under his breath, and disappears into the crowd.
You donât move.
Minho doesnât move.
Jisung hums like nothing happened. âI really liked that drink too. Tragic.â
You blink. Slowly.
Minho leans in just a little more, voice low against your skin. âYou okay?â
You nod once, still stunned.
Jisung squeezes your arm. âWeâre gonna go home now. Youâre riding with us, yeah?â
You look between them, still pressed to both sides of your body like armor.
âYeah,â you say quietly.
Because at this point, what else can you say?
â
The car is quiet.
Minhoâs driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. Heâs focused â a little too focused â eyes forward, jaw tense. Jisungâs in the backseat, head tilted against the window, drunk and humming along to the low music playing on the stereo.
You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in your lap.
No oneâs spoken since you left the party.
Not about what happened.
Not about the guy.
Not about the way Minho pulled you into his arms like it was nothing, or the way Jisung clung to both of you like backup was already pre-planned.
You donât know what to say. Youâre not even sure what you should say.
So you just⌠stare out the window, watching the city pass in blurs of gold and red, neon signs flickering past like ghosts.
Finally, Jisung speaks.
âDo you think that guy moisturizes?â
Minho snorts. âDoubt it.â
You blink. âThatâs what youâre choosing to talk about?â
âHe looked dry,â Jisung murmurs, eyes still half-closed. âLike⌠emotionally. And epidermically.â
âEpidermically,â Minho repeats, deadpan.
You smile a little despite yourself.
Minho glances at you at a red light. âYou okay?â
You nod. âYeah. Just processing.â
He nods once. Doesnât press.
Jisung hums again. âYou looked hot, though. Like, actual hot. Like a problem.â
âThanks,â you mutter. âApparently too hot for gay boyfriends.â
That gets a laugh out of both of them.
Minho shakes his head, pulling into your buildingâs parking lot. âIf I hear that phrase one more time, Iâm committing a felony.â
â
Back at the apartment, you all peel off your shoes and jackets with the sluggishness of post-party fatigue. Jisung collapses dramatically onto the couch like heâs just been shot.
âIâm so tired,â he whines into the cushions. âMinho, carry me to bed.â
âIâd rather throw you out the window.â
You laugh, making your way to the kitchen for water. Minho joins you, grabbing a glass from the cabinet like itâs muscle memory.
For a second, itâs just the sound of water pouring and the low hum of the fridge.
Thenâ
âYou know you didnât have to do all that back there,â you say quietly.
Minho glances at you. âWhat, call you babe and hold you like a K-drama boyfriend?â
You snort. âExactly.â
âI was just playing the part,â he says, voice light. âDidnât wanna deal with that guyâs mouth for another five seconds.â
âSure,â you say, raising your glass. âOscar-worthy performance.â
He smirks. âYou liked it.â
âI blacked out.â
âLiar.â
Jisung yells from the couch, âIf anyoneâs Oscar-worthy, itâs me. I fully committed to the role of clingy gay boyfriend. I deserve a bouquet and maybe some champagne.â
âYouâre not getting shit,â Minho calls back.
âDiscrimination,â Jisung mutters.
You lean against the counter, sipping your water, feeling the tension finally starting to bleed out of your system.
Minho looks at you, serious for just a second. âHe was being a dick. I wasnât gonna stand there and let him talk to you like that.â
You stare at him.
He holds your gaze.
You nod once, softly. âThanks.â
He shrugs, reaching past you to grab a snack from the cabinet â like he didnât just melt your brain a few hours ago.
âAnytime, kitten.â
You groan. âI knew youâd bring it back.â
He grins. âDonât act like you donât miss it when I stop.â
You chuck your water bottle at him.
Another date night
It had started out fine.
Better than fine, even.
Youâd gotten dressed up â not too much skin this time, just enough confidence. He picked you up, took you to a quiet rooftop bar, ordered for you without being an asshole about it. He was funny. Charming. Flirty in a way that felt natural.
You laughed. You flirted back. You let yourself think, Maybe this time.
And when he leaned in and kissed you outside his place, hand on your waist, whispering something smooth against your skin â you didnât flinch. You let him lead you in.
And that was the mistake.
Because the moment things got physical⌠it all unraveled.
His kisses were messy â but not the good kind. All teeth and wetness, like he was trying to eat your mouth instead of kiss it. His hands were too fast, like he was skipping every chapter just to get to the end of the book.
When he finally got you to his bed, it wasnât sex.
It was⌠humping.
Thatâs the only word that came to mind.
Rhythmic, fast, mechanical. He didnât look at you, didnât touch you properly, didnât even notice that youâd gone completely silent halfway through.
And when it was over â when he collapsed beside you with a content sigh and tried to pull you into his arms like heâd done something worth celebrating â
You stood up and said, âI have to go.â
You dressed in silence, didnât bother with excuses, and left before he could ask if you wanted water.
â
By the time you get home, your skin is still buzzing â not with arousal, but with rage.
Minho and Jisung are on the couch, both in sweatpants, half-watching some dumb late-night cooking show. They pause when they hear the door open.
And they look at you.
Like they already know.
Minho cocks his head. âWell?â
You donât say anything.
You just kick your shoes off harder than necessary, walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, close it again without grabbing anything, and press both hands against the counter.
âYou okay?â Jisung asks gently.
Still nothing.
Minho sits up straighter. âBad?â
You laugh. Just once. A broken, humorless sound.
âWhy is it always me?â you ask, still facing the fridge. âLike⌠what the hell am I doing wrong?â
Neither of them says anything.
You turn, and they both see it â your eyes glassy, your voice shaking now.
âDo I have a sign on me that says âDonât worry about herâ? Like Iâm just⌠there to be used and thrown away?â You gesture vaguely. âItâs like none of them even try. Like I donât matter.â
âHey,â Minho says, standing now. âThatâs not true.â
âIsnât it?â you snap, voice rising. âI keep going on these dates. I try to give people chances. I try to have fun. And every single time I end up back here, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.â
Jisung walks toward you slowly, like youâre a wild animal about to bolt.
âThereâs nothing wrong with you,â he says softly.
You shake your head. âItâs pathetic. I literally had to fake moaning just to get it over with faster. I felt nothing. Nothing. Itâs like he wasnât even with me.â
âDid youââ
âNo,â you cut in. âOf course I didnât.â
Minhoâs jaw tenses.
You take a shaky breath. âI came home. Got in. Locked the door. Said hi to you guys. And now Iâm going straight to my room to do what he couldnât: make myself cum.â
Jisungâs eyes widen slightly.
Minho doesnât move.
You look between them. âWhat? You wanted honesty? There it is. Iâm tired. Iâm frustrated. And Iâm so fucking done pretending this doesnât bother me.â
And with that, you turn on your heel, walk down the hall, and shut your bedroom door.
Behind the door, itâs quiet.
Just you, your pounding heart, and the sound of your vibrator drawer sliding open.
â
Minho and Jisung stand in the living room, frozen in place, her words still echoing in the silence between them.
ââŚmake myself cum.â
Neither of them speaks.
Then, very faintlyâjust through the thin walls they all used to joke about when playing music too loudâcomes the sound.
A soft whimper.
Followed by another.
Then a quiet, breathy moan.
And another.
Jisungâs eyes widen. âOh my God.â
Minho doesnât say anything.
Not at first.
He just stares at the hallway, jaw clenched, lips parted, expression unreadable.
But then the sounds continue â more desperate now, sharper, her breaths catching like sheâs chasing it, needing it. Taking it. The kind of pleasure theyâve never seen her give anyone else.
The kind of pleasure no one else has ever deserved to give her.
And suddenly the silence between them is heavier than ever.
Hotter.
Jisung shifts slightly, hands twitching at his sides. âThatâs⌠sheâs reallyâŚâ
Minho finally speaks. Voice low. Dangerous.
âSheâs not faking this time.â
Jisung looks down.
Minho follows his gaze.
They both see it.
Hard.
Obvious.
Each of them, clearly affected.
Jisung swallows hard. âOkay⌠this is new.â
Minho doesnât move away.
Doesnât joke.
Just lifts one brow and lets his gaze flick from Jisungâs straining sweatpants to his flushed face and back again.
Then, calmly â like heâs talking about the weather:
âSo itâs not just her.â
Jisungâs voice is a little breathless. âNope.â
They stare at each other for a long second.
And then another moan cuts through the air â louder this time. Her voice raw, desperate, breaking as she gasps something unintelligible.
Minho exhales slowly. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip.
And then he smirks.
âStill think weâre all talk?â
Jisung doesnât answer.
Minho steps closer â just one step â his eyes gleaming, cocky, full of wicked confidence.
âShe thinks no man can make her cum,â he says, voice low, hungry. âThat no oneâs capable.â
He leans in just enough for Jisung to feel the heat of his breath.
âI say we prove her wrong.â
Jisung swallows. âWe?â
Minhoâs smirk widens.
âOh yeah,â he murmurs. âWe.â
He turns toward the hallway, voice dropping even lower.
âAnd I know just the way to prove it to her.â
The sounds from your bedroom have faded now â the vibrator long silenced â but the effect lingers.
The air is thick with tension, lust, and something darker.
Something heavier.
Jisung still stands frozen by the couch, hands clenched at his sides, face flushed to the tips of his ears. His chest rises and falls in short, unsteady breaths, his eyes flicking between the hallway and Minho like heâs stuck in the middle of a slow-burning fever.
Minho watches him.
Carefully.
Hungrily.
Then, he steps closer.
âYou hear the way she sounded?â he asks quietly. âThat wasnât fake. That was real.â
Jisung nods, throat tight. âYeah.â
âSheâs been chasing that feeling from every guy whoâs ever touched her.â
âYou think she deserves to keep begging for it?â
His fingers lift â featherlight â and ghost along the hem of Jisungâs shirt, just barely grazing the skin underneath.
Jisung shivers.
âN-no,â he says, voice catching.
Minho smiles.
âExactly.â
He lets his hand drift upward, knuckles grazing Jisungâs bare stomach, brushing just under his ribs â not enough to satisfy, just enough to taunt.
âYou want to help her, donât you?â
Jisung nods quickly. âPlease.â
Minhoâs hand trails slowly up to his chest, fingers dragging lightly over his shirt, then back down to his waistband.
His lips are close to Jisungâs ear now, breath warm, soft, intimate.
âWe take our time,â he murmurs. âNo rushing. No fucking her like a rabbit. No skipping the parts that make her moan like that.â
Jisung lets out a soft, helpless sound â somewhere between a whine and a whimper.
Minho grins.
âWe make her feel everything. We kiss her slow. We touch her like sheâs breakable. And when sheâs trembling? When sheâs begging?â
His fingers drift down, teasing the waistband of Jisungâs sweats.
âWe donât let her finish until she knows exactly who it was that finally made her cum.â
Jisung lets out a shaky breath, hips twitching forward instinctively, chasing contact. âMinhoâpleaseâŚâ
Minho pulls back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.
âYou too, huh?â
Jisung blushes deeper, his hand twitching toward his own waistband. âIâyeah. I needâŚâ
Minho hums.
âOh, I know what you need, baby.â
He dips his head lower, lips brushing against Jisungâs jaw now.
âBut you donât get it. Not yet.â
Jisung whines, softly. âPleaseâŚâ
Minho steps back, smug as ever, eyes dark.
âNot until we make her beg first.â
He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, tilts his head, and grins.
âThen maybe Iâll let you beg for me too.â
âSo This Is Warâ
It starts small.
You barely even notice it at first.
Minhoâs hand brushing your lower back every time he passes behind you.
Jisung leaning his head on your shoulder when youâre watching TV, his fingers just barely grazing your thigh.
A smirk. A wink. A joke that feels a little too heavy, a little too close to something more.
Theyâre not doing anything new, not really.
But somethingâs different.
And the worst part?
Theyâre suddenly everywhere.
Minho starts walking around shirtless.
Not unusual â but now he does it with his sweatpants slung so low on his hips you can see the sculpted V-cut leading down beneath the waistband. His body glows â pale, smooth skin, lean lines, strong forearms, chest defined enough to make you choke on your morning coffee.
He catches you looking. Every time.
âYou good?â he asks one day, when youâve been staring at his abs for way too long.
âPeachy,â you mutter, looking away fast.
But then Jisung joins in.
Except with him, itâs worse.
Because Jisungâs tan, tattooed, and stacked like he was carved from heat and sweat.
His chest is broad, arms thick, abs sharp â and the ink curling down his ribs only makes it worse. When he stretches? You can see the cut of every muscle down his sides, the way his sweatpants hug just right.
And he stretches a lot.
Especially in front of you.
âOh my God,â you whisper under your breath one day when he reaches up to grab a cup and his entire back flexes.
You donât think anyone hears.
But Minho smirks behind you.
You try to keep it together.
You really try.
But one day, youâre sitting on the couch and both of them â shirtless, in grey sweats â come in laughing about some inside joke, brushing past you to grab drinks from the kitchen, all tan skin and defined muscle and cocky grinsâ
âand your thighs squeeze together involuntarily.
Hard.
You suck in a breath and clench your fists in your lap, trying not to make a noise.
Itâs fine, you tell yourself. Itâs just the lack of sex. The drought. The desert. Itâs not them. Itâs me.
Itâs not just you.
And when you catch Minho watching you squirm?
You know it.
â
So the next day, you fight back.
You grab one of their shirts from the laundry â oversized, soft, smells like a mix of laundry sheets and masculine warmth â and wear it.
Just it.
No shorts.
No bra.
You walk into the kitchen like itâs nothing, yawning, pretending you donât notice the way the hem barely covers your ass.
Minho glances up from his cereal.
Freezes.
Jisung does a double take from the sink and nearly drops his mug.
You stretch, arms overhead. âMorning.â
They both respond at the same time.
âGood morning.â
âHoly shit.â
You smirk, turn around slowly to reach into the cabinet, letting the shirt ride up just enough to flash the curve of your thigh.
When you glance back, both of them are staring.
And neither says a word.
Because theyâre trying not to fold.
Theyâre trying to wait you out.
And all youâre thinking is:
Letâs see who breaks first.
âJust Watch the Movieâ
Minhoâs bed has always been the biggest, the comfiest, the default for group hangouts â but tonight? It feels more like a battlefield.
A slow, sticky, silk-and-skin battlefield.
The lights are off. The screen glows soft and blue, casting flickers across the walls as some random action movie plays â explosions and gunshots youâre not paying attention to at all.
Because youâre sandwiched between Minho and Jisung.
Again.
Only now?
Youâre in your favorite black silk nightgown. Thin straps, low neckline, barely brushing mid-thigh. Soft as sin.
Minhoâs wearing loose grey sweats, nothing else. His pale chest rises and falls slowly, one arm thrown behind his head like heâs not doing anything wrong.
Jisungâs in gym shorts, shirtless, golden skin on full display â broad chest, solid arms, side tattoo visible and staring at you like a dare.
Theyâd invited you in with matching smirks.
You shouldâve known.
It starts small.
Minho tugs the blanket over your legs, hand brushing up your bare thigh â casual, almost careless.
Jisung shifts beside you, leaning into your shoulder like heâs getting comfy, but his fingers trail lightly along your arm, then down to your wrist.
You try to focus.
You try.
But their hands keep moving.
Minhoâs fingers start stroking slow circles just above your knee, thumb dragging lazily over your skin like heâs petting a cat.
Jisung starts playing with the ends of your hair â gentle, rhythmic â his knuckles grazing your collarbone when he tucks a strand behind your ear.
Your pulse is pounding.
âComfortable?â Minho asks, voice low and warm.
âMmhm,â you manage, not sounding convincing in the slightest.
Jisung shifts again, this time letting his hand rest on your bare thigh â just resting, but warm, and big, and intentional.
You clench your jaw.
The movie plays on. You couldnât name a single character if someone paid you.
Minho leans closer, his mouth near your ear now. âYouâre really tense, kitten.â
You swallow hard. âJust⌠focused on the movie.â
Jisung chuckles against your shoulder. âYou sure? Youâre squirming.â
You turn your face, trying to glare, but Jisungâs grinning â full lips, hooded eyes, messy hair, and heâs so close you could count his lashes.
Minhoâs fingers trace the edge of your nightgown now, teasing the thin fabric, like heâs curious how far it rides up when you breathe deep.
You shift again, thighs pressing together, heat blooming low in your stomach.
They donât say anything.
But they know.
And worse?
You know they know.
Jisung presses a kiss to your shoulder â innocent, featherlight, like heâs not driving you insane.
Minho exhales a soft laugh, eyes glued to the screen but fingers sliding higher by the second.
And you?
Youâre trying to keep your breathing even.
Trying to keep your thighs still.
Trying not to melt into the sheets and moan out loud.
Because this is a game.
And youâre still trying to win.
âNot Gonna Breakâ
You donât know how much time has passed.
Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour.
The movie plays on â indistinct background noise, flickering shadows on the wall â but your brain hasnât registered a single frame. Not when Jisung is currently lying with his head pillowed on your chest, warm cheek against your collarbone, arm draped across your stomach like he belongs there.
And his handâŚ
Is on your thigh.
Massaging.
Not lazily. Not teasingly.
Expertly.
His palm kneads into the muscle with slow, soothing pressure, fingers spreading warmth through your entire leg as he works his way up and down your thigh like heâs really trying to help.
âYou keep tensing,â he murmurs against your chest. âYouâre all tight. Iâm gonna help, okay?â
Your breath catches, but you nod.
âMmhm,â you hum, barely holding it together.
He squeezes your thigh a little harder, just under the hem of your nightgown. His skin is so warm. His hands so big.
Focus on the movie.
Beside you, Minho shifts.
Heâs been quiet â too quiet â stretched out along your other side, one hand behind his head, the other still lazily resting just above your knee. But you feel his gaze now.
You feel it when it drops to your shoulder.
The one where the silky strap of your nightgown has slipped down â exposing the smooth curve of your skin, your collarbone, the faint outline of the top of your chest. You didnât even realize it had fallen.
But he did.
And now?
Minho lifts his hand.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Fingers brushing against your bare shoulder as he hooks the strap with his thumb, sliding it back into place.
He doesnât rush.
He lingers.
The backs of his fingers trail up your neck, grazing the edge of your jaw, the heat of his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.
You donât look at him.
You canât.
But your thighs press together again â instinctive, desperate â and Jisung notices.
He hums low against your chest. âStill tense, baby.â
Jisungâs thumb strokes along the inside of your thigh now.
Minhoâs fingers casually draw shapes on your shoulder.
And you?
Youâre overheating.
Youâre melting.
Youâre gripping the blanket in your lap so hard your knuckles ache.
Because you refuse to fold.
You refuse to moan.
And you refuse to let them win.
Not yet.
â
You woke up the next morning tangled in silk sheets, warm and still buzzing slightly from the night before.
Theyâd teased.
Theyâd touched.
Theyâd pushed.
But you?
You won.
You fell asleep between them like it was nothing â calm, composed, lips sealed shut even when your thighs were clenched so tightly it hurt.
Now, the living room is filled with sunlight and fake peace.
Youâre curled up on the couch with your phone, scrolling idly through your feed, coffee in hand. Trying to pretend the night before didnât exist.
Trying to pretend youâre unaffected.
Meanwhile, Minho and Jisung are standing across the room â sweaty, shirtless, freshly back from the gym â and so clearly up to something.
You hear it first in their voices.
The tone.
The deliberate lightness.
âI think I pulled something,â Jisung says, stretching dramatically, sweat glistening down his chest.
Minho smirks, slapping his shoulder. âThatâs because you never stretch before lifting. Amateur move.â
âYou were the one grunting through squats like a porn star.â
Minho shrugs. âI was lifting heavy. Donât be jealous.â
You glance up from your phone just in time to see Jisung walk behind Minho, arms snaking loosely around his waist in mock-affection.
âOh, Iâm so jealous,â he says, pressing his cheek dramatically to Minhoâs back. âYouâre just so strong and sweaty. Who wouldnât want you?â
Minho laughs low in his throat, hand covering Jisungâs where it rests on his stomach. âCareful, babe. Say that again and I might start thinking you mean it.â
You blink.
Stillness.
Theyâre not looking at you.
Theyâre fully focused on each other â too close, too flirty, too much.
Touching like theyâve done it a thousand times.
Comfortable. Warm. Intimate.
You swallow.
Your thighs press together.
Again.
Your brain protests. Theyâre your best friends. Theyâre messing with you. This is just a bitâ
But your body?
Your body is burning.
You donât even realize youâve been staring until Minho glances over â meets your eyes â and smirks.
âOh, morning,â he says, pulling away from Jisung just slightly. âWe were just talking about the gym. Got real hot in there.â
âSo hot,â Jisung agrees, stretching his arms behind his head, chest flexing, sweat still glistening along his collarbone. âDripping.â
You say nothing.
âActually,â Minho adds, grabbing a towel from the back of a chair and wiping his neck slowly, âwe should probably shower.â
Jisung nods. âYeah, especially if weâre going out later. Shopping, right?â
Minho turns to him. âYou go first?â
Jisung tilts his head, smiling. âWhy donât we just shower together?â
You choke on your coffee.
Minho raises an eyebrow. âTo save water?â
âYeah,â Jisung grins. âAnd time. We donât wanna keep her waiting.â
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Minho lets out a soft, thoughtful hum. âYouâre right. Itâs the responsible thing to do.â
They turn.
Walk toward the bathroom.
And just before disappearing down the hall, Minho glances over his shoulder.
âUnless youâd rather join us, kitten.â
You donât breathe.
The bathroom door clicks shut.
And youâre left on the couch, heart pounding, legs tight, coffee forgotten.
Minho didnât speak when they stepped into the bathroom together â didnât need to.
The silence between them said enough.
Jisung hesitated just slightly, fingers fumbling at the waistband of his gym shorts. Minho noticed, eyes gleaming. He stepped in close and reached down, his knuckles brushing lightly against Jisungâs hip as he curled his fingers under the fabric.
âIâve got it,â he murmured, voice low and smooth.
Jisungâs breath hitched.
Minho dragged the shorts down slowly, past the swell of his ass, down thick, toned thighs â letting his hands linger, teasing the skin just enough to make Jisung tremble. He peeled them off completely, gaze flicking up as Jisung stood completely bare in front of him.
âLook at you,â Minho said softly, almost like he was speaking to himself. âAlready flushed.â
Jisung swallowed, eyes wide. âIââ
âShower,â Minho interrupted, tugging off his own sweats and stepping into the water like it was nothing. âWe need to get clean.â
He didnât wait. Just reached for the soap, lathered it between his hands, and moved in behind Jisung.
The first touch made Jisung shiver â Minhoâs slick palms dragging slowly down his back, massaging the lather into his skin like he had all the time in the world.
Then lower.
Over his hips.
Around the front.
Minhoâs hands slid over Jisungâs chest, fingers pressing into the muscle, thumbs brushing his nipples before moving lower again.
Jisung bit his lip, thighs trembling.
Minho leaned in, lips ghosting his ear. âStill holding it together?â
Jisungâs head dropped back against Minhoâs shoulder, a soft whimper escaping. âNo. Minho, pleaseâkiss me, justâsomething.â
He turned without waiting.
Minho caught him, both hands gripping his waist now â and then their mouths met.
The kiss was messy. Desperate. Full of moans swallowed and lips bitten and Jisung pressing forward like he couldnât get close enough.
Minho groaned, hands sliding down to grab Jisungâs ass, squeezing tightly, dragging their hips together until their cocks brushed â hard, hot, aching for more.
Jisung gasped into the kiss.
Minho broke it only to kiss lower â trailing down his jaw, to his throat, then lower still, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of Jisungâs chest.
When he reached a nipple, he bit.
Jisung cried out, hand flying to Minhoâs hair.
Minho sucked harshly â then licked over it, soothing the sting before switching sides.
âFuckâMinhoâpleaseâdonât stopââ
His mouth moved with purpose now, kissing and sucking all over Jisungâs chest, hands roaming his sides, hips grinding into him with each flick of tongue.
Jisungâs body was shaking.
Every moan echoed in the tile and steam.
Every breath sounded like begging.
And when Minho finally pulled back, lips red, eyes dark, Jisung looked ruined.
âNeedy little thing,â Minho whispered, brushing hair from his face. âYouâre gonna come undone before we even get started.â
Minhoâs gaze swept over Jisung like fire licking across paper â slow, consuming, inevitable.
His hands stayed firm on Jisungâs hips, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his waist, holding him steady even as his legs threatened to give out. Steam curled around them, the sound of water splashing against tile almost drowned beneath the sounds pouring from Jisungâs mouth.
Minho bent again, pressing his lips to Jisungâs chest â not kissing gently, not even sweetly â but claiming, with his teeth and tongue and heat. Every time Jisung moaned, Minho dragged it deeper, lower, letting his hands slide over Jisungâs ass, gripping hard, grinding him up against the firm line of his own cock.
âMinho, pleaseâfuckâplease,â Jisung choked out, hands buried in Minhoâs hair, hips twitching helplessly forward, desperate for any friction.
âYouâre already falling apart,â Minho murmured, voice soaked in that sharp, dangerous calm. âWe havenât even touched your cock yet.â
Jisung whimpered.
Minho licked a slow, deliberate line across one nipple before dragging his teeth gently against it. He felt Jisungâs whole body jolt, legs trembling harder now.
âFuckâMinho, please, Iâm so closeââ
That made Minho pause.
He leaned back, looked up at him â water dripping down his temple, lips flushed and wet from kissing, eyes half-lidded but sharp.
âNo,â he said simply.
Jisung blinked through the haze. âW-what?â
Minhoâs hand moved between them. Not to stroke. Not to finish. Just to hold him â his palm wrapping firmly around Jisungâs cock and keeping him still.
âYou donât get to cum yet,â Minho said, cool and smug, brushing his thumb just barely over the head. âNot until I say so.â
Jisung whined loudly, body jerking forward involuntarily, cock twitching in Minhoâs grip. âFuckâfuck, Minho, I canâtââ
âYou can.â Minhoâs voice was like velvet-covered steel. âBecause I said so.â
He gave one slow pump â not fast enough to satisfy, just enough to remind him who was in charge â before pulling his hand away completely.
Jisung almost sobbed at the loss of contact.
âYouâre gonna stay nice and hard for me,â Minho continued, licking across his own bottom lip as his eyes dragged slowly down Jisungâs body. âAnd youâre not gonna cum until I make you beg for it like you mean it.â
âMinho, pleaseâ*pleaseâ*just a littleââ
âNo.â
Minho turned him around suddenly, pressing Jisungâs chest up against the cool tile wall, keeping his body flush behind him.
He leaned in close, voice right at his ear.
âYouâre mine to play with,â he whispered. âAnd we havenât even started yet.â
Jisungâs forehead rested against the cold tile, chest heaving, body trembling from the denial and heat surging through him. His cock throbbed between his legs, so painfully hard it ached. Every breath he took fogged the wall in front of him, but he couldnât move. He didnât move.
Because Minho was still pressed to his back â solid, slick skin, warm breath at his ear, one hand wrapped tight around his waist to keep him right where he wanted.
âI warned you,â Minho murmured. âTold you we werenât done.â
And thenâ
He slid inside.
No teasing.
No preamble.
Just the thick press of his cock as he bottomed out in one, long, devastating thrust.
Jisung cried out â sharp and wrecked â a raw sound that echoed against the tile like it meant something.
Minho didnât flinch.
He simply moved.
Steady.
Hard.
Fucking him into the wall with slow, brutal precision, each thrust deliberate and deep. Jisung moaned again â louder this time, voice breaking.
And thatâs when Minhoâs hand clamped down over his mouth.
âShut up,â he growled against Jisungâs ear. âYou wanna be loud? Then Iâll make sure no one hears you.â
Jisungâs eyes rolled back as Minhoâs other hand wrapped around his throat â firm and unforgiving, not cutting off his air, just holding him there, keeping him in place like a prize.
Jisung moaned helplessly against the palm covering his mouth, muffled and soaked with need, his body twitching under the pressure, hips arching back into every thrust.
Minho groaned, voice hot and breathless against his skin. âYou feel that? How deep I am inside you?â
Jisung nodded desperately, his muffled cries high and urgent behind Minhoâs hand.
âYouâre taking me so fucking well, baby,â Minho whispered, licking a stripe along Jisungâs jaw. âSo tight. So desperate.â
His hips snapped harder, pace brutal now â the sound of skin on skin echoing between the moans Jisung couldnât stop.
âStay loud,â Minho growled. âI dare you.â
He tightened his hand just slightly around Jisungâs throat â enough to make his breath stutter, to make his entire body go tight â and thrust in again, even deeper, watching Jisung fall apart from every inch.
And under Minhoâs hand, Jisung moaned like he was dying for it.
Summary: Your boyfriend has been horny all day and wants you ready when he gets home...won't you be a good girl and let him have his fun?
Word Count: 2254
Warnings: SMUT MDNI 18+, meandom!Seungmin, thigh riding, oral, unprotected (be smart y'all), ass smacking, slight daddy kink, slight degrading, pet names, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, overstimulation, He's got stamina ladies and gents, creampie (I think that's it...? I say this everytime lol)
He had called you on his way home. He demanded you be waiting for him on your shared bed, in that sage green lacy set he just bought you. You ripped the tags off and slipped into it, the set accentuating your curves perfectly.
You did a sexy pose in front of the mirror, taking a picture to show him later. Then you heard the front door open and close. You put on the playlist Seungmin had made and placed your phone on the dresser. You scurried onto the bed, laying on your stomach and facing the door.
He walked in, a grin on his face. You were his good girl. You always did what he asked - no matter what. He slipped his shirt over his head and kicked off his slippers as he made his way over to you.
âHi Minnie.â you drawled.
âHi sexy. All this for me?â He asked, slapping your ass.
âOf course. Only for you.â You say, sitting up on your knees.
âMy perfect angel⌠always coming back for more.â
You giggle, scooting to the edge of the bed and reaching for his pants.
âHavenât I ruined you enough by now? No?â he asks.
You shake your head whilst biting your lip.
âFuck..you drive me crazy, jagi.â he says, grabbing your throat and kissing you hard.
You moan into the kiss, grabbing his waist.
He grabbed your wrists and put them above your head as he laid you back onto the bed. He hovered over you, one leg between yours. You grinded instinctively, bucking your hips.
âSomeoneâs eagerâŚâ he whispers, nipping at your neck.
You tilt your head to give him access as your back arches. âMinnieâŚâ
âThatâs it baby. Hump my leg like the needy little slut you are.â
Your hips moved up and down on his thigh, needing more friction. You whine, trying to pull him closer.
âWhat is it?â he asks, stroking your hair.
âMoreâŚâ you moan.
He moves his leg and you pout.
âWeâre doing this my way. Now come sit on my lap.âÂ
Seungmin moved so he was sitting against the headboard, setting you on one of his thighs. âRide me like a good little slut.â
You moved your hips, sliding along his thigh as his hands rested on your waist. Your hands rested on his shoulders, head thrown back as you could feel the build. But it wasnât enough.
âWhatâs wrong, pretty? Why the frown?â Seungmin asks with faux sympathy.
âNeed more, Minnie..â you whine.
Seungmin reaches forward, tearing your panties with ease and tossing the scrap of fabric. âBetter?â
You blush, hiding your face in his shoulder.
âAh ah, let me see you, pretty.â Seungmin says, tucking your hair behind your ear.
You moved your hips again, this time feeling more. You moan loudly, holding onto his shoulders tightly. He pushed the waistband of his pants down, his hard cock popping free. You reach your hand down, stroking him as you ride his thigh.
âGood girl.â he panted, his head falling back.
You relished in the sight of him, the pleasure on his face as you made him feel good. He was slightly above average size, stretching you out so well every time. The ridges and veins of his cock drove you wild. You spit on it and move your hand more, getting off on his pleasure.Â
He could feel you approaching an orgasm and smacked your ass, his voice raspy. âGonna cum, jagi?â
You look into his eyes and see his blown pupils. He watched you with parted lips, panting as he watched you. He smacks you again when you donât answer, making you squeal.
âYes, daddy. Wanna cum...â you say.
âShould I let you cum?â Seungmin asks, pretending to ponder.Â
âPleaseâŚâ you whine.
He grips your hips, guiding your movements as he flexes his thigh. âCum for me, darling.â
He moves you faster, making you moan loudly. Before long, your orgasm washes over you and your body shudders, But he doesnât let up - he keeps you moving and his thigh pressed to you.
âMinâŚâ you pant. âMinnieâŚâ
He lets you come down, relaxing his leg. You fall into his chest with a huff, trying to catch your breath. But heâs not having it. He lays you on your back, spreading your legs wide.
âLook at this pretty pussy, baby. Is it all mine?â
âYesâŚall yours,â you pant.
He dives in, nose bumping your sensitive clit as his tongue prods your hole. Only the lewd sounds of him feasting on you fill the room. You moan, arching your back as your hand finds its way into his hair. You tug, making him groan into your sweet flesh, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.Â
âGod, you taste amazing.â Seungmin groans, inserting two fingers.Â
He curls them just right and your legs threaten to close. He pins one leg down with his free hand, not letting up as he circles his lips around your clit. He sucks aggressively, pushing you over the edge.
You cum, clamping down on his fingers. You try to turn over in an effort to close your legs but he doesnât let up. He turns with your body, riding out your high. Your body is trembling at his expert fingers as you squirm to get away.
âMinâŚmin pleaseâŚâ you beg.
He lets up, climbing up your body. âIâm gonna ruin you for anyone else but me, darling.â
He smashes his wet lips onto yours, letting you taste yourself. You moan into the kiss, hands trailing down his sides and pushing his pants down.Â
âGreedy little slut, arenât you?â he chuckles darkly, his eyes boring into you.Â
He moves to lay next to you, sliding off his pants and boxers, kicking them to the ground. He then moves you so you're straddling his face, your head at his crotch.
âWell, go on then. Suck me off since you want to so badly.â He commands.
You grip his cock at the base, slowly stroking him. His head falls back, a groan escaping his lips. You move your hand slowly, thumb lightly grazing his tip.
âStop fucking tease me and suck me.â he rasps.
You smirk, knowing youâre pissing him off. You lick a stripe up his cock, swirling the tip. He smacks your ass, making you jolt. You loved getting him riled up. You take him fully in your mouth before popping off and licking his slit.
He hisses, swatting your ass once more. âY/nâŚâ
âYes?â you ask innocently.
He leans up, nibbling on your clit and making you squirm. His tight hold on you prevents you from getting away from his aggressive ministrations. He prods your hole and sucks hard, slurping up your juices like a starved man. He bucks his hip and you know heâs telling you to suck.
Trying to focus, you bend down and take him in your mouth. He thrusts his hips, fucking your mouth as he gets lost in your pussy. He groans against your sensitive folds and you moan around him.Â
He quickly flips you over, keeping your legs spread as he straddles your head. He continues his assault on your mouth as he fingers you, sucking your clit numb. Your hands grab his ass, squeezing as he thrusts into your throat.
You clench around him, signaling that you're close. And thatâs when he pulls away, falling to the side with a smirk. You whine.Â
âNot yet. Since you want to teaseâŚâ Seungmin says. âGet on top.â
You lay there, pouting.Â
Seungmin pokes his cheek with a shake of his head. âQuit being a brat or you won't cum any more.âÂ
You sit up, climbing on top of his waist, pushing his torso down so he's laying back. He gives two harsh smacks to your ass before gripping your throat.Â
âYou wanna play? Or you want me to fuck you so good my name is the only thing you remember? Hmm?âÂ
âFuck me.â you give in.
âGood choice, pretty.â He cocks his head to side, smashing his lips onto yours before leaning back and watching you.
You line him up with your dripping entrance and slide down on him. Throwing your head back in utter bliss, you begin bouncing on his lap. He sits up, one hand palming your breast as his mouth sucks the other. He sucks harshly, nibbling before moving to the other. He does the same, nipping at the bud. You hiss at a particularly hard bite and he chuckles against your skin.Â
âNot funny.â you whisper.
âNo?â Seungmin lifts an eye brow.
You push him back onto his back and he grips your hips, pounding up into you. You feel yourself getting close, clenching around his cock as he hits your sweet spot repeatedly. You brace yourself on his chest, eyes squeezed shut as you're about to cum again. But just before you tip over the edge, he pulls you off him and tosses you to the side.Â
You groan at him, getting frustrated. He ignores you and moves you so he can take you from behind, lifting up your hips and lining himself up.Â
âNext time, don't tease me.â He says, leaning over you as he slams into you.Â
He stops, sliding out slowly before slamming back into you again. He does this a few times before you cum. It happened so fast, you didnât see it coming.
âFuckâŚâ you exhale, body trembling.Â
He picks up his tempo, fucking you like a jack rabbit as he prolongs your high. Then he pulls out just as fast and flips you onto your back.Â
âMinnieâŚâ you say, barely able to keep up.Â
But he's lost - lost and drunk off of you. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't love it when he gets like this. He would fuck you day and night if he could.Â
His grip on your hips was bruising as he pounded into you. You could feel another orgasm approaching and prayed he wouldn't take it away from you.Â
But he didn't. He thrusted until you were an incoherent mess. Your vision was getting hazy and your limbs were feeling fuzzy. He moves one of your legs to the other side, putting you on your side as he keeps fucking you. He grunted and groaned as he chased his own high.Â
He bent over, kissing and sucking your breasts again as you ran your fingers through his hair. You held his head to you, relishing in his slow languid strokes. It felt so good, him massaging your insides.Â
His skin was sticky and sweaty as he panted, kissing you.
âBe a good little slut and cum for me.â he rasps.Â
He leans up, thrusting faster now as he pushes you over the edge. White dots filled your vision as you clamped down on him like a vice. You came - hard. Hard enough to push him out as you shook. Your eyes water, tears streaming down your face.Â
âFuck, jagiya.â he whispers. âLook at how pretty you are, sobbing over my cock. Is it that good?âÂ
You moan in response and he smirks. Opening your legs once more, he bends down to lick at your folds. He was obsessed with your taste - this you knew. He could never get enough.Â
But you were so sensitive from all the orgasms and abuse that you squirmed, whining as more tears fell. âMinnieâŚâ
âYou can cum for me once more, yeah?â he asks, kissing up your body as he leans over you.
His cock head poked at your entrance as he laid on top of you, barricading you in with his arms around your head.
âI canât, MinâŚâ you whisper.
âYes you can. I know you can.â Seungmin whispers, peppering your face with kisses as he slowly slides himself in again.Â
You moan, eyes rolling back.
âMy little slut always has one moreâŚâ Seungmin nips at your earlobe, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts.
His moves were torturously slow as he built you up again. Your body contradicts your words as it begins to tighten once more. He slams his hips into you, skin smacking as kisses and sucks at your neck. You knew your neck was going to be littered with marks in the morning.
He reaches between the two of you, his fingers circling your sensitive bud. You moan in his ear and his hips pick up speed.Â
âCum with me, jagi.â he whispers.
He applied more pressure to your clit as he felt himself approaching climax. He groans, hips stuttering as he comes undone. You feel his cock twitching inside, filling you up and cum too. You clench around him, milking every last drop from his cock as you cry out his name. It was so much - heâs never cum this much inside you before.Â
Your legs were wrapped around his waist, body trembling beneath him as he still circled your clit. Your eyes rolled back, body arched, you felt yourself slipping away.
He finally released you, letting you come down from the high as he stilled. He panted in your ear, taking in your scent as he relaxed.
A few minutes later, he kissed your neck, along your jawline, and your lips as he leaned up. He wiped your tears with his thumb as he admired you all fucked out and ruined.
âFuckâŚyouâre too good, jagi.â he says.
âMmm..â you say, not opening your eyes.
He chuckles. âWhatâs my name, jagiya?â
âS-Seungmin.â you whisper.
âGood girl.â
Thank you beta: @rain-water-flowers for your editing, support, and motivation to disrespect :))) LUV U
ëŚŹë ¸. thinking about dryhumping with minho. he likes to underestimate you, so fucking smug and cocky and saying the meanest shit just to get under your skin. he just thinks you look so cute the angrier you get. but he doesnât find it too funny when youâre sat all pretty on his lap, working his swollen cock back and forth across his stomach underneath your drenched cunt - and thereâs nothing he can do about it but fist the edge of the bed frame where you have him cuffed, muttering something under his breath about how heâs gonna fuck you to tears when he figures a way out of those things.Â
but heâs shutting up as soon as youâre slowing the movement of your hips, just whimpering and moaning and heavy breathing with every slide of pussy, heated and wet against the length of his sensitive cock. he likes to act composed and like he has you right under his thumb, and usually he does. normally he has you wrapped around his finger with the simple promise of dick, giving you everything before ripping it away when he feels your pussy quivering around his cock, just to see those pretty tears line your lashes when he leaves your cunt sad and empty. but with the way he was panting and whining and damn near crying, desperate to be inside you, he clearly wasnât as calm and collected as he likes to claim. âplease, câmon. just let me out of these things and iâll fuck you so good,â heâs still tugging on the cuffs, arms tense and knuckles white, adams apple bobbing as soon as you press down on him even more, not leaving an inch of dick uncovered as bare flesh suffocates the length of his cock. and heâs so sure, so convinced that youâll give in and give him what he wants, getting rid of those fucking handcuffs and fucking you until youâre sorry for ever putting him in them. âbut whereâs the fun in that?â that one question is enough to rip all hope away from him, lips quivering and eyes stinging cause he just wants to cum so bad :(Â
itâs just so fun to tease minho sometimes - he always acts untouchable, like heâs doing you a favour by dicking you down, like the twitch of his cock was easy to ignore when heâs busy torturing your poor cunt. but now, with the way his eyes are rolling into the back of his skull with every hot drag of your pussy, how he chokes on his whimpers when your cunt shifts forward, hooking against the tip of his dick, feeling the swell of his cock clearing through a sticky mixture of precum and arousal - it was easy to see he wasnât as in control as heâd like to be.Â
heâs also a little impatient, gets a little nasty with his words when the swell of his cock becomes almost painful with the way it was twitching and crying into your pussy - if he moved his hips up even an inch heâd be nudging himself deep into your dripping core and finally finding the release heâs so pitifully chasing after. âgonna make you pay for this. that pussy is as good as fucked as soon as iâm out of these things ugh-â heâs cutting himself off with a choked gasp, head thrown back and chest heaving when your fingers reach down to press on the drooling slit of his cockhead, continuing to mash his dick back and forth in shallow thrusts, angling your clit so that his cock was barely bumping into the dip of your pussy, just an inch, but enough to coax more of those pretty begs from his lips.
âfuck, so warm. please baby, just let me fuck you, even just the tip. please, swear iâll be so good for you.â and heâs loud. loud enough that the rest of his members could probably hear him through the walls. hear how pathetic he becomes when he doesnât get what he wants. but minho canât find it in himself to care, not when heâs so close, throat raw and dick twitching and an unquenched need to cum making his pretty eyes gloss over with tears, cock full and red and crying with precum. his eye twitches with every stroke of pussy, each shallow grind pulling more fucked out whimpers out of him - until finally heâs cumming onto your folds in hot, thick ropes of cum. and itâs so unsatisfying that he could cry, cock sore and softening against your clit, cum dribbling onto your nub and painting your cunt in his load until itâs hot and sticky to the touch. his chest is heaving, heartbeat loud in his ears as you continue to grind down onto his limp cock, using his cum to wedge effortlessly between your folds as you use him to get yourself off - the same way heâs done so many times before with your tired pussy. and itâs almost cute the way he chokes and sobs and stutters underneath you, knees trembling and forehead sweaty and toes curling, begging you to finally show him some mercy.Â
but why should you? heâs never been nice to you, never paid your pretty whimpers any mind when heâs stretching you out on his dick, laughed straight in your face a few times when youâve begged him to go easy on you and only fucked you even harder for even suggesting it. and you tell him such, tell him that heâs getting exactly what he deserves. and he hates that youâre right.
Š seungisms - all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated.Â
Her Gucci collection didnât come from store shelves.
It came from private appointments, whispered calls, and sketches sent to his inbox for approval. Each one designed with her in mind.
A velvet handbag dyed to match the flush on her cheeks when she came for him.
A pair of gold heels engraved with his initials under the sole, so sheâd always have him beneath her.
A perfume created by the Gucci lab with notes of peach nectar and white musk â he named it âMine.â
âI want her to smell like she belongs to me,â heâd told them. âAnd something sweet. She is sweet.â
He never let her see the invoices.
She didnât need to.
Heâd slide rings onto her fingers mid-conversation, like it was nothing.
Fold jackets over her shoulders in rooms that werenât cold, just to see her wear his name.
And when Gucci sent over a mini-dress designed for events â deep green silk, bare-backed, dripping with subtle crystals â he only had one response:
âSheâll wear it at home. No one else gets to see her in that.â
And she did.
In their bedroom.
With nothing underneath but a thong he bought to match.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
He once got her a travel bag.
Cream leather, soft as sin. Her initials embossed in rose gold on the side.
She laughed. âI donât travel enough to need this.â
âYou will,â he said, zipping it open. âCheck the inside.â
She did.
It was packed.
With envelopes.
Each one labeled in his neat, sharp handwriting:
⢠Paris â for the kiss on the Seine.
⢠Tokyo â for the night we stay in.
⢠Milan â for the Gucci headquarters. I want them to see how perfect you are in person.
Heâd planned it all. First class, black cars, suites with balconies â and a new outfit for each destination, custom-tailored to her measurements.
âMinho,â she whispered, teary-eyed.
He only smiled, pulling her into his lap. âTold you. You donât lift a finger unless itâs to touch me.â
And she did.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
He swore he just came for a wallet.
Simple. Clean. Black leather, nothing flashy â just something to replace the worn one heâd been using for three years.
But the second she sighed, it was over.
Minho followed her gaze without a word.
The bag was a soft cream Gucci Jackie â butter leather and gold hardware. She didnât even say anything, just looked once and turned away like it was nothing.
Like she didnât know he noticed.
He tapped the glass counter lazily. âWeâll take the bag too.â
The cashier brightened. âAnything else? It comes in a set with threeââ
âYes,â he cut in. Didnât even let her finish.
His Girl turned, eyes wide. âWaitââ
âChoose the other bags,â he said simply, leaning back on the counter. âWhatever you want, kitten.â
The cashier smiled. âFollow me, Miss.â
This wasnât the first time. Not with Minho.
Her collection was ridiculous by now, a full spectrum of spoiling.
Minho never blinked. Never asked twice.
He just gave.
Like the day he came home with a little velvet box and pulled out a diamond collar.
Not a choker. Not jewelry.
A collar â dainty but unmistakable. With his name engraved in cursive at the center, studded with tiny black diamonds.
âCome here,â heâd said that night, low and calm, snapping it around her throat.
âNow everyone knows who my kitten is, right?â
Heâd tilted her chin up, kissed her mouth softly.
And then ruined her on the floor like she was made to be taken with his name glittering at her neck.
God, he loved how it looked when she went down on him like that.
Diamond collar catching the light. Tears sparkling on her cheeks. His hand fisted in her hair while she gagged so sweetly around him.
âMine,â heâd growled, hips thrusting deeper, âlook how fucking pretty my girl is like this.â
Minho didnât just spoil. He claimed.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
He cooked for her like it was sacred.
Wouldnât let her near a single knife or pan. Just sat her on the counter, fed her from the spoon, kissed her when she whined.
âLet me helpââ
âNo.â
âButââ
âNo, kitten. Sit there and look pretty.â
Heâd press kisses to her knee. Sometimes heâd undo the straps of her dress and fuck her right there against the fridge before the water even boiled. He liked to see her tits bounce.
She was soft. Sweet. So good for him.
And he?
He was everything. Rich, controlled, a little dangerous â but hers.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
It wasnât supposed to be used like this.
The scarf had been a gift â crimson silk, embroidered with tiny cats and cherries, a nod to her two favorite things. Heâd tied it gently around her neck when he first gave it to her, pressing a kiss just beneath the knot.
But now, it was wet with spit and stuffed between her lips.
âShhh, baby,â Minho cooed, thumbing away a tear from the corner of her eye. âYouâre being so good for me, arenât you?â
She whimpered, breath catching as he thrust deeper â slow, thick strokes that made her toes curl.
He was behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back, keeping her arched just the way he liked.
The scarf fluttered with every moan she choked on. Her Gucci gift â now her gag â pressed into her tongue like another brand of ownership.
And he loved it.
Loved seeing her spoiled and ruined, all at once.
A trembling doll made just for him.
âI should buy you another,â he murmured, voice low and amused. âOne for every time I make you cry on my cock.â
He pulled back slightly, admiring the string of saliva that connected them to the scarf.
âMaybe one for every orgasm too. Hm?â
She could only sob in response, her walls fluttering around him like she was already saying yes.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
Minho had one room in their house locked.
She wasnât supposed to go in.
But she peeked anyway, one day when he was gone for schedules.
She was still standing there, stunned, when he walked in.
Caught red-handed.
âTch,â he clicked his tongue. âCurious kitten.â
Before she could apologize, he was already lifting her.
He sat her down â right on top of the stacked boxes. Velvet, silk, leather beneath her thighs.
She gasped.
âSince youâre up here,â he said, pushing her skirt up with slow fingers, âmight as well give you a reason to come back.â
Her back hit the wall of the closet. He slid in without warning, one hand around her throat, his other gripping her thigh.
âEvery one of these gifts,â he grunted against her ear, âis yours. But Iâm your favorite, right?â
She nodded desperately, gasping against his mouth.
âSay it.â
âYou,â she whimpered. âYouâre my favorite gift.â
He smiled.
And made her scream that line three more times.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
But oh â she was in love with him. Not just the diamonds or the handbags or the silken scarf still damp with the memory of him.
No, she loved the way he looked at her when she was curled up on the couch in his hoodie, hair a mess, a cat asleep on each thigh.
She loved how he melted when she fed his babies before he even got the chance â Soonie, Doongie, and Dori happily flocking to her, as if sheâd always belonged.
And he did too.
Some nights, he came home exhausted. His limbs heavy from hours of practice, his voice hoarse, his energy drained. But then he opened the door â and there she was.
His girl. His home.
Bundled up in the blanket he always said was too warm, half-asleep, a drama playing on low volume, and the cats purring beside her like guardians.
Her eyes lit up when she saw him.
âYouâre back,â she whispered.
And heâd kneel at her feet, bury his face in her stomach, arms wrapped around her waist like a man starved.
âYou stayed up?â
âAlways.â
Because no matter how much he spoiled her â she was the one who gave him peace. Who gave him softness. Who never let him go to bed without a kiss, or leave the house without a snack.
He pressed his lips to hers, slow and sleepy.
âYouâre the best thing Iâve ever bought,â he teased, and she smacked his arm.
âIâm not for sale.â
âExactly,â he murmured. âYouâre priceless.â
And she was.
The one thing he couldnât put in a shopping bag.
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bsfs brother!Heeseung x f!reader - when you ask him to teach you how to masturbate. (pure porn with plot. MDNI 18+, explicit, masturbation, cunnilingus, phone sex, ANGST, fluff too so its fine.)
âIf sheâs not cumming, sheâs not listening to her pussy.â
âAnd if she wonât listenâŚâ
âIâll make her.â
Youâve always had a hate-hate relationship with masturbation.
Not the âhaha I donât know what Iâm doingâ kind. Not the shy, innocent kind. The kind where you tried, over and over again, and every time it ended in that same aching, pathetic wayâpanties soaked, fingers numb, pussy throbbing, and absolutely nothing to show for it.
No finish. No orgasm. Not even a fucking twitch of satisfaction.
You rubbed and rubbed, like everyone said to. You found your clit. You circled it. Pressed it. Flicked it. Tried soft and slow, then fast and desperate. Tried with spit, with lotion, with fucking coconut oil once. But nothing ever felt right. Just this frustrating hum of almost. Like your body was teetering on the edge of something big and just⌠refused to jump.
Youâd end up sore. Agitated. Your legs would shake, but not the good kind. Your pussy would swell, throbbing like she was mocking you for trying.
It made you feel broken. Or worseâboring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like youâd missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.
Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. Youâd hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing starsâand youâd smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.
Youâd never even come close.
You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.
Youâd touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your headâplease, just this once, just let me finish, pleaseâand still end up breathless, sticky, empty.
Youâd cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.
You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.
But the worst partâthe actual worst partâwas how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldnât leave it alone.
You were eighteen, for fuckâs sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.
Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.
It made you feel fucking insane.
So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed toâwhen it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasnât about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.
You didnât even think about pleasure anymore.
You didnât dare.
-
EvieâHeejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her offâwas your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your schoolâs carefully manicured social circles.
Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.
You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.
It wasnât unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didnât mind. They liked knowing where you both wereâliked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.
And then there was Heeseung.
Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.
When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes heâd give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes heâd walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasnâtâoff to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as heâd drifted through it.
You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fastâsuffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.
By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or⌠something.
You didnât think about him much. He was just Evieâs brother. Part of the background. White noise.
Your focus was always Evie.
She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, âYou better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,â like it was the most normal sentence in the world.
She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.
You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.
You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.
-
The house settled around you like it always didâquiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shiftingâbackground noise youâd grown so used to, it almost felt like home.
Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, tooâlike her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didnât mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.
Sleep wasnât coming for you, though.
Youâd been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. Youâd scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.
Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomniaâjust that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.
The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.
Youâd thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. Youâd done it beforeâquiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.
Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.
It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.
You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.
For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evieâs breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.
A manâs voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.
Heeseungâs door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadnât even realized he was home tonight.
Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watchedâexcept this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.
There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldnât place the sound, and you didnât care.
Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.
âItâs not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."
âIf sheâs not cumming, sheâs not listening to her pussy.â
The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.
Not whispered. Not dirty. Just⌠stated. Like a law. Like fact.
Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didnât move. Couldnât.
There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.
Every hair on your arm lifted. He didnât stop there.
âAnd if she wonât listenâŚIâll make her.â
No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.
You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You werenât just turned onâyou were caught. Cornered by something you werenât supposed to hear and couldnât let go of.
Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just⌠a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didnât realize you were trapped in.
You didnât even know what you wanted in that moment.
But for the first time in your life, you wonderedâreally wonderedâwhat your body would feel like under instructions that werenât your own.
-
You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldnât spiral.
You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentaryâand you almost convinced yourself you were over it.
But when the house quieted again that nightâwhen Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of youâyou gave in.
You waited a while. Just in case she wasnât fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.
And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.
The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.
You didnât turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.
The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evieâs shampoo still clung to the roomâvanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.
You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.
No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.
The video you always came back to. The closest thing youâd ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audioânothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.
It wasnât him, but it didnât have to be. Not yet.
Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.
The wetness shouldâve been a good sign.
But you already knew how this would go.
You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.
Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.
There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.
You tried harder.
Tried picturing somethingâsomeone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you werenât just Evieâs friend, like he saw something else.
That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find somethingâanythingâthat would tip you over.
But it never came.
Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.
Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.
You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your handâand still nothing. You hadnât cum. Not even close.
Not even fucking close.
Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.
Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.
This wasnât working.
You couldnât do this by yourself. Not anymore.
The shame didnât even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseungâs room.
You didnât remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like youâd been runningânot down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.
The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didnât even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasnât enough time. There wasnât enough anything left.
You knocked.
Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.
Nothing.
The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You shouldâve gone back to Evieâs room. Shouldâve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Shouldâve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.
Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.
Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldnât speak. You werenât expecting him to look like thatâhoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like heâd run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like heâd just come out of the shower⌠or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.
He didnât look surprised to see you. Just confused.
His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingersâstill wet, still tremblingâcurled tighter at your side.
He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.
âYou good?â
The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.
Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. âDo you have a girlfriend?â
He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.
ââŚWhat?â
âI just need to know,â you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. âBefore I say anything. It matters.â
He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasnât sure if he should be amused or suspicious.
âNo. I donât.â
You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.
âFuck.â
His eyes narrowed slightly. âWhat?â
âIf you said yes,â you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, âI wouldâve had an excuse not to ask you.â
That made him pause.
He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, âAsk me what?â
Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didnât have the energy to dance around it.
âYou said something last night,â you started, forcing yourself to look at him. âAbout girls who canât finish. About how theyâre not listening to their bodies.â
He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.
âI heard it,â you added. âBy accident. But itâs been stuck in my head. And I thoughtâI donât know, I thought maybe you were right.â
Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.
You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. âI tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. Iâve been trying for years, and itâs always the same. Nothing works. I canât finish. I touch myself, and it justâgoes nowhere.â
Your cheeks burned. You didnât even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time youâd had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.
But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.
And he still hadnât said a word.
Your next breath shook as it left you.
âI donât want you to touch me,â you said, quieter now. âI just want to ask⌠if youâd tell me what to do.â
That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes droppedâlower this timeâto your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.
He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. âYour handâs still wet.â
You froze.
His voice was low, unreadable. âYou tried that hard, huh?â
You didnât answer. You couldnât.
He stepped back.
Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.
He held your gaze.
 âCome in. Close the door behind you.â
The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evieâs room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained worldâit all drops away. Thereâs only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.
You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.
Heeseungâs already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forwardâlazily, unbotheredâuntil it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, heâd have a front-row seat.
Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesnât change. He just watches you.
âGo ahead,â he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. âSit.â
You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know heâs seen. Youâre still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.
His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.
You fidget.
Heeseung doesnât move. âDonât get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.â
Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.
He lifts his chin. âTell me what you usually do.â
The question lands harder than it should. Not because itâs dirty, but because itâs so simple.
You blink. âLike⌠where I touch?â
âYeah.â
You hesitate. âI usually just go straight to my clit.â
âFigures.â He doesnât miss a beat. âAnd then what? Rub the fuck out of it âtil it gets sore and wonder why it doesnât work?â
Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. âExcuse me?â
He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. âDonât take it personal. Thatâs what most girls do. Itâs not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.â
You donât respond, but your silence is answer enough.
He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. Thereâs no hunger in itânot yet. Just observation. Like heâs assessing you.
âIf your pussy had a voice,â he says smoothly, âsheâd be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.â
Youâre quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is⌠heâs not wrong.
He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.
âTake your time,â he says, gentler now. âYou rush her, she locks up. Doesnât matter how wet you are.â
ââŚShe?â you murmur, lifting a brow.
Heeseung shrugs again, like itâs obvious. âYeah. She.â His eyes flick to yours. âYou donât gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.â
Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. âYouâre so annoying.â
âAnd yet, youâre still here,â he says with a smirk, eyes dark. âGo on. Show me how you start.â
Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.
You donât move right away.
He raises a brow. âYou said you didnât want me to touch you. Thatâs cool. But I need to see what youâre doing wrong.â
Your breath hitches.
Your hand moves on instinctâslow, shakyâand dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. Youâre already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. Itâs too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.
You rub. Once. Twice. Itâs not bad. Itâs what you always do.
But stillânothing clicks.
Heeseung tilts his head. âYouâre too stiff.â
âIâm nervous,â you admit quietly.
âDonât be.â His voice drops half an octave. âYou look hot.â
The way he says itâit doesnât sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like heâs telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something heâs been picturing all night.
âYouâre thinking too much,â he adds. âTrying to force it instead of feel it.â
Your hand stills.
He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. âTry this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just⌠feel her.â
You hesitate, then obey.
The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.
âFeel that?â
You nod. Barely.
âThatâs what she likes,â he murmurs. âYouâve been poking at her like sheâs a fucking keyboard. No wonder sheâs not putting out.â
You let out a breathy laughâhalf scandalized, half aroused. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âAnd youâre soaking through your panties,â he says, deadpan.
Your breath catches. Heeseung doesnât laugh. Doesnât look away.
He sits there like heâs got all the time in the world. Like heâs doing you a favor. Like heâs enjoying this. Youâre not even sure heâs hard yetâbut he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.
He lets the moment hang.
Then: âNowâslow circles. Donât speed up unless she tells you to.â
âShe doesnât talk,â you whisper, teasing without confidence.
His gaze is heavy. Steady.
âShe does,â he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. âYou just havenât been listening.â
The room feels hotter now.
Not just the airâyour skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet theyâre practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. Itâs not graceful. Itâs not some porn fantasy. Itâs messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like itâs the only thing worth watching.
You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. Youâre spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back againâbut youâre too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you canât look away from him.
He hasnât blinked once.
Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like youâre just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and heâs your substitute teacher for the night.
The only thing thatâs changed is his posture.
His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you donât miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.
Youâre doing this to him.
But not enough.
Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.
Youâre trying. God, youâre trying.
Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. Youâre listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like itâs scared to fall off the cliff itâs been building for years. Your handâs cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like youâre closeâand then it dips, again and again.
Itâs good. So good.
But itâs not enough.
You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like itâs the only thing keeping you grounded.
Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. âStill rushing her.â
âIâm not,â you whisper.
âYou are. I can see it.â
You shake your head, breath stuttering. âIâm not trying toâI swear, Iâmââ You gasp. âItâs justâitâs notââ
You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussyâs pulsing, and it still feels like youâre just rubbing up against a wall.
âItâs not enough,â you breathe out, broken. âIâI canâtâfuckâsheâs not listening.â
Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.
âOh, sheâs listening,â he says. âYouâre just not talking to her the right way.â
You whimper. âThen tell me what to say.â
That makes his mouth twitchâjust barely. Like heâs been waiting for that.
âTell me what sheâs feeling first.â
âIââ Your voice cracks. âSheâs tight. Warm. I feel herâpulsing. Like she wants something butâsheâs not opening.â
He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. âShe wants to be filled.â
You nod.
âNo,â he says. âSay it.â
Your chest heaves. Your hand hasnât stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. âShe wants to be filled.â
âSay it like you mean it.â
âShe wants to be fucking filled,â you whine. âSheâs throbbingâsheâs soakingâfuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.â
Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.
âThere you go,â he murmurs. âNow sheâs talking.â
Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everythingâs soaked. Youâre dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.
âShe needs more,â you pant. âSheâs clenchingâsheâs starvingââ
Heeseungâs hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. âSo feed her.â
You moanâhigh and breathyâand press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesnât matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.
âYouâre soaked,â he mutters, eyes burning into you. âLook at your fucking fingers.â
You do. Itâs obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.
âSheâs begging,â he says softly. âAnd youâre finally listening.â
You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.
âSheâs so fucking greedy,â you gasp. âShe wonât stop pullingâI canâtâI canât keep upââ
âYou donât have to,â he says. âShe knows what sheâs doing. Let her take it.â
You donât even realize how loud youâve gotten until you hear yourself moan againâshameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.
Your legs spread wider. Youâre not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.
Youâre right there.
Youâre going to break.
Heâs just watching. Like itâs his favorite thing heâs ever seen.
Youâre right on the edge, and this time itâs not teasing.
Itâs sharp. Fast. Inevitable.
Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soakedâslipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your bodyâs trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and thereâs no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussyâs leaking, twitching, clenching around nothingâand Heeseung watches like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
You donât even realize youâre moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.
The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.
Heeseung doesnât say a word for a second too long.
You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.
His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like heâs reading it better than your face.
He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he canât ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himselfâand your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.
Heâs so hard.
His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like itâs the only thing anchoring him in the room.
âLook at that messy little cunt.â
Your body jerks at the word. Youâve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.
Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.
âSheâs drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet sheâs never been this loud for you before.â
âShe hasnât,â you breathe. âShe neverâshe neverââ
âYouâve been starving her,â he says, still jerking himself lazily. âTouching her like sheâs a problem instead of a fucking meal.â
Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. Youâre humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.
Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.
âYou wanna cum, baby?â
You nod frantically, but itâs not enough.
âUse your words.â
Your voice comes out cracked. âYes. PleaseâI wanna cumâI need itââ
âNeed what?â he pushes.
âI need her to fucking break,â you sob. âSheâs clenchingâsheâs beggingâshe needs to cum, she needs itââ
âThen let her,â he growls. âDonât fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.â
You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.
And thatâs when he says itâlow and hot and foul.
âLet her fuck your fingers, slut.â
You snap.
Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.
It doesnât hit you right away.
At first, thereâs just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesnât even sound like you.
It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.
You cum harder than you ever have in your lifeâharder than you thought was even possibleâand your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.
Heeseung is still there.
You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you canât look at him. Not right now. Not like this.
And then it fades.
That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.
Whatâs left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.
Reality slams back into you hard.
Youâre laid out across his bedâsweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussyâs still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.
Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.
You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. âShitâfuck.â
Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though theyâre absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.
Heeseung hasnât moved.
Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didnât just cum your entire soul out in front of him.
You canât meet his eyes.
He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.
âDidnât say stop,â he says mildly.
You glare at him, cheeks burning. âI came. Pretty sure thatâs the goal, right?â
He shrugs one shoulder. âJust surprised youâre acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.â
âJesusââ you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.
Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.
âYou do realize how loud you were, right?â he adds. âI thought the bed was gonna snap in half.â
âPlease stop talking,â you groan, voice muffled.
âYou were crying,â he says like itâs a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. âThat shit was beautiful.â
You peek at him through your fingers. Heâs still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.
He doesnât even seem fazed.
That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.
You clear your throat. âI didnât realize Iâum. That I could⌠do that.â
He raises an eyebrow. âCum?â
You shoot him a look.
Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. âYouâve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.â
You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothedâand now heâs just lounging there like you didnât just show him the most private part of yourself.
You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.
Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. âSo,â he says, tone casual. âLesson two tomorrow?â
You blink.
ââŚThereâs a second lesson?â
He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. âYou think sheâs done learning?â
Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.
-
Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.
Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didnât think it would matterâbut the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows sheâs been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.
You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.
 It starts that fastâbarely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someoneâs new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping.Â
Already youâre restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasnât gone away. The ache stayed with you.Â
That trembling throb between your legs that didnât fade after one orgasmâor twoâor three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didnât just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone elseâs bed with someone elseâs voice in your ear.
You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but thatâs cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a messageâjust to see his name.
 You scroll through the notifications like maybe heâll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it.Â
Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your bodyâs too hot and your thoughts wonât stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying âGood girl. Sheâs listening now.â
You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and itâs not casual. Itâs deep. Itâs mean.Â
Like your pussyâs crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.
You donât try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the messageââCan I call you?ââand hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like youâve already crossed a line and he hasnât even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.
No. Iâll call you.
Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.
You donât even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. Youâre wearing nothing but a big t-shirtâno bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.
His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.
Low. Thick. Wrecked.
âYou waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didnât you?â
The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You canât answer. You donât know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasnât even seen you.
âYouâre pathetic,â he breathes, and itâs not cruelâitâs reverent. Like heâs turned on by the depth of your desperation. âYou left for less than twenty-four hours and sheâs already starving.â
Your breath comes out shaky. âShe hasnât shut up.â
âI bet. That little pussyâs been crying for attention, hasnât she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?â
Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. âI tried last night.â
âAnd?â
Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.
ââŚDidnât work.â
âOf course it didnât.â He doesnât miss a beat. âBecause sheâs not trained to your fingers. Sheâs trained to my voice.â
You nearly choke.
âTake the blanket off.â
You do.
âT-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.â
You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping alreadyâyour folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.
âFuck. Youâre already wet.â
You donât answer.
âDonât ignore me. Say it.â
You whimper. âIâm wet.â
âWhere?â
Your hand slides lower. âEverywhere.â
âLet me hear it.â
You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.
Squish. Slick. Wet.
âJesus Christ,â he breathes. âSheâs fucking leaking for me.â
âShe wonât stop,â you pant. âSheâs been clenchingâsheâs needy. I canâtâI canât even think straight.â
âShe doesnât need you to think. She needs you to listen.â
You nod like he can see you.
âYou touching your clit yet?â
âNo,â you whisper. âJust teasing.â
âDonât tease her. Feed her.â
You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like itâs been waiting for this.
âFuck. Thatâs it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.â
You do.
And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.
âYou sound like youâre crying.â
âI might be,â you choke out. âIâmâIâve been on edge all day. Sheâs screamingââ
âThen shut her up.â
Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere nowâcoating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear itâslap, slap, slapâand you know he can too.
âGod, listen to her,â he says. âSheâs fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.â
Your thighs start to shake.
âDonât you dare stop.â
âHeeseungâfuck, Iâm closeââ
âShe wants to cum. So let her.â
You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothingâjust your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.
âAgain,â he growls. âDonât you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.â
You keep going. Because you canât stop. Because this is his now.
-
You donât get a break.
Heeseung doesnât let you.
After that first callâthe one where you came so hard you swore you saw starsâyou thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe youâd get to breathe. But you donât. Because the second you wake up the next morning, thereâs already a text waiting for you.
Morning. She hungry?
Your pussy clenches on reflex.
You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.
Yes.
His reply is instant.
Good. edge yourself until youâre shaking. No cumming. No cheating. Youâll send me a pic of your fingers when youâre done.
Thatâs it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of courseâyou obey.
You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.
You send the photo.
Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.
He doesnât reply until hours later.
Beautiful. Donât clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.
Thatâs how it starts.
Sometimes itâs a call. Sometimes itâs just a photo prompt. Sometimes itâs voice notesâlow, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.
Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Donât wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.
When you canât callâfamily dinners, company in the house, a wedding eventâhe doesnât complain. He just adapts.
He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.
âAre you wearing panties right now?â
âSheâs wet just from this, isnât she?â
âPut your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.â
You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.
Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.
On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. Thatâs all.
You cum like a trained animal.
By the end of the fourth day, youâre overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You canât think straight without hearing his voice. You canât fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.
He doesnât let you get comfortable.
I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?
-
Youâre at the dinner table when the text comes in.
Thereâs a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncleâs talking about traffic. Your momâs pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lapâone tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.
Heeseung.
Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like thatâs gonna help anything.
You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, itâs just a single message.
Donât open this here. Iâm serious.
You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows whatâs coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.
Itâs not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.
And it destroys you.
I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like sheâs just been edged for an hour and sheâs still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though sheâs never had it. Thatâs how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though Iâve never fucked her.
I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy sheâs gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and sheâs frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching.
I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what Iâve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesnât get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you canât clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, theyâd smell her.
No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesnât need permission anymore. Youâre gonna leak down your leg just reading this, arenât you? Sheâs already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.
You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.
And you feel itâthat slow, steady drip.
You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your pantiesâsoaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.
You spread your legs wider. Thereâs no stopping it. You have to.
You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.
You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.
You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like sheâs starved.
Youâre fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.
You donât stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until youâre crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.
When itâs over, youâre wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like sheâs still looking for him.
You snap a photo.
Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.
You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.
Thatâs how sheâs supposed to look. Every day until you get home.
-
You donât even knock.
You could, but whatâs the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:
You better show up dripping.
And you are.
The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time youâre standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.
He opens it like he already knew you were there.
Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.
He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way youâre fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesnât smile. He doesnât speak.
Just opens the door wider and lets you in.
You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building alreadyâyour pussy knows. Sheâs aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.
He closes the door behind you. And waits.
You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. âI did everything.â
He lifts a brow. âYeah?â
You nod. Swallow hard. âEvery day.â
Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like heâs looking for confirmation.
âYou leaking?â
Your breath catches. âYes.â
âProve it.â
Your heart slams against your ribs. But you donât hesitate.
Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and heâd see everything.
He doesnât touch you.
âShow me,â he says, voice low.
Your breath hitches againâbut you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.
You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your foldsâdripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like itâs nothing new. Like sheâs been practicing all week.
You keep your eyes on him the whole time.
And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.
Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucksâdeep, slow, tongue curling around them like itâs a reward.
Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.
âShe tastes trained.â
You nod.
âShe beg yet?â
You exhale. âShe never shut up.â
He clicks his tongue. âYeah?â
Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.
âYou want her filled?â
You nod again. âPlease.â
âNot yet,â he says. âSheâs not ready.â
âIâm readyâsheâs so ready, Iâve beenââ
âI donât care what you think. Youâre not here to make decisions. Youâre here to do what I say.â He lets go of your face. âYou wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.â
You scramble onto the bed.
Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.
Youâre already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat thatâs been building all week. You donât try to hide it. You canât. Your pussyâs wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. Sheâs been teased. Trained. Denied. Youâve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now heâs standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like heâs finally ready to eat.
But he doesnât touch you first.
He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside outâand finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.
And sniffs.
Deep.
He inhales like itâs a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks outâtastes it.
âJesus fuck,â he mutters under his breath. âSheâs been marinating in this.â
Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.
âSheâs loud, too.â His voice drops lower. âI havenât even touched her and sheâs already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.â
âHeeseungââ You whimper.
âShut up.â
He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.
Youâre soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.
He just stares.
âYou fucking trained her like this,â he mutters, almost to himself. âYou really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.â
âSheâs starving,â you whisper, voice shaking.
âI can see that.â
His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.
He doesnât lick you.
Not yet.
He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in againâthis time slower. Longer. Right at the source.
âGod,â he mutters. âShe fucking smells like obedience.â
You sob.
And then he spits.
Right on your pussy.
Hot. Heavy. Messy.
It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.
Your hips roll. You canât stop it.
âDonât you fucking move,â he growls. âSheâs getting attention. She better stay still.â
And finallyâfinallyâhis tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.
Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.
But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesnât stop.
He eats you like a man starved. Like youâve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhereâtongue licking up everything youâve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.
âThatâs it,â he groans against your clit. âLet me taste five fucking days of begging.â
You cry out, thighs clenching.
But he slaps your pussy with his handâsharp, wet, punishing.
âOpen.â
You go limp. You canât fight it. You donât want to.
He eats you like itâs personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clitâs too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesnât care. He mumbles into youâfilth you can barely understand because heâs too focused on devouring.
âSheâs so fucking loud. She wonât shut up. You hear that?â
You do.
Your pussy makes noise with every lickâsquelching, wet, obscene.
âI didnât even fuck her yet,â he growls. âAnd sheâs already creaming.â
You try to cum. You try.
But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.
âNope. Sheâs not getting fed all the way until Iâve felt her on my cock.â
You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.
Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.
âSheâs ready,â he says. âSheâs starving.â
Heâs already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.
Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.
He shoves his fingers past your lipsâsoaked in your own slick, the same fingers heâs been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongueâsalty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.
âSwallow it,â he mutters, eyes locked on your face. âThatâs what obedience tastes like.â
You do. Of course you do.
Because youâd do anything he says.
And he knows it.
He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forwardâkneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like heâs been waiting years for this moment.
You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. Youâre already open, already dripping, already fucked dumbâbut none of itâs going to prepare you for this.
âLook at her,â he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. âSheâs fucking begging.â
âShe wants it,â you pant, voice shaking. âPleaseââ
He doesnât give you time to finish.
He presses inâslow, deep, cruel.
The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.
âOhhh, fuck,â he groans. âSheâs trained alright.â
You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.
Sheâs full.
Finally fucking full.
Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like sheâs been starving for itâand she has. Every inch of him hits something you didnât know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. Youâre soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.
âSay it,â he growls. âSay what she is.â
âSheâs yours,â you gasp. âSheâs a holeâyour holeâsheâs been waiting for thisââ
He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.
You scream.
âYouâre goddamn right sheâs mine,â he snarls. âYou trained her just to take my cock.â
You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.
He starts to fuck you in earnestâhard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.
Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.
So you lift your headâtry to kiss him.
You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.
He pulls back.
His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.
âNo,â he says coldly. âYou donât deserve to be kissed.â
Your breath shatters.
âKisses are for good girls,â he spits. âYouâre just a trained little hole.â
Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.
âThatâs all you are now, isnât it?â he sneers. âA stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.â
Tears spill over your cheeks.
And you cum. Just like that.
From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.
Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesnât stop.
He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like heâs trying to reprogram you from the inside out.
âThatâs it,â he pants. âLet her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.â
Youâre sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.
âFucking knew it,â he groans. âYou were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.â
He leans down, mouth right by your ear.
âBut donât ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you donât get kissed.â
Youâre already limp when he flips you.
Your body gives out so easilyâshoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. Youâre crying, still, but thereâs no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothingâbecause he pulled out.
You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.
âStill hungry?â he mutters behind you.
You nod into the pillow.
âSay it.â
âSheâs empty,â you whimper. âSheâs twitchingâshe wants you back inâsheâs not doneâsheâs never doneââ
You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.
He doesnât give you the rest.
You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.
âYou trained her to take it,â he says. âNow youâre gonna train her to keep it.â
He presses forward.
His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. Youâre still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesnât care.
He starts fucking you again like he owns you.
The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like sheâs just a hole to conquer. You donât even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.
âYou like that?â he pants. âYou like being my little fucktoy?â
âYeah, you do. Youâre trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when sheâs told. Cries when sheâs full. Cums from being humiliated.â
âI do,â you choke out. âIâm yoursâIâm your toyâjust your fucktoyâuse meâuse herââ
âThatâs it,â he growls. âThatâs what she wanted, isnât it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her sheâs nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.â
He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.
âSheâs so loud,â he snarls. âSo fucking wet. Sheâs gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.â
You donât even recognize your own voice when you cum again.
Itâs raw. Ugly. Loud.
You screamâclawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You canât stop it. You donât want to.
He fucks you through itâharder.
âLet her break,â he growls. âLet her fucking split.â
And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesnât even slow down.
He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more timeâand stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.
You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.
He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.
Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.
You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouthâs open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.
âYouâre not starved anymore,â he whispers. âSheâs fed now. Finally.â
You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.
âSheâs still twitching,â he murmurs. âShe wants to sleep like this.â
-
You wake up to the burn in your thighs.
The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skinâs flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel itâhim.
Still there. Still inside you.
You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your bodyâbut the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.
A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.
His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. Heâs asleepâsoft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.
But something else creeps in too.
You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said âYou donât deserve to be kissed.â
You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.
âAre you really not gonna kiss me?â
Itâs soft. Not needy. Just⌠there.
His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.
You almost regret asking.
Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, âIâm still fucking inside you, you brat. You think Iâm gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?â
You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulderâand his mouth is already there.
No hesitation. He kisses you hard.
Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like sheâs reacting to the kiss like itâs touch.
His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means itâlike youâve earned itâlike heâs been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.
Youâre whimpering into his mouth when it happens.
Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasnât pulled out. Heâs still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didnât get to be last night.
His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like heâs re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cuntâs trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesnât even know how to be empty anymore.
And then you hear it.
âHeeseung?â
Itâs distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.
âHeyâhave you seen Y/N?â
Evie. Sheâs awake. The breath dies in your throat.
Your eyes fly open. Heeseungâs hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.
âShit,â you mouth, barely audible.
Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like heâs trying to figure out his next move in real time.
âY/N?â she calls again. âWhereâd you go?â
You scramble out of the bed like youâve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. Youâre still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.
Heeseungâs already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.
Youâre panicking. âDo I go back to her room? What do I doâwhat if sheâs in the hallwayâ?â
Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead onceâquick, mocking, cockyâlike this is funny to him.
âBathroom. Now.â
You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.
His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.
âYo.â
âYou seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasnât in bed. Her stuffâs still there though.â
Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.
âNah, havenât seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.â
âShe didnât text me.â
âShe probably didnât want to wake you.â
Youâre crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.
âWhatever. Tell her Iâm making pancakes.â
âWill do.â
Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.
âYou owe me.â
You punch his chest.
He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.
âDonât worry,â he whispers, voice low. âYouâll pay me back tonight."
-
Itâs early.
Evieâs downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when sheâs in a good mood.
Youâre in Heeseungâs lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His backâs against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and youâre grinding slowlyâhips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.
Youâre not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.
Just slow, controlled rollsâlike youâre milking him without giving yourself away.
âYou sound like you want her to know,â he whispers against your throat.
You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.
âThen be quiet, baby. Or Iâll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you wonât cum at all.â
You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.
âIf she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.â
You do. Barely.
You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for itâand Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.
Downstairs?
Evie sings along to the chorus.
-
Itâs disgusting.
Thereâs no other word for it.
Youâre on all fours, face buried in Heeseungâs mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you openâand the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.
Youâre whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.
âFuck, sheâs drooling for it,â he mutters into your pussy. âShe wants both. Sheâs ready. One in her ass, two in her cuntâyou wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?â
Your face is soaked. Your bodyâs trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.
âSay it,â he growls. âSay what she wants.â
âI want it,â you gasp, voice cracking. âI want you to open my assâwanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoyâpleaseâpleaseââ
And thenâ
âY/N?â
You hear your name like itâs being spoken through a tunnel.
You freeze.
Every muscle in your body locks.
Heeseung doesnât move.
You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.
And then you both look up.
In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.
Evie.
Her face doesnât go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.
She stares at your bodyâat your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseungâs hand buried between your cheeks, your best friendâs brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.
And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.
Her whole body jolts forward like sheâs about to puke right there in the hallway.
âOh myâfuckingâgodââ she chokes. âWhat theâwhat the FUCKââ
She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.
âNoânoânoâno, no, noââ
Sheâs panicking.
Canât breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.
âEvieââ you start, voice already wet. âEvie, pleaseâplease just listenââ
âDONâT.â
The scream hits like a slap.
âDonât talk to me. Donâtâdonât even say my fucking nameââ
Youâre sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.
Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.
âHeejooââ
âDONâT. CALL ME THAT.â Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. âYouâre my fucking brother.â
She looks at you. Like she doesnât even know you.
And then her expression cracks completely.
Her face contortsâpain, betrayal, disgust, hatredâall in one devastating collapse.
âYou were inside her,â she whispers, and her voice breaks. âYou had yourâyourâyou were licking her while you were fingering her assââ
âYouâre both fucking insane.â
You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.
âEvieâpleaseâplease just let me explainââ
She flinches.
Flinches.
Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.
She looks empty.
âDonât come near me.â
Her voice is flat now. Robotic.
âDonât talk to me. Donât look at me. Donât even fucking breathe in my direction.â
You canât speak. Canât move. She steps back.
Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.
âYouâre both dead to me.â
-
ââYou donât remember the walk home.
You donât remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You donât remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floorâhoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocketâand trying to breathe without choking on it.
Because it doesnât stop. The image. Her face.
Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.
She meant it. Every word.
âDonât talk to me. Donât look at me. Donât fucking breathe in my direction.â
She meant it.
You try to text her that night. You donât even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says âIâm sorry.â One that says nothing at all.
They donât send. Youâve been blocked.
He doesnât text either. You donât even know if he can.
The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.
It never comes.
But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.
Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like itâs expecting to be filled.
Some nights you wake up sweatingâpanting, pussy twitchingâbecause you dreamed of his voice again.
You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.
Even after Evieâs face broke in half at the sight of youâwet, spread open, her brotherâs finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.
You still miss him. And thatâs the part that makes you sick.
-
Itâs been nearly two weeks since you watched Evie recoil in that doorway, hand clamped over her mouth like she was actually going to vomit.
You canât erase the memory of her faceâhow disgust bled into betrayal, how her gaze slid right past you like you didnât exist, then landed on Heeseung as if he were some twisted stranger in her own home. You tried to bury the image, tried to make it small and unimportant, but it lives in your chest now, swelling every time you breathe.
You havenât talked to either of them since. Not one word to her, not a single text to him.
Itâs as if the world paused on that moment: her voice ripping through the room, your body half-naked, his spit drying on your thighs, your stomach churning with guilt.
Now the doorbell rings, and somehow you already know whoâs on the other side.
You open it slowly, hesitation weighing on every movement of your hand.
Heeseung stands there in a wrinkled hoodie, dark circles stamped beneath his eyes. He looks thinnerâlike the shape of him has caved in from the inside out. His hair is unstyled, his shoulders hunched, and the way he stares at you feels desperate.
Neither of you speak for a few seconds, the silence pressing into your lungs.
Then you break it, because you canât handle him looking at you like that. âWhy are you here?â Your voice comes out flat, echoing the numbness youâve been living in.
Heeseung swallows, gaze skittering between your face and the ground.
âI had to see you.â
The words feel like theyâre meant to fix something, but all they do is twist the knife. You give a hollow laugh, but thereâs no humor in it.
âYou already saw enough.â
He exhales shakily, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his neck.
âIâm not asking you to forgive me,â he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. âI know thatâs notâthereâs nothing I canââ He trails off, struggling, guilt carved into every line of his face. When he finally speaks again, his voice strains.
âYou think we havenât replayed it a hundred fucking times?â he asks. âThe door. The blanket. You moaning. MeâGodâwe were still fucking with each other right there, even when sheââ
âStop.â Your voice cracks. âDonât say it.â
âWe saw her face,â his voice keeps going, low and fast and pained. âWe saw it, and we still didnât stop, like fucking animals. I see it every time I close my eyes. I hear her say my name like I was never hers, like you were never her friend.â
You speak,
âI canât look at you without hearing her gag.â
The confession slashes the air, and his lips part like youâve slapped him.
âI canât hear your name without remembering what it felt like to be in her house, in her family, doing⌠that, while she thought I was asleep down the hall.â
For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then he forces himself to speak, voice cracking.
âI know. I fucking know, and I hate that we didnât let go even when we heard her. I hate that she looked at us like we were monsters. I hate that part of me still wanted to stay inside you, and part of you still wanted me there, when we shouldâve both stopped.â
You close your eyes, replaying Evieâs strangled gasp in your head, recalling the numb disbelief that followed when she told you not to speak, not to look, not to fucking breathe in her direction.
âI canât talk to you,â you whisper, voice trembling despite your best efforts. âI canât even hear your name without feeling sick.â
He swallows and nods, like heâs been waiting for those exact words. âIâm sorry,â he says, and he sounds like heâs about to shatter. âI wonâtâif you never want to see me again, I understand.â He drags in a breath that rattles in his chest. âI just needed to know you were⌠alive.â
For a moment, you want to ask him if heâs okay too, if heâs been eating or sleeping, if he wakes up sweating like you do. But you lock it down, because you canât afford to care right now.
âWell,â you say, and your voice is colder than you intend, ânow youâve seen me. Congratulations.â
A faint tremor passes through him, and he nods once. Thereâs nothing else. No lecture, no pleading. He just steps back, shoulders slumped, and turns away.
-
It happens in the grocery store, of all places. Youâre pushing a half-empty cart down the cereal aisle, trying not to think about how much quieter life has been since you lost your best friend and the boy you broke her heart with. Youâre scanning the shelves for something to distract you when you catch sight of a familiar figure at the other end of the row.Â
Your heart lurches, your fingers tightening on the cart handle as your stomach flips.Â
Because there, frowning at the boxes of cereal, is Evieâor Heejoo, or however she wants to be called now. You donât have time to decide whether you should turn and run or force a hollow smile. She glances up, and your eyes meet. Neither of you moves.
 The aisle feels too narrow. Her cart sits between you, an invisible barrier.
She looks differentâher hair is shorter or maybe just pulled back in a careless ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes, shoulders tense. She seems hollowed out in the same way you feel.Â
Some part of you wants to say hey or I miss you or please talk to me, but the words dissolve in your throat. Sheâs the one who steps forward first, letting her cart roll behind her. Her heels click on the tile, echoing your every heartbeat.
âHaving fun?â she asks, and it doesnât sound like a question so much as a thinly-veiled jab.
You grip the handle of your cart, mouth suddenly too dry to speak.
âEvieââ
âDonât call me that,â she snaps, eyes flicking away like the name itself stings. âYou donât get to pretend weâre okay. You donât get to act like weâre still friends.â
Her arms fold across her chest, nostrils flaring with each breath, and you feel your own pulse jump in your neck. âIâIâm sorry,â you manage, voice trembling. Itâs not enough, you know that.
She scoffs, a breathy, humorless sound. âThatâs it? Youâre sorry? You think that magically fixes everything?â She gestures sharply, and you notice how tightly sheâs clenching her fists. âYou screwed around with my brother like it was nothing, and I walked in onââ Her voice breaks, face twisting as she fights off the memory. âI was just the idiot friend who never saw it coming, right?â
Shame flares in your cheeks. You hold your ground, though it hurts to meet her eyes. âI know I betrayed you,â you say. âWeâGod, I donât even have the words for how messed up it was. We both knew better. We both let it happen.â
Her hand lifts to cut you off, shaking with the effort. âYou think itâs just that you hurt me?â Her voice wobbles between anger and heartbreak. âYou hurt him too, you realize that? He was my brother, you were my best friend, and you both blew yourselves up in front of me. Like you had no idea what it would cost.â
Your stomach knots in a way you havenât felt before. Sheâs right. It wasnât just herâit wasnât just you. It was all three of you, tangling and twisting until it snapped. âI know,â you say more quietly. âAnd weâre all paying for it. Heâs⌠heâs not okay. Iâm not okay. And youâre definitely not okay. Thereâs no part of this that isnât broken.â
She lets out a short, bitter laugh. âDo you think that helps? Hearing you say itâs broken doesnât change the fact that I canât even look at either of you without wanting to scream.â
You bow your head, voice almost inaudible. âI wish I could take it back.â
She swallows, and for a fraction of a second, the hostility in her eyes flickers with pain. âWell, you canât.â Her grip tightens on the cart handle until her knuckles whiten, and she exhales shakily.Â
âI want my brother back, you know. I want my friend back. But I donât get either of those things, because you two decided to⌠to destroy what we had.â
Your throat closes up, tears pricking at your eyes. âIâm sorry.â
She stares for another few seconds, jaw clenched as she holds herself together. Then she moves around you, snatching her cart by the handle, the wheels squeaking in protest.Â
âEnjoy the produce,â she mutters under her breath, voice dripping with bitterness as she passes.
-
It doesnât happen overnight.
 Thereâs no single conversation that wipes the slate clean, no perfect gesture that makes Evieâs betrayal vanish, no magic wand that repairs the gaping wound in your chest.Â
But over timeâslow, grudging, step by hesitant stepâyou all begin to realize that staying in this darkness is killing you. Staying strangers, orbiting the same guilt without looking one another in the eye, is worse than facing the truth. And that truth is messy, fragile, and riddled with scars.
It begins with Evie texting you, late at night, a week after the grocery store encounter.Â
Just three words: We need to talk.
You stare at the screen for a solid minute, heart pounding like itâs trying to break out of your chest.Â
Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay.Â
Thatâs all. No apology, no second-guessing, just acceptance. You wait for her to say when or where, but she doesnât text back until the next afternoon, telling you to meet her at the park near her house.Â
And then she clarifies: Just you.
You show up after sunset, nerves jangling in every limb, expecting hostility, or silence, or both.Â
Instead, you find Evie sitting on a faded wooden bench under a flickering streetlight. She looks smaller than you remember, knees drawn up under her chin, arms hugging herself for warmth. As you approach, you open your mouth to say somethingâanythingâbut she holds up a hand, shaking her head.
âDonât,â she says, voice tight. âNot yet.â
You stand there, awkward and guilty, waiting for her permission to speak.
She lowers her hand and sighs, staring at a patch of dead grass near her feet. âI asked you here because⌠this is killing me,â she mutters. âBeing this angry all the time. Hating you. Hating him. I canât keep up with it. Itâs turning me into someone I donât recognize.â
Her words break something inside your chest, and your throat goes thick. You sit down on the far edge of the bench, leaving a wide space between you, unsure if youâre allowed to be any closer. âI⌠I know,â you manage, voice unsteady. âI feel it too. Itâs like Iâm rotting on the inside.â
She nods once, gaze flicking to you before sliding away again. âIâm not saying I forgive you,â she warns, and you nod, heart pounding. âIâm just saying I donât want this to be my life anymore. Thisârage. Itâs not me.â
She exhales, shoulders curling inward. âAnd I loved you. You were my best friend. And he⌠heâs my brother, and I loved him too. So how did we all end up here?â
Silence lingers. You fight back tears that threaten to spill.Â
âWe messed up,â you whisper, voice cracking. âWe both did. Me and him. We used your house, your trust, your everything for our own messed-up⌠needs, and it was stupid and selfish and we ended up shattering everything.â You swallow a lump in your throat. âI know none of that fixes it. But I swear to you, we never wanted to hurt you.â
Evie laughs bitterly, a hollow sound. âWell, you did. And I canât pretend you didnât.âÂ
Her gaze shifts to the distance, to the halo of light under the streetlamp. âBut I donât know if I can keep hating you. Or him.âÂ
She hesitates, words coming out slow. âI saw him last week. He lookedâGod, I hardly recognized him. Like a ghost of himself.â
You nod, biting back the urge to defend him or to ask a dozen questions. âHeâs⌠not doing great,â you say simply, remembering his hollow cheeks, the way his voice cracked when he said he couldnât sleep.
She wraps her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly. âNeither are we,â she points out. âNone of us are okay. And I guess thatâs what Iâm realizing. That weâre all stuck in the same crater, staring at the same wreckage. Maybe we shouldnât be trying to fix it on our own.â
Your eyes burn with unshed tears. âWhat do you want to do?â you ask, feeling the weight of her words press into your chest.
Sheâs quiet for a long moment. Then she looks directly at you, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. âI want us to talk,â she says. âAll three of us. In one place. I want us to put it all on the table, no hiding, no running out. Because if thereâs any chance of moving forwardâtogether or apartâwe have to face it."
âIâll text him,â she says, voice ragged. âDonât expect miracles. But I canât do this alone.â
A teardrop escapes your lashes and slips down your cheek. âNeither can I,â you whisper. âThank you.â
She doesnât respond, just stands up and motions for you to follow.Â
-
Evieâs living room is dimly lit, and the air feels thicker than it shouldâas if everything youâve said to each other in the last hour is still hovering in the space between. Outside, itâs already dark, the muffled hum of passing cars bleeding in through the windows. Youâre all drainedâphysically, emotionallyâyet no one moves to leave. Not yet. Itâs not finished.
Evie is perched on the armchair, knees drawn close to her chest. Youâre on one end of the couch, Heeseung on the other, and thereâs still a gulf of guilt and confusion separating you. But you can feel the conversation building toward something bigger than apologies or confessions of regret.
Evie tugs at the sleeves of her sweater. She glances between you and her brother, mouth pinched tight, but her voice is gentler than before.
âIâm not pretending this is easy,â she begins, clearing her throat. âWeâve all hurt each other. I just want to know what you⌠what you both actually feel.â Her gaze settles on you, question clear in her eyes. âDo you two even care about each other beyond⌠beyond whatever it was you were doing?â
You swallow, your mouth dry. This is the moment youâve been pushing down for weeks, refusing to think about. The reason you woke up gasping sometimes, alone in your bed, missing a warmth you never should have craved in the first place. You take a shaky breath, feeling your pulse hammer in your temples.
âIââ you begin, then stop. Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to speak. âIâm in love with him.â
It comes out bare, unpolished, stripped of excuses. You feel the words echo in your chest, leaving you vulnerable. Across the room, Evieâs eyes widen for half a second, and you can see her guard tighten, just a bit.
Heeseung exhales sharply, his head snapping up. You canât bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus on the floor, heart pounding.
âI know,â you continue, voice trembling, âthat he might not feel the same way. I know we started this all wrong, that I messed up your trust, that I hurt youââyou glance at Evieââand maybe I donât deserve a happy ending. But I canât keep pretending I donât love him just because Iâm ashamed of how we got here.â
Evie inhales like sheâs bracing for another blow, her arms tightening around her knees.
âYouâre saying you love him, even if he doesnât love you back?â she asks, carefully, like sheâs afraid of the answer.
You let out a breath that feels like itâs been caged in your ribs for months.
âYes. Itâs not⌠itâs not his responsibility. If itâs one-sided, thatâs on me.â You glance fleetingly at Heeseung, face flushing. âI donât expect anything from him, or from you. I justââ Your voice cracks. âI needed to say it out loud.â
Silence envelops the room, charged with tension. Heeseung is staring at you, eyes wide and glossy, like youâve knocked the air from his lungs. Evie shifts, chewing on the inside of her lip.
Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.
âYou⌠love me?â
You manage a small, trembling nod. âI do,â you say, meeting his gaze at last. âAnd if you donât love me back, thatâs okay. I know how messed up this is. Iâm ready to⌠to accept that.â
He looks startled, as if no part of him expected you to be okay with that possibility. His hands flex on his knees, knuckles blanching. Then he breathes out, shoulders sagging.
âGod,â he murmurs, shaking his head. âYouâre unbelievably stupid.â
You flinch, heart joltingâthough thereâs no real malice in his tone, only a shaky awe and raw disbelief that seems to be tying him in knots. He forces himself to meet Evieâs eyes for a flicker of a second, as if silently asking for permission to go on.
âDonât call her that,â Evie snaps, voice quivering at the edges. She fixes him with a sharp glare, arms folded tight across her chest. âI donât care how you meant itâsheâs not stupid, and you donât get to insult her in front of me.â
âShut the fuck up Evie, one second,â He turns to you, âBecause you think Iâm not in love with you? That Iâd leave you hanging with all this guilt?â
Your heart stutters, the floor tilting under you. âHeeseungâŚâ
âIâm in love with you too,â he says, and the words hang in the air with tangible weight. âI canât believe youâd be ready to walk away, believing it was one-sided. That youâd⌠accept it. God, do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you in so much pain, thinking I donât feel the same?â
A soft sound escapes your throatâsome blend of relief and shockâand tears gather at the edges of your vision. Across the room, Evie exhales shakily, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You can see the swirl of emotions crossing her features: anger, hurt, jealousy, and underneath it all, a lingering care for you both.
Heeseung scrubs a hand over his face, then looks to Evie, voice trembling.
âI love her. I know I messed up. We messed up. We never shouldâve lied. But I canât take back how I feel.â
Evie drags in a deep breath. She pushes herself up from the armchair, pacing a short line across the living room. Her head is down, hands in her hair. When she finally looks at you both, thereâs pain in her eyes, but not the same raw fury as before.
âJesus,â she mutters. âYou twoâŚâ She chews the inside of her cheek. âI hate what you did. I hate how you did it. But if you love each otherâreally love each otherâI canât tell you not to.â
 Her shoulders slump. âI want to be angry forever, but⌠seeing you like this, Iââ She presses her lips together, tears brimming, then sets her jaw. âI guess I just want us to find a way to exist without destroying each other.â
A thick silence fills the space. Your chest feels ready to burst from conflicting emotionsâgratitude, guilt, longing, terror. You look at Evie and see the ghost of the best friend you once knew, who might be willing to stand beside you again one day, even if it wonât ever be the same.
You open your mouth.
âI know it wonât be easy,â you say softly. âI donât expect you to forgive everything in one night. But maybe⌠maybe we can start moving forward?â
Evie dashes a tear off her cheek and gives a tiny nod.
âYeah,â she whispers. âMaybe.â
Heeseung watches her, watches you, then rises from the couch. He hesitates, like heâs not sure if heâs allowed to touch you. You stand up, heart pounding, and drift closer. Neither of you quite meets in the middle, leaving a careful gap where all your remorse hangs. But itâs less than before.
Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.
âI canât stay down here with you two being⌠whatever you are. I need time, okay?â
You nod quickly.
âOf course.â
Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.
âAnything you need.â
She steps back, wiping her eyes, and thereâs a hint of a weary smile ghosting across her face, like sheâs relieved but not sure how to show it.
âYou two can talk, or⌠or go, or do whatever. I justâŚâ Her breath catches. âIâm gonna go upstairs. Thatâs all I can handle right now.â
You donât stop her.
Then you turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, a tremulous hope fluttering in your chest. He lifts a handâtentative, like heâs scared to break youâand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin.
He exhales shakily.
âI love you,â he murmurs, the words raw with emotion. âIâm sorry for everything.â
You nod, voice catching in your throat as you rest your hand over his.
âIâm sorry too,â you whisper. âBut I love you, and maybe⌠thatâs something we can start with.â
His eyes close in something like relief, and he presses a soft, uncertain kiss to your temple. It isnât a triumphant moment, not the kind of romantic victory you mightâve once imagined. Itâs tender, laced with guilt and fear. But itâs also realâgenuine and fragile, the only piece of warmth youâve had in a long time.
-
Things shift slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. You and Heeseung start keeping your distance whenever Evieâs aroundâno subtle hand-holding, no lingering touches, certainly no sneaking off to lock yourselves behind the nearest door.Â
Itâs not that youâre ashamed of each other; itâs that you canât stand the thought of rubbing your relationship in her face. You both know youâre lucky sheâs even letting you in the same room without storming out.
So you dial it back. You let your bodies stop running the show.Â
Itâs harder than you expectâhe still sets your nerves on fire by simply looking at youâbut you remind yourself that Evieâs feelings matter, that you owe her more than just half-hearted consideration. You give her space, which means giving yourselves space too.Â
No sex. No heavy make-out sessions. No pressed-up-against-a-wall confessions. Just⌠time and gentle contact.
Heeseung seems as restless as you.Â
Sometimes, when itâs late and youâre on a phone callâwhispering so Evie wonât hear through the wallsâhe sounds downright desperate.Â
You can hear his breath catch when you say you miss him, can practically feel the tension radiating through the receiver.Â
Yet both of you agree: this is how it has to be for now. If you want Evie to believe that what you have is more than just an addiction to each otherâs bodies, you need to show her you can exist outside a bed.
So you go on dates. Real dates. Movie theaters, yes, but also bookstore trips, late-night drives to nowhere, strolling through a local fair when it rolls into town.Â
You hold hands only if youâre well away from Evieâs neighborhoodâfearful that any small sign of affection might break the thin thread of tolerance sheâs extended.Â
The first time you walk along the riverside in the evening, sipping cheap coffee from a convenience store, it hits you that youâve never really done this part before: the tentative, day-to-day romance of building a real relationship. Itâs both comforting and nerve-wracking.Â
You can feel the charge sparking under your skin every time he smiles at you, like youâre seconds away from losing your careful resolve.Â
But you donât. Neither of you wants to risk undoing the fragile progress with Evie.
And that progress is slow, but present.Â
She doesnât cringe as much when you and Heeseung enter a room together.Â
She no longer flinches if you happen to stand on the same side of the kitchen.
 Maybe sometimes she rolls her eyes, but she doesnât snap. You see the tension in her shoulders when youâre all in the same space, thoughâlike sheâs bracing for some new betrayal.Â
You canât blame her. You still offer to leave the moment you sense her discomfort rising. Surprisingly, sheâs started telling you to stay.
But the real sign that things might be healing comes one weekend night when Evie texts you, out of the blue:
Girlsâ night?
She doesnât dress it up with a cute emoji or an explanation; itâs bare bones, almost clinical. And you stare at your phone with your heart hammering, wondering if this is a test, or maybe a begrudging olive branch.Â
You answer with a shaky yes, and spend the next few hours trying not to read too much into it. You tell Heeseung youâll be hanging out with Evie, and he just smilesâwide and genuine, telling you to have fun, to text him if you need anything.
Evieâs room hasnât changed much since the night you snuck out of it to see Heeseung. The layout is the same, the posters the same, the bedspread the same. It all feels loaded with history.Â
She sits cross-legged on her bed, handing you a sodaâno alcohol tonight, no false bravado. You sense she wants you both stone-cold sober for whatever might be said.Â
Thereâs an awkward pause, and then she gestures for you to sit, too.
For a while, conversation comes in bursts: updates about random classmates, stories from her day at work, small talk about the show you both used to binge-watch together. Itâs stiff, but not hostile.Â
She picks at her blanket, and you notice how she wonât hold your gaze for too long. Yet each minute that passes without snapping or bitterness feels like a victory.
Eventually, she slides a bag of nail polish across the bed toward you. âYou, um⌠you still like doing this, right? Itâs been a while,â she mumbles, glancing at your nails.Â
Itâs such a small gesture, but it makes your throat tighten. You nod, and she exhales something that might be relief.Â
For a solid hour, the two of you paint and chatter, as if practicing how to be friends again. Her shoulders are less rigid. Youâre careful not to misstep. Neither of you mentions Heeseung.
At least not directly. But you feel his presence in the air, the unspoken pivot point around which your every interaction revolves. Itâs only when Evie finally fixes you with a long, assessing look, half-concern and half-uncertainty, that the moment arrives.
âAre you two, like⌠okay?â she asks. Her voice is laced with discomfort, but thereâs no hatred in it. âYou said no more sneaking around. But are youâhappy?â
You swallow hard, carefully blowing on your newly painted nails. âWeâre⌠doing our best,â you say. âTrying to be good for each other. Not just physically.â
She nods, lips twisting like sheâs turning over your words in her mind. âI guess⌠thatâs what I wanted to know,â she admits softly. âIt still weirds me out sometimes, but Iâd rather it matter to you than be some⌠fling.â
A wave of gratitude surges in your chest, making it hard to speak. You nod. âIt matters,â you whisper. âI swear.â
She blinks a few times, then sets her nail polish aside. The tension in her shoulders relaxes just enough that her spine curves against the headboard, more comfortable than youâve seen her in weeks. âGood,â she murmurs, tone stilted but earnest. âDonât⌠donât make me regret trying to rebuild this, okay?â
Your own shoulders slump in relief. âI wonât,â you promise. Your voice shakes with the weight of it. âAnd if I ever do, you canâand shouldâkick my ass.â
That draws a small, genuine laugh from herâa sound you havenât heard in what feels like ages. She nods, letting the humor fill the space that was once suffocating with tension. âDeal,â she says.
You stay up later than expectedâtalking about nonsense, painting your nails in mismatched colors, occasionally lapsing into awkward silences.Â
But each time, one of you breaks it before the air can go stale. By the time midnight rolls around, youâve settled into a strange new normal: not quite what you were before the betrayal, but not strangers anymore. Something between you is mending, fragile but real.
When you leave, she walks you to the front door. Itâs still weird, stepping out into the hallway where so much damage happened.Â
But Evieâs behind you, not in front, and you canât help feeling that the dynamic has changed in a way that actually might last. You glance back at her, and though she still looks tired, she doesnât look hostile or betrayed. Maybe just⌠cautious. Itâs enough.
âNight,â she says, one hand resting on the doorknob.
âNight,â you reply, voice quiet. âThanks, again.â
She nods and closes the door gently behind youâno slamming, no huffing. Just a simple, private goodbye.
 As you slip into the night, you realize youâre smiling, mind already whirring with what youâll tell Heeseung when you see him next. You catch yourself wondering if youâll meet up for another date soon. Or if youâll just call him on the way home, excitedly spilling the details of your slow but tangible progress with Evie.
-
The new place is barely furnished. A couch thatâs still covered in plastic. A mattress on the floor. Takeout containers littering the kitchen counter. The floorboards creak with every step. The windows are wide open, and there are no curtains yet. Itâs not homeânot reallyâbut itâs his.Â
And most importantly, itâs finally, blessedly, fucking private.
When he opens the door and lets you in, he doesnât kiss you right away. He just watches you step inside like youâre something heâs trying to memorize. His hands stay in the pocket of his hoodie. His jawâs tight. His eyes flicker to the bag in your hand, then to your shoes, then up your legs so slowly it makes you feel exposed even though youâre still fully dressed.
You donât say anything at first. You set the wine down on the counter. You take in the spaceâempty and echoingâbut your skinâs already buzzing. You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, and something shifts.
He clears his throat.
âI havenât kissed you yet,â he says, voice low. âNot really.â
You turn to look at him. âNo.â
Thereâs a beat.
âCan I?â
You nod.
And thatâs it. Thatâs all it takes.
His hands are on your face before you can blink, warm and rough and needing. The kiss starts soft, but only for a breath. Then it turnsâhungry, desperate, filthy. Your back hits the counter with a thud, his tongue already in your mouth, his body pressing into yours like heâs trying to crawl inside you through your lips.
You moan into him, and he groans, deep in his throat, like the sound broke whatever shred of self-control he was hanging onto.
âYou have no idea,â he pants, mouth hot against your jaw, âhow long Iâve wanted to ruin you in peace.â
Your shirtâs pulled up before you can answer, his mouth already sucking marks down your neck. His hands are everywhereâgripping your tits through your bra, unbuttoning your jeans, fingers slipping into your waistband like he owns the place. Like he owns you.
You gasp as his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through your underwear, his breath catching when he feels the heat there.
âAlready wet?â he mutters, voice ragged. âFucking knew it.â
He yanks your jeans down to your ankles, then sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile without another word. His hands push your legs apart, pulling one up to rest over his shoulder. And when his mouth presses to the soaked fabric of your panties, you cry outâsharp, helpless, needy.
âYou wore these knowing Iâd take them off with my teeth, didnât you?â he growls, dragging the fabric aside with his nose, his tongue already lapping through your folds like heâs been waiting for this for months.
You can barely breathe. One hand flies to the counter for balance, the other fists in his hair. He licks you with obscene, wet sounds, groaning into your pussy like the taste is sending him over the edge. You grind against his face shamelessly, whining when he flattens his tongue and drags it up through your slit, over and over again.
âFuck, Heeseungâpleaseââ
He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your clit. âWhat do you need, baby?â he pants, thumb spreading it around with tight, deliberate pressure. âYou want me to make you cum with my mouth like a good little whore? Is that it?â
You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.
âI missed this pussy,â he mutters, diving back in. âMissed how fucking loud she is.â
And she is. Your pussyâs wet, sloppy, noisy, every flick of his tongue echoing off the bare walls. You cum hard, legs shaking around his shoulders, crying out his name as your vision blurs.
But heâs not done.
He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabs you by the waist and turns you around, bending you over the counter.
âNo more pretending,â he growls in your ear. âNo more quiet. Youâre gonna scream for me this time.â
He pulls your panties down and spreads you open, groaning like a man unhinged.
âGod, youâre dripping. You fucking missed this too, didnât you?â
You try to answer, but heâs already stroking his cock against your folds, rubbing the head through the mess between your legs, smearing it everywhere.
âSay it,â he demands.
âYesâyes, I missed itâfuck, Heeseung, I missed your cockââ
He sinks into you in one sharp, brutal thrust, and you wail.
No condom. No pause. Just the stretch of him filling you up in one smooth, devastating stroke.
âOh my God,â he groans. âYouâre fucking swallowing me.â
Youâre moaning, writhing, drooling onto the counter. He doesnât start slow. He doesnât give you time. He fucks youârelentless, pounding, like heâs been waiting to do this since the moment you first touched him.
Your ass slaps against his thighs with every thrust. Your pussy is loud, the kind of wet, messy squelch that would embarrass you if you could think.
He slaps your ass hard, making you jolt forward. âListen to her,â he growls. âSheâs been crying for me.â
You donât stop him. You beg for more.
He grabs your arms and pulls you back onto him, using your own body to fuck you harder.
âKeep taking it,â he snarls. âBe my good little cumrag, just like you used to be.â
You scream. You scream for him.
You cum again, sobbing into the crook of your arm, your entire body trembling.
He pulls out and flips you around, lifts you up onto the counter again, and kisses you like heâs devouring you from the inside out. Your legs are trembling so hard you can barely hold them up, but he spreads them open and spits straight onto your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers, moaning when you jolt at the sensitivity.
âWanna fuck you on the floor next,â he mutters against your lips. âWanna fuck you on the mattress, on the couch, against every wall. Wanna ruin this apartment with the sound of your pussy screaming for me.â
You grab his face, breath ragged. âThen do it.â
He throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the mattress on the floor, where he fucks you in every position heâs ever imagined. He keeps you cockdrunk and leaking. When your voice gives out, he fucks you in silence. When your legs stop working, he props them up and keeps going. And when he finally cumsâinside you, deep, claimingâhe doesnât pull out.
He just collapses on top of you, both of you drenched in sweat and slick and the aftermath of something feral.
You canât move.
You donât want to.
You just lie there, shaking, full, used, satisfied in a way that makes you dizzy.
Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.
Tags: Smut, groping, Mutual pining, phone sex, oral (f , m receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, begging, praise, soft dom Minho, tension snapping like a wire, domestic fluff, aftercare, post-sex vulnerability, tit play, friends to lovers
Word count: 8k
Summary: You always thought Minho was gayâso you never held back. Tiny tops, unfiltered stories, late-night cuddles⌠harmless, right?Until he sees you soaked through one day and finally snaps. And suddenly, your best friend isnât looking at you like a friend anymore. Until one late-night phone call changed everything. Now youâre at his doorâno bra, no excuseâbuzzing from the sound of his voice and the filthy things he made you do. He opens the door. He sees you. And just like that, itâs over. The line is crossed.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
Youâd known Lee Minho since you were barely old enough to walk without holding onto his shirt.
Back then, he was just that loud kid who shared his snacks and shoved you into mud puddles. Now? He was your best friend. Constant. Loyal. Always down to pick you up when you were drunk or kill spiders or fake-boyfriend you out of awkward situations.
And alsoâtotally not into girls.
At least, thatâs what youâd always assumed.
He never talked about hookups. Never ogled girls. Never so much as blinked when you pranced around in your tiny shorts or ranted about your latest sex-related disaster. You figured he was either the most respectful man aliveâor playing for a different team.
So you got reckless. Comfortable.
And today?
You were about to find out just how wrong youâd been.
It started with the kitchen sink.
You were washing dishes, half-dancing to your playlist, wearing nothing but those soft cotton shorts and an oversized white tank with no bra underneath. Your wet hair clung to your neck, and you were humming through a verse when the faucet burstâliterallyâspraying a jet of cold water straight at your chest.
âFUCKâshit, fuckââ You stumbled back, grabbing at the handle, slipping on the tile as water drenched you from neck to stomach.
And thatâs when Minho walked in.
âYo, I got the charger youââ
He froze.
You blinked at him, soaked and panting, hair plastered to your cheeks.
Water trickled down the front of your now see-through top. The fabric clung to every inch of your skin. And your nipples? Standing out like full spotlight, front row through the sheer cotton. You had no idea though, no time to even think about it before he had appeared.
âOh.â You laughed, awkward. âUmâhi. Broken faucet. Donât mind the wet t-shirt contest.â
He didnât answer.
Just stood there.
Eyes glued to your chest, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like he was trying to hold his breath.
Your smile faded.
âMin?â
His gaze finally snapped to your face.
Too late.
You saw itâthe tension. The fire.
The unmistakable flicker of hunger.
And suddenly your stomach flipped.
ââŚMinho?â
He swallowed hard, voice low. Rough.
âPut something on. Now.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âI saidââ His eyes dropped again before yanking back up. âGo change. Now. Before I do something really fucking stupid.â
Your heart skipped.
Because that? That didnât sound like your best friend.
You stood there in wet silence, your soaked top clinging to your skin like a second damn layer, Minho couldnât meet your eyes.
He turned his back to youâturned his backâand gripped the edge of your countertop like he was grounding himself. His shoulders rose with each breath, tense as hell, like someone trying not to explode.
Youâd never seen him like this. Not with you.
âI wasnâtâMin, I didnât meanââ you stammered, brain short-circuiting. âI didnât know you were coming over yet.â
His voice was clipped. âYou knew the faucet was broken.â
âI didnât know it was gonna blast me in the tits!â
Silence.
A beat.
Then, quietlyâso quietlyâyou heard it:
âJesus ChristâŚâ
Thatâs when something finally clicked.
You looked down at yourselfâat the sheer fabric sticking to your breasts, nipples hard, outline of your curves totally exposed. And for the first time in all the years of being this careless around him, you suddenly felt self-conscious.
You reached for a dish towel and held it over your chest.
ââŚAre you mad at me?â you asked, voice small.
âNo,â he said quickly. Too quickly.
You stepped closer.
âThen whatâs going on?â
He shook his head, still facing away. âYou wouldnât get it.â
âTry me.â
He let out a breath that sounded more like a growl, and when he finally turned around, you caught it againâthat look. Raw, unfiltered restraint. His gaze flicked down to the towel youâd pressed to your chest, then back to your face.
You watched him like he was someone else.
Like the Minho you grew up with had peeled off his skin and left something sharper underneath. His jaw was tight, arms folded, eyes still avoiding yoursâbut you felt it now. That edge. That static charge that had been humming under the surface for who knows how long.
âIâll fix the faucet later,â he muttered, stepping past youâcarefully. Like you were made of glass. Or fire.
You turned as he moved, towel still clutched to your chest.
âYou didnât answer me,â you said.
âAbout what?â
âWhy you told me to change.â
He stopped at the door.
Didnât turn around.
For a long second, you thought he wouldnât say anything at all.
Then, quietly, he replied:
âBecause if Iâd kept looking at you, I donât think I wouldâve kept my mouth shut.â
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
And when he walked out of the kitchen, just like that, it was like the whole room shifted.
The air changed.
Everything felt warmer. Tighter. Thinner.
You didnât move for a while. Not until the cold in your soaked top finally made your skin sting.
⸝
The rest of the day passed weirdly.
Minho didnât leave, of course. He stayed like he always did, lounging on your couch, bickering over what to order for dinner, side-eyeing you every time you grabbed your phone.
But the energy between you?
Completely different.
He didnât look at you the way he usually did. Didnât tease you like normal. Didnât even touch you when he passed you the remoteâjust tossed it like it might burn him otherwise.
And you couldnât stop thinking about his voice in the kitchen.
âI donât think I wouldâve kept my mouth shut.â
Kept it shut about what, exactly?
What he was thinking?
What he wanted to do?
You were still thinking about it when you came out of your room later in a sleep shirt that barely skimmed your thighs. No bra. Nothing underneath. The usual you-in-your-element vibe.
Except⌠this time?
You caught him looking.
Not accidentally.
Not briefly.
He lookedâand kept looking.
From your legs to your hips to the faint hint of nipple under the thin fabric, straight to your face.
Your breath caught.
He didnât apologize.
He didnât blink.
He just raised a browâalmost like a dareâand said, âYour sinkâs still fucked.â
You nodded, slowly.
âSo are you gonna fix it?â
He stood up.
And as he passed by, way too close, his hand brushed the curve of your lower back.
Just a touch.
Too casual to be called a grab. Too deliberate to be innocent.
And then he was gone again, heading into the kitchen.
Like it hadnât just happened at all.
⸝
He always crashed in your bed. That wasnât new.
Late movie nights, sleepy arguments, limbs tangled and breathing syncedâjust best friends, just comfort.
Except tonight?
You felt everything.
His warmth at your back. The heaviness of his arm draped around your waist. The intentional silence of him pretending to be asleep, even though you could feel how tense he was.
Youâd turned off the lights twenty minutes ago, but your body was still buzzing. Hyperaware of every inch of skin not covered by your flimsy sleep shirt. Every inch of him pressed against you in the dark.
And you knewâyou knewâhe hadnât stopped thinking about earlier.
About how youâd looked dripping wet, nipples hard, shirt transparent and clinging to your curves like a second skin.
You shouldâve felt awkward.
But instead, your thighs were clenched.
And thenâHis hand moved.
Just a little.
At first, it was nothing. A small adjustment. His fingers splayed over your stomach like they were stretching in his sleep. But then his palm drifted higher.
Slow.
Barely grazing the underside of your breast through your shirt.
Your breath caught.
His did too.
Like he just realized what his body was doing.
He didnât pull away.
Not immediately.
His fingers twitched, tips brushing right beneath the curve of your boobâsoft, tentative. Still pretending it was nothing. That he was asleep. That this wasnât completely out of bounds.
Your chest rose and fell faster now.
He still didnât speak.
But his hand stayed there.
Hovering. Teasing. The edge of a full touch, like he was testing himself. Or punishing himself.
And you?
You didnât stop him.
You didnât even breathe.
You just pressed back into him slightlyâso slightlyâand felt the undeniable shape of him, hard and restrained against the swell of your ass.
He exhaled shakily behind you.
Shit.
Youâd never heard him make a sound like that before. Not around you.
Not around anyone.
You didnât move for a while.
Didnât even blink. Not when his fingers hovered beneath your breast, not when you felt his cock pressed firm and restrained against the curve of your ass. You just stayed stillâheart hammering, skin burningâlike your body was listening for his next move.
But when none cameâŚ
You shifted.
Just a little. Barely a breath of movement. Just enough to arch your back, push your chest forward, and guide the soft swell of your breast right into his palm.
His fingers twitched again.
But he didnât pull away.
He didnât say your name. Didnât jerk back in shock or guilt. He just stayed thereâcompletely still behind you, breathing shallow and slow like he was holding onto sleep as a defense.
Your nipples were hard beneath the thin cotton, the heat of his palm sinking through the fabric like an electric brand. It was barely a touchâbut it felt filthy. Loaded. More intimate than anything youâd done with someone you were actually sleeping with.
And still, you stayed quiet.
Still.
Sleeping.
His thumb brushed the soft curve below your nipple. Just once. Barely there. Like a reflex.
And this time, his hips shifted too.
The press of him against your ass sharpenedâmore deliberate now. Less restrained. Like his body had stopped asking for permission and started taking what you werenât stopping.
His hand tightenedâslightly.
He was pretending to be asleep, you realized.
Just like you were.
If either of you acknowledged it, the world would crack open.
So you didnât.
You just let it happen.
Let his hand cup your breast like it was meant to be there. Let his hips roll forward in the slowest, tiniest grind. Let your legs shift apart just enough that your thighs stopped brushingâand instead, welcomed.
He let out another one of those breathsâlow, shaky, wrecked.
You smiled into the pillow.
Still not breathing.
Still âasleep.â
And behind you, your best friend since diapers was losing his last scrap of composure.
â
The morning came too fast.
Sunlight crept through your curtains like it knew what happened. Like it saw every second of that not-a-dream moment where his hand cupped your breast and his hips rolled into yours like it wasnât the first time heâd imagined it.
He was already in the kitchen when you woke up.
Hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, acting like everything was normal. Like he hadnât spent the night wrapped around you with his cock pressed to your ass and his hand full of your tit.
You padded out barefoot, keeping your face unreadable.
He handed you a mug. âYou were out cold.â
Liar.
You took it, fingers brushing his, watching him too closely.
âSo were you.â
A flickerâbarely thereâbut his eyes twitched toward you for a split second. Like he was trying to see if you meant something more.
You let him sit with the tension.
You drank your coffee slow.
âYou ever thinkâŚâ you began softly, âmaybe Iâve just been really fucking stupid?â
He looked up from his cereal. âSince when?â
You tilted your head. âSince assuming you werenât into girls.â
He blinked. Slowly. Carefully.
That⌠got his attention.
He didnât smile. Didnât laugh it off. Just sat thereâsilentâand then brought the spoon to his mouth like nothing had happened.
But his voice, when he finally answered, was low. Controlled.
âWhat makes you ask that?â
You shrugged. âI donât know. You never dated any. Never flirted. You never reacted when I walked around likeââ you gestured vaguely at yourselfââthis. So I figured, you know. Must be the reason.â
Another pause.
His eyes dropped to your thighs.
You were wearing the same sleep shirt.
No bra still.
Of course he noticed.
But he didnât give you that satisfaction. He set the spoon down and leaned back in the chair, stretching lazily like his body hadnât betrayed him eight hours ago in your bed.
âMaybe Iâm just good at not talking about certain things,â he said.
That hit harder than it should have.
You stared at him.
And for the first time in a long timeâyou didnât see your best friend.
You saw a man whoâd been holding himself back for years.
Youâd never stared at his crotch before.
That was the first red flag.
You werenât even trying to. Just sitting across from him on the couch while he scrolled through his phone, hoodie riding up slightly, grey sweatpants loose and slung criminally low on his hips. You werenât supposed to notice the shape beneath. The outline. The fact that you recognized the pressure of it against your ass last night because it had left an imprint on your nervous system.
You blinked away quickly.
Jesus.
You sipped your water like it could douse whatever fire had started in your chestâand your thighs.
He didnât notice.
Of course he didnât.
Lee Minho was the king of unreadable faces. That man could watch you strip naked and probably wouldnât flinch. It was part of the reason youâd always felt safe around him. And the same reason you were losing your mind now.
You needed to know.
If you were wrong. If heâd just been hiding in plain sight. If that touch last night had been a fluke. A dream. Or something darker.
So you tested it.
That evening, while he sat on the floor building a shelf you couldnât be bothered to finish, you leaned in behind him.
Loose tank top. Braless as usual. Intentional bend.
He turned slightly. Saw your chest from the sideâtoo close, too exposed, one nipple practically peeking through the armhole.
His jaw clenched.
But he said nothing.
Strike one.
You tried again.
Pulled your hair up messily, exposing your neck, your back. Made small, breathy sounds when you stretched. Loud enough to hear. Soft enough to pass as innocent.
Still nothing.
Strike two.
You were practically writhing at this point. Trying to piss him off or fluster him, something.
But Lee Minho stayed quiet.
You werenât sure what exactly you were trying to prove anymore.
That he wasnât gay? That he wanted you? That you could still control this friendship even when everything was shifting beneath your feet?
Maybe it was all of it.
But you were already halfway in his lap before you had time to second guess it.
âYouâre not good at building shit,â you teased, voice sweet as sugar while you hovered close, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. âLucky Iâm cute enough to get away with watching instead of helping.â
He gruntedâlow, disinterested. But his eyes betrayed him. You saw the flickerâstraight to your chest, to the deep dip of cleavage youâd made extra sure heâd notice.
Bingo.
You leaned closer. Pretending to inspect a screw on the shelf. Your tits brushed his upper arm.
He went still.
âYou okay there, Min?â you asked softly. Coy.
He cleared his throat. âDonât start.â
âStart what?â
âThis,â he said. He didnât look at you. âWhatever game youâre playing right now.â
âIâm not playing anything.â
âYes, you are.â
You tilted your head. âWhat are you talking about?â
Silence.
Then, quieter: âIâm warning you.â
Oh, that did something to you.
He sounded like he meant it. Like he was afraid of himself more than you. And maybe he shouldâve beenâbecause you were reckless now. Hyped up on the taste of your own power, drunk on the image of him with your tit in his hand last night.
You pulled your tank top aside from the arm hole just a little. No bra. Just the soft swell of skinâmore than enough to tempt. His eyes snapped to it instantly.
âGo ahead,â you whispered. âTouch me.â
He swallowed.
Didnât move.
So you took his hand yourselfâslowly, deliberatelyâand pressed it to your breast.
Flesh to palm.
He exhaled sharp. Visibly flinched. But he didnât pull away.
You arched into his touch.
âYouâve never been curious?â you asked, voice lower now, almost daring. âNever once wondered what they felt like? Youâve known me your whole life, MinhoâŚâ
His thumb twitched. Brushed the underside like he didnât even know he was doing it.
âJesus Christ,â he muttered under his breath.
âWhat?â
âYou have no idea what youâre doing, do you?â
You smiled faintly.
But then he tightened his gripâjust slightlyâand your breath caught.
âYou think Iâve been ignoring you all these years?â he asked, voice dark now. Steady. Dangerous. âYou think I donât notice when you walk around half naked? You think I donât see the way your tits bounce when you laugh?â
You froze.
Oh.
Oh shit.
âYou think I donât feel them when youâre sleeping pressed against me?â His thumb brushed up nowâbarely grazing your nipple. It stiffened instantly. So did you.
âMinhoâŚâ
His hand dropped away suddenly, like he was snapping out of it.
âYou need to stop,â he said, standing up too fast. âBefore you push me too far.â
You stared up at him from the floor, dazed.
For the first time⌠you realized you mightâve already pushed too far.
â
It was hours later when you finally crawled into bed.
He was already in itâlying on his side, facing away, blanket riding low on his waist and exposing the tight line of muscle up his back.
Your heart was still pounding.
He hadnât said a single thing after storming out earlier. Not during dinner. Not while you cleaned the mess from the half-finished shelf. Not while you avoided looking at him like he hadnât cupped your tit like a stress ball.
And now you were lying beside him again, like nothing had changed.
You couldnât tell if you were relieved or disappointed.
You turned your back to him, the usual position when you shared a bed, but the air felt different tonight. Dense. Stifling.
âHey,â you whispered in the dark. âAre we⌠okay?â
His voice came low. Controlled. âYou tell me.â
You swallowed. âYou seemed⌠upset earlier.â
âI was,â he said. âIâm not anymore.â
âOh.â
Silence.
Then, casually:
âYou looked at my dick today.â
You choked. âWhat?! No I didnât.â
âYes, you did.â
You rolled onto your back, flustered. âYou canât prove that.â
âI donât need to. I know your face. Iâve known it since you had baby teeth.â
You blinked at the ceiling. Your face was burning.
He shifted thenâcloser. The bed dipped behind you. His chest met your back.
And something else pressed against your ass.
Hard. Solid. Undeniable.
You gasped.
His lips brushed your ear. Calm. Evil.
âThatâs payback,â he said softly, âfor putting your tits in my hand.â
You forgot how to breathe.
He didnât move.
Neither did you.
The air between you was molten now, and his cockâfuck, that was his cockâwas still heavy and pulsing against your ass like he was proud of it.
âMinhoâŚâ
âYou wanted to know,â he said, voice silk and fire. âYouâve been trying to get a reaction out of me all day. So now youâve got one.â
You felt him smirk.
âWhatâs wrong?â he murmured. âToo much?â
You couldnât answer.
Not when your thighs were squeezing together like they had a mind of their own. Not when your heart was a drum and your skin burned where it touched his.
You didnât say anything at first.
Just stayed frozen in place, his cock pressed thick and solid against the soft curve of your ass, your entire body vibrating with heat.
Your lips moved before your brain could stop them.
ââŚCan I touch it?â
Silence.
Not even a breath behind you.
Thenâ âWhat?â
You swallowed, your voice weirdly calm now. âI just⌠I wanna feel it. Likeâactually feel it. With my hand.â
A sound escaped his throat. Sharp. Choked.
âYouâre kidding.â
You turned around slowly, facing him in the dark. His eyes locked on yoursâblown, stunned, like youâd slapped him with a brick made of sin.
You didnât wait for another answer.
Your eyes dropped straight to his crotch.
And your hand followed.
The blanket shifted just enough as you slipped beneath it, and your palm found him right where heâd pressed up against you beforeâstill just as thick, still painfully hard, straining beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants.
You cupped him gently.
Minho jerked.
âHoly fuck,â he whispered, face twisting. âWhat the hell are you doingâŚâ
âJust curious,â you murmured, gaze fixed on the shape of him under your hand. âYouâre so⌠big.â
He groaned, head dropping back into the pillow.
Your fingers squeezed lightly. You were sure you felt him twitch.
âYouâve been like this all night?â you asked, eyes wide.
He hissed through his teeth. âDonât say it like that.â
âWhy not?â you teased, still stroking. âItâs not like Iâm doing anything serious.â
âThatâs the fucking problem,â he gritted out, hips twitching into your hand.
You explored him like you were learning something new, weighing the heft of him through his pants, tracing the long, thick outline up and down.
He was breathing heavier now. Jaw clenched. Eyes shut.
âYou can tell me to stop,â you whispered.
He didnât.
So you slipped your hand inside.
No warning.
Just fingers beneath the waistband, sliding inside until you were wrapping your hand around bare, hot skin.
Minho choked.
âFuckâfuckââ
You stroked slowly, palm tight around the base, sliding up to the head and back again. He was massive. Velvet over steel. Already leaking a little at the tip.
He bucked into your hand before he could stop himself, hips twitching under the weight of your touch.
âIs this payback too?â you asked, lips barely moving.
His eyes flew open.
âKeep talking and Iâll fuck your throat instead.â
Your hand froze.
Your heart flipped.
Your thighs clenched so hard it hurt.
But then, you looked up at him. Still holding him. Still stroking him.
His cock twitched in your hand, thick and aching, as you slowly dragged your fingers up the shaft and back down, your touch featherlightâteasing.
Minhoâs eyes were glassy now, dark and stormy and wild, like he was barely keeping himself together. His jaw clenched. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.
You felt powerful. Dangerous.
So you looked up at himâbold, daringâand said, âSo? Still want me to stop?â
He didnât answer right away. Just blinked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. His voice came hoarse and wrecked.
âAre you crazy?â
You tilted your head. âMaybe.â
âThis isââ He swallowed. âWeâreââ
âFriends?â you offered, sliding your hand again, slower now. âChildhood besties? Practically siblings?â
He winced. âGod, donât say that.â
You smiled.
And then, without another word, you sat up on your knees and tugged your oversized sleep shirt over your headâbare underneath. Just skin and heat and those same soft breasts heâd felt in his hands earlier.
They bounced slightly as you moved, and the room went still.
His breath hitched. His eyes droppedâdraggedâto your chest.
It was the second time heâd seen them that night.
âIâm sure,â you said simply.
Something broke in him.
He sat up so fast the mattress shook, one hand grabbing your wrist, the other threading hard into your hair. He yanked you forward, his mouth crashing into yours with so much heat it knocked the breath from your lungs.
You gasped into the kiss, and he devoured itâbiting, claiming, groaning into your mouth like heâd been starving for years.
âThis what you wanted?â he growled, lips trailing down your neck, teeth dragging over your collarbone. âYou really wanted to see what Iâd do?â
You whimpered, nodding, fingers already clawing at the waistband of his sweats.
âToo late to take it back now,â he muttered against your skin, before ducking down and wrapping his lips around your nippleâhard.
Your back arched. His tongue flicked, sucked, bit.
âMinhoââ
âIâve dreamed about these,â he groaned, switching to the other breast, kneading the first one in his palm like he was worshiping it. âYou donât know what the fuck youâve done to me.â
Your whole body was trembling, his hands now everywhereâgripping your waist, sliding down your back, yanking you flush against his chest as he rutted up into you, his cock still trapped in his sweats, still throbbing.
âNeed to feel you,â he rasped. âNeed to have you.â
âThen take me,â you breathed. Without even thinking about it.
And for a second, Minho froze.
Not because he didnât want toâhis hands were already sliding lower, gripping your hips with bruising forceâbut because the way youâd said it⌠so open, so needy, so real⌠it shook him.
âDonât say that unless you mean it,â he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his voice raw, trembling. âBecause if I start, I wonât stop this time.â
Your chest heaved against his, nipples dragging over his skin, and his self-control nearly snapped again right there. You could feel him under you, thick and hot through the fabric of his sweats, the tip pressed right against your soaked panties. One shift of your hips andâ
âIâm not asking you to stop,â you whispered back.
He groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been buried in his chest for years. You kissed him againâslow, deep, your tongues tangling like this wasnât the first time. Like your bodies already knew the steps.
And maybe they did.
His hand slid between your thighs, pressing the heel of his palm right where you were aching most. Your hips jerked.
âAlready soaked,â he rasped, biting down on your lip. âFuckâhave you always been like this around me?â
You didnât answer. You couldnât. His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, brushing over your soaked folds through your underwearâjust enough to make you moan.
âYouâre playing with fire,â he warned, mouth now at your ear, voice shaking. âYou keep tempting me like this, and I swearââ
âThen burn me,â you whispered, grinding down on his hand.
He snapped againâgrabbing your ass and flipping you onto your back like heâd been holding back all his life. The sudden dominance in his movements made your breath hitch.
Minho hovered over you, both of you half-naked now, tangled in sweatpants and damp underwear and a thousand repressed thoughts.
His hand moved with purpose now, cupping your mound, rubbing slow circles over your clit, lips pressed to your neck.
You whimpered, bucked.
âDonât tease,â you begged.
He chuckled darkly. âSays the one whoâs been waving her tits in my face for years.â
You gaspedâhalf embarrassed, half turned onâand he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.
âTell me to stop,â he said softly. âOr Iâm going to ruin your sleep.â
You stared at him, panting. You wanted him. Needed him. But something inside you whisperedânot yet. Not like this. Not while everything was still unraveling too fast.
âNot tonight,â you murmured, heart racing.
His expression shifted, softening in a way that made your chest ache.
He nodded slowly. âOkay.â
But his fingers didnât move right away. He gave you one last teasing brush, slow and aching.
âFor the record,â he added, voice like gravel, âthis is me trying to behave.â
You giggled, breathless.
âI can tell.â
And then he pulled you into his chest, kissed your forehead, and let the fire between you simmer.
You didnât have sex that night.
But neither of you slept much, either.
⸝
It had only been three days.
Three days since Minho had slipped out with nothing but a cryptic, âIâll see you later,â and a soft kiss to your temple. Two days since youâd almost let your best friend finger you into oblivion under the safety of your shared covers. And now he was gone.
Well, not gone-gone. Just back at his apartment. Just out of reach. Just far enough to not risk really doing what your bodies had been begging for.
He hadnât ghosted. Not exactly. Just a little space, a few texts. âSorry, been busy.â âWorkâs a lot this week.â âIâll come by soon.â
But soon wasnât now. And now⌠was when you were sprawled out on your bed, fingers between your thighs, a familiar silicone toy buzzing softly inside youâdesperate to chase that same friction you almost got from him.
It wasnât the same. Nothing could be. But the thoughts in your head? Those were filthy enough to get the job done.
Your mind kept flashing back to the night before he left: his voice in your ear, his thick cock pressed to your core, the way heâd looked at you like heâd been starving. You whined as your hips rolled, tightening your grip on the toy buried inside you.
Then your phone lit up.
Minho calling.
You froze, heart skipping. Fuck.
You hesitated just long enough for it to ring againâand then answered, trying to level your breath.
âHey,â you managed, voice just a bit too airy.
âHey,â he said, voice casual, low. âWere you sleeping?â
âNope.â You exhaled hard through your nose, the vibrator still inside you, pulsing away like it knew your secrets. âJust⌠relaxing.â
âMmm.â His voice dropped, curious. âYou sound out of breath.â
You swallowed. Hard. âTired day. I was justâyâknow. Lying down.â
The vibrator kicked up just a notch, and your thighs jerked. He kept talking.
âSorry Iâve been MIA. Been thinking about you, though.â His voice was warm, familiar. God, his voice. âA lot, actually.â
A sharp breath escaped you. You hoped it sounded natural. It didnât.
ââŚYou okay?â he asked, his tone shifting just slightly. âYou soundâoff.â
You could barely think anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your thighs were trembling. And you didnât dare stop.
âIâm fine,â you rasped.
But then you whimpered. Barely. Just a little hitch in your throat.
He paused. âWait. Are youâare you doing something?â
Your whole body froze.
âNo,â you lied, voice high.
He went quiet. Too quiet.
ââŚAre you touching yourself right now?â His voice came low, dangerous. âWhile on the phone with me?â
Silence.
Then, another breathy whimper.
He growled. âFuck. You are.â
You felt heat shoot up your spine.
âKeep going,â he said, voice gravel now. âDonât stop. You started this.â
Your hips rolled againâslower this time, more deliberateâas you listened to him breathe, listened to the weight behind his words.
âTell me what youâre thinking about,â he demanded. âWhile you fuck yourself to my voice.â
You bit down on your lower lip, squeezing your eyes shut as his words settled under your skin like molten honey.
âTell me,â he said again, voice a touch lower, rougher now. âWhat were you thinking about?â
You whimpered. âYou.â
He chuckled. Dark. Breathless.
âYeah? What about me?â
You hesitated, hips twitching as your toy nudged just right inside you. âThe way you felt that night,â you gasped. âThe way you pressed into me from behind⌠the way your cock felt against me, even through the sheetsââ
âFuck.â
His reaction was sharp and immediate, a barely controlled groan through clenched teeth. You knew his hand was probably fisting the sheets or his thigh right now, trying to stop himself from touching the one thing he couldnât haveâyet.
âAre you still touching yourself?â he asked, voice thick.
ââŚYes.â
âGood. Faster.â
The single command shot straight to your gut. Your fingers moved in rhythm with the toy now, chasing the heat blooming deep in your belly. You didnât even care if he heard your wetness or the whines building in your throat anymore.
âWish I could see you,â he breathed. âWish I could have my hand over your mouth. Youâre too loud, babe. Youâd wake the whole damn building if I fucked you right now.â
âMinhoââ
âNot yet,â he cut in. âYouâll come when I say so. Not a second sooner.â
You squeezed around the toy, aching, desperate, toes curling.
âKeep going. Just like that.â His voice was pure sin now, molten and slow. âYouâll come with my voice in your ear and my name on your lips, just like you shouldâve that night.â
You whimpered.
âSay it,â he demanded. âSay my name.â
âMinhoââ
âLouder.â
âMinho.â
âGood girl,â he rasped. âNow come.â
You shattered.
Your back arched off the bed, thighs quaking, moan spilling raw and unfiltered from your lips as your body pulsed around the toy. You didnât even try to hold it in anymoreâhe needed to hear it. He deserved to.
Silence stretched on the line after, only your wrecked breathing and the distant rasp of his own breath filling the space between you.
When he finally spoke again, it was with the voice of a man barely holding back his hunger.
âIâm going to ruin you,â he said softly, deadly. âNext time I get my hands on you⌠Iâm not stopping until you forget anyone else ever made you come.â
The call ended.
You blinked at the screen, dazed, thighs still trembling.
But you didnât sleep.
You changed into the first half-decent outfit you could find, tugged your hoodie over your head, and grabbed your keys with your heart hammering in your throat.
If he wasnât going to come to you?
Youâd damn well go to him.
â
You almost turned around three times. Once at the stoplight. Again when you parked in front of his building. And one last time while standing at his door, staring at the stupid number youâd memorized when you were ten.
You shouldnât have been here.
But your body didnât care. Not when it was still buzzing, still throbbing from the orgasm he commanded out of you through the phone not ten minutes ago. Your thighs were sticky, your bottom lip sore from how hard youâd been biting it in the car, nerves coiling in your belly like a wire about to snap.
Showing up like thisâunannounced, in shorts that barely passed as clothing, no bra under your thin hoodieâwasnât just reckless. It was deliberate. Dangerous.
You raised your hand and knocked before you could talk yourself out of it.
Footsteps came quickly. Heavy. The door flew open seconds later, and there he was.
Minho.
Still shirtless.
Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Hair a mess like heâd been pacing. His jaw was tense, chest rising like he hadnât calmed down since the call ended. His eyes found yours and locked in like he could see through you.
He didnât say a word.
Just looked at you.
Slow. Hungry. His gaze dragged from your flushed face to the zipper of your hoodie and lowerâlingering on your bare thighs.
You shifted, suddenly feeling way too exposed.
âSay something,â you whispered.
His voice came out hoarse.
âYouâre insane.â
âI know.â
Another pause. The air between you tightened.
He stepped forward. Just one stepâand you backed up, your breath hitching.
âNo bra?â he muttered like it hurt him. âYou show up like this after what just happenedâfuckââ
âI didnât know what else to do.â You bit your lip, heat crawling up your neck. âI didnât want to wait.â
That was it.
He snapped.
You didnât even see him moveâjust felt the door slam shut behind you as he pushed you up against it, one arm shooting out to lock it without looking. His hands came to either side of your head, bracing himself like he was seconds away from self-destruction.
His breath hit your lips.
Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like he was holding back something feral.
âLast chance,â he growled. âIf you tell me right now youâre not sure, Iâll let you go. Iâll jerk off in the shower until my knees give out and pretend you never begged to come in my ear.â
Your throat tightened.
âIâm sure.â
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry. Deep. Unapologetic. It hit you like a waveâhis tongue sliding in, his grip tightening, his body pressing flush against yours with an intensity that made your knees buckle.
One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head, while the other found your waist and grippedâlike he was claiming territory.
A moan escaped into his mouth as you clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the storm that was him.
Minhoâs mouth was still glistening with you when he picked you upâone arm under your thighs, the other around your back. He didnât even blink. Just carried you down the hall like it was nothing, your head pressed to his neck, body boneless from how hard heâd made you come.
His bed was unmade.
Sheets tossed. Pillows scattered. And you were in them seconds later, back hitting the mattress with a bounce.
Minho stood at the edge of the bed and looked at you.
Like heâd waited years for this moment. Like you were a fantasy come to life and he was deciding whether to kneel at your feet or tear you apart.
âYou still want this?â he asked, voice lowâgravel and smoke.
You didnât answer. You showed himâlegs spreading wider, hips tilting, your hand sliding down to part your slick folds. His eyes darkened.
âFuck, okay,â he breathed, like he was short-circuiting. âOkay, baby.â
He crawled over you like a shadow, slow and heavy, his mouth finding your jaw firstâthen your neck, then your collarbone, biting as he went.
âYouâve been mine since we were kids,â he murmured into your skin, tongue flicking over a mark heâd just left. âYou just didnât know it.â
You gasped when his hips rolled against yours, his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, huge and leaking and so hot against your cunt.
âYou feel that?â he asked, dragging it up and downâyour body arching, chasing it. âYouâve had me like this for years. All those skirts. All that attitude.â
He gripped your jaw, making you look at him.
âYou think I didnât notice the way you got careless around me?â
Your lips parted, but no sound came outâjust a broken breath as he lined up, pressing just the tip in.
Your nails dug into his arms.
âMinhoââ
âShh,â he whispered. âI know, baby. I know.â
Then he pushed in.
Slow. Deep. Relentless.
And holy fuck.
Your eyes slammed shut, jaw dropping in a silent scream as he stretched you open. He didnât stop until he was fully insideâuntil his hips were flush with yours and your cunt was full.
âJesus Christ,â he groaned into your neck. âSo fucking tight.â
You could barely breathe. Could barely think.
He pulled back just enough to drive back inâand againâagainâbuilding a rhythm that knocked the sanity right out of your head.
Minho fucked like he was carving his name into your body.
He was everywhereâteeth on your throat, hands on your tits, hips snapping hard and deep like he needed to ruin you.
And he was talking, too. Filthy. Possessive. All in that growly voice that made your toes curl.
âYou gonna let me fill you up, baby?â
âGonna fuck you so full you feel me for days.â
âYou were made for this. For me. For my cock.â
You cried out when he grabbed your thigh and folded you in half, slamming deeper, finding that spot that made your entire body lock up.
âRight there?â he growled, eyes glued to your face. âThatâs it, isnât it? Thatâs your spot.â
You were sobbing nowâwet, broken sounds as your second orgasm raced up your spine.
âCome for me,â he snapped. âRight now. All over my cock. Let me feel it.â
And you did. Harder than beforeâlouder, messier, more intense.
You clenched around him like a vice, and he lost itâgroaning loud as he slammed in one final time and spilled inside you, hips jerking, body trembling above yours.
He stayed like thatâdeep and twitching inside you, sweat dripping down his temple, lips ghosting over yours as you both tried to come down.
You didnât know how long you laid thereâlegs trembling, his cum leaking out of you, your fingers tangled in the sheets like you were afraid of floating away.
Minho hadnât moved much either.
He was still inside you, chest to chest, your noses brushing each time he inhaled. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking softly along your jaw as he watched you with those warm, sleepy eyesâeyes that held none of the fury or possessiveness from before.
Just softness. Almost guilt.
âYou okay?â he asked, voice husky but gentler now.
You nodded, but your throat was tight. And when you blinked up at him, he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your temple.
âDid I go too far?â he murmured.
âNo,â you whispered, your voice small. âI liked it. I liked all of it.â
That made his lips twitch.
âYeah?â he said, brushing his knuckles across your titsâlingering when your breath caught. âEven when I told you to shut up and take it?â
You swallowed hard. âEspecially then.â
He chuckled under his breath and finally pulled out, making both of you hiss. You whined at the emptinessâat how sore and stretched you feltâand Minhoâs gaze immediately dropped between your legs.
âShit,â he muttered, almost reverent. âLook at that mess.â
You flushed, shifting your legs, but he pressed a hand to your thigh to stop you.
âDonât hide,â he murmured. âYou look so good like this. All ruined because of me.â
Then, to your surprise, he slid down the bed and kissed your inner thigh. Just once. Then again. Then right next to your sensitive center.
You flinched. âMinhoâtoo muchââ
He smiled and looked up at you from between your legs.
âAlright, baby,â he said. âIâll be good.â
And he was.
For about two minutes.
Then he kissed his way up your bodyâlingering on your nipples, dragging his tongue across them until they stiffened again. You whimpered as he sucked softly, then bit gentlyâmaking your hips buck.
âI just wanna taste them,â he murmured. âYou kept arching for me earlier like they needed attention.â
âThey still do,â you whispered before you could stop yourself.
He smirked. âThen donât move.â
He licked and sucked until your chest was wet with his spit and your thighs pressed together againâneed building back up in the pit of your stomach like a slow flame.
âFuck,â you mumbled. âYouâre gonna break me.â
He pulled back to look at you.
âNot yet,â he said, voice low. âBut you did say you liked sucking cock, didnât you?â
You blinked. âIâyeahâwhyâ?â
He rolled off you and onto his back, cock already hard againâthick and flushed, still glistening from earlier.
âThen get over here.â
You didnât need to be told twice.
You crawled down the bed and straddled his thighs, eyes locked on the way he stroked himself, slow and heavy.
He tapped the tip against your lips. âOpen up, baby.â
You did.
And he groaned the moment you took him inâjust the head at first, tongue swirling around it, your lips tight and wet. He filled your mouth so easily, and you loved the way he shuddered when you gagged on him.
âThatâs it,â he breathed, hand sliding into your hair. âSo fucking pretty when youâre drooling on my cock.â
You moaned around him, and he twitched.
âYou gonna swallow it all?â he asked, voice breaking a little. âYou want me to come in your mouth this time?â
You sucked harder, nodding with tears in your eyes, and that was it.
He cursedâhips jerking, cock thickeningâand seconds later he was spilling down your throat, one hand on your head as his other clutched the sheets.
You swallowed everything.
Every drop.
When you finally pulled off, eyes glassy and lips swollen, Minho reached for you and pulled you into his chest, kissing your forehead like he hadnât just fucked your mouth like a man possessed.
âNow,â he whispered, pulling the blanket over both of you, âlets get some sleep.â
⸝
The morning light slipped in through the blinds in soft gold stripes, painting lazy patterns across the room.
You blinked awake slowly, body aching in the most indulgent way, wrapped in the scent of skin and sweat and fabric softener. The hoodie you had worn here last night was still crumpled somewhere on the floorâprobably next to your shorts, your underwear, your dignity.
Minhoâs arm was heavy around your waist. His chest was warm against your back. His breath ghosted over your shoulder in quiet puffs, slow and steady.
It didnât feel real. It felt like one of those fantasies you used to jerk yourself off to in the dark, flushed and breathless, thinking about what it would feel like to fall asleep tangled up in him like thisâafter.
You stayed still as long as you could, just⌠absorbing it.
And then, of course, he ruined it by murmuring against your neck, voice still thick with sleep.
âYour thighs are twitching.â
You groaned. âMaybe because you almost broke them last night.â
He chuckled, low and pleased, then slid his hand over your hip and gave your inner thigh a light squeeze. âYou came here cause you wanted me to do exactly that.â
Your cheeks flushed instantly. âDonât remind me.â
âWhy not? Itâs my favorite memory now.â
You rolled over to face him, hair a mess, eyes still sleep-fogged. He looked unfairly gorgeous in the morning. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. The roughness from last night completely gone, replaced by something almost too gentle to be him.
He looked at you like he was thinking way too hard.
âWhat?â you asked quietly.
He reached up, brushed some hair from your face, fingers lingering at your jaw.
âYou know this isnât just sex for me, right?â
Your breath caught.
âI meanâŚâ he licked his lips, eyes searching yours. âIt can be, if thatâs what you want. But I donât think I can go back to just being your best friend. Not after this.â
You didnât answer right away. Just stared at him, trying to collect your heart off the floor where it had just dropped.
Finally, you whispered, âI donât want to go back either.â
Minho exhaled slowly, like heâd been holding that breath all night.
Then he leaned in and kissed youâsoft and slow and sweet, like the question was already answered.
You melted into it. Into him. Into the shift.
Later, youâd get up. Heâd make coffee. Youâd steal one of his shirts. Heâd tease you about the bite marks on your thighs. And youâd both pretend not to notice how domestic it already felt.
But for now, you stayed in bedâbest friends turned something moreâwith his arms around you and your future somewhere in the spaces between his kisses.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: hi guys! Ok so the poll results from the Leeknow angry boy fic came out and it was a really close one. So instead of changing whats already written i decided to upload this to make it up to you guys! This is not an angst story or the angry boy replacement but this is a story for my romantics â¤ď¸ Thanks alot for all your feedback really love you guys!
Tags: angst, established relationship, toxic love, emotional smut, hurt/comfort, cold to desperate, use and worship, dom leeknow, cold use / punishment, unprotected sex (wrap it up), blowjob
Word count: 3.1k
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!
No yelling. No slammed doors. No cruel words hissed through clenched teeth. Just⌠nothing.
Minho didnât look at you when he walked in the door. Didnât flinch when you said his name. He dropped his keys in the bowl like always. Slipped off his jacket. Stepped past you like you werenât even there.
That was the beginning.
At first, you thought he was tired. Maybe something happened at work. Maybe he was just in one of those moods, the ones where his silence wrapped around him like a second skin. But the second day came. Then the third. And you started to realizeâ
This wasnât a phase.
This was punishment.
You didnât even know how he found out. The text? The call? The fact that you lied?
It hadnât meant anything. It wasnât even⌠you werenât trying to hurt him. But the damage was done.
And Lee Know didnât do second chances.
You tried everything. Cooking his favorites. Waiting up late. Touching his shoulder gently in bed, whispering apologies he didnât want to hear.
The way he pulled away from youâit was surgical. Precise. Like cutting out a tumor.
Thatâs what youâd become. Something that needed to be removed.
He didnât sleep on the couch. That wouldâve been a statement.
Instead, he stayed in bed.
Back to you.
Motionless.
Silent.
It was worse that way. Every night youâd lie awake, counting his breaths, hoping heâd roll over. Hoping his knee would brush yours. Hoping heâd finally snap and say somethingâeven if it was cruel.
But he didnât.
Youâd reach for him sometimes. Out of instinct, desperation, or guiltâyou werenât sure anymore. Your fingers would hover near his waist, a whisper away from touching him.
And then heâd shift forward. Just enough to make it clear:
Donât.
He didnât need words to punish you. He was the punishment.
You stopped trying after that.
Until the fourth night.
That night, you waited until the silence was unbearable. Until the shame in your chest started to choke you.
You slipped off the mattress. Knees to the floor. Crawled across the carpet like something unworthy of even walking.
He was still awake.
You knew it.
His breathing told you everything. The way he held still, too still, like waiting to see what pathetic thing youâd do next.
âMinhoâŚâ your voice broke. âPlease talk to me.â
No response.
âI didnât mean to hurt you.â
Nothing.
Your hands rested on his knees. Cold. Tense. Unforgiving.
âI made a mistake. IâI shouldâve told you what happened. I didnât mean for it to be like this. Please⌠Iâll do anything.â
Still silence.
Your body trembled. Shame bleeding through every word now.
âI miss you.â
Nothing.
âI miss us.â
His voice finally came thenâlow and razor-sharp:
âYou shouldâve thought about that before you let him touch you.â
Your breath hitched.
You hadnât said it out loud. He hadnât said it out loudânot until now. You thought maybe he didnât know the whole truth. Maybe it was just a suspicion. A coincidence. Something he could forget if you played sweet enough, silent enough.
But no.
He knew.
âYou shouldâve thought about that before you let him touch you.â
His voice wasnât raised. Wasnât cruel or shaking with rage. That wouldâve been easier to take. That wouldâve meant he cared enough to feel something.
Instead, he sounded done. Flat.
Like heâd already buried you.
Your knees ached against the hardwood floor, but you didnât move.
You couldnât.
âNo,â you whispered, fingers curling against his thighs. âHe didnâtâI didnât let him do anything. I pulled away, Minho, I swearââ
âBut you didnât stop him right away.â
You froze.
âI read the texts,â he said, finally turning his head just enough for you to see his profile. Cold eyes. Shadowed jaw. A storm just waiting behind glass.
âI saw how long you let it go on. How many times he messaged you before you finally blocked him.â
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
There was no excuse. No saving that. You let it happen.
And worseâyou hid it.
âYou lied to me,â he said. âAnd I wouldâve forgiven you for that.â
Your heart stuttered. âYou⌠wouldâve?â
He nodded slowly.
âI wouldâve forgiven a lie. Iâve forgiven worse.â
Then came the blade:
âBut you entertained it.â
He stood.
You flinched at the sound of the bed creaking under his weight, but you didnât move from the floor. You couldnât. His presence was towering, suffocating, and suddenly you wanted the silence back.
âMinhoââ
âIf youâre really sorry⌠Beg.â
You blinked up at him, throat tightening.
âWhat?â
âI want to see how sorry you are. Show me.â
His hand reached downâslow, graceful, brutalâand caught your chin. His touch was cold. Fingers unforgiving. He tilted your face up until you were fully beneath him. A shadow under his feet.
âGet rid of your pride,â he murmured. âStrip it down. Bare. Ugly.â
His thumb brushed your bottom lip, and your body trembled like it hadnât felt him in years.
âBeg me like you begged him for attention.â
Your eyes burned.
Youâd never heard him say something so venomous. So raw.
But you deserved it.
âPleaseâŚâ you whispered. âPlease, Minho, IâI didnât want him, I only ever wanted you. I messed up. I was stupid and selfish and Iâ Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry.â
Tears slid down your face, warm against the cold of his silence.
âI miss you,â you choked out. âI canât sleep. I canât breathe. You wonât even look at me, and I know I deserve that, butâplease. Iâll do anything.â
A long pause. Thenâ
âGet on the bed.â
You hesitatedâonly for a second. Just long enough for him to see it. To see the doubt, the guilt, the way your body wanted to follow but your soul flinched.
That was all he needed.
âYou donât get to think,â he said quietly. âNot anymore.â
Your legs trembled as you climbed up. You didnât sit in the middle. Didnât sprawl or reach for him. You knelt near the edge, spine straight, hands on your thighs, eyes down.
Like a sinner waiting for judgment.
He didnât join you right away.
Just watched.
Like he was deciding what you were worth now. What kind of touch someone like you deserved.
When he finally moved, it was slow. Controlled. Each step deliberate as he circled the bed, walking behind you. His gaze burned the back of your neck.
You didnât dare turn. Thenâ
âI want to know,â he said behind you. âWhy you kept the messages.â
Your lips parted. The answer was there. Somewhere in your throat. But nothing came out.
Minho waited.
âI didnât want to admit I liked the attention,â you said finally, voice so soft it almost broke. âI knew it was wrong. I just⌠I wanted to feel wanted. I didnât think it would hurt you like this.â
âYou didnât think Iâd find out.â
You closed your eyes. âThat too.â
A long silence followed. So long, you wondered if heâd walked away again. If this was just another trick to make you shatter. But thenâ
âYou did feel wanted,â he murmured. âBy someone who wasnât me.â
You opened your mouth. Tried to explain. Tried to fix it.
He cut you off.
âI hope it was worth it.â
You flinched like he slapped you. Your voice cracked on instinct.
âIt wasnât. I swear to God, it wasnât.â
He stepped closer.
âBecause now youâll never know if Iâm touching you because I want to⌠or just to use whatâs left.â
Your stomach dropped.
Minho reached forward, fingers brushing your shoulder. Just that. Barely a touch. But after days of nothing, it felt like lightning.
âI want you to remember this feeling,â he said, tone glacial. âThe emptiness. The ache. How it feels to be touched by someone who doesnât want you anymore.â
You gasped softly, chest clenching, lips trembling as tears blurred your vision again.
âAnd I want you to think about it every time you cry over me.â
His hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck.
You stiffened beneath his touchâmore from shock than pleasure. It wasnât soft. It wasnât gentle. His fingers wrapped around your nape like a leash. Possessive. Dispassionate.
âYouâll stay on your knees,â he said. âUnless I tell you otherwise.â
Your breath hitched.
âYes.â
He didnât reply. Just gripped harder, pushing your spine into a perfect curve. You caught yourself on your elbows, face brushing the comforter, knees digging into the mattress.
Exposed. Powerless.
He didnât rush.
You heard the zipper before you felt him behind you. Heard the fabric shift. Heard the dark, terrifying silence as he undressed without a single word.
No command. No compliment.
Not a sound.
Just the quiet hum of control and a growing sense of dread crawling up your skin.
He shoved your thong to the sideârough, impersonalâand your whole body jolted. He hadnât even looked at you. Not really.
He still wasnât.
You turned your head toward him instinctively, desperate to catch his eyes. Desperate for something. A spark. A flicker of what used to be there.
But he wasnât looking at your face.
Minhoâs gaze was locked between your legsâcold, unreadable. His jaw tight. Eyes blank.
Like he didnât see you at all.
âDo you feel guilty now?â he asked, voice low, mechanical. âOr just turned on?â
Your throat dried up. âIâI donât knowââ
âDoesnât matter.â
He dragged the tip of himself through your folds, slow and deliberate, watching the way your body reactedâinvoluntarily. The way you clenched. The way you trembled.
He didnât praise you.
Didnât tease.
Didnât call you pretty.
He pushed in all at once.
You choked on a gasp, fingers clawing into the sheets, pain and heat flaring through your core.
Still no moan from him. Not even a breath.
He bottomed out in silence. Like you were a hole to be filled. A place to pour his bitterness. A consequence.
Your whole body shook, tears spilling freely nowâbut he didnât stop.
Didnât ask if you could take it.
Didnât check if you were okay.
Minho just gripped your hips tight, locked his jaw, and started to fuck you.
No rhythm of love. No building pleasure.
Just raw, ruthless thrusts.
Deliberate. Measured. Cruel.
Like he was trying to make you feel every inch of regret in your body.
You sobbed into the mattress, hands fisting the blankets, body struggling to keep up with the sheer force of himâhow deep, how hard, how unforgiving.
But still, you didnât ask him to stop.
Because the truth wasâŚ
You deserved it.
The pace changed.
Slowed.
Not out of kindness. Not to give you a moment to breathe. No, Minho slowed like a man planning something worse.
You felt it in the silence.
Felt it in the precise way his hips rolled, dragging himself through you with sickening controlâletting your body start to pulse, start to ache for more. You were soaked. Ruined. Trembling beneath him, torn between pain and desperate, gut-wrenching need.
But he still hadnât touched you anywhere else.
No hand between your thighs.
No fingers on your clit.
No mouth.
Just thrust after calculated thrustâdeep, devastating, impersonal.
âMinhoâplease,â you gasped. âPlease, IâI needââ
âYou donât get to need.â
His voice cut clean through your plea.
You fell silent.
âNeedy little slut,â he murmured, like it disgusted him. âYou already got what you wanted. Iâm inside you.â
A sharp snap of his hips made your breath catch in your throat.
âSo what more could you possibly beg for?â
You didnât answer.
You couldnât.
He grabbed your hair suddenlyâtwisting, pulling your face up from the mattress until your neck arched and your back bent like a bow. You whimpered, your body jolting with the change in angle, but he still didnât look at you. Didnât even glance at your expression.
Just leaned close enough to murmur at your ear.
âYou think you deserve to come?â
You shook your head quickly, eyes burning. âNoâno, I justâI want you to feel something, anything, please, Iââ
He let go of your hair.
And everything stopped.
He pulled out with one slow, punishing drag. The absence made you sob.
You turned over on instinct, chest heaving, hand reaching for him before you could stop yourself.
He stepped back.
Refused to let you touch him.
Your hand dropped.
Minho stared down at you like you were something pitiful. Like the sight of you fucked open, glistening and aching, wasnât beautifulâbut pathetic.
âNot even sorry the right way,â he said flatly. âYou just want to come.â
âThatâs not trueââ
âYou lied with your mouth, now youâre lying with your body.â
He leaned down slowly, knelt over you, caging you in with his arms. His cock hung heavy between youâwet from you, still hard, still wantingâbut his face never softened.
âIâm going to ruin you,â he whispered. âAgain and again.â
His hand came up, thumb brushing your lip just like before.
âBut I wonât let you come until I believe youâve learned.â
And thenâ
He left the room.
Left you sobbing on the bed, naked and empty, dripping from where heâd used youâyour climax stolen, your guilt unanswered, your punishment just beginning.
⸝
You didnât move.
You couldnât.
Heâd left you bare on the bedâused, humiliated, aching in places that had nothing to do with your body. You didnât cover yourself. Didnât clean the mess he left behind. Somehow, deep down, you knewâŚ
He wasnât done.
The silence in the room felt like purgatory.
Time dragged.
Your tears had dried, but your throat still hurt. Your limbs twitched every so often from the tension. Your legs had gone numb. Your lips stayed partedâstill waiting for a kiss that wouldnât come.
And thenâ
The door opened.
Slow. Quiet. Chilling.
You didnât look up.
You heard himâbare feet on the floor. The soft rustle of clothing. The crack of his neck as he rolled it once, like even he wasnât sure what he was about to do.
And then he stood in front of you again.
You didnât beg.
You didnât speak.
You just opened your legs.
A silent offering. A broken surrender.
Prove it again.
Minho said nothing. Just stared for a long, terrible moment, his expression unreadable. Then he climbed onto the bed, knee pressing between yours as he leaned over your body like it didnât belong to you anymore.
âYou stayed like this the whole time?â he asked, voice low, almost amused.
You nodded.
âWhy?â
You swallowed thickly.
âBecause I deserve to wait.â
A breath passed between you.
Then his palm came down hard across your thigh.
You gasped, the slap echoing in the still air.
âAnd if I decide to edge you until you scream?â he asked coldly. âWill you thank me for that too?â
âYes,â you whispered. âIf it means youâll keep touching me.â
He stared at you.
Then he reached downâfinallyâfingers dragging through the slick mess between your legs.
You moaned helplessly, back arching, your body still greedy even after everything heâd taken.
His touch wasnât loving.
Wasnât soft.
He circled your clit onceâjust onceâthen slapped it with his fingers, sharp and punishing.
You cried out, hips bucking, thighs trembling.
âYouâre disgusting,â he muttered. âCanât even look me in the eye, but youâll offer me your pussy like itâs worth anything.â
âI know itâs not,â you whispered. âBut itâs all I have.â
That broke something in him.
He grabbed you by the jawâtightâforcing your face up until you had no choice but to look.
Finally, finally, his eyes locked with yours.
Cold. Burning.
âIâm going to make you beg with your whole body,â he hissed. âAnd when you come, itâs not going to be because you earned it. Itâs because I let you.â
He shoved his fingers inside you.
No warning.
No care.
Just brutal force and control, curling deep like he was looking for shame to drag out of you. You moaned, tried to moveâbut he held you down with his palm flat against your chest, pinning you with nothing but disdain.
And stillâstillâyou cried out his name.
He didnât stop.
His fingers were relentlessâtwo hooked deep, dragging over that spot again and again until your thighs locked around his wrist. You tried to squirm, tried to breathe, but every time you opened your mouth, it was just gasps. Cries. Begs without words.
He was watching your face now.
Expression flat. Unforgiving.
âYouâre close already?â he muttered, voice thick with disgust. âJust from my fingers?â
You nodded, eyes pleading, tears slipping from the corners.
âYouâre pathetic.â
His thumb found your clit.
You screamed.
Minho didnât let up. Didnât slow. He pressed down hard, grinding in slow, sharp circles that made your whole body seize. Your hips jolted off the bed, but his arm locked you down with cruel efficiency.
âI should make you wait again,â he growled, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear.
âPlease,â you sobbed, âpleaseââ
He laughedâquiet and merciless.
âBeg louder.â
You did.
You begged like your life depended on it.
Sobbing out please like a broken record, legs shaking, body straining for every drop of friction. You didnât care if it made you pathetic. You didnât care if he never loved you again. You just needed it. Needed him.
Minho pulled back just enough to watch you squirm.
Then, without a wordâ
He shoved a third finger in.
You convulsed.
Your orgasm hit like a wave, too hard, too sudden, your whole body arching off the bed as a sob ripped from your throat.
But he didnât stop.
He didnât let you ride it.
Didnât let it feel good.
He kept going.
Kept fucking you with his hand like your body didnât matter, like your cries were background noise. You screamedâtwitchedâfought his grip as the overstimulation set in.
And still, he didnât stop.
âYou think that was your decision to make?â he hissed.
You shook your head violently, eyes wide, mouth trembling.
âThen why did you come?â
âIâI couldnâtâ!â
âExactly.â
He finally pulled his hand free, soaked and glistening, dragging his fingers across your cheek like it meant nothing.
Like you meant nothing.
And then he shoved those same fingers into your mouth.
âClean up your mess.â
You chokedâbut obeyed.
Tears streaming, jaw opening for him like a good little toy.
He watched the whole thing in silence.
Cold.
Unmoved.
Until finally, finally, he leaned downâhis lips brushing the shell of your ear.
âDonât thank me.â
And then he left you there.
⸝
PART TWO: Resolution
You were barely awake when he came back.
The lamp was still on. The sheets still clung to your skin. Your thighs were sticky with his release, and your chest felt cracked open from the silence heâd left behind.
You hadnât moved. Couldnât.
You didnât cry. Not because it didnât hurt. But because the ache had become something deeper. Something numb.
Youâd broken his heart. You knew that.
And now heâd broken you back.
He stood in the doorway for a long time, backlit by the dim hallway light. His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes looked tired. But his jaw was clenched like heâd spent the last hour trying to talk himself down.
You didnât look at him when he stepped in.
But you felt itâhis presence shifting the air like a weight settling back into your chest.
You expected him to say nothing.
But thenâŚ
âBaby.â
Your eyes stung instantly.
His voice was soft. So soft.
Like he hated himself for saying it.
You blinked quickly, turning your face into the pillow. You didnât want to look at himânot like this. Not when you were still ruined and quiet and raw.
But the bed dipped.
His knee pressed beside your thigh.
You tensed.
And thenâso gentlyâyou felt his fingers brush your hair back.
You sucked in a breath.
âI shouldnât have done that,â he murmured, voice thick now. âNot like that. Not to you.â
You froze.
His hand slid down, thumb stroking your temple.
âI was angry,â he whispered. âBut thatâs not an excuse.â
You slowly turned to look at himâand he looked broken. Completely. Like every cold word heâd held back was killing him now.
âYou wouldnât even look at meâŚâ your voice cracked. âI thought you hated me.â
He shook his head fast. âI could never.â
âBut I hurt you.â
He nodded, eyes glassy. âYou did.â
Your throat closed up.
âAnd I tried to convince myself that I needed to punish you. That maybe it would make it easier.â
He swallowed.
âBut it didnât.â
You stared up at him. âThen whyââ
âBecause I didnât know how to forgive you yet.â
Your lip trembled.
âI thought keeping you at a distance would protect me. But it just made it worse. Iâve been sleeping next to the only person I love in this world, and Iâve been cruel to her.â
He reached out, touched your jaw.
âIâm sorry.â
The words hit harder than any punishment.
He dipped his head, kissed your cheek.
Then your eyelid.
Your temple.
And finally, your lips.
Not rough. Not possessive. Just desperate.
âI love you,â he whispered against your mouth.
You broke.
Tears streamed silently down your cheeks as you kissed him back, clinging to him like you needed him to breathe.
âIâm sorry, Minho.â
He pulled you into his lap, arms locking around your waist, his forehead pressing to yours.
âI know.â
You stayed like that for a long timeâquiet, clinging, trembling in the aftershock of the storm.
He didnât want to ruin you anymore.
He just wanted to love you again.
You didnât realize you were crying until his kisses turned to your cheeks again.
Minhoâs hands were steady now. No more anger in themâjust warmth. His touch mapped your back, your arms, your waist like he was trying to piece you together again. Like he regretted every second of treating you like a stranger.
âI didnât want to hurt you,â he whispered, nose buried in the curve of your neck. âI just didnât know how else to protect myself.â
You nodded against him, sniffling. âI understand.â
âNo,â he pulled back, cupping your face, âyou didnât deserve that. Iâm so sorry.â
And when he kissed you againâreally kissed youâyour whole body melted.
It wasnât desperate, not yet. It was deep. Slow. His lips moved with reverence. Like you were something fragile. Something holy.
His tongue brushed yours, just enough to taste you. Just enough to make your knees weak all over again.
âLie back for me,â he said softly.
You obeyed.
This time, you werenât scared.
Minho climbed over you, peeling off his shirtârevealing the body you knew so well. The one that had ruined you in silence.
Now? It was here to worship.
He kissed down your chest, slow, purposeful. His hands pulled your thighs apart like he was touching silk.
He didnât rush.
Didnât tease.
Just looked up at you, eyes glassy and full of everything he hadnât said for days.
âI missed you,â he whispered. âI missed this. Us.â
You nodded, tears returning.
âLet me make it right,â he breathed.
And thenâhe went down on you.
Like he was starving.
Like your body was the only thing that could save him now.
His mouth was soft but thorough. He licked slow, deliberate circles over your clit, eyes locked on yours the entire time. His fingers gripped your thighs like they were the only anchor to this reality, as if tasting you was the closest thing to coming home.
You moaned for himâreal, raw, aching.
âMinhoââ
His name trembled off your lips like a prayer.
And he groaned softly into your cunt, like it meant something to hear it again.
When his fingers joined his tongueâslowly pressing into you, curling up with precisionâyou sobbed.
Your body didnât know how to handle it.
Too much love.
Too much forgiveness.
Too much Minho.
And he gave you everything.
Didnât stop until you were shaking. Until you came against his mouth, legs trembling, fingers tangled in his hair as you cried out his name.
But even then?
He wasnât done.
He climbed back up, kissed your tears, and slid into you with aching slowness.
No force. No silence. Just soft moans and murmured I love yous into your hair, your throat, your lips.
It was everything heâd withheld.
All the affection. All the heat.
He thrusted slow and deep, holding you close like he never wanted to let go again. Like losing you had nearly destroyed himâand he was rebuilding both of you from the inside out.
You came again, clinging to him, sobbing his name.
And this time? He came with you.
Held you through the aftershocks.
Pressed kisses to your face, your chest, your hands.
Authors note: Hiii! So i had someone drop nasty comments on my work yesterday and even reblogged the angry boys series saying they hate me⌠lol okay. Anyway i just want to put it out there that my writing is NOT for everyone, especially NOT MINORS.. so in addition to the MDNI tags i always use, please HATERS DNI đ. Iâm just gonna block you.
On a lighter note!!! We are at 800 FOLLOWERS omg!! Thank you so much guys! â¤ď¸â¤ď¸ please donât forget to like and comment and reblog!!! If you want to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know âşď¸
sum. teasing, sweet treats, challenges and all, itâs about time minho admits how bad he wants to kiss you.
wc. 1.9k
cw. pocky game, harry potter spells and magic references, crushes and fluff and one unit of a kiss, minho is FUCKED (positive), and I think thatâs all, folks!
req! right here, from my gorgeous baby @4ln-stay8! POOKIEEE missed you so much<3 this was so cute! hope you likeđââď¸âźď¸
[đâ đŹâ đ]
Has anyone ever gone to see a magician perform?
Even if that didnât happen âwhich, for your information, is an experience I recommend, just for funâ we can all agree that everyone is familiar with those typical magic tricks. Like that one where the magician has this colourful cloth, and he starts pulling it out of his hat, and then pulls, pulls, pulls, pullsâŚ
âFelix, what part of âwe only need sodas, water, and the peach juice that Jisung said he wantedâ did you not understand?â Seungmin blinks, deadpanning as he watches his roommate get things out of the supermarket bags.
As if summoned âmaybe the magic still lingers around?â Jisung pops his head inside the kitchen, with another two bags.
âDid I hear my name?â Han smiles, rubbing his hands together to easy the red, tight feeling the plastic bag left in his hands.
âYeah, bitch,â Seungmin scoffs, âtryna max out your credit cardâwait. Who paid for this?â
Jisung blinks, gasping. âOh, I left the water bottles outside.â
âThe juice was me, by the way,â you let out softly, moving side to side as you sat on the kitchen stool.
Cans clatter onto the counter, a bunch of parsley poking out from under a loaf of bread, and somewhere in the mess, a rogue apple rolls across the floor. Between the crinkling of paper and the thud of boxes, it feels like the bags will never end. Jisung and Felix should never go to the supermarket again unsupervised.
You hold back the need to laugh, not only at the crazy scene, but at Seungminâs puzzled face.
âAre there more things there?â You giggle.
As you grab a plastic bag and peek inside, you frown. âWhatâs this?â you ask, fishing out a brightly colored packet with a name you didnât dare to pronounce.
Silence.
Several heads snap toward you, as if youâve just confessed a crime.
âYouâre joking,â Seungmin says flatly.
âPlease tell me youâre joking,â Hyunjin echoes as he gets to the kitchen, already halfway to dramatic fainting.
âYouâve never had Pocky?â Felix gasps, a smile on his lips. âWhere have you beenâunder a rock? On the moon?â
You blink, holding the snack defensively. âAm I⌠supposed to know?â
Jisung stares at you like youâve just insulted Felixâs baking skills, leaving the water bottles on the floor.
âYouâre not supposed to know,â Jisung says, snatching the packet from your hands like itâs too sacred to be handled by a novice. âYouâre supposed to have lived it. This was childhood. This was lunchbox gold. This wasââ
ââcurrency on the playground,â Jeongin chimes in solemnly, taking a seat on the stool next to Hyunjin.
âYou know thereâs a flippinâ day for this in Japan, right?â Felix chuckles, taking the other Pocky box from the bag and settling on the kitchen aisle, ruffling your hair.
âThere is?â You look at the package with amazement in your eyes, to which Seungmin snickers.
Just as Hyunjin tears the Pocky box open with ceremonial flair, footsteps sound in the hall. Minho walks into the kitchen, eyeing the chaos.
âWhy does it sound like someone just uncovered a forbidden artifact?â He snorts. âOh, Pocky,â he smiles, sitting around the kitchen aisle and grabbing a box, tearing it open.
âThis one right here just discovered gunpowder.â Seungmin rubs his eyes in fake desperation, actually amused.
Minho pauses after taking a bite. Looks at you. Blinks.
âYou donât know what this is?â He presses his lips together, failing to hold back a smile as he swooshes the bitten Pocky on his hand in the air, like some kind of wand.
Han looks at you like heâll Avada Kedavra your ass. âImagine never having one!â Jisung whines dramatically, holding up the package like a sacred offering, grabbing one.
Your arms shoot up in ginger frustration, a smile still on your face. âWhy is this such a big deal?â
Minho grinsânot as much mocking like the others, but amused, like heâs secretly delighted by the whole thing. âItâs just⌠Youâve really never even seen one?â
âNo!â you say, half-laughing now. âAnd what do you mean there's a day for this?" You grin, grabbing one and staring at it.
âOkay, so Pocky Day is likeâNovember 11th, right?â Felix explains, waving a half-eaten stick like a pointer. âBecause the date looks like four Pocky sticks. One-one-one-one. Itâs a whole thing in Japan. People gift them, take pictures, post cringe, whateverââ
âAnd the real tradition is the Pocky challenge. Itâs like a trust exercise. But sexy. And dumb,â Hyunjin chuckles.
âItâs dumb-sexy,â Seungmin nods.
Meanwhile, Minho isnât listening. Well, technically, his body is facing the group. He even nods a little, like heâs following the conversation. But his eyes? Always trailing back to you, like some new magic trick.
Focus, Minho. Leave her alone. Don't be a creep, his brain scolds him.
So while teacher Felix explains Pocky day to you, Minho grabs a stick from the box, settles it on his lips, and spins to face Hyunjin with dramatic flair. âHeyyyy,â he drawls, voice muffled slightly around the chocolate-covered end. âYou wanna kiss me?â
Hyunjin's eyes turn to crescent moons as he laughs. âPlease stop.â
âCome onnnn,â Minho says, leaning in like heâs about to seduce a houseplant. âIâm irresistible. Itâs Pocky Day. Itâs sacred.â
Your laugh stands out to him in the group as Hyunjin keeps making dramatic faces, and like some Accio spell, his eyes go back to you.
He can see how youâre swinging your legs slightly, brow furrowed in concentration, actually trying to make sense of this absurd little candy holiday. Your hairâs a little messy from the wind, your cheeks still pink from the cold. And every so often, when the others laugh or make a dumb joke, you smileâslow and genuine, like you mean it.
Minho feels it like a punch to the chest every time.
God, he thinks, heart doing something stupid. Sheâs soâsheâs justâ
Then you straighten, wiping a tear from your eye. âOkay, but wait. I wanna try the game.â
âYou know, Minho is the king of the Pocky challenge,â Felix smiles, faking innocence.
Minhoâs internal monologue hits DEFCON 1. Heâs already halfway to cardiac arrest when, like sharks circling the blood, Felix and Seungmin lean in with matching devilish grins.
Minho wakes up from his daydreaming. "What?"
âYeah, Min," Felix snickers. "Youâve pulled this exact move four times at parties.â
Minho blinks. Brain: static. Limbs: gone. Soul: ascending. He feels every cell in his body yell, STAY CALM. But his blood has turned into hot soup, and his mouth is suddenly so dry. Did his knees always feel this weak? Had he ever actually known how to breathe?
"I wanna try it," you repeat, still laughing, still not understanding that youâve just shattered Minho's reality. "But Minho doesn't have to do it if he doesn't want to."
Minho silently beams regret and death at them while his brain screams, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, IT'S HAPPENING, STAY CALM, STAY FUCKING CALMâ
Heart jackhammering in his chest, Minho has a single, profound thought: Donât combust. Donât combust. Donât combust. Heâs already reaching for it before his body catches up with his brain. âNoâ I mean, yeah,â he croaks. âSure. Totally. Why not."
The room holds its breath. His ears are definitely red.
In the blink of an eye, youâre sitting on the stool right next to him, and he turns to face you.
You lean in, slowly, and every inch closer is a personal attack on Minhoâs ability to remain upright.
Okay, he tells himself. Cool. Youâre fine. Itâs just a game. A snack. A stick. A proximity-based ritual of emotional doom. Totally normal.
Your eyes flick up to his again andâboom. There goes his brain. Just gone. Replaced with white noise and the echoing reminder that your lashes are stupidly long and your nose crinkles just a little when you smile, and heâs so, so doomed.
He can feel your breath now. Warm. Sweet.
Abort. Abort. You are not built for this.
Youâre smiling like you know exactly what youâre doing to him.
Nope. Just trying the challenge. Calm down. This isnât about you. Except it is about you. Because you picked him. You wanted to try thisâwith him.
He doesnât know where to look. Your eyes? Your mouth? Somewhere neutral, like the ceiling?
His lips are millimeters from yours now. Time has completely stopped. His hands are clenched at his sides because if he moves them, he knows, he knows, heâll reach for you.
Youâre so close now.
The room has gone quiet in that strange, electric wayâlike even the air doesnât want to interrupt.
The pocky stick trembles slightly between you, balanced between your mouth and his, and Minhoâs pulse is so loud in his ears it feels like a countdown.
Youâre leaning in slowly, a little hesitant, like youâre trying not to laugh, like you canât quite believe youâre doing this either.
Minho canât hear the others anymore. Canât remember his name, the challenge, the contextânothing. All he can see is you.
The soft part of your smile where your lips meet the stick. The tiny shift in your expression as you get closer. Your lashes lowering just slightly. The edge of pink on your cheeks.
And then, something in him snaps.
This might be the only time, his brain whispers, already folding itself into silence. The only chance. You donât get this twice.
So he leans in just a little more. Not enough to scare you off. Justâcloser. Closer than he should. Enough to feel the whisper of your breath against his skin.
Your eyes flick to his. Wide, surprised.
But you donât pull away.
So he doesnât either.
The stick between you cracks softly as you near the middle. And still, he keeps going.
Your breath hitches.
And just before the Pocky snapsâ
Your lips meet.
Itâs soft. Just a brush. Warm and uncertain and far too short. But it hits him like gravity suddenly tripled, like heâs stepped off the edge of something tall and forgotten how to land.
He barely remembers the crunch. Barely hears the explosion of screams behind him.
All he knows is that your lips have touched hisâand that nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for how right that feels.
Minho doesnât move.
He isnât sure he can. Heâs frozen, standing perfectly still like his nervous system has short-circuited and just⌠shut down. His ears are ringing. His heart is somewhere in his throat, possibly on fire. And youâre still right there, eyes wide, fingers covering your mouth in stunned shockâand maybe, just maybe, a tiny smile hiding beneath it.
His lips tingle. Every neuron in his brain has turned off except the one whispering, You kissed. You kissed. You actually kissed.
Someone claps him on the back way too hard. âThat was the smoothest thing Iâve ever seen you do, you absolute menace.â
Minho blinks. Heâs barely processing it. The voices are background static. Youâre still the only thing in focus.
Youâre biting back a laugh now, cheeks flushed, glancing around like you canât believe this is happening.
But thenâyour eyes meet his again. And it hits him all over again. This just happened. You kissed him. Or he kissed you. You kissed.
Minho tries to speak. Fails. Swallows. Tries again.
âYouâuh. That wasâŚâ he manages, rubbing the back of his neck.
You give him a lookâshy and warm and teasing all at once. âHappy⌠Pocky Day?â
He laughs. A little too breathlessly. âBest holiday Iâve ever celebrated.â
Across them, Felix bites his lip. "Let's not tell them we're still in April." Felix snickers softly at Jeongin. "What? I wouldn't want to ruin the magic!"
If one were to cast a spell and see into the future, this author thinks itâs quite obvious to think that Minho couldnât wait until November to kiss you again.
Summary: The perks of being Chan's wife??? You get to see how adorable he is with his daughterâŚand you get to use his card for shopping sprees! What more could you ask for?
Relationship: Husband/Dad!Chan x afab!reader
Word Count: 1350
Warnings: FLUFF...CUTESY DISGUSTING FLUFF...WOW I could have his children...lowkey no plot...just tooth-rotting cuteness, suggestive behavior/convos PG13 ig...
The soft morning light filtered in through the sheer curtains of your bedroom. You were sleeping peacefully, which at this hour, was rare. The sleep was too good - suspiciously good. You blink your eyes open slowly, taking in the room. You look over to your clock and see itâs nearly nine am.Â
You turn over, your arm hitting the empty bed beside you. Brows furrowed, you sat up. The room is empty, the bedroom door cracked.Â
âChan?â you say in a voice not too loud.Â
He didnât respond so he wasnât in the room.
You push the covers off, adjusting your shirt and short sleep set with the âWIFEYâ graphic on it and slip on your slippers. You make your way into the hall, the sound of dishes clanking in the kitchen. Smiling, you descend the stairs and come into the kitchen.
âMommyâs awake!â your daughter Minyeong squeals.
Your husband beams at her, nodding his head in your direction to silently tell her to go to you. She hurries off the step stool and runs over to you.Â
âGood Morning!â she says in her little voice, her dimpled smile so big and contagious.
âGood morning sweetie.â you say, hugging her. âWhat are you doing in here?â
âWe were making you breakfast. Daddy said you were supposed to stay in bed.â
âOh oopsie.â you smile, putting her down. She runs over to your curly haired husband who is smiling at you.Â
The dimples in his cheeks that your daughter favored were prominent and you couldnât help but blush. You walk around the island and hug him from behind as he cooks the eggs and bacon. Minyeong is setting fruit slices on the plates carefully.
âMorning Channie.â you say, kissing his shoulder.
âMorning, pretty.â he says, turning in your arms to wrap his around you. âHow did my girl sleep?â
âWonderfully.â You smile and he kisses you deeply.
âDaddyyyâŚthe bacon..â
âRightâŚsorry doll.â He says, turning off the fire and moving the bacon to a serving plate. âI was thinking you could take Yeongie shopping todayâŚshe needs more clothes.â
âDoes she? Did she tell you this orâŚ.?â
Chan smiles⌠âWell I was gonna get her dressed this morningâŚbut I just couldnât seem to find any clothes.â
âThatâs because itâs laundry day. I have 4 loads to put away.â
âHereâs my cardâŚâ Chan hands you his card dramatically and you roll your eyes. âTake our sweet daughter shopping for some cute clothes. And get yourself something too. No limit on this one.â
You look at the black card in his hand and he winks. You take it, shaking your head, and he kisses the side of your head.Â
âGood girl,â he whispers.
After breakfast, you and Minyeong got dressed and headed to the local mall. Chan went into the studio to work on a track with Changbin and Han for the day. He said he would be home for dinner but you knew he would be late. He always got lost in the studio and you usually had to pull him out.
At the mall, you went to three different stores - Old Navy, Carterâs and Tiny Human. Tiny Human wasnât planned but the boutique was too cute to pass up. Then you went to Dior - only to find more cute things for her there. You also got yourself a few things, making an important stop to the lingerie store for a special surprise for Chan later.
After a few hours, you were back home, the bags all on the floor around Minyeong. You snuck a pic and sent it to Chan, hoping it will encourage him to come home a little early.
Of course he didnât see it until an hour later, responding: OMG *heart eye emojis* I canât wait to see what you bought! Heading home!
You smiled, happy he was going to be home soon. You had managed to put all the laundry away, and the new clothes while she took a nap. And once you were done, you slipped on the lacy number under an oversized shirt and leggings. He was going to be pleasantly surprised tonight after Minyeong went to sleep.
You began cooking dinner when he finally came home. Minyeong ran from the couch and hugged Chan. He smiled, picking her up and spinning her around.
âHow is my little princess doing?â Chan asked.
âMommy was mean to me today.â she pouts.
âOh she was?!â he says, squatting to her level. âHow was she mean?â
âShe wouldnât let me get ice cream at the mall. We had to come home.â
âOh how mean of her.â Chan furrowed his brows and pouted with her. âMean mommyâŚâ
You shake your head at them and he rises, coming over to you.
âHow could you be so mean today? You should have gotten ice cream.â Chan taunts as he walks over and grabs you from behind, kissing your cheek.
âWeâll have ice cream after dinner, Yeongie.â Chan says with a wink.
âYay!â she cheers, running back into the living room.
You glare at him.
âWhat? I canât say no to my girls. I donât hear you complainingâŚâ
Before you could protest, he pulls you flush with him and kisses you passionately. You melt, all words lost. He wins once again.
âYeongie, show me your new clothes.â
âOkay. Mommy come help me.â Minyeong pleads as she runs up to her room.
Chan watches the stove as dinner finishes up. You go into the room and help Yeongie put on her new outfits and strut into the kitchen to show them off.
âOh I love this.â Chan says. âOooo, this one comes with a unicorn bag?!â
His commentary makes you giggle as you watch the interactions. Your heart was so full, your life so rich. Your little family was perfect and you couldnât be happier. Chan has made your life so amazing and you wouldnât have it any other way.
Dinner was done soon and you all sat as a family eating. Chan, of course, kept his word and the two enjoyed some ice cream before he put her to bed. He read her two stories before she was out cold. Then he carefully snuck out of the room and back downstairs.
You had cleaned the kitchen and were sitting back on the couch. He sat down next to you, pulling you into his lap.
âI love you.â he said, kissing you.
âI love you too Channie.â
âI love our little family too. Minyeong makes me want to have more.â He said while idly stroking your arm with his fingers.
âYou do?â
âYes. I want more little yous running around.â
âAre you blind? Sheâs likeâŚan exact copy of you.â you say and he chuckles.
âNot true. She had your gorgeous eyes. And your sass. And your beautiful skin.â
âWellâŚthen I guess I should probably tell youâŚIâm pregnant.â
âWhat?â Chan sat up, nearly knocking you off his lap. âSeriously?â
You nod with a big smile. âI got a call from my doctor today confirming it. I didnât want to tell you till I was sure.â
Chan smashes his lips to yours. âY/n, you make me the happiest man alive. I donât know what I would do without you.â
âYou wouldnât sleep, oneâŚâ you say and he tickles you.
âSo itâs like that, huh?â he says, a huge smile on his face as he laughs with you.Â
âMaybe.â you shrug.
âCâmon, pretty. Weâre going to bed then. Imma show you just how little sleep I can get.â he throws you over his shoulder and carries you up to bed.
âI guess you get to open your gift then.â you say in the bedroom.
âWhat gift?â he asks, putting you down.
âI bought you something today tooâŚâÂ
He squints his eyes at you before stepping closer and lifting your shirt over your head. He bites his lip, drinking in the sight of you in the black lingerie. You slip off the pants and twirl. He smirks, launching himself at you. You two land on the bed, only to tangle in the sheets for most the night.
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kim seungmin + corruption kink/oral fixation/innocence kink
âYou ever had someone go down on you before?â
The question lands like a slapâlow, smug, right against your inner thigh as Seungminâs mouth moves higher, leaving a trail of heat with every kiss.
You shake your head, breath stuttering, heart pounding so loud youâre sure he can hear it. âN-noâŚâ
He chuckles. Quiet, pleased. His lips brush your skin again, softer this time. âYeah. I figured.â
Youâre already spread out for himâlaid back, trembling, soaked through your panties like youâve been waiting for this moment your whole life. Like you were made for this. And maybe you were.
Seungmin drags a hand up your thigh, slow and easy. Like he has all night to take you apart.
âYou always get this wet just from someone talking dirty?â he murmurs, eyes flicking up to catch your reaction. âThat innocent little brain of yours must be short-circuiting right now.â
He doesnât wait for an answer. Just slides his fingers under the waistband of your underwear, lets them snap back against your skin with a soft pop before tugging them downâinch by inch, deliberate, like heâs unwrapping a gift.
The second youâre bare, he freezes. Stares. And then exhales like it physically knocked the wind out of him.
âFuck. Look at you.â His voice drops lower, almost reverent. âDripping and untouched. Youâve really been keeping this all to yourself?â
Your face burns, but you nodâshaky, exposed, helpless under his gaze.
He grins. âThatâs adorable.â
Then his expression shiftsâhis smile softens into something darker, more dangerous. Like heâs already ten steps ahead, imagining everything heâs going to do to you.
âIâm gonna ruin you,â he says, steady as ever, voice calm and precise like heâs delivering a fact. âYou realize that, right?â
You nod before your brain can catch up.
âGood girl.â
He doesnât waste another second.
The moment his mouth touches you, everything else disappears. His lips are soft, tongue slow, licking into you like heâs savoring every inch. Long, teasing strokes that make your toes curl and your spine arch.
You gaspâsharp and highâand he groans like that sound alone is enough to get him off.
âMm, fuck,â he mutters into you, voice muffled by your pussy. âKnew youâd taste sweet. But this? Shit. Youâre gonna ruin me right back.â
He starts working you over like itâs a challenge. Like he needs to know exactly how to break you with just his mouth.
Your hands find his hair, gripping tight, not to pull him awayâbut to keep him right there.
âAlready shaking,â he murmurs, tongue flicking your clit in short, fast strokes that make your legs jerk. âHowâd you go this long without someone doing this to you? Thatâs criminal.â
You try to answerâanythingâbut all that comes out is a whimper.
âDonât worry,â he soothes, dragging his tongue lower, then back up in one slow, filthy lick. âIâll make sure you never go without again.â
He grips your thighs, pulls you closer, his mouth greedier nowâmessy, wet, loud. The kind of head that feels like worship and destruction at the same time.
âCâmon, baby,â he whispers against you, voice too tender for how rough his tongue is working you. âLet go. Wanna hear you fall apart.â
It takes one more flickâperfect and preciseâand then youâre gone.
You cry out, hips bucking, thighs closing in around his head. He groans, sucking you through it, like he loves the way you shake, the way you moan his name like a prayer.
When you finally go limp, chest heaving, he pulls backâface soaked, lips shiny, eyes blown wide.
He licks his lips slowly, smirking. âPretty little virgin pussy,â he says, voice rough. âYou think Iâm stopping after just one?â
He moves up your body, mouth finding your neck, fingers already sliding between your thighs again.
âNo, baby. Weâre just getting started.â
Šsunshineangel0 đš if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi đ
summary: as you and minho navigate your friendship dynamic, mingyu's heart eyes on you starts to trouble himâ making him think you might just be falling for someone else
pairing: lee know x fem!reader
genre: angst, fluff, humor
word count: 5723 words
a/n: it was getting too long, so there will be pt 5! this is just angst fest with sprinkles of fluff
Intern Series: Part Three
~°~
You were planning to binge watch a K-drama all weekend, cocooned in your bed with snacks and the blinds closed, avoiding everything and everyone.
But Hyunjin had other plans. He FaceTimed you in the afternoon, dramatic as always, starting with a groan and a close-up of a plate of slightly charred french toast.
âLook at this monstrosity,â he whined, flipping the camera back to his face. âI swear I was only gone for two secondsââ
âHyun, you cannot leave it in the stove and scroll through insta.â
He gasped, deeply offended. âExcuse you, I was grabbing my mug! Iâm not feral.â
You rolled your eyes, propping your phone against a pillow. âDebatable.â
After the usual catch-up â mostly consisting of Hyunjin dragging everyone in his life and complaining about schedules â you finally caved and told him about the elevator.
With Minho.
You tried to sound casual. Light. Like it didnât mean much.
âWe were alone for like... ten seconds,â you said, âand then right before I stepped out, he saidââ
âWhat?â
You hesitated. âHe said heâd like to be friends again.â
Hyunjin blinked. â...And?â
âAnd nothing. Thatâs it.â
He stared into the camera for a long beat. âWhat the hell is wrong with you two?â
âI donât know!â you whisper-yelled, slumping deeper into your blanket. âIt was so awkward. He said it like he meant it, but it felt⌠off. Like maybe he thought I needed closure or something.â
âOr maybe heâs trying to fix things.â
You chewed on your bottom lip, unsure. âMaybe.â
Hyunjin exhaled like a tired therapist. âOkay. Thatâs it. Youâre not rotting in bed all weekend over this.â
âWatch me.â
âNope. Youâre coming to potluck night at the dorm. Tonight. Everyoneâs bringing food and good vibes. I want you there, no excuses.â
You groaned. âHyunâ I donât even have anything to bringââ
âBring your pretty face and your social battery,â he said, flopping onto his couch, âOr anything you like just not eggplants. You know I hate it.â
You smirked. âSo⌠eggplant it is?â
His head snapped up, horrified. âYou wouldnât dare.â
You shrugged, âGuess weâll see.â
*******************
Few hours later, you knocked on the dorm door with a warm, foil-covered dish.
Hyunjin opened it dramatically, looking you up and down like you were a contestant on a cooking show he secretly hated.
âWhat⌠is that?â he asked slowly.
You held it out to him, deadpan. âEggplant, surprise!â
âYOU DIDNâTââ he started, full panic activated.
You burst out laughing. âRelax, drama queen. Itâs mac and cheese.â
He peeled back the foil just to make sure, and when the golden, cheesy goodness revealed itself, he visibly sagged with relief. âI was this close to banning you from the friend group.â
You strolled past him smirking. âYou love me too much for that.â
âI tolerate you at best,â he muttered, trailing behind you.
The dorm was warm and buzzing with noiseâlaughter spilling from the kitchen, someone shouting about the rice cooker being broken, and music playing softly from a speaker on the shelf. The table was cluttered with mismatched dishes: fried chicken, kimchi pancakes, tteokbokki, pasta, a half-eaten cake, and a mountain of snacks. You slid your dish onto the table, earning a small cheer from Jeongin, who immediately spooned some onto his plate.
You were barely two steps into the living room when you spotted Minho leaning against the counter with a soda in hand, mid-conversation with Chan. But the second your eyes met, his lips parted just slightlyâlike he hadnât expected you to come.
For a second, it was like everything paused.
The low hum of music faded. The buzz of conversation turned into white noise. All you could focus on was how his gaze softened, just a bit, like a wave settling after a storm.
Then, almost hesitantly, Minho excused himself from Chan and stepped toward you, soda still in hand.
âHey,â he said quietly, his voice softer than the room around you. âDidnât think youâd actually show.â
You shrugged, trying to play it cool even though your heart did a dramatic somersault. âYeah, well⌠Hyunjin bribed me. Mochi donuts and chocolate fudge.â
That earned you a small laugh from him. The kind that wasnât loud but genuine, like it slipped out before he could catch it.
âIâm glad,â he said after a beat, his eyes flicking briefly from yours to the kitchen table. âWhatâd you bring?â
You grinned. âEggplant.â
Minho blinked, visibly thrown.
You let the silence stretch for a beat before breaking into a grin. âKidding. I brought mac and cheese.â
Relief flickered across his face as he chuckled. âYou almost gave Hyunjin a heart attack.â
âI know. It was fun.â
Minho tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he looked at you like he didnât quite know what to do with the version of you in front of him nowâthis soft, teasing warmth between you two, instead of static and silence.
He nodded toward the kitchen. âCome on. Letâs eat.â
And as he walked beside you, just close enough that your arms almost brushed, it struck you that maybe being âjust friendsâ wouldnât feel like a step back at all. Maybe, with him, it was the start of something quieter. Slower. Something that could finally make sense.
The dining table was a patchwork of mismatched dishes and hands reaching across each other, chopsticks clinking lightly as conversations overlapped. Laughter bounced off the walls, Felix nearly knocked over the lemonade, and Han was dramatically retelling how he once got stuck in an elevator for seven minutes.
You were nestled between Minho and Hyunjin, your mac and cheese earning praise from the boysâSeungmin even asked if youâd added some âwitchcraftâ to make it that creamy. Your soft smile lingered, a little more genuine now, the warmth of being around people you cared about slowly melting the ache that had clung to you the past few weeks.
Minho sat quietly beside youânot withdrawn, just softer. Every so often, his knee would brush against yours again, just a small reminder that he was still there. Still beside you. You didnât move away. Neither did he.
Then, somewhere between bites and banter, Jeongin piped up flashing his trademark dimpled grin. âNoona, have you given Mingyu your number yet?â
You nearly choked on your drink. Minho, mid-bite, paused. The fork hovered in front of his lips, then lowered without him taking the bite.
âNo?â you said, dabbing at your mouth with a napkin.
Felix laughed, then winked, âHeâs not wrong. Mingyuâs totally crushing on our Y/N.â
âWhy not, noona?â Jeongin smirked. âHeâs very cute and brings your lattes.â
Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly looked down at your plate. âCan we not?â
Chan, sensing your discomfort, smoothly jumped in to ask Felix about a new baking recipe, and the conversation shifted, giving you a chance to breathe. The laughter around you swirled back into the air. Minho stayed silent beside you, still not eating. You snuck a glance at himâhis jaw was tight, eyes trained on his plate.Â
After dinner, as everyone started clearing the table or lazily collapsing into the couch for round two of snacks, Hyunjin tugged on your wrist and nodded toward the hallway. âCome. Help me get the dessert plates.â
You followed him quietly, already suspecting he didnât mean actual plates.
Once out of earshot, he leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, voice gentler. âSo⌠do you like Mingyu?â
You sighed, leaning your head back against the wall. âNo, Hyunjin. I donât.â
He tilted his head. âWhy not?â
âIâm not ready,â you said, barely above a whisper. âNot after⌠everything.â
He nodded slowly, like he already knew the answer before asking. âOkay,â he said simply. No pressure, no teasing. Then his eyes flicked briefly toward the kitchen specifically toward Minho. Â
You caught it.
But before you could ask, he smiled tightly. âI just want you to be okay, thatâs all.â He bumped your shoulder. âCome on, letâs find those plates weâre pretending to need.â
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Minho stood by the sink, scrubbing at a plate a little harder than necessary. The sound of water and ceramic drowned out the voices in the living room.
Han padded in, drying his hands with a dish towel. âYou okay, hyung?â
Minho didnât look up. He just shrugged.
Then, after a pause, he let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. âSheâs⌠moved on from me?â
Han leaned against the counter beside him, watching carefully. âHyungâŚâ
Minho shook his head, the plate in his hands now spotless. âI told her we could be friends. I thought I meant it. But now⌠the idea of her with someone elseââ he bit the inside of his cheek. âIt just... hurts.â
Han stayed silent for a second, then said softly, âI donât think sheâs moved on. But hyung⌠you hurt her. A lot.â
Minho finally looked up, eyes troubled.
âShe was so into you, but she heard you bad mouthing her..â
Minhoâs jaw clenched. The memory felt like a blade twisting in his chest. Minho set the plate aside, hands braced on the sink. Silent.
âYou still like her, right?â Han asked quietly.
Minho nodded.
Han gave a half-smile. âThen maybe itâs time you stop hiding behind âjust friendsâ and actually show her.â
Minhoâs fingers curled against the edge of the sink, knuckles paling. His voice was lowâbarely above the hum of the faucet still running.
âI donât want to lose her though,â he murmured. âIâm scared.â
Han blinked, then straightened a little, caught off guard by the rare crack in Minhoâs calm. âScared of what?â
âOf ruining everything. Of saying something wrong and pushing her further away,â Minho said, his voice threading between restraint and something raw. âWe finally found our way back to being something⌠not painful. And Iââ he exhaled sharply, eyes closing for a second, âI donât want to mess it up again.â
Han was quiet for a second, just watching him.
Then he said, softer this time, âBut hyung⌠if you donât say anything, you might lose her anyway. And that hurts worse, doesnât it?â
Minho looked down at his hands.Â
âWhat if it's too late,â he said, more to himself than to Han.
Han shook his head. âItâs not, hyung. You canât give up.â
He gave Minhoâs shoulder a light squeeze before walking away, leaving him standing there in the kitchenâstill, uncertain, but just a little less alone with the weight of everything.
*******************
The next few days were⌠strange.
You and Minho hovered around each other like hesitant magnetsâdrawn close, but careful not to snap together too fast. He started sitting beside you again during breaks. Not across the room like before. Not beside Han. Beside you. But there was a gap. Just wide enough to remind you this wasnât what it used to be. Or maybe it never really was.
He made jokes again, though softer than before. Less teasing, more observational. Sometimes they made you smile, sometimes you only nodded, still unsure if it was safe to laugh freely again. Once, he commented on a meme in your phone background, and when you gave a small, amused huff, you didnât notice but his shoulders loosened a bitâas if that little sound meant the world.
At lunch, when you reached for the sriracha sauce and accidentally brushed his hand, you both pulled back at the same time. The contact was brief. Barely even a second. But your eyes metâjust for a momentâand he offered a faint smile. You didnât return it. Not because you didnât want to. Because you didnât know how anymore.
Later that afternoon, during rehearsals, he walked over with a drink from the vending machineâyour favorite. He didnât say anything when he handed it to you, just placed it on the table beside your phone and stepped away.
You blinked. Your fingers curled around the can, cool and familiar.
âThanks,â you mumbled.
You didnât meet his eyes. You never looked directly at him for too long anymore. He could tell your walls were still up, even as you stood just a few feet apart.
And though he didnât say anythingâno clever comment, no apology hidden in a jokeâhe lingered near the door for a second longer than needed, just to make sure you were okay.
This wasnât friendship. Not yet. It was limbo. A gentle balancing act between what was broken and what was trying so desperately to mend. And Minho was learning, one small step at a time, how to not ruin it again.
*******************
You and Minho didnât talk every day.
But now, when you passed each other in the halls, there was no silence. There were soft greetings. Occasional shared glances. The kind that made the others raise their eyebrowsânot in confusion, but in subtle relief. Because something had shifted.
Practice breaks werenât so awkward anymore. Sometimes he passed you his headphones when yours went missing. Other times you handed him his water bottle before he even asked.
Small things. Friendly things. But not nothing. And it was enoughâfor now. Minho told himself he was fine with that. Until Mingyu made it very clear he wasnât going anywhere.
âY/N, you killed that impromptu karaoke today,â Mingyu beamed, dropping beside you as you scrolled through the styling notes. âHonestly, your highnote is insane. Have you ever considered being a singer? Imagine your solo stage performance?â
You laughed softly, eyes still focused on your screen. âThatâd be a disaster. Iâd probably trip over the mic cord and fall off the stage.â
âNo way,â he said. âIâd catch you. Promise.â
From a few feet away, Minhoâs jaw tensed.
Minho noticed how Mingyu wasnât even trying to be subtle anymore. Mingyu hovered near you during warmups. Walked you out after late rehearsals. Made you laugh. A lot.
It wasnât your faultâyou were polite, warm, the same way you were with everyone else. You always kept your distance with Mingyu. Not crossing the boundary.
Minho noticed that.
But that didnât stop the burn in his chest every time you smiled at something Mingyu said.
âY/N, can you help me with this tie again?â Chan called from across the room, giving Minho a tiny glanceâlike he knew. You got up, nodding, and left Mingyu mid-sentence.
Minho let out a quiet breath he hadnât realized he was holding.
Han plopped beside him on the floor, towel draped around his neck, glancing at the scene unfolding across the room. âYouâre gonna pop a vein.â
âIâm fine,â Minho muttered.
Han snorted. âYeah. And Iâm debuting as a WWE fighter.â
Minho scowled.
Han leaned closer, lowering his voice. âIf you donât like watching it, maybe itâs time you stop pretending youâre okay with it.â
âI am okay,â Minho snappedâtoo quickly. Too defensive.
Han raised a brow.
Minho rubbed his face. âWeâre just friends now. Thatâs what she agreed to. I messed it up, remember?â
Han paused, then said more gently, âYeah. But you obviously want more, hyung. You just gotta figure out if youâre gonna do something about it⌠or if youâre gonna keep watching someone else try first.â
Minho didnât reply because deep down, he still didnât know the answer.
Not yet.
But when he looked across the room againâat you laughing with Chan, Mingyu watching you from the side with those fond eyes, he realized the ache in his chest wasnât going away.
And he wasnât sure how much longer he could keep pretending it didnât mean anything.
*******************
As days went by things between you and Minho shiftedâsubtly, but unmistakably.
He still sat beside you during breaks, knees brushing lightly like before. He still made those humorous jokes under his breath, ones that only you seemed to catch. But now, there was a hesitation in his touch, a softness in his voice, like he was trying to earn his place again without saying it out loud. And you let him. Not because youâd let him in completely, but because part of you missed him too much to push him away.
Across the room, Han and Hyunjin watched quietly from the couch, sipping on their drinks and observing the quiet push and pull between you two. Han nudged Hyunjin with his shoulder, a barely-contained grin on his face. âLook at them,â he whispered. âBack to their little world.â
Hyunjin exhaled a small laugh, but his smile faltered for a second. He didnât say anything right away. Instead, he looked at youâyour small smile as Minho murmured something that made you shake your head, the way your shoulder leaned just a little toward him.
He shouldâve been annoyed. Maybe he was. Maybe some bitter part of him still thought you were too easy on Minho. But Hyunjin knew Minho. Heâd known him for years, known the way he showed love sidewaysâthrough quiet gestures, not declarations. That night Minho said those careless things about you⌠Hyunjin had been furious. Still was, sometimes, but he also saw the way Minho looked at you now. Like he was afraid to lose you again. Like he knew heâd messed up and didnât know how to fix itâbut heâd die trying.Â
Hyunjin cared about you both deeply so he desperately wanted you and Minho to find your way back to each other. He let out a breath and took another sip, forcing a smile back on his face.
âHeâs trying,â he said, more to himself than Han. âPabo hyungâs actually trying.â
And both of them smiled fondly at the two of you. They are your biggest shippers after all.
*******************
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor backstage, your tablet propped up on a box of folded shirts, eyes bleary from combing through outfit notes and last-minute stage changes. The room buzzed around youâchatter, shoe scuffs, zippers, musicâbut you were too focused to care.
Until something landed next to your arm with a soft thud.
You looked down. A sandwich from your favorite bakery, neatly placed next to a chilled cup of chocolate milkshake.
Your head snapped up. Minho was already walking away, hands in his pockets like it was nothing, like he didnât just silently drop a piece of your favorite comfort food next to you without a word.
âUh⌠thanks?â you called after him.
He didnât even turn around. âEat it.â
But later, tucked just beneath the folded edge of the sandwich bag, you found a sticky note. His handwriting was neat:
You skipped lunch again. Stop doing that.
You stared at it for a second longer than you meant to, heart pulling.
The next day, you were tryingâreally tryingânot to knock over an entire rack of sparkling costumes as you guided it through a tight corner backstage. The wheels squeaked. Your wrists ached. A hanger snagged your sleeve.
âSeriously?â came a voice from behind you. âYouâre gonna end up in the ER before soundcheck.â
You turned, panting slightly. âIâve got itââ
But Minho was already beside you, hands slipping over yours, his grip firm but not forceful. He gently maneuvered the rack around the corner with practiced ease. You stood frozen for a moment, fingers still hovering where his had been.
âI was managing just fine,â you muttered, but the flush in your cheeks betrayed you.
âUh-huh,â he said, but there was a faint smile at the edge of his lips.
As he adjusted the last hanger, he glanced at you. âNext time, text me.â
You blinked. âWhy?â
âIâll come help.â
And slowly⌠you started noticing him again. Not as the Minho who said those horrible things at the party, but as the Minho who was trying.
One afternoon, the air conditioning backstage was way too strong one day, and you were visibly shivering as you worked on fixing a seam.
Next thing you knew, someone dropped a hoodie over your shoulders.
You turned aroundâit was Minhoâs.
âWhaâ"
âReturn it when youâre not freezing,â he smiled, walking away without waiting for a thank you.
You were too stunned to speak for a second.
It smelled like fabric softener⌠and maybe just a little like him.
*******************
Practice had run late, and you were completely drained. By the time you packed up your things and stepped out of the building, the sky had turned a moody grey, and raindrops had begun to fall steadily. Of course it had to rain todayâyour umbrella was forgotten at home, and the idea of waiting for the bus in this weather made your shoulders sink.
You sighed, already regretting not checking the forecast this morning. But then you saw Minho, standing by the front steps, holding a dark blue umbrella.
You blinked, surprised. âMinho? What⌠what are you doing here?â
He shrugged casually. âYou always take the bus. And itâs raining.â
Your chest fluttered. âYou waited?â
He gave a short nod. âYeah. And I know you wonât let me drive you,â he added, shooting you a side glance, lips tugging into the tiniest smirk. âSo I figured Iâd at least walk you to the stop.â
You hesitated, then stepped beside him under the umbrella. The space was small, shoulders brushing, but neither of you moved. Neither of you said a word about it.
You both stood like that for a momentâquiet, warm in each otherâs company as the world fell around you in soft, rhythmic droplets.
You looked up at him, something blooming in your chest. âYou didnât have to do this.â
He smiled faintly, his gaze forward as he matched your steps, âI wanted to.â
As you walked, a soft meow interrupted the silence. Your eyes lit up as a tiny kitten peered out from under a car. You crouched instinctively, cooing at it, and Minho just watched you with a small smile, then he crouched beside you.
âYou like cats?â you asked, gently petting the kitten.
âI have three,â he said with a grin. âSoonie, Doongie, and Dori.â
Your head turned, surprised. âYouâre a full-on cat dad?â
He nodded, a proud glint in his eyes. âThe clingiest one sleeps on my chest every night. I canât move or breathe, but he purrs like a motorboat, so.â
You laughed, something easing in your chest. âThatâs actually adorable.â
Minho took out a cat treat from his jeans pocket and fed the kitten. You looked at him, eyes wide. âYouâre really soft for a guy who glares 90% of the time.â
He chuckled. âDonât tell anyone. I have a reputation.â
You smiled, brushing your fingers gently along the kittenâs head.
âWant to see pictures of my kitties?â Minho asked looking at you.
Of course, you said yes.
And he scrolled through hundredsâliterally hundredsâof blurry cat photos with the fondest little smile on his face.
From then on, it became a rhythm. Small, thoughtful things woven into the chaos of workâMinho tying loose shoelaces before you tripped, subtly reminding you to drink water, or walking at your pace when everyone else rushed ahead.Â
One day, he wordlessly handed you a lint roller when your black pants were covered in glitter.Â
Another time, he quietly rescued a shirt you accidentally stained with makeup, dabbing at it with a wipe while saying, âDonât panic. Itâs not ruined.âÂ
You started catching him watching you sometimes, not in a way that made you uncomfortable, but in a way that felt... warm. Gentle. Like he was memorizing the quiet details. He was being patient. Careful.
Because Minho wasnât rushing. But he was trying. And you noticed. Even if you didnât say a word.
*******************
Minho had never felt so unsure of himselfâand that was saying something, considering he was usually the one in control, the one rolling his eyes and brushing things off with a sharp tongue and a shrug. But ever since that night, when youâd agreedâhesitantly, quietlyâto be his friend again, everything inside him felt like a wire pulled taut.
He knew he was the reason things were like this. You were kind. Too kind. Thatâs why youâd let him back in, even if the warmth in your eyes had cooled, even if your laughter now came with a trace of caution. And he didnât blame you. Not one bit.
Because how could he, after the things heâd said?
So he told himself friendship was fine. That being close to you like thisâwalking beside you, teasing you, seeing your smile from across the roomâwas enough. Maybe if he was patient, if he kept showing up, youâd trust him again. Maybe then heâd finally tell you what he really felt.
But Mingyu was there too.
Mingyu, who brought you coffee. Mingyu, who waited for your rehearsals to end just so he could walk you out. Mingyu, who made you laugh without the weight of old wounds lingering between you.
Minho had noticed how you smiled at him. How your guard wasnât as high. And it gnawed at him.
Every time you so much as looked at Mingyu, something in Minho tightened. He told himself he had time, that he couldnât rush youâbut the truth was, he was scared. Scared that Mingyu would reach you first. Scared that Mingyu would give you the kind of affection that didnât come with scars or apologies. Scared that maybe, just maybe, that was what you deserved.
He sat alone one evening in the practice room long after everyone else had left, a towel around his neck, chest still heaving from choreography. The dim lights flickered overhead as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.
âI canât lose her,â he muttered to himself. The words felt heavy. Honest.
But then he added, quieter:
ââŚI already might have.â
He couldnât stop thinking: what if you were already falling for someone else?
And with that, the weight on his shoulders only pressed harderâbecause the clock was ticking, and the line between friendship and love had never felt so thin.
*******************
The final practice for the collab was chaos. Choreography tweaks, mic checks, camera angles, fit checksâbut Minho wasnât focused on any of that.
He was across the practice room, half-listening to Chan give instructions, but his eyesâhis eyes were on you. You were near the corner, talking to Mingyu. Laughing with Mingyu. You had been invited to watch the practice, hanging out in the back with a bottle of water, trying to stay out of the way while everyone prepped.
Mingyu leaned in a little, his tone low, eyes soft, like he was saying something important. And youâMinhoâs heart dropped when he saw you smile.
He froze.
What the hell was that?
The blood in his ears roared louder than the music. Something ugly and tight wrapped around his chest.
Meanwhile, you were blinking up at Mingyu, stunned. âWait, what?â
Mingyu gave you a half-smile, a little rueful. âI said⌠Iâll back off.â
You blinked. âBack off what?â
He chuckled, eyes kind. âY/N, come on. Iâm not blind. Lee Know looks at you like you hung the stars.â
You followed his gaze briefly to the other end of the room where Minho stood, jaw tight, eyes burning holes into the two of you.
Your stomach turned. âThereâs⌠nothing. Between us.â
Mingyu raised a brow. âYou sure about that?â
You didnât answer. Couldnât. Because now your mind was racing, heart stammering with the realization.
âRegardless,â Mingyu continued, âI still wanna get coffee with you sometime. As friends. If thatâs cool?â
You nodded slowly, smiling without thinking. âYeah. Iâd like that.â
But the moment your smile curved, Minho moved.
His feet carried him before his brain could catch up. Every step thundered with misread emotions, with frustration and confusion and something painfully vulnerable.
âIs this fun for you?â Minhoâs voice cut through the air like a blade as he reached you both.
You looked up, startled. âWhatâ?â
Mingyu turned, blinking. âLee Know?â
âYou playing games now?â Minho snapped, eyes locked on Mingyu. âYou think flirting with her while weâre in the middle of rehearsals is cool?â
âYou think I donât see it? The smiles, the lingering around her? Back off, man.â
You stepped forward, âMinho, stopââ
But he didnât. He was too far gone now, anger twisting with fear, pain with regret.
âI know what youâre trying to do,â he growled. âBut sheâs not someâsome prize you can just win because youâre charming.â
âAnd what are you then?â Mingyu snapped back, now fully defensive. âThe one who gets jealous the second she talks with a guy? Youâre just insecure.â
Minhoâs jaw clenched, voice low and harsh. âIâm not insecure. I just donât think itâs professional to hit on someone during rehearsals.â
âAnd I donât think itâs professional to treat her like your possession,â Mingyu bit back, eyes burning now.
âEnough!â
The voice came from two sidesâChan and S.Coups, both storming over. Chan grabbed Minhoâs arm while S.Coups stepped in between Mingyu and Minho.
âWhat the hell is going on?â Chan hissed. âMinho, breathe.â
Minho jerked his arm free but didnât move closer. His chest heaved. âJust⌠tell him to stay away from her.â
You stared at him, heart pounding, throat thick.Â
âWhy?â you asked, voice quiet but firm. âSo you can decide when to push me away and when to pull me back?â
Minho froze.
S.Coups stood between them, throwing Mingyu a warning look then placing a firm hand on Mingyuâs shoulder. âTake a break. Cool off.â
You stood there in the middle, you felt a strange, heavy knot tighten in your stomach as you watched Minho. You had never seen him like thisâhis usual cool demeanor had cracked. In this moment, it felt like he was ready to explode.
Mingyu exhaled sharply and turned to you, eyes apologetic. âIâll be outside.â
He walked off, muttering under his breath. The door swung shut behind him.
You turned to Minho, heart racing. âNot cool, Minho. Seriously.â
Then you spun on your heel, rushing after Mingyu. You didnât hear Minho curse under his breath. You didnât see Chan try to stop him.
But you did feel the sudden tug on your wristâgentle but firm.
âMinhoâwhat the fuââ
You barely had time to turn before he opened the storage room door beside you and pulled you in. The door slammed shut behind you. Trapped in the dim, cramped space, your chest heaved. The air felt too tight, like the tension had squeezed all the oxygen out.
You stared at him. âAre you out of your damn mind?â
Minho stood across from you, chest rising and falling fast. His eyes searched yours like he was drowning.
âIâm sorry,â he said, voice hoarse. âI justâcouldnât watch you run after him.â
âWhy?â you demanded, your tone rising. âHeâs my friend now.â
His expression cracked, and something in his eyes darkened.
âYeah right, he constantly flirts with you!â he whispered, voice thick with jealousy. âGod, itâs killing me, Y/N.â
You blinked, surprised. But then it hit you. The nerve.
Your face twisted, your frustration bubbling to the surface, long overdue.
âWhy, Minho? Whatâs your problem, seriously?â
He flinched. You could see itâhow the sound of your anger shook him.
âYou didnât want this. You didnât want me,â you continued, your voice shaking now with hurt and rage. âYou felt uncomfortable when you thought I was flirting, so I backed off! I respected your boundaries. I let you go. Why wonât you let me be at peace?! Why do you keep pulling me back into this push-and-pull hell?â
Minho said nothing. His hands balled into fists at his sides, jaw tense, breathing ragged. But he didnât interrupt. Not once.
You laughed bitterly, eyes stinging. âI spent weeks feeling like I did something wrongâlike I imagined everything between us. I got over it, Minho. Iâm trying to move on. So why now? Why barge in and make a scene and embarrass me in front of everyone just because Iâm talking to someone else?â
Minho didnât answer right away. He just stepped forward. Slowly. Then he raised his hands and gently cupped your face. His thumbs brushed your cheeks with such care it broke something inside you. You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to melt into him and shove him away all at once.
He leaned in just enough that his forehead hovered against yours, and then he whispered, his voice breaking, âIâm an idiot.â
Your breath hitched.
âIâm an idiot,â he repeated. âAnd I deserve all of this. But Y/N... I love you.â
Your world tilted.
You blinked at him, heart pounding. âWhat?â
He pulled back just enough to look at you, really lookâhis eyes filled with raw, vulnerable honesty. âI love you. Iâve loved you for longer than I want to admit. And I got scared. I thought I didnât deserve you. So I said those things to push you away. But when I see someone else making you smile the way I used to... I canât take it. I wonât.â
You stood there frozen, tears threatening to spill. You werenât ready. You hadnât prepared for this. After all the silence, the confusion, the heartbreakâyou couldnât comprehend his words.
You didnât say anything, just kept staring at him, your breath uneven, heart pounding in your ears. Then you stepped back. Minhoâs hands dropped from your face instantly, like your skin had burned him.
âY/N,â he called softly, voice trembling now, uncertain.
But you shook your head and turned, walking past him and out of the storage room, out of that suffocating moment, out of that confusing spiral of everything youâd buried for weeks. You didnât run. You didnât cry. You just walked away.
Minho stood there, completely still.
The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence that followed was deafening.
He stared at the spot you had just been, a lump forming in his throat. His chest tightened like something was squeezing the air out of his lungs.
You didnât say anything. You walked away. Did he wait too long?
He brought a hand to the back of his neck, gripping it, trying to calm the sudden storm rising inside him. He kept thinking:Â
Maybe she doesnât feel the same anymore.
Maybe I pushed her too far.
Maybe this is the part where I lose her for good.
He pressed his lips together, trying to breathe, but everything felt like it was caving in. And worst of allâhe knew he had no one to blame but himself.