Mingi’s Best Gf

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a lot of graphic wet dreams it’s the whole plot, so much dirty talk bc i headcanon he’s a talker, daddy kink (sorry), but freak4freak like mingi’s technically dom but they’re both dirty freaky, pervy reader pervy mg, dry humping, so much praise, oral (f rec), vaginal fingering, size kink he’s big, big dick!mingi (he knows it), fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v including creampie

It starts off like any other dream. 

You’re lying on your bed, comfortably spread out with the same old pyjamas you had on when you fell asleep - a t-shirt stained with hair dye and shorts that have worn elastic, sagging down over your hips. The air’s a little dense at first when you try to move, like you’ve been doing some heavy lifting and your limbs haven’t quite started to work again, and it takes you a moment to come into yourself, fighting through the haze.

Immediately, it feels more real than your dreams normally would. Smoking weed before bed means that you don’t often get any dreams at all, really, and your two best friends-turned-housemates are loud enough at all points of the day that your sleep can be interrupted at regular intervals. However, you can feel the softness of your sheets, the lilac floral set you put on when you got home from class, and you rub your feet against it. It’s nice, comforting, and so normal that you quickly forget what it is - a dream.

A soft brush against your side, and you feel like a fish out of water. There’s someone here with you. On your bed. It’s rare for San and Wooyoung to sit there, and this person definitely isn’t either of them. 

It’s blurry initially, so hazy that you can’t quite focus on his face, but his long limbs are splayed across your bed like he’s been here a million times before. The touch was his fingers, and his hands are big too, dexterous and clad in bulky silver rings and drumming a beat you can’t recognise against your skin. It’s too comfortable, familiar in a way that feels almost too vulnerable - it’s almost like you’ve dreamed about this before.

He speaks, and you can’t make out what he’s saying. His voice is a deep, gravelly tone, making you feel like you’re drifting asleep all over again. With insane willpower you blink rapidly, forcing yourself to look at his face. 

You finally see him. He’s staring at you like you’ve done something silly, plump lips curled up with the hint of a smile, and his hair is messy and dark and cascading over his forehead. You can just about make out two beauty spots on his honey toned face. He’s not wearing much, not really, clad in a tank top and baggy, below knee shorts for ultimate comfort, lensless glasses sitting on a sharp nose. 

He blinks at you rapidly, scrunching his nose into a silly face to get your attention, lips forming a line, and all you can think is pretty, pretty, pretty. 

“Are you listening to me, baby?” He says again, and you hear him this time, loud and clear. Baby. It makes a chill run through your body. He’s your type - steady, cool, teasing and big and… he’s so handsome, soothing your skin with his fingertips as if he knows you, has known you for a while and-

“Mingi,” You croak, unable to help yourself. It’s Song Mingi from your economics class, that tall, cool kid who’s always late to class but still really fucking smart, gets amazing grades; unlike you. He dresses really nice, chic, lots of bulky rings and these big chains, like the one he’s wearing now. You think you’ve heard San and Wooyoung say they were friends before, and if you think harder it’s like you’ve seen him drive San home before, but have you ever really paid attention? 

Song Mingi from your economics class who is your mutual friend and also… your boyfriend? Right, yeah. That feels right. “Sorry, honey. What were you saying?”

“I was saying,” He sing-songs, but it’s raspy, like he smoked just before he came over. “It’s always nice being here with you. You’re beautiful, you know that? But it makes me…”

His eyes move to your lips. You think you know what he’s going to say, and maybe it’s a little cliche, straight out of a show you’ve seen, but the butterflies still flitter in your tummy. 

You rub your feet against the blanket again - it’s exciting, sue you. “Makes you what?” 

Mingi’s leaning in before he speaks again, shuffling across your blanket until his breath is tumbling across your face. He’s closer now, but it’s not intimidating, it’s exciting. If you focus you swear you can smell him, something like cedar and vanilla, sweet but enriching and you want more of it, now.

His hand moves to your hip, just barely dipping underneath your sleep shorts. Is he going to kiss you? Even better, is he going to touch you? Your mouth feels dry, and his hands are a little calloused on your skin. He goes to the gym, you remember through the fog. San goes with him sometimes - it’s from the weights. You feel dizzy, head spinning, inching even closer.

“It makes me want more,” he breathes tentatively, “I want to do more with you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll let you.” You blurt, and he smiles. He wriggles his way on top of you, your arms closing around those broad shoulders - he is big. While your cunt starts to slick up dumbly at the first sign of a big, strong man, he finally kisses you, a sweet peck to the corner of your lips before a deeper, proper one, tangling his tongue with yours, and it feels so fucking real. Letting out a keen, you squirm underneath him, managing to pull away from his lips to speak. “I’ll let you, please,” you whimper against his lips, messy, “more, Mingi-”

He groans in disbelief, kissing you sloppy again, again, again, finally moving his hand down, cupping your pussy through your sleep shorts and balancing on one forearm. His lips slide against yours a little messily but it’s still amazing, making you whimper when his tongue moves against yours, more than igniting that fire in your belly. You can feel the pressure of his fingertips against your core, sure that nothing’s ever felt like this in your life. “So pretty. You sound so fuckin’ pretty, baby, saying my name like that, shit-”

His fingers slide underneath your shorts, and of course you haven’t got panties on. He meets your pussy bare, slick and sensitive under his touch, and he starts to rock against your fucking leg before he can even get a finger in.

He feels big, from what you can make out, pressing into your thigh. Big, hard, and god - does he leak too? Is he getting so worked up that he can’t help but soak a pool in his boxers? You try to reach down to them, but he pins your hands back to the pillow with one big palm.

You can feel the cold metal of his rings biting against your hole when he adds a second finger. He finds your g-spot effortlessly, curling his long digits upwards, and tap tap taps until your eyes cross. 

“Like this,” He murmurs, cheeks flushing. His lips part and his eyebrows knit in admiration when he looks back to your face and sees the way your own expression can’t be controlled in your haze of lust, mouth falling open, letting out a wrecked whimper. “Can you cum like this? Drench your fucking shorts and let me suck ‘em clean after?”

He talks frantically, viciously almost, fucking into your pussy faster, trying to give you more stimulation. It’s filthy and you can’t believe it’s happening to you, hurtling into an orgasm that you know is going to be unsatisfying because he hasn’t even brushed your clit but fuck, you want to be good. Is he doing this deliberately? His spare hand cups your breasts, palm jiggling the flesh with a noise of disbelief.

“I can! F-fuck, I can,” You hiccup, and he pushes your thighs back, uses his thumb and finger of his other hand to pinch your clit in such a way that you think you might cry. It would normally be not enough but it’s the sight of him, the way he pants on top of you from just humping your leg and wants you to cum so badly - you’re done for. 

Digging your nails into his shoulders, you seize, crying out - and you wake up in a pool of your own sweat. 

Your pyjamas are sticking to you, shorts drenched between your legs and you’re not sure where you are. For a second you think you’re still high, or even still dreaming, but now this is definitely real. 

Alone in your room, your chest heaves as if you’ve run a marathon, and when you slide your feet against your blanket it doesn’t feel as good as it did before. What the fuck was that? You just had a sex dream about a guy that you’ve spoken to maybe twice, and it was so real. The surroundings of your room feel like an entirely different dimension, even though you were just there, with him, with his scent and his large presence, almost too overwhelming.

Are you going crazy? Are you smoking too much weed? Probably the latter, but that doesn’t change how that felt. You groan, rolling over to reach blindly for your phone. Knocking over a few things on your bedside table, you finally find it, and the time reassures you. 

7:02. Still two hours until class, two hours to sort yourself out. 

It would be great if it wasn’t a Wednesday. Your first class is economics, where you normally sit just a few seats over from the main character of your all consuming dream. Can you ignore him for the whole class? Shit, could you just skip it? Did it really matter?

No, you’re close to failing that stupid class already. It’s too complicated, it just doesn’t go into your brain. It would be hard to get a tutor when everything costs money, too, and you’re committed to spending a large part of your student loan on getting high and ordering pizza with Wooyoung and San.

With yet another loud groan, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and bring yourself to go to the bathroom to wash up. In the mirror, your hair is sticking multiple different directions and you have that recently fucked look, eyes half lidded, t-shirt hanging off of one shoulder. 

Is this rock bottom?

“What’s up with you today?”

Wooyoung’s gaze feels like the sharpest daggers shooting into your face. Considering you walked from your house together and managed to converse quite well until you got to class, you’re not really sure what you did wrong. You even complimented him on his bleached hair that he did himself at midnight because it really did look good. Despite that he still doesn’t look happy, plump lips pursed in a scowl and fingers tapping on the table.

He sits to your left, and only three seats to your right is his seat. He hasn’t shown up yet, he’s always late, but you already feel like the class is getting a little too hot. You’re determined to persevere, despite the fact that your jeans feel too tight and even though you’re wearing them, it still feels like your legs are sticking to the plastic chair. 

Clutching the signature banana milk you always get from the vending machine outside, you grumble - even the delicious taste isn’t helping.

“Nothing. Nothing’s up,” You mumble, licking sugary milk and banana flavouring from your lips, “Woo, should we just go?”

“Baby, you’re nearly failing,” He coos, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. You don’t know why he’s talking, because he hasn’t even got a bag with him, only a single sheet of paper from your notebook and one of your sparkly pens. Looking at the big clock on the wall, you sigh deeply - he’s going to be here soon - and your friend nudges you under the table with his knee. The movement jostles your milk and you scowl. “What’s the matter? Seriously.”

“I’ll tell you later, but it’s fucking stupid and you’ll laugh.”

Wooyoung seems satisfied with this, grinning and ruffling your hair, but it’s then through messy strands that you see him. Well, the professor walks in first, but Mingi trails in behind her as if he’s got all the time in the world, and you frantically smooth your hair down. 

His chains jingle with his movement, and his bag hangs off one shoulder. He looks confident, prepared, probably with books and his laptop in the bag. He’s smart, you know he is, he’s top of the class, probably going to have a really stable analytical job after college that you’d never be able to comprehend. Thinking about it makes you want to giggle like a schoolgirl, and you wish Wooyoung knew what was going on so he could slap you awake.

You drink your banana milk diligently.

The professor begins the lesson while Mingi’s walking to his seat, taking no notice of him as she arranges her things on the stand, and when he sits down you realise no one’s sat between you this time. Low attendance, you suppose, looking around the entire room to see that not many seats are filled at all. He doesn’t even look at you when he sits down and throws his bag to the floor. You’re not sure why you expect him to, but you take the time to analyse him fully.

He never dresses casually. Shrugging off his leather jacket and letting it drape over the chair, the cheap plastic creaks with his movement, and the light glints off the bulky silver rings adorning his long fingers. 

It’s suddenly getting really hot now, and your banana milk is doing nothing to cool you. Your eyes scan over his hands and up his arms to his chest. His black turtleneck is tight on firm muscles and such a contrast to his silver chains, so pleasing to your eye. Mingi’s dark hair drapes over his eyes, but you can still see them, chocolate brown and striking and narrowing at you. 

At you? You blink, and no, really, he is looking at you, and you’re not sure what to do. He doesn’t give you a chance, thankfully, because he gives you a small smile and a little wave and turns to listen to the lecture. 

Wooyoung practically chases you out of class by the end of it, even launching your carton in the bin for you. You manage to get him to a bench outside and once he’s situated, you clear your throat. He has his head in his hands, waiting, foot tapping against the floor. He’s never been good with patience; San always teases him about the time you told him you’d tell them something in class the next day and he didn’t sleep all night.

“I had a wet dream last night.”

Wooyoung groans loudly, kicking you in the shin. You squeal, falling onto the bench with an affronted stare, and he scowls at you. “Is that it? I probably have a wet dream every other night!”

“Woo, listen- listen to me. It was about Mingi. Your friend, Song Mingi. Be honest, is it over for me?”

His eyes light up. His face straightens, and then he leans forward, and you know you’re done before he even starts laughing, but the noise is still so loud that it makes your ears ring when he’s off. Multiple people in the quad turn towards you both, making you scowl at your housemate. He claps a few times in joy before he’s done.

“That’s- that’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, baby,” He giggles, hitting your shoulder playfully. “Have you spoken to him? At all? You never come to our friends’ parties. Not one, actually, now that I think about it.”

The birds in the campus trees tweet a rhythm mockingly. Your eye twitches. Wooyoung’s lips curl again.

“Maybe once or twice, in passing,” You frown, voice soft and timid, “Woo, it’s not my fault. We don’t choose our dreams, it’s your subconscious or something. Y’know scientists have literally said that?”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about, do you?” He’s still smiling, and you shake your head. He’s right, you don’t, but you’re still sure you read that somewhere. “I guess you’re right though. Maybe- oh my god, maybe you do have a crush on him or something, a repressed one, and now it’s coming to the surface because it’s time. Like fate or something.”

You hum, thinking, deciding that Wooyoung’s insane. “Still, it felt real. Like, insanely real, Woo. It was better than anything I’ve had in person, and now I feel like I’m seeing him differently.”

Wooyoung raises his eyebrows, but still rubs your knee comfortingly. You’re thankful that he’s still being nice despite finding it very amusing. “It’s just a dream anyway. I don’t think you have to worry about it that much, baby, you’ll forget about him in a few days. I’ve had dreams that have given me crushes before too.”

“What if I don’t? You don’t get how intense it was.”

“Well, then we can talk to him,” He nods confidently, nudging you. “I can put a good word in, get you your dream boyfriend-”

“That is literally the worst idea you’ve ever had,” You deadpan, shaking your head, “I have a solid two friends for a reason, I’m not a people person, I am just trying to get through college with zero problems. And he’s- Woo, he’s… cool. Like you two. I don’t get cool guys.”

“You got us, didn’t you?” He pulls you into his side, kissing your forehead, then adds, “and we love you. You’re our best friend,” It comforts you enough to quell your insecurities for a moment. He checks the time on his phone and whoops triumphantly, “let’s go home. San will be back from the gym and we can smoke and order food. My treat. Oh also, can I tell him?”

“... I don’t think I have a choice.”

“No, you don’t. There's three of us in this relationship.”

Despite the fact that you fall asleep in some form of a puppy pile with Wooyoung and San in the latter’s bed, it happens again. 

This time, you’re on the sofa in your living room. Mingi’s positioned underneath you, in a black compression shirt and grey sweatpants like an anime character you’d fantasise over, and you’re on his lap. 

What are these fantasies? 

Has your brain taken note of outfits he’s worn before?

You know it’s him from the size of his body and the way it feels, intense and all consuming, although you haven’t managed to see everything yet, still fuzzy at the edges with sleep. The sweat drips down your collarbone already, and he seems just as wrecked from the squirming he’s doing, moving upwards into your body while he pulls you down against him by your hips. His hands move up your oversized t-shirt, settling on your flushed skin.

“Feels so fuckin’ g-good,” He huffs, “even just- just like this,”

His deep voice makes your head spin, and when you see his face it feels like a relief. His cheeks are flushed, lips kiss bitten, and you place another few pecks on his lips for good measure. He’s yours, after all, your boyfriend. “Is your little hole wet? Can you feel it, b-baby, drenching these cute little panties?” He whines, nosing into the crook of your neck, licking over the skin, “Is it begging for me? F-fuck, talk to me, please.”

He babbles incoherently but you can make out that it’s filthy, and you can’t fucking believe it. Is he like this, really? Your hips grind down against him sharply, needing more, because he’s right. Panties drenched, too delirious to even think about it, your hands scramble against his shoulders. You can see everything in that t-shirt, the way his biceps bulge against the fabric and the way his chest clenches as he ruts himself against you, nipples poking through, tempting. He’s got that expression again - eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, but this time he’s looking directly down at where you’re connected, bottom lip slick with spit. The pressure of his cock against your core in his sweatpants is so much, and you can’t help it, eyes rolling back to your head.

“Want you, want you so bad,” You pant. It feels like the most honest thing you’ve ever said. He nods, thrusting harder. He wants more, wants you to say more, his hands pulling you down against him. It’s a dirty rhythm, a sinuous grind. “I want it so fucking bad, Mingi, you don’t even-“ you buck, whining, “-don’t even know how bad, please, please-”

“Yeah? Did you touch your little clit thinking about me?” He pushes you upwards, still letting you move against him but slipping his hand underneath his waistband to rub over his cockhead. He’s desperate too, teeth biting into his lower lip. He wants it just as bad. You feel wet, and you look down to see you’ve leaked right through your panties onto his sweatpants. Have you ever been this fucking wet before? “Did you think about my cock stretching you open, ruining you until you can’t even remember your own- own fucking name?”

“I d-did, fuck,” You can’t move, eyes fixated on where his hands move under the wet fabric. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, please show me, I’ll do anything, please.”

His hand pauses, and your gaze flits back up to his face. His eyes narrow at you, just like they did in class, and his teeth have released his lower lip so that he can smirk at you, teeth white as snow. It’s promising, but it’s like a threat, and your hands feel a little sweaty against his broad shoulders. 

“Really, pretty thing?” His voice is hopeful, and his other hand begins to move his waistband down. You see the beginnings of his dark smattering of pubic hair and almost shaking, you whimper, nodding eagerly. “You’ll do anything for me?”

“Anything, I promise, please, fuck.”

Your eyes shoot open on a particularly loud snore from San. His leg and his arm are both slung over you, head resting on your shoulder with a steady stream of drool pooling on your t-shirt. When you glance at him, he sniffles out a snore, nose scrunching up and thick eyebrows knitting together. He’s lucky you love him. 

Once you’ve spluttered yourself awake enough, the warm light of the desk lamp bathing the room catches your attention, and you see Wooyoung sitting on the chair by San’s desk. He’s eating something, and the smell of bacon is the next thing that you register, slowly unwrapping yourself from the older man to crawl towards the younger at the desk. 

He’s already clocked you, a smile pulling at his lips as he loads the fork. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You snatch the fork from his fingers, munching before you can even talk. Eggs and bacon, and you wonder who Wooyoung learned to cook from. You make a mental note to ask, because it’s delicious. After you swallow, you mumble, “time?”

“Nine in the morning,” Relaxed as ever, he stretches out on the chair with an overpronounced yawn. He’s still scrutinising you, and you know for sure that you haven’t gotten away with it. “Two nights in a row, huh?”

“How’d you know?” You raise an eyebrow. Wooyoung looks pleased with himself and takes the fork back from you, continuing to eat his meal. Is it your hair? Were you… God, were you making noise?! He still hasn’t said anything! “Oh my fucking- Wooyoung?!”

“All I’m saying is I’m surprised Sannie didn’t wake up with all that squirming,” He finally responds, and the mentioned man grunts in his sleep at being mentioned, always alert, but goes back to snoring almost immediately after. “Don’t worry, it was cute. I think you do have a crush. Subconsciously and all that.”

“I hate you,” You grumble, and he sighs, patting his lap. You still climb onto him, and he hums until you start to doze, stroking your hair in rhythm to San’s snores. It would make you laugh if you weren’t nearly falling asleep again, but every time your eyes flutter shut you see big hands and a sharp nose and those beautiful dark eyes. Sighing, you stretch your legs out to wake yourself back up, “Wooyoungie, I think I’m going crazy. I don’t even know the guy.”

“It’s okay,” He coos, and you can hear how amused he is. Still, he entertains it. “He’s kind, very loyal. Smart, as you know. Sometimes he’s a little unsettling, but it’s endearing, in a way. A little like you.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Well, I love you both dearly, if that counts for anything.”

Still, this doesn’t solve your problem, “Wooyoung, what do I do?”

“I think it’ll surprise you how easy this is going to be.”

It is a surprise to find yourself done up in a cute dress at a party not ten hours later, San and Wooyoung on each arm. You knew they knew people, sure, but they’d been such good friends to you that they’d sworn to be by your side through college, so you’d never bothered to ask to be introduced to their other friends. 

From what you can gather, they’re not frat boys but normal college students, too - Wooyoung told you that the two guys that live here are some of their good friends, and that makes you feel a bit better about arriving uninvited. It’s quaint but well decorated, with music memorabilia on the walls, but you don’t get a chance to take it all in because the house is absolutely packed. 

San waves and hugs a few people as he walks through, and you see Wooyoung smiling at a group of people that you think must be in his dance classes, because they look as cool and sculpted as him. Still, they pull you through the throes of people into the kitchen, tipsy and stoned and honestly, a content smile on Wooyoung’s face that he finally got you in this position.

You’re not even sure who’s party this is, but the boys help themselves to drinks and San keeps a comforting hand on your lower back, leaning in close so that you can hear him while your other friend pours you a drink. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Sannie, I have been to parties before, I’m not a total shrew,” You tease. He pulls you into a sort of half-hug and you smell him, something earthy with a hint of jasmine, comfortable and grounding, familiar. Different to… you’re trying not to think about that.

The younger man hands you both the finished drinks, a concoction of something purple, and well, liquid confidence you suppose. You knock half of it down before you can think. He seems satisfied with this, but you hiss at the aftertaste, sticking your tongue out. “I’m definitely a smoker, not a drinker. This is fucking nasty. You guys drink this stuff all the time?”

“He does, I kinda hate it too,” San huffs, swirling his cup in his hand and watching the liquid move. 

Wooyoung scoffs, “that and you can’t handle your drink. You pass out after a few.”

San’s already flushed, but you swear he gets redder, shooting Wooyoung a dirty look with a too-cute pout before turning back to you. “Refresh me on the situation again by the way. You had a dream about Mingi? Song Mingi?”

Right, Wooyoung had caught him up over the course of the day while you napped and attempted to study. You lick your lips, trying to somehow clean yourself of the drink’s bitter aftertaste but only getting a mouthful of sticky lipgloss. 

“Two dreams,” Wooyoung corrects, pointing at San, smiling so wide you can see his teeth in the dim light of the kitchen. They’re practically shouting over the music, and you want to tell them to be quiet but you are in a quieter area.  No one can hear you, you hope, groups having filtered into the back garden, bedrooms and the living room. “And I think she liked him before. Fate, science - look, you had to be there. Anyway, we should go talk to him.”

“Wooyoung, I do not know this man.”

“We know him,” San smiles. He’s too easy. “Hey, this is cute! Is this your first crush? He’s a good guy.”

You swat him away when he tries to pinch your cheeks. “Not my first crush or my first party. You have literally met some of my exes. I also don’t think this is a good idea.”

“First, all of your exes were assholes so I didn’t like them and therefore they don’t exist. Second, you have to think it’s a somewhat good idea because you did come - to the party, I mean,” Wooyoung grabs your hand, pulling you to the back door. “I think they’ll probably be out here.”

Wooyoung’s right, about both things. All of your exes were assholes, men that only cared about getting their dick wet and their own feelings and not at all about yours. You’ve always thought it would be nice to have a man who takes notice of the things you like, the way you feel; the longer life dwindles on it seems to become less attainable. 

He’s also right that you came to this party with the idea that your friends were setting you up. You don’t expect them to be subtle about it though - a fact that daunts on you as they lead you through the kitchen.

As soon as the back door opens, you’re hit with the sight of what seems to be a much cooler, more private party. The smell of weed and the sound of softer, less overwhelming music are the first things you can process and yeah, okay, this might be more your type of scene. There’s a cute, shorter guy wearing flared jeans and a shiny tiara, chatting with a group of people enthusiastically; surely it must be his party. 

You’re pulled over to a section of outdoor seating where there’s a few people sitting down. There’s a small fire going, contained in a silver pit, and the warmth is welcomed on your skin, cold from the outside air biting at your skin in the cute dress you’re wearing. Really, you don’t clock him at first, but Wooyoung and San are eager to take you over to that area and there can only be one reason why.

“Yunho!” Wooyoung’s way too chipper, but Yunho falls for it, springing up from one of the chairs to wrap his arms around the shorter male. San’s hugging someone too, and from the corner of your eye you see it’s fucking Mingi, and you’ve never felt so betrayed in your life. 

“Fancy seeing you here, huh?” San says, way too exaggerated, and you hover in confusion as he continues, “we finally brought our cute friend, look.”

Cute friend? Suddenly all of the attention is on you. Yunho and Mingi are both peering at you, and Mingi is - he has to be assessing you, eyes scanning your frame. You can’t see them properly due to the sunglasses. Does he recognise you? You’ve only spoken once or twice before, in passing. He probably doesn’t even know your name. 

Yunho seems to know who you are, grinning from ear to ear and pulling you into a hug before you can even introduce yourself. You can’t help but laugh, throwing your arms around him while avoiding spilling your purple drink on his white satin shirt.

“It’s so good to meet you!” He shakes you happily. Mingi still hasn’t said anything, but he’s clutching a bottle of jagermeister and a cup with a different drink, looking at you as if he’s waiting for the moment. You try not to be uncool right in front of his eyes, smiling at Yunho politely. “Wooyoungie kept talking about you, all nice things, I promise. You have some good friends here.”

“I can’t really get rid of them, kinda like the plague,” You smile, and you’re glad Yunho detects your sarcasm and lets out a loud laugh, a bit too loud to be normal. He ushers you all to sit down, and when everyone’s situated the only available spot left is next to Mingi. 

How convenient. 

In your peripheral vision, you can see your best friends have already roped Yunho into a conversation, leaving the subject of your fantasies free and still fucking looking at you. 

Hesitantly, you sit down. The fire is nice you suppose, warming up your legs quite quickly, and you keep your knees firmly planted together and far away from him. The other three chatter away, preoccupied in such an intentional way that it makes your blood boil. It’s time to consider rooting through your bag in a way that looks like you’re doing something.

He says your name, and it feels like time stops. He’s speaking to you. This is the worst possible situation, how are you even meant to talk to him? Slowly, you turn to look at him. He’s in a black zip up jacket, bottle of Jagermeister in hand, sunglasses pushed down to the end of his nose. Those chains glint in the light again, and he leans forward, saying your name again, pushing the sunglasses onto his head. They push his hair back in the most delicious way that you shiver. No. Not right now. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re in my economics class too, right? You sit with Wooyoung.”

He knows you. “R-right,” You blurt, smiling nervously. “I am. Mingi, right?”

“You sit just a few seats over from me, with Wooyoung. I wanted to say hi to you, but to be honest, I never knew how,” He scratches the back of his neck. He’s cute, a little shy despite how big and scary he looks. Just like Wooyoung said. It feels like that makes it all even worse - he really is a dream, delightful traits rolled all into one. “It’s good to all get together though, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before.”

“Oh, no. I don’t really get out much, to be honest. I’m a homebird,” You say, and cringe inside. What the fuck are you saying? You need to be cool. 

But Mingi only smiles, letting out an ‘ah’. “Me too, to be honest. I’m an anime in bed guy, but I live here, so I have to leave my room. It’s really sad.”

Not only is he actually so easy to talk to, but he reassured you quickly - he’s the same. Wooyoung was right again.

He lives here, though, which means… Wooyoung and San brought you to a party at Mingi’s house? This is some sort of next level interfering that you never even considered, but you have to act normal, so you clear your throat.

“You live with that guy wearing the tiara, then?”

“His name is Hongjoong,” Mingi laughs. “You don’t know who’s house you’re at?”

Fiddling with the clasp of your bag, you look down at your lap. “I told you, I don’t normally go to parties. I got dragged to this.” White lie. 

“It’s fine, I’m only kidding. Anyway, you know me,” He grins playfully. You flush, suddenly too warm from the fire, a little too awkward but also with such deep desperation in your belly. His zip-up slips from his shoulder and you see a bit of tanned skin that makes you inhale. “So you drink. You smoke too?”

You laugh. “Oh yeah, I smoke.”

Mingi’s eyes narrow at you again, perceiving you. Is he impressed? Flustered? He’s still smiling, like he knows something about you, but you’re not sure what. 

The conversation is interrupted by Yunho, who’s pulling a bong out from by the side of the table with a loud cheer. Wooyoung’s already dragging the bong from his lap. San has fallen asleep next to him, cheeks flushed and shoulders slouched over. Wooyoung doesn’t take any notice, giggling as he readies the pipe. He spills some weed on his lap but doesn’t look bothered. 

You point at San. “Is he okay?”

Everyone chimes in at once - “He does this”.

Mingi leans closer to you, and you manage not to tense up when he speaks easily, “What are you drinking?”

You motion at the plastic cup of Purple Concoction on the floor, and he sucks his teeth, shaking his head. While the others carry on, Mingi leans down and you immediately seize up.

“I’m not drinking jager,” you panic, “that’s way too-“

He chuckles and hands you his plastic cup, with a liquid not dissimilar in appearance to coke, and you want to laugh in his face. 

Is this like… inadvertently sharing spit? 

Reaching for the cup, you take a sip of the drink, and he watches you, waiting for your reaction.

It’s surprisingly nice. A lot better than whatever the fuck the guys gave you in the kitchen, and definitely not jager. It’s some sort of rum with coke and you hum at the taste, handing the cup back to him. He’s still watching you, keeping eye contact as you swallow the liquid down. 

When he lets you get this close, you notice the two beauty spots on his face from your dream, one by his eye and one on his cheek, and it makes your heart soar. He’s so cute, despite the way he dresses, rough and raw on the exterior and kind and gentle inside.

“Much better, right?” 

“Much better,” You agree. For a second, the ugly, rearing insecurity appears in your head again - what are you doing? He’s so out of your league. 

Before it can fester, Mingi clicks his tongue, taking a sip himself. “See, you should stick with me tonight,” he leans back, then smiles, “I’ve got the good stuff, and I’m cooler than San. He’s fallen asleep already.”

Stick with him tonight. Just as you think there might be something there, a little flickering of intrigue in his eyes as well as yours, the guy with the flared jeans rushes over out of nowhere.

“Mingi-ah, I’m so sorry, but someone’s throwing up in the living room and I need your help.”

The gentle voice brings you both out of your trance, and he immediately spins his head to the other man. Hongjoong, you think you remember him saying. Mingi all but rolls his eyes - does he look disappointed? - but swings his legs over the edge of the seat, leaving you with the nice tasting drink.

“Sorry, I better go,” He says, and Hongjoong gives him a look full of something that you can’t work out. Mingi looks awkward, eyebrows raising in expectation for you to say something, so you nod politely and he shoots you a grin. You think you’ll replay that grin forever, late at night when you’re trying to remember all of the angles of his face. “I’ll see you in class, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, licking over your lips. “it was really nice talking to you, Mingi.”

He shoots you a smile that looks a little too upset, but he’s off then, housemate in tow; Wooyoung wordlessly passes you the bong, eyes pink and limbs stretched over the sleeping San. It’s hard not to go over the events with the sudden silence and your clammy fingers wrap around the cup he left you, taking another gulp of the alcohol as it pops into your head.

Apologetic.

Hongjoong looked apologetic that he was interrupting you both, and you want to tell your friends and deepen that and make it more than it is; but you’re reminded that in reality, you’re just another girl Mingi was talking to at a party.

It’s been a couple days with no dreams now, which feels good, because you only saw him in passing again during the party. You have thought about him, in fleeting thoughts where you’ve gone over the events of the party, but it’s good not to let it linger. Just two dreams, that’s all it was, and you sit in economics class the following Wednesday with a relatively clear head and a nice skirt on, determined that you definitely do not have a crush.

Additionally, another decision - you will not fail this class. Two simple resolutions; last week was just a minor setback.

He walks in, and sits in his seat, and there’s actually people sitting between you this time. This is reassuring because you can’t focus on how his thighs fit in those jeans, or how nice his hands look when he types, or how his hair falls over his forehead in such a mysterious way-

No. You stare at your notes, flicking over the pages. It’s good to refresh before the professor starts, you think, and you really think it works when she begins her lesson and does a brief recap… before she starts talking about a test a few weeks after break. Huh?

“Since it’s the last week before fall break, I thought I’d give some of you a chance to study and get your grades up,” She explains, and you think you see her glance towards you and Wooyoung. Everyone groans, and she tuts, laughing. “This test isn’t that hard, I’m being really nice to you guys!”

You zone out again. Now you’re going to have to do a stupid test on something you don’t care about, and you’re either going to let yourself down or just not show up to do it at all, to be honest. You sigh and huff and puff, scribbling a doodle on your page.

To everyone, you included, the bell ringing after the rest of the boring lesson is a welcome sound. You huff when you put your books into your bag, you huff when you sling your bag over your shoulder, and you’re still huffing at Wooyoung as you both walk out of the door. 

That is, until a firm hand stops your path and a very clear, deep voice says your name.

Looking up, you see Mingi, lensless glasses on his nose again and that little shy smile on his lips, and the last few days of progression are forgotten. 

How could you ever forget how pretty he is? Love songs start playing in your head, intricate violins and piano, and it’s jarring how nervous you feel all of a sudden, uncertain of yourself. He’s so beautiful and he dresses well and he’s smart and kind and easygoing, but you still have that looming feeling of it’s never gonna happen, hopping from foot to foot in your boots.

Wooyoung keeps walking, pretending to be occupied on his phone, and you realise you’re staring at Mingi and not saying anything. “Mingi. Hi!”

“Hi, it’s good to see you again,” He seems a little flustered himself, fingers pulling at the collar of his t-shirt and you can’t help but smile. He’s so endearing. “How have you been since the party?”

“Good,” You shrug easily, like it hasn’t been destroying your nerves for the past few days, “I’ve been good. I- you’re good too, I hope?”

Inwardly cringing, you flush, but Mingi seems to find it amusing, lips curling up. “I’m great. Hey, listen, couldn’t help but overhear you’re not doing too well in economics, and well, I’m not too bad at it myself,” he snaps his fingers, and your eyes widen. No. “I can study with you for the test, if you want.”

“Is that a good idea?” You’re straight to the point, and Mingi offers a pout, confused, and you want to cry. “I mean, Mingi, I would just take up your time-”

“I want to study with you,” He seems to straighten up then, and you remember how big he is, towering over you. “No offence, but I know you’re not doing too well, and I want to help you,” He seems determined, and you can’t work out why, but he continues, “We could bump your grade up a little if you do well on the test.”

You let out a strangled noise, tapping your foot. “… Fine.”

“I- I could come to yours later on today? If you’re free, that is.”

You stare. That’s the second worst fucking idea you’ve ever heard, next to Wooyoung’s that got you talking to this tall, beautiful man in the first place. Why not the library? But you’re going to have to, aren’t you, because you can’t deny that face anything, and what other choice have you got? 

The idea of being in close proximity to him like that and being able to trace every single line and dot on his face with your eyes is anxiety and arousal inducing and he’s staring at you hopefully, waiting for an answer-

“Mingi, I’m bad at this class,” You blurt. He only tilts his head in question. “I could bring your grade down, distract you so badly by asking so many questions that you end up at the bottom just like me.”

He’s quick to respond, as if he can’t miss this opportunity. “That’s a bit extreme,” he breathes out a laugh, “very unlikely. Anyway, call it helping a friend out.”

A friend. Of course.

“Right, well…” You rub the back of your neck. 

It would be stupid to pass this up. If studying with him could really help your grade, and stop you retaking this dumb class, you’re sure you can reign in the horny demons inside of you for a few nights a week. You look down at the floor, but get caught at his legs. 

In the rips of his black jeans, you see a slither of muscled thigh. Your eye twitches.

Shit, can you reign it in? Fuck, you’re gonna have to. “Okay. I’ll work really hard. I’ll be a really good study partner, like, the best.”

“I know you’ll be good,” He grins, and god, did he mean the way that came out? He’s already pushing his phone into your hands for you to put your number in, and you send an emoji to yourself so that you have his too. “Cool. I’ll text you, let you know when I’m on my way.”

By the time he’s walked away, somehow Wooyoung is right behind you again, giggling in your ear about fate. 

But that’s how you find yourself in your room not five hours later, unfortunately not high and staring at Mingi, sitting contently in front of you. San and Wooyoung had greeted him in the hallway, mumbling too quietly for you to hear - to your dismay - and now you’re in your room. Your plushies and girly things would be embarrassing if he didn’t immediately pick up a fuzzy teddy bear and place it on his lap, cooing and pulling softly at his droopy ear. 

He’s so cute, and the more you think about it the more it’s got you scowling in your loungewear. A matching set, in the hopes that he’d think you look nice.

He’s talking about something, you think, but god you feel like you’re in those dreams you have again with how he’s on your bed and you’re dizzy with it - except you’re not. It’s real, he’s there, perched on your mattress next to you in a zip-up jacket and joggers for comfort with textbooks set beside his lap. He kicked off his shoes in your hallway, and he’s in a spare pair of San’s slippers, two sizes too small. 

You focus back in when he waves his fingers in front of your face teasingly, and all you can do is mumble sorry there’s no desk in my room.

“What? That’s fine, it’s better to be comfortable anyway,” He laughs, finally placing the teddy bear back in its spot. He pats his head. You want to scream. “Do you have any idea what you want to start with? We can keep it pretty basic at first and work our way up. She said the test won’t be too bad - if you actually listen to me, you’ll be fine.”

It’s said pointedly, with a little grin like he knows you’re not going to listen.

“Cool, cool,” You smile with way more confidence than you feel. Your entire body hums like a live wire at the proximity. “So I’ll be top of the class when the grades come out, right?”

He narrows his eyes at you playfully, grabbing a textbook from the pile. “Relax. I’m top of the class.”

Oh.

You stare at him, smirking like you’re not the slightest bit affected, even though you really are. He often rides on the line between confident and cocky, like he’s daring you to call him out. Like he knows something you don’t, always one step ahead.

Scooting a little closer, you scoff, accepting the challenge. You can play ball. “Top of the class doesn’t mean you’re good at tutoring. What if you can’t make me any better?”

Mingi glances up at you, playfulness in his eyes, that slow smile forming like it has all the time in the world. His jaw clicks when he speaks, “You’re being cheeky, y’know that? I guess I’ll have to show you what I can do.”

“That-?” You swat him, and he catches your wrist easily, making you gasp and pull back sharply. Heat crawls up your neck. “Let’s- okay, let’s just start.”

He chuckles, low and easy, satisfied at how flustered you’ve gotten. You wonder for a moment if he can feel it between you too, but he leans closer, resting his elbow on his knee as he opens the textbook between the two of you. There’s a decent amount of distance, but you swear you can feel the heat radiating from his thighs - you have to squeeze yours together to calm down. Not now. 

“You’re already not paying attention, are you?”

It’s hard to because he smells like warm cologne and something familiar, vanilla and cedar and you’ve smelled this before, you swear, in your dreams. His leg brushes yours like it’s no big deal, like you’re not looking at how much bigger than you he is, like he doesn’t notice how you shiver every time he gets this close. Does he?

He taps a paragraph on the page, saying something about how this part is important, and we should go over this too, but his voice is softer now, almost tender. “You’re not even looking at the book. What’s up? Have you really just got a mental block for this?”

No, you’re just too attractive and it’s overwhelming. “Yup, think so,” you exhale, rubbing your sweaty palms on your leggings, “hey, what if we smoke before we study? I think I might focus better.”

Mingi seems to consider it. He scratches a nail down the page in thought - you notice he’s got some letters painted on his nails, and you want to ask. Eventually he shrugs, shutting the book and throwing it to the side. Your jaw drops that he gave up that easily, but he’s rummaging through his bag all of a sudden with ring-clad hands before he pulls out a little plastic bag. 

“I planned for this.”

It’s your turn to grin. 

“I mean, if you insist,” You tease, nudging him with your foot, and Mingi chuckles, low and sexy. The thought pops into your head again - you and him. It’s so easy, bantering back and forth, the nerves only electrifying you more. You remind yourself very quickly that this is nothing more than a study session, or preparing for one at least. 

Passing him the rolling tray from your bedside table, because you’d be damned if you were rolling with his stuff, you settle back on your pillows leisurely. He immediately begins to roll, pulling papers out of his zip-up pocket, and you want to ask him things rather than stare at his hands. Get to know him. Sue you, he’s pretty. “What do you major in?”

“Music production. So does Hongjoong, that’s how we know each other,” He answers easily, and you’re shocked initially, but actually… It makes sense. He’s relaxed and sometimes shy, but he can ride the line between confident and cocky - like he has two personas, the Mingi you see and the Mingi you actually get. It’s fun. “What about you?”

“English, believe it or not,” You say, and Mingi hums. “So you make music?”

He licks the paper, sealing the joint. “I’m not surprised. You seem smart like that,” He seems confused on where to smoke it, but you pass him an ashtray and he throws you a thumbs up as he lights it, inhaling deep and filling your room with the funky-smelling smoke, “but yeah, I make music. I’m a rapper.”

A rapper? So he’s good with his tongue. You shiver, “Right.”

“Oh, do you? Write, I mean?” He smiles at his own joke, eyes already half lidded and a little pink, handing you the joint; you’ll never admit you giggled at it too.

You take a few diligent tokes, ashing in the tray when necessary. “I do, sometimes, but I don’t get much free time anymore.”

“Mm, I bet,” You’re already a little giggly, and you hand the joint back with a warm feeling on your cheeks and limbs feeling a little slower, less in control. “I could… maybe show you a song I made. Only if you show me something you wrote. That would be cool, I think.”

You can’t believe you’re in here smoking with him, and he’s telling you things about himself, too. You can build on this. 

No - you’re getting ahead of yourself again.

“I’d be down,” You smile softly. He hands you the joint again, another quarter smoked, his lips now with a permanent curve of bliss. He’s high, and he looks so pretty when he’s high, fixing his dark shaggy hair with long, ring clad fingers. He lays on his side in front of you, grabbing your teddy bear to hold at his chest while he leans on his hand, comfortable. There’s one burning question in your mind as you examine him, his zip-up slipping off his shoulder, “honestly, I’m surprised you don’t major in fashion. You dress really cool.”

That slow, lazy smirk forms again, ear to ear. You almost choke as you inhale, but you manage to keep it in. “You think I dress cool?”

You shrug, suddenly aware of how hot it is in your room. “I mean… yeah.”

“Thanks,” He says, then adds, almost too casually, “I think you’re really pretty.”

It lands harder than he expected. Your breath stutters, and he licks his lips, eyes widening like he thinks he’s gone too far. “Is that-“ he hesitates, “-okay? Can I say that?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah, you- yeah, you can say that.”

Now it’s his turn to look nervous, teeth worrying at his lip but this time like he’s trying not to smile too wide. He thinks you’re pretty? Really pretty? The compliment loops around in your head. You hand him the joint back, meaning to follow it up with a question but he simply puts it out in your ashtray, the finality causing you to pause. 

He moves into a sitting position with a quiet sigh, and rifles through his bag a little. Just as you’re about to speak, he pulls out his laptop - the screensaver is one of him, Hongjoong and Yunho from a holiday, you judge by the background of the shot, but he clicks away and types his password in too fast for you to examine it fully.

“Anyway,” He says, too deliberately normal, clicking on a file, “I’ve got some material from the professor. It should help clear things up.”

Just like that, he moves on like the compliment was nothing, like it didn’t linger between you. You assume you should too. 

Friends compliment each other, right? He’s already pulling the file up, dexterous fingers quick and practiced clicking on the pages he needs and your head spins pleasantly from the weed, rubbing your clammy hands on your legs again.

A few clicks of his cursor, and he motions you closer, utterly unaware of how intoxicating he smells this close - you’re pooling in your panties again. Your knees touch and this time it sends a shock through you, but you catch the gasp in your throat before it leaves. 

“Alright,” he says softly, voice deep, “take a look at this…”

Focusing on anything else feels impossible, but you push through it, determined - for him.

It’s only gotten worse.

Rather than the dreams just being sexual, now they’re something more homely and serious than your heart can handle. You’ve had no more study sessions, although you’re due one today, and you’ve had these godforsaken dreams almost every night. 

Mingi cooking you dinner in your kitchen, smelling of oil and something delicious. Mingi holding your hand, safe and sure, as you walk through the city at night. Restaurants with Mingi, him pouring you another glass of wine and giggling when your nose scrunches up at the taste.

It’s getting domestic rather than primal, and you’re not sure how to deal with it. It’s made you want him more, while the times you actually see him only remind you that he doesn’t see you like that. At least, not in real life.

To make matters worse, Mingi insisted you continue your study sessions - along with now sending you some motivational GIFs over text during the week to make sure you’re on top form, like that was meant to help your sick little crush - and now you find yourself sitting waiting for him in the library, heart already fluttering something stupid.

A carton of banana milk slides across the desk. 

You squeak and barely manage to catch it before it tips over, glad that the campus library is pretty much empty due to fall break and you can make however much noise as you like. The librarian would typically tell you off for saying one word, but she’s got her own nose in an old, weathered book, her eyes fluttering shut from sleep.

A big body drops into the seat across from yours, the weight of him making the table feel smaller. Mingi looks entirely too pleased with himself, nodding pointedly at the carton.

“That’s it, right?” He snaps his fingers, “that’s the one you like.”

You stare. It's the same exact one you get from the vending machine in the building where your economics class is every week, but given that you’re now on break you haven’t had a reason to go there. It had been hard, trying to do any form of studying without your banana milk, but… how could Mingi have noticed that you get this one? 

“How…” You shake your head. “How did you know?”

His eyebrow raises, looking confused, opening his laptop. 

“I always see you with one,” He says, as if it explains everything. Your gut clenches, and you feel something tingle in between your legs too, like all it takes is a carton of milk, making you feel nothing but desperate - it’s more than that, though. He noticed. 

A few clicks, and then he digs in his bag again, setting a carton of strawberry milk down for himself and a set of papers next to you both. Your heart flutters. “I brought worksheets too. I know, not really fun, but at least I can see what you know since you know… we weren’t exactly productive last time,” he tuts at you playfully, “bad influence.”

You gasp dramatically. “Excuse you. We studied after, and it was your weed.”

He nudges your ankle softly with his shoe. “And I brought you a banana milk,” he slides the papers over, “now do the sheets for me, you’re wasting time again.”

For him, you’d do anything. Your pencil scribbles across the paper as you write your name with a heart next to it, as if you’re not his only student. Mingi doesn’t notice - he takes the time to do something on his laptop. You wonder what, because he pulls his headphones over his head and starts working dutifully. It’s hard not to simply watch him at work and ignore what he asked you to do; he clocks in so quickly, eyes narrowing at the screen and lips mouthing words you can’t decipher. He’s comfortable in baggy jeans and a hoodie, chains and rings catching your attention but he looks amazing, like everything he wears is straight from a fashion show.

Shaking your head, you turn to the paper - but you read a total of one question before realising that you really have no idea what the fuck is going on in this class.

“Mingi,” You say finally, tapping your pencil on the page, “I need help.”

To your surprise, he pulls his headphones off his dark hair quickly and leans over to you, eyes flickering to your sheet. It takes everything in you not to kiss him then and there. 

“… That’s the first question,” He looks at you, taking in your blank expression, then exhales a laugh. “Okay, I’ve seen you in every class - do you just not focus at all?”

Flailing your limbs around dramatically, you groan, “it’s boring as hell. The lecturer is also boring as hell.”

He snorts, but instead of teasing you more like you expect him to, he pulls his chair around properly, close enough that your knees touch. A shiver wracks through your spine. 

“Alright,” he says gently, voice calmer, more soothing, “forget how she explained it. I’ll do it my way.”

He takes your pencil, fingers brushing against yours, sketching quick boxes and arrows across the page. 

“Okay,” he begins, “economics is just people making decisions but with maths.”

You blink. “I don’t think that’s correct.”

He grins, sharp nose scrunching, clearly pleased that you’re actually interested for once. “No, seriously. It’s people making choices because they want something and don’t have enough money or time for it. All we have to do is sound smart when we talk about it.”

He sketches two simple lines with your pencil, next to the questions on the sheet, a curve sloping upwards and another sloping down right next to it. You recognize it immediately, which makes you a little proud.

“Supply and demand,” You mumble, pointing at the page. His eyes brighten.

“See? You do know things,” He says softly, like it’s a secret. His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer, and you remember the party, how close he was then, and you forget everything you’ve ever learned. Fuck.

“So this,” He taps the downward curve, your cat-shaped eraser bobbing comically on the edge of the pencil, “is demand. People want less of something when it’s expensive, more when it’s cheap - dramatic, but predictable, right? Of course we do.”

“And supply,” He continues, tapping the other line, “that’s the opposite. Producers are greedy. They’re willing to sell more when prices are higher.”

He freezes, glancing sideways at you. “You still with me? That’s like, basic basic.”

You nod a little too fast. It makes sense, but fuck, are you allowed to kiss him yet? He’s so patient, so kind, and so cute that even his fucking teeth are cute. “Yeah. I’m here.”

His mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite believe you, but he lets it slide and draws a small dot where the lines intersect.

“Equilibrium,” You say, and he nods.

“The sweet spot,” He murmurs, and you shiver. This has to be some sort of fucked up joke. “Everyone’s equally unhappy here. Price equals quantity demanded equals quantity supplied. No shortages. No surplus.”

He leans back just enough to look at you properly. You’re not confused, rather determined, staring at the sheet. 

He fiddles with the eraser, rings glinting in the light. “So what part loses you?”

“All of it,” you admit, “but especially those shifts…? Why do things move?”

His expression softens. You wonder if he’s finally realised you’re hopeless, but he starts speaking again, more determined.

“Okay, so,” He flips to a clean section of the page and starts again, slower this time, drawing the same silly diagrams and the same silly dots and scribbles. His plump lips curl in focus, making him look so handsome that your hands unclench and clench in your lap. “Think of demand shifting like your banana milk.”

Your heart flutters.

“You don’t always want it, right?” He says casually, like he hasn’t just seen you so viscerally. “Like if it’s hot outside, or you’re stressed, or the lecture was particularly boring, then you want it more. I bet you’d even pay more.”

He’s right, you think, but why does this all make sense now, with him? He rubs at the page with your cat-shaped eraser and shifts the curve, oblivious to your internal plight. “That’s a demand increase. Same price, more quantity demanded.”

You stare at the page, then at him. “You’re using me as an example.”

“Well,” he shrugs, too nonchalantly for how you feel looking at him. “You’re the first thing I thought of.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the paper. He’s still got your pencil so you can’t fidget, but you can smell his cologne, mixing with the scent of books in the library. It feels way too intimate and the furthest you’ve gone is your knees touching. You want more, but you have to focus.

“And supply, then… if things get cheaper, or easier to produce, you can make more so supply increases,” You try, quieter and uncertain, but he nods encouragingly. “I think this actually makes some sense when you explain it.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face - pride, perhaps. “Good,” he says, softer, “I want you to get it.”

You smile, taking a sip of your banana milk that has you humming with glee. Tasty. He mirrors you and takes a sip of his, sliding the worksheet back towards you, his fingers lingering just a second too long to tap on the words printed. He’s got the same letters written across his fingernails again. 

“Try the next question,” He nudges you. “I’ll stay here.”

It takes you a second to decode, but you start to scribble down things here and there, trying to make heads or tails of the question. Mingi is silent the whole time but you feel him watching what you’re doing, and you feel the weight of his arm when he lays it on the back of the chair behind you.

Within a few minutes you seem to have written something of note, and you slide the paper back to him silently. 

He clicks his tongue without saying a word and leans forward closer to the desk. Dark eyes narrow at the page and read over the few lines you’ve written, before he side eyes you with a satisfied smirk.

“Good girl,” It’s said teasingly, and he smooths your hair, too casual. Your tummy flips but his grin is content, unknowing, his eyes forming crescents, “see, I told you you’d get it. Try the next one.”

Somehow, it starts to seem easier with him around, and over time, he has to help you less and less. It doesn’t quell the burning in your gut, only igniting it to the point it starts to get unsufferable, and all you can do is try to ignore the flames. 

The next time he’s between your legs in your dreams is in your room again, and it feels so much more vivid now that you know more about him, about the way he speaks to you, the way he acts. 

“What a pretty fucking pussy,” He muses, eyes fixated directly on your core. He uses his thumbs to pull your lower lips apart, and you can see those letters on his nails. He watches your folds stick together with arousal once he lets go, groaning, running his fingertip up your slit - the contact makes you gasp, hips bucking tentatively for more. “Does she always get this wet?” he spits down on your mound, watching it drip, “fuck- fucking creamy, baby, shit.”

He lets out a little moan before he’s diving in. You can’t get any relief, trying to squirm away - his broad shoulders are spreading your thighs apart as well as pinning them, and his hands are still playing with your pussy while he tongues over your slit.

“Tasty too, good girl, mmf-“ he whines, moving to pull you closer by your ass instead, his rings biting into your skin. He says it the way he did in the library, and your cunt gushes so wet his lips click against it; the moan you let out is like you’re in distress, hand gripping onto the headboard. 

How does he know you like this? His lips suck over your clit and you wail, reaching down with your spare hand to push his head in. 

“Fuck, Mingi,” you gasp, writhing, “so fucking good, please-“ 

Yanking at his hair, you can’t help but grind your hips into his face. He doesn’t stop you, hands gripping you and pulling you in rhythm against his tongue, and you think he’s gonna make you cum already. It’s too quick, debilitating as you hump his fat tongue to your orgasm and you pull at dark strands, looking down your body to see dark, narrowed eyes staring right up at you and he groans deep against your folds, you’re so close, almost there-

This time you wake up horny but beyond fed up, almost ignorant to the throbbing between your legs. It’s quick and easy to make yourself cum with your fingers, sticking your hands down your pants to rub one out while thinking of soft lips and rapid rapper tongues, and after that it’s just another day of being haunted by him, you suppose. 

Except this time you have a study session at Mingi’s house, and you haven’t been there since the party. 

It may have been the excitement and nerves surrounding the plans that caused the dream, but you’re too tired to care about it, yawning over exaggeratedly and stretching the sleep away from your limbs. You’ve studied hard, had a few more sessions with him that weren’t romantically charged and watched countless videos online. You’ve even read some books, some that he gave you and some that you found yourself - you’re ready to impress him, glancing over at the many papers and folders in your bag.

However, despite the attempts to gain his praise, you’re beginning to accept that you’re doomed to a life without Mingi, or worse, a life with Mingi just as your friend. 

Every single time something appears to click between you, or you have what Wooyoung would call A Moment, something interrupts or distracts one of you. Then, the moment evaporates, and nothing happens. While you’ve been sitting on pins for days, waiting for something to happen - you’re also unsure something will happen.

You’re unsure if you’ve read the entire situation the wrong way, and he really is just a good, kind friend, and your insatiability has just driven you to blur the line between fantasy and reality.

When you finally get ready and go downstairs after doomscrolling on your phone, Wooyoung and San are both looking at you like the cats who got the cream. They’re standing in the kitchen, heads fully spun towards you while you hover in the doorway in your nice jeans with a tote bag on your shoulder. If it surprises either of them that you actually have books in your bag, they don’t say anything, only smiling wider when you bounce from foot to foot. 

You crumble first. “Okay, why are you guys staring at me?”

San answers your question with a question, sipping at his mug of coffee, “Where are you going?”

“You know where I’m going,” You scoff, crossing the kitchen to fill your water bottle up. Wooyoung parts from the sink to let you get there, but his smile doesn’t fall, so pleased your blood starts to boil. “It is not a big deal. We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” Wooyoung says finally, and you groan, stomping your feet. “He’s wasting his time helping you study for a test you’re gonna fail anyway because he’s a good friend.”

You scrunch your nose up, “Wouldn’t you guys do that for me?”

“No,” they reply at the same time, and you screw your water bottle lid on, scowling.

“Wooyoung, you said he was kind. This is him being kind.”

“He’s trying to get in your pants, like, romantically,” San says, and you want to launch your water bottle at him. “Have you tried asking him? Kissing him, maybe?”

“He is tutoring me, Choi San.”

“You need to be tutored in more than economics if you’re this stupid.”

You gasp, affronted, “Since when could boys and girls not be friends?”

Wooyoung snorts, “Since the boy and girl in question both like each other and are being stupid about it.”

It pisses you off even more. They don’t know the situation you’re in, the moments the two of you have had where you think something might break through and every single time, nothing happens, and you’re reminded that it will never happen. It feels like they’re mocking you, and you mumble a “Whatever, goodbye,” that seems to be enough to placate them.

They wave you goodbye, and you choose not to tell them the extent of your hangout to avoid teasing - you’re going to his house. If they caught wind of this, they’d be buying wedding outfits and booking venues.

However, this could really prove catastrophic for you. The dreams were realistic already, but now if you have the information of what his bedroom looks like stored inside your brain, they’re only going to get worse - more variety, more realistic.

You think pathetic horny thoughts the entire walk there, nervous and excited at the same time, hands smoothing down your hair over and over as if the gentle fall breeze was going to make you look effortlessly cool. Not only are you going to his house - his room - you’re hyperaware of your body, of every movement you make, the ache between your legs that’s been lingering since you woke up; it all feels a little too much. 

When you knock on the front door, it swings open almost immediately.

“Mmm- hey, girl,” Mingi says, tall and looming, hair a little messy and curling at the ends, glasses on. His oversized tee is loose on his frame like he just woke up and threw it over his massive shoulders. He looks domestic, like he could be your real boyfriend - it’s exactly the version of him your dreams have been conjuring, and it’s getting to you before you’ve even walked through the door. “You’re right on time, look at that!”

“Hey,” Your voice is small, knees feeling weak.

He steps aside to let you in, and his place smells faintly like weed and, well, that scent of Mingi that you’ve been focused on since you met him. You can smell what must be someone cooking something delicious too, faintly, and when you focus you can hear his housemate tinkering around in the kitchen. 

His house looks different in the daytime. The sofas look lived in and comfortable and you can see the music memorabilia properly, rap album records and posters donning the walls. It seems they’re both very serious about this kind of stuff, and your brain betrays you instantly, noting everything for future dreams.

“Room’s this way,” he says, already turning down the hallway like he doesn’t see you taking everything in. You almost trip over a half-dead potted plant on your way.

His bedroom is smaller than you expect - you wonder if Hongjoong got the bigger room - and it’s neat but not too neat. His bed is made but the pillows are a little smushed, desk cluttered with papers with scribbled lines of writing, packs of rolling papers on his bedside table and empty baggies in the bin. A guitar sits in the corner, obviously well loved and with a large sticker on the corner of the body. He seems content with you looking around, trying to shuffle some papers into a neat pile until he flops down on the floor by his bed, patting the space next to him.

“We can spread out here,” he motions, brushing his hair out of his face, “I don’t have another chair for the desk, I’m sorry.”

You hesitate for a half second too long before joining him, back against the bed, knees bent. You’re so close that your legs touch again, and you shiver despite being used to it by now. He doesn’t move away.

“So,” he says, nodding towards your tote bag, “ready to actually pass this test? This is our last session.”

You grin, reaching into your bag. “I may surprise you.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, smiling. “Now I’m excited. Don’t tell me you actually-“

You lay out your notes. You’ve not done a lot, but whether he was expecting something amazing or not it doesn’t matter, because the noise of awe he makes is all you need. Your colour coded, annotated tabs stick out from the textbook he gave you before, and his teasing expression drops, replaced with genuine surprise.

“You did.” He murmurs. “You actually studied.”

“Wow,” you say dryly, “you sound full of confidence in me.”

He laughs, shaking his head, flipping through a few pages, “no, not at all. This is good. I’m so impressed, y’know, you didn’t even care a few weeks ago?” his eyes scan your writing quickly, “you did elasticity? On your own? You didn’t even text me!”

You nod. “A demon came to me in a dream and taught it to me.”

Mingi pales, fingers paused on the tabs. “Please don’t joke like that.”

You laugh, shaking your head, “No, I actually just read the books you gave me and watched some videos online. It’s not too hard when someone explains it to you the way you need.”

Despite your last statement, a warm expression creeps over his face, pride softening his features. “I’m so proud of you.”

The words hit harder than they should. Your throat tightens, and you have to look back down at your notes so he doesn’t see the emotion spread across your face. 

“Okay,” he says, scooting a little closer, “let’s test you. Walk me through this one.”

He points to a practice question. You explain, a little slow at first because you haven’t talked about these things out loud before, but once you find your words it gets smoother. He listens intently, eyes on you, not the page; when you finish with a satisfied smile, he nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says, “that’s it. Well done.”

“Oh,” you smile. “Really? That’s it?”

“You nailed it,” He confirms, and you swat at him again. Surely not. “I’m serious! See, it was always there. You just needed it explained in a way that made sense to you.”

Your knee nudges his when he shifts to point at another question, neither of you moving away. The room feels quieter, heavier, like the air has thickened. You keep going, question after question, and each time he needs to prompt you less and less. Sometimes he just watches you scribble away or think, stumbling over your words, his chin resting on his hand in a way that has to make the rings dig into him, expression soft and unreasonable.

At one point, you get stuck, frowning at a graph.

“Okay, wait,” you mutter, but he’s already there.

“Remember what we said about equilibrium?” He says gently, leaning over your shoulder. His arm comes up and behind you, on the mattress. He doesn’t seem to realise it, but it’s just like at the library, and you want to scowl at the effect he has on you. 

Your heart pounds, but you focus, staring at the page. “Equilibrium…”

“You already know this,” he points at the graph, finger dangerously close to yours, “you do, I promise. You’re just second-guessing yourself. Go with your gut.”

It feels like it means a million things at once. You glance up, and he’s closer than you expect - your breath stutters, and he continues looking at the page. His thumb flicks over a few of your tabs, considering.

“You know, it’s really cute that you put in this much effort,” he says absently, and your brain short circuits, stumbling out a few words that seem to make him snap awake. He finally looks at you, realises how it sounded and for a moment, neither of you move, looking at each other.

He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think,” he says after a moment, “you’re gonna do way better than you think you are.”

The praise sits between you. He’s been giving you a lot of it, you think, and it feels like something unspoken is there. Neither of you reach for it, something that doesn’t surprise you. 

Instead, you sit shoulder to shoulder again, letting him show you how to understand economics as the sun dips lower and the room grows dimmer. Nothing happens again, and somehow that makes it worse, causing the knot in your tummy to tighten to an excruciating point. 

You’re really not sure what’s happening anymore. 

Dealing with vivid sex dreams about a man who doesn’t like you back is one thing, but dealing with them while said man is forcing you to study for a test is another thing. Still, if it hadn't been Song Mingi helping you you think you never would’ve studied, never would’ve bothered turning up for the test, and you would’ve been sitting on the same exact cheap plastic chair next semester resitting the entire thing.

You get to class a few minutes before the test starts, a mere few days after your last study session, Wooyoung in tow groaning about how ‘messed up the last minute test is’ - you don’t have the heart to tell him it was mentioned weeks ago and he just wasn’t listening so it can’t be considered last minute. You’re more focused on the crippling fear of you failing this test after all of the work you’ve done, the colour coded tabs and annotations that Mingi checked over to make sure you were on the right track, and you know that Mingi is never on time and so won’t be present to look over your notes with you. 

However, you walk into the room and see a carton of banana milk settled on your desk.

There’s only a few other people in here, you, Wooyoung and a few others, but a quick scan shows you Mingi is sitting in his seat and is doing very well at pretending to be occupied. He flips through a folder of notes, and you hover in the doorway, Wooyoung elbowing you frantically. 

“That’s-“ he gasps, “he- that’s-“

Your mind is racing yourself. Bringing one for you before when you studied was one thing, but he’s brought you one before the test that could determine your fate with this class, and he’s acting like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t shattered your heart into a million pieces that he actually fucking thought of you, unprompted.

Wooyoung continues spluttering behind you as you continue to your desk, waving at Mingi on his way, and you shoot him a look filled with nerves and want. He’s even put the straw in ready for you, so when you sit down, you take a grateful sip instantly. Mid-sip, Wooyoung snatches it from your hand to see a scribbled good luck note stuck on the other side, complete with a drawing of a chicken holding his own carton of milk.

“This is ridiculous,” He mumbles, running a hand through his newly cherry red hair, grabbing the paper between two fingers, “you two are playing a game that does not need to be played.”

“Whatever that means,” you sigh, snatching it back.

Avoiding staring at the side of your crush’s head, you look back down at the milk, contemplating while the class fills up. It’s not long until the professor comes in, and lays down the paper tests on everyone’s desks. Everyone looks nervous apart from Wooyoung, who just generally does not care, and Mingi, who you know is more than prepared. 

A few minutes go by while she talks, and when the class is allowed to start you look down at the questions and hang on… you actually know what this test is talking about. You shoot Mingi a look and he’s already staring at you, smiling with his teeth like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. It hurts your heart, but you smile back, shooting him a nod filled with everything he needs to know.

The test goes by like a breeze, banana milk aiding you along the way. You’re not convinced you’ve done amazing, per se, but you think you’ve done well enough to pass. The entire class pours out at the end of the hour before you have the chance to tell Mingi that you think you’ve done alright. Still, the professor tells you that she’ll upload everyone’s grades online later today, and you hope that you have the chance to talk to him later, for him to tell you how well you’ve done. 

Your mind runs with thoughts as Wooyoung yaps the entire way home. He talks about how hard the test was, how annoying the professor is, how you’ve probably done just fine with the star student’s help, and then he pauses in his tracks on the way home. 

“Speaking of,” he says, pointing a finger at you, “are you going to Mingi’s party tonight?”

You freeze. Your heart skips a beat, and you lick your lips, swallowing hard, mouth suddenly feeling insanely dry.

He hasn’t invited you. If he hasn’t invited you to his party, then that definitely means that there’s nothing between you, that you really have just overanalysed things in your head. It feels like life couldn’t be any crueler to you right now.

You swallow again. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, and Wooyoung’s brow rises, red hair flicking around his jaw due to the wind. He sees right through you. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t invited.”

He scowls, “That’s fucked up, especially with how much time you spend together.” He mumbles, contemplating. The two of you start to walk again before he continues, his hands shoved in his pockets, “whatever, you’re coming with us anyway.”

“I can’t turn up there after he didn’t invite me. You’re deranged.”

“That is exactly what you did last time.”

He leaves no room to argue, and when you cross the threshold to your front door, San is perched on the sofa waiting for your arrival. He’s shoving food into his face, cheeks puffed out beyond belief but he perks up upon your return, eyes forming crescents and hands quickly moving to the TV remote to pause whatever he’s got on. Another soppy drama show, you think, since he looks flushed like he’s just been emotional over it.

“How did the test go?!” He shrieks, stumbling over bare-foot in shorts that show too much thigh. Wooyoung’s eyes linger on his bare skin and you scoff. 

“It went fine,” you say, walking in to collapse on the sofa next to the San-shaped dip, “I think I may have scraped a pass. Grades are out later.”

Unfortunately, despite you wanting anything but, you press play on the show that San’s watching and it engrosses you. The boys take themselves out to the kitchen, you assume to fix you all something to eat. From what you can gather, the show is an old one about some kids in school trying to become K-Pop idols. It does seem pretty emotional, but the only thing you can cry over right now is a tall rapper that doesn’t want you. 

It only takes a few minutes, but a loud, hysterical laugh from Wooyoung from the other room makes you sigh. Something’s happened, and you hear the telltale sound of feet clambering down the hallway to thrust his phone in your face, all bright smiles and too-red hair.

“Grades are out already,” He’s still laughing, motioning to the block letters, a number sixty on his screen, “how the fuck did I pass?”

San walks in laughing behind him, hands clapping on your other friend’s shoulders in glee, “I have no idea how you did it but I’m so proud.”

Your chest clenches. Shit. They’re out already? Either that’s a good sign for the class or a very, very bad sign, but you dig in your pocket and pull your phone out to unlock it. No texts from Mingi, not that you expected any, but you quickly open up your student portal and sign in, clicking through the pages you need to get to the class overview. 

It takes too long to load. Wooyoung drops into the San-shaped dip and San leans over him, two sets of peering eyes focused on your phone screen, and they’re both completely silent as they wait. You think San’s stopped breathing. The loading circle spins mockingly, over and over, and then the page loads.

Sixty-two.

Wait.

“Oh my god, I fucking-”

“You passed!” Wooyoung screams, shaking you by the shoulders. “Do you know what this means? Shit, baby, I’m so proud!”

You know what this means. You don’t have to resit that class, you don’t have to ever bother with a stupid economics class at all ever again, you never have to see that professor again, and you have Song Mingi to thank for it all. It feels like a joint achievement, if anything, and you want to text him and tell him and thank him but - should you? Is that okay?

San and Wooyoung bounce around the living room screaming and shouting so loud that you get brought back to reality.

“I fucking passed,” you breathe in disbelief, and San cheers again.

“Hell yeah, you did!” He hugs you, warm and grounding and so nice but not what you want at all. “We’re so proud. We’re gonna get drunk, and high, and go have fun at your boyfriend’s party-”

“San,” Wooyoung pauses, face suddenly straight, shaking his head solemnly, “not her boyfriend. In fact, he didn’t even invite her.”

San’s jaw drops. “He… what? But I thought you-”

“Yeah, I know.” Wooyoung grumbles. You want them to talk more, eyebrow raising, tossing your phone to the floor haphazardly. It’s already smashed enough, you don’t even think it could smash anymore.

“You know what?” You narrow your eyes, and both boys shake their heads too quickly. That’s weird. “Tell me what you know. Now.”

San waves his hand in your face, trying to calm you down, “Just that you two were getting close. I promise, that’s all I’ve been told.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Wooyoung shrugs, too easy. It makes you want to scream. “You’re coming with us anyway, baby. I couldn’t care less what Song Mingi thinks his guestlist is.”

“Hey.” San says, weak. “He is actually a really nice guy.”

You groan, flailing your limbs, and they finally shut up - or at least they start talking about something else.

By the time you get to the party, your head spins, more drunk than you ever have been, feeling nice in your pretty dress and your best boots. The boys had insisted that a strong pregame was essential to celebrate yours and Wooyoung’s results, and Wooyoung fixes your makeup for you at the front door, too sober for your liking, thumbs smudging your eyeliner perfectly.

It’s a little like you’re entering the lion’s den, preparing to be eaten, but your brain hasn’t let you fully understand who’s house you’re entering and the fact that you weren’t even originally invited, too tipsy to care. 

San swings the front door open like he lives there, cheering with a happy, intoxicated flush on his face at whoever he sees first, and you let him introduce you to a few people while you giggle along and smile politely. It turns out a few of these people already know who you are, from the boys mentioning you you presume, so it’s easy to mingle and drink a little more when they offer it.

Your head spins. A little embarrassed, you remind yourself it’s a damn celebration. You never thought you would’ve passed that class.

Wooyoung drags you along to the kitchen, forcing another drink in your hand, and you get an immense sense of deja vu. This time, he’s learned and it’s a rum and coke he places into your grip, while you feel present physically and not mentally. San catches up to you after a while, joining in on whatever conversation the other man is leading seamlessly, and you nod and hum along like you know what’s happening, swaying in your spot.

Two big, firm hands land on your shoulders, and Wooyoong’s eyes widen comically at the figure behind you. 

“You came!” It’s slurred, but you’d know that voice anywhere - Mingi, in front of you when you turn around, black tank top tight and cargo trousers baggy. You feel lightheaded for a different reason all of a sudden, eyes scraping down big shoulders, big arms and even bigger thighs, the way his body tightens at his waist, the way he slings an arm around you like it belongs there. He smells of tequila and bad mistakes, and in any other situation you’d question his behaviour but now, inebriated, you’re leaning in, inhaling deeply for more, letting him ramble on in that deep, soothing voice. “I’m so happy you came! I didn’t- I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come, I wasn’t sure-“ he hiccups, “I wasn’t sure you’d want to, y’know? It’s not your type of-“

“You’re right, she probably would’ve said no,” San manages for you, and you nod along. 

“They dragged me here again, ‘cause of my test results,” you laugh airily, and Mingi’s eyes widen, round and dark, his hands way too present on your body. He moves down to grip your waist, pulling you into him, and you clock that he’s as drunk as you are - you know that he’d never do this sober, but the warmth of his torso against yours is so nice that you can’t complain. You see Wooyoung trying to drag San away from the corner of your eye.

Mingi huffs out an impatient breath, staring directly into your eyes. It makes your thighs tremble and he raises an eyebrow as if to prompt you, “Your test. How did you do? Why didn’t you-“ he swallows hard, trying to catch his breath, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you invite me, for real?” You blurt, a bit bolder now that you’re alone - perhaps it’s knowing that Wooyoung can’t see you now, but definitely due to the liquid confidence flowing through you. He at least has the decency to look guilty at your words, one hand coming to the back of his neck.

“I- I’m sorry,” He says earnestly, bouncing from one foot to another, too full of energy and the tequila, “I should have. There was no other- no other reason, I just really didn’t think it’d be your scene.”

You frown. He’s probably right, but he doesn’t know that you’d do anything, go anywhere for him. “I- uhm,” you sip your drink, eyes flickering to the back door. It’s ajar, people milling in and out past you both but like before, the kitchen is quieter than everywhere else. You manage to look back at him, voice quiet when you speak, “I passed, Mingi. I managed to- well, I barely passed the class, but I passed. Thank you for-“

You’re cut off by his arms wrapping around you. He shouts with glee, shaking you around in his grip and causing your drink to splash a bit. If he’s bothered by the liquid leaking on his skin he doesn’t show it, pulling back from you with a huge grin that you can’t help but mirror, issues forgotten. He’s jostled your bag off your shoulder, and you scoop it back up as he gets noticeably more excited, smile growing wider. 

“Do you know how proud of you I am?” He gushes, eyes honest, and you melt. Your heart soars, and you smile so wide it hurts your cheeks - this is all you had wanted. Mingi pulls you back into another hug. 

This time, it lasts longer and he holds you close, letting you feel his warmth and you wrap your arms around his middle, content. It’s nice, his dark hair tickling your neck as he nuzzles into the crook there - you hear him take a deep breath, holding you closer, and it makes you feel satisfied, somewhat. If this is all you can get, this is okay, you’re sure you can deal with this.

But Mingi pulls away, and something in his eyes tells you despite the alcohol, he knows what’s going on, knows what he wants, knows that you’re feeling it too.

“I’m so proud of you, so fucking proud,” His chest heaves. He smells of tequila but beneath it, you can smell him, and it makes you lean in closer, head dizzy. “Can I just…?”

“Just what?” You ask, fingers curling around his forearms in the hopes it grounds you - it makes you worse, letting out a whimper at the feeling of his skin on yours that you can’t quite hide, “Mingi, t-tell me.”

He licks his lips, shaking his head as if to get rid of some of his thoughts, dark hair tousling and he looks so handsome, looking down at you over his sunglasses with uncertainty. It looks like he wants to say too many things at once, with no clue on where to start.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, and your breath hitches. What? “I- I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

Nodding before you can question why, when, what or how, Mingi leans forward, nose nudging yours, finally pressing his lips against you. It’s as satisfying as you always thought it would be, and he’s nothing but enthusiastic - he’s immediately letting his tongue push between your lips and into your mouth so far it pushes against your teeth, like he’s trying to swallow you whole. His fists grip into the fabric of your dress and pull you into him, moving down to grip onto your waist and keep you close, afraid you may try to run away now that he’s finally gotten you.

You kiss him back with just as much enthusiasm, placing wet, open mouthed kisses on his lips when he tries to pull away because you can’t help yourself - is this really happening, for real? He tastes of tequila, jager and Mingi, and you open your mouth in a jagged moan for more. 

When he sees how impatient you are, he cracks. He pushes you against the wall and forces his tongue back into your mouth, moaning, gravelly and deep from his chest; your legs start to tremble, and he reaches down with a strong arm and hooks one of your legs around his waist.

“Oh,” You moan at the way he moves you around easily, his heavy breaths spilling into your mouth. He’s impatient, fingers scrambling at the bare skin of your leg, touching you as much as he can in a split second like he’s still scared it’ll be over soon. He rocks forward with his hips and meets your core, clothed but you’re sure he can feel how wet you are just from being in his presence, finally feeling his lips against yours for real and not in a dream. “Oh, shit-“

“So pretty,” He murmurs, kissing you again, accidentally rutting against your cunt once, twice, before he forces himself to stop. You can barely focus, unbelieving that he’s real, right in front of you, touching you and kissing you like this - but you’ll be damned if you’re not getting answers. “So gorgeous, lovely girl,” he breathes, urgent, eager, “so smart, so proud, mm-“

He moves away again, sucking over your neck, and you take the moment to speak hoarsely, “Mingi, what- what is this? What’s… what’s going on here?”

“I-“ He freezes. His lips hover at your skin before he pulls away just enough to look at you, palms unclenching and clenching at your waist like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “… Isn’t it obvious?” He asks quietly. “Do I have to say it?”

There’s no smugness or cockiness in his tone anymore, only hesitation, like he’s standing on the edge of something and afraid he’ll fall if he says it out loud. You read his face for something, anything that tells you how he feels, but all you see is need, his eyebrows knitting together in pure desire - it just confuses you more. 

“No,” You say, even though it’s a lie and you wish you did know, kissing the corner of his mouth once again - hoping it channels the gentleness and encouragement that you need to show, not the nerves of wanting something so seriously that it feels like it may shatter your insides. It seems to work, because he kisses you again, rings biting into your thigh when he grips you firmer.

Hands moving to Mingi’s hair, you pull lightly at the strands, bringing him as close to you as possible. He groans at the slight pain, nose nudging yours as he devours your mouth, lips so plump and overwhelming that you try your best to kiss back but are left whimpering into his mouth. He controls it, just as you imagined he would, moving you this way and that; he nips at your bottom lip, prompting you to open your mouth and let him massage his tongue over yours, almost useless while he consumes you. 

You think your dreams are going to be way too vivid from here on out, overwhelmed with the knowledge of what he actually tastes like and how he actually holds you - unsure but desperate. He’s good at this too, and you curse yourself; he’s perfect, he’s everything, and this is probably going to be all you’ll get, a drunken kiss in his kitchen.

“We can set up the beer pong in here-” 

Mingi springs from you like he’s been burned. His cheeks are flushed, lips slick with a mixture of your spit and he spins around to see Hongjoong, looking just as guilty as he did in the last party when he interrupted you but without his tiara, jaw slack, shocked, round eyes flitting between the two of you.

“Or not.” He offers. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you two had finally-“

Mingi starts to babble loudly, drowning out the shorter man, hands waving and mouth making some incoherent high pitched noises that have your eyebrows knitted in confusion. Your chest is still heaving against his damn kitchen wall as you try to catch your breath, yanking down the hem of your dress and he continues babbling - you just about catch the end, when he says, clear as day, “There is nothing going on here.”

Your heart starts to race. Right. You knew that, really, but - well, for a second, you’d hoped that it really was going to be something, forgetting that you’re drunk and so is he and you’re still standing in his kitchen ramrod straight like you’ve been electrocuted. He didn’t even have the decency to take you away to his room - why would he bother, you think, damning yourself for letting your brain run away with hope and excitement. He could have hidden you away from prying eyes and Hongjoong, who seems to interrupt anything good you’ve ever been given by the world, but he didn’t. 

It was nothing. An accident, even. Something you shouldn’t have ever dreamed of.

Speaking of Hongjoong, he huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “It didn’t look like-“

“It was nothing,” You cut him off this time, voice a lot more stable than you feel. You don’t look at Mingi, but from the corner of your eye you see something written on his face, something guilty and upset and like he’s at war with himself, and you can’t be bothered to spend any more time trying to figure him out tonight. “It wasn’t anything. Hey, have you seen San and Wooyoung?”

Hongjoong nods, a small pout on his lips. “Living room. Seriously, sorry about that, I-“

“It was nothing,” You repeat, and he nods again, accepting it - finally. You hear some commotion as you turn your back, hushed whispers that again, you don’t have the energy to try to decipher.

Beelining towards the living room, you’re pleased that San and Wooyoung can tell just by the look on your face that you’re ready to leave. They spring up from the sofa, drinks discarded, arms coming to your frame to usher you to a quieter place - it ends up being outside, in their front lawn, and it happens before you even process it’s coming.

Gagging, your body folds, and you vomit right on your crush’s front lawn, just about avoiding your nice boots. Wooyoung stifles his laugh - not very well - and San elbows him behind you, unamused, hand rubbing up your back. 

“That’s alright, get it up,” He soothes. “Jeez, we shouldn’t have let you drink this much. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“I wanna know what the hell happened,” Wooyoung argues, and the other man sighs loudly in response, making him groan. “Fine. We’ll talk when we get home.”

The walk home is longer than you remember, made even worse by how your tummy still flips. You’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the kiss or Hongjoong interrupting or it being nothing or some fucked up combination of all of it but you hold back sobs the whole way home, arms enveloping your middle until you finally cross the threshold into your house.

The boys move quickly into the kitchen. Wooyoung still eyes you, unimpressed that he’s left in the dark but he starts to fill up three plain glasses of water, hopefully to calm all of you down but San simply waits, arms folded over a broad chest, eyebrow raised until you finally decide to speak.

“He didn’t…” You breathe. Your handbag drops to the floor unceremoniously, lipgloss and compact clattering out of the bag, and San moves to pick them up before you can even ask him to. Wooyoung moves to you, quick across the kitchen to put his arms around your frame. “I don’t think it’s like that between us. He- Mingi didn’t say he liked me, or anything, we just… Well, we kissed, but…”

Tears are starting to form in your eyes. San and Wooyoung share a look, and San appears bewildered, “What do you mean?” He shoves your things back into your bag, pushing it onto the table, eyes soft when he turns to you, “honey, I can’t put this any simpler. You are awful at economics, and the man offered to tutor you. Even Woo wouldn’t waste his time like that just for some sex.”

“It’s true,” Wooyoung says, hands gentle where they soothe over your shoulders, “I feel it in my gut that he likes you back. Really.”

“Then,” you sniffle, “why didn’t he-“

“Tomorrow, no alcohol, you and Mingi are having a conversation,” he urges, “all the cards on the table. I’m sick and tired of seeing you pining.”

You sigh, “It won’t solve anything. He doesn’t like me like that. He can’t like me like that, I know it.”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Wooyoung laughs, “he had his tongue in your mouth less than an hour ago. You’re drunk and sad, he was drunk and Mingi. You both need to get some sleep and talk tomorrow.”

Turning to San, you expect a different response, but he gives you the same look - slightly amused at your unneccessary plight, but very firm. Tomorrow, you’ll be embarrassed that you got so drunk over passing a test that you made out with your crush and cried in your kitchen to your friends, but right now you’re too tired and sad to care. He hands you your bag, items back in safely, and the other man ushers you to your bedroom, not minding at all that you’re sniffling and whining the entire way there. 

The pretty boots you chose for tonight are pulled off by Wooyoung while you sniffle and drizzle on the end of your bed. He doesn’t seem to mind, letting you mess up your mascara and your eyeliner in dark tracks down your cheeks until he sighs so loudly, seriously that it shocks you. He throws your boots on the floor by the door. 

“Promise me,” he says, and then storms over to place his hands on your shoulder. You think he’s still a little drunk too, but he says it with so much conviction that your tears stop in their tracks, eyes round and vulnerable as you look up at him. “Promise me that once you wake up in the morning, you will talk to the man.”

You sniffle, folding your arms over your chest like a child, “Don’t want to anymore.”

“Barefaced lie,” San snorts, and you blink through wetness to see him standing at the door. Was he always there? “Sweetheart, you’ve been making this entirely more complicated than it needs to be.”

Wooyoung pulls your dress over your head and slides a big, oversized t-shirt straight back over you - you think it’s one of his, the hem too stretched and the print a little stained with hair dye. “Tomorrow, full honesty,” He points a finger in your face that makes you go cross-eyed. “Promise me. No more lies. No more beating around the bush. Everything gets said.”

“I promise, Wooyo,” you garble, although now that you’ve stopped crying, all you can feel is exhaustion taking over your body. 

Your body hits your mattress before you recognise you’re falling, and Wooyoung tuts, covering you with your blanket. Everything’s so comfortable all of a sudden, and you feel a hand move a pillow underneath your head to support it - it feels like a damn cloud.

The last thing you register is San’s laugh and the sound of a camera shutter before you pass out.

It’s almost annoying this time, after the almost-confession. 

Mingi heaves deep, staggered breaths into your neck, wearing the same outfit from the party last night - baggy cargos, too many chains, a tight tank top. A bead of sweat drips from already damp, long, dark hair, down the tempting curve of his neck and you’re already won over, too desperate for him to care, reaching up to drag your tongue up his skin. 

“Fu-uck, that’s it,” He moans, deep, gravelly, hands determined where they pull down your shorts. You’re left in your panties, edges of your vision fuzzy with your dream and he’s quick to crowd into your space again, thick thighs forcing yours apart. He makes quick work of his trousers, undoing the button and forcing them past his ass just enough to rut his boxer clad erection against your pussy. “There, there you go honey, fuck, move against me-“

You do, writhing and bucking your hips to grind your swollen clit against his bulge over and over, letting him move from your neck to your lips. He kisses your mouth finally, and fuck you know what he’s like now, enthusiastic and all consuming. His tongue forces into your mouth just like it did earlier, when this was real. His lips are slick against yours because he’s so messy with it, desperate and bucking against you like he can’t get enough. 

You can’t, either, and with desperate fingers moving to his boxers frantically you beg, “Mingi, please, inside, wan’it-“

He groans, long and broken, rings biting into your skin when he grips your hips and pulls you down hard against him, “Yeah, want it inside, my girl? Can you take it for me?”

My girl. Your head spins, your hands scrambling for purchase against the sheets, his arms, anything, finally gripping wet strands and tugging. Mingi whines this time, too high pitched to be normal, and you struggle to direct his attention to you until his fingertips curl around the waistband of your panties and pull down. He yanks them off your ankle, your leg hanging in the air when he moves back over you and thrusts down again, into your newly exposed cunt, wet and wanting.

“Answer me,” He’s determined, rocking against you so steadily you’re worried you might cum from just this, “can you? Tell me you want me to fuck you, baby, please, tell me- tell me you can take it.”

“I can t-take it,” you cry out without a beat, and he nods, meeting your lips again, “inside, inside-“

It seems to work to convince him, and he leans back on muscled thighs. You take him in, the broad expanse of his shoulders and the way he tapers in at the waist, down to the beginning of his Calvin boxers. 

He pulls up the fabric of his tank top just enough to let you see it, the beginning of his happy trail, and it’s never gone this far before. You pull yourself up onto your elbows, excited but nerves going haywire, spread eagle and naked from the waist down, and he finally starts to pull at the waistband. 

Down, down, and the smattering of hair at his base has you gasping, toes curling where your legs lay relaxed over his, and you see the base, and then-

You wake up with shorts so wet that you know you’ve orgasmed in your sleep, and now you’re certain it’s gone too far.

Without needing to make yourself cum like every other morning one of these vivid dreams occurred, you have a clear head and can only think that something has got to give. Looking back on what your friends said last night, it feels right that you and Mingi should talk today, completely sober and with clear judgement. It’s probably the best move. 

You’d be embarrassed of your behaviour if you didn’t know that Wooyoung and San loved you no matter what, and also they know better than anyone that Song Mingi has been giving you a tough fucking time.

Although the idea has your stomach twisting a little with anxiety, it’s time to be brave, and you roll over to grab your phone… only to see that Mingi has had the exact same idea. 

[9:13am] mingi: hey, we should talk. should i come over?

You blink at the text. Sighing, groaning, and sighing again, it’s obvious you have to reply - it was only sent a half hour ago - so you send a quick okay and crawl out of bed. You’re hungover, sure, with a soft pain in the back of your head but the determination takes over anything else you feel. 

Everything feels a little melancholic as you walk around, back hunched over, but you have to know even if it hurts you. You do not want to go another day with any uncertainty. 

It only takes fifteen minutes for a knock at your door to sound. It’s given you time to get yourself ready, in another cute loungewear set with simple makeup and hair just barely brushed, and when you open the door Mingi looks worse than you feel. 

He’s dressed a lot more casually than normal, beanie pulled over his head tight and jumper oversized and hanging off of his frame. A fleeting thought asks you how big it’d be on you, and you shake your head, forcing it out of your brain. When you don’t say anything, he awkwardly tugs at his tote bag on his shoulder, pulling at the bottom of his beanie like he’s got too much energy in his body and doesn’t know what to do with it.

He looks so cosy and domestic that you think that you might just burst into tears in his face.

“It’s nice to see you,” your voice warbles, and Mingi scratches his neck awkwardly, pre-roll in his other hand. That tells you all you need to know. “Should we go to my room?”

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” He sighs, looking more nervous than you’ve ever seen him and you groan internally. He’s normally the picture of confidence, save for the few times you two have… well, you still don’t know. 

This is going to end worse than you thought it would, you think, perhaps even getting to the point where you can’t even be friends anymore. Still, Wooyoung made you swear you’d be honest to the man, and you try not to break promises, especially not when it’s one of your best friends.

Leading him up the stairs, you take him to your room, and he falls on the bed like it’s his own, pulling that same teddy he likes onto his lap, running a hand over his face in exasperation. When he pulls his beanie off, his hair springs up fluffy and brown and cute, and all you can do is hand him the ashtray wordlessly so that you don’t scream. 

He pulls out the same pink lighter you saw him have last time, burning the end of the joint’s paper off and waiting for it to level. You’re not expecting him to speak yet, settling on your bed across from him with your knees pulled up, picking at a loose thread to avoid staring at him, but he swallows hard and sighs.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you yesterday,” he says, and your heart drops. “I’m sorry. I should’ve- I should’ve talked to you first, explained how I feel. It’s been killing me. I especially shouldn’t have kissed you when we were both so drunk, but I-”

“I clearly enjoyed it as much as you,” Honesty, and you try to smile, but it doesn’t reach your ears. Mingi eyes you like he knows, taking the first drag of the joint. “It’s okay. I understand, it was just a drunken kiss and it’s not-”

“What?” Mingi laughs incredulously, “is that really what you think? Do you think I kiss people like that normally?”

You falter. Well, no, you’d hope not, but you hadn’t really had anything to go by.

A longer drag, and he eyes you again, before it seems to dawn on him and his lips curl up in amusement. His tongue drags over his teeth, eyes looking you up and down. Fuck. “You really have no idea, do you?” He hands it to you, leaning back on his hands on the bed, “I’m obsessed with you. Why do you think I asked to tutor you? I mean, no offence, but you were kind of a-”

“A lost cause, yeah, I know,” you inhale. Then, it clicks in your brain, and you blink at him. “Sorry, you’re obsessed with me?”

“For as long as I can remember,” honest, frank, straight. Your head spins, but you inhale a little more, trying to formulate your thoughts better. “Since before we even spoke. I thought that’s why the guys brought you to my party in the first place.”

Hold on. You ash the joint, handing the ashtray and the smoking stick back to Mingi, “Wooyoung and San knew?”

He shrugs. His cheeks are pink, from nerves or the weed you don’t know, but he carries on speaking like he needs to get it all out in one go or he never will. His eyes avert from you, fiddling with the long drawstrings of his sweatpants, “I don’t know about them. Hongjoong and Yunho knew, that’s why they were acting so fuckin’ weird.” He chuckles breathlessly. “Trying to sell me out, honestly, and this whole thing has been so embarrassing. I tried so hard to get close to you and then- then I fucked it up by not being able to tell you how I feel. I’m not very good at that.”

It makes you pause. Mingi, all along, has been going through somewhat of a similar dilemma as you - and suddenly everything makes sense. The banana milk, the studying, the way he spoke to you at the first party, the way he’s been speaking to you - you’re talking before you even realise you are. 

Honesty, Wooyoung said. You’ll stick to that.

“Mingi, this is going to sound crazy, but I’ve had a lot of these really frequent, vivid dreams about you in the past month or so,” you say, breathless, “some before we even started talking to each other."

As soon as it comes out of your mouth, you feel like dying. Mingi doesn’t stop smoking though. He even smokes more, inhaling longer, nodding with every word you say before he finally seems to process it. The flush seems to extend down to his neck, and he yanks at his jumper, pulling at the collar to get air - once the joint’s in your hold, he clears his throat, gulps a few mouthfuls of water down from a bottle he pulls from his tote bag. “I- That’s good to know. Normal dreams, or dirty?”

He’s… okay with it? He’s actually being way more casual about this than you thought he would be. This is the same guy that gets freaked out when he thinks about the concept of demons. You finish the joint and snuff it out, discarding the ashtray to your bedside table.

“A bit of both. Mostly dirty, but like, we were together in them. A little domestic,” You admit. He cracks a grin, showing those teeth that you fell for, and you can’t help but smile back. It is a little funny. A little crazy too, though. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

Mingi shrugs. “Not really, it’s not your fault. You must’ve just had a crush on me too. You know we don’t choose our dreams? Scientists say it’s just stuff from our subconscious, I read about it online.”

No way. You blink. You blink again, and he’s still there in your room sitting with you, the guy from your dreams, grinning crookedly and looking ever so delighted with himself. 

“Or,” He coughs. “It could have been the lines I was writing trying to manifest you in my life. Maybe it worked.”

“Mingi… that’s fucking crazy.”

He swallows hard. His eyes are a little red from the weed, but the flush on his cheeks is from solely nerves now, you know. “Well, I had to do something from a distance. You’re hard to approach - y’know, you seem shy - but you’re really cool. And so fuckin’ pretty, you must know that, right?” He huffs out a quiet laugh, embarrassed, “I’ve definitely had dreams about you, too.”

“It’s not shy,” You say softly. “I’m just awkward.”

There’s something fragile in the way he’s positioned now, something you haven’t seen in Mingi yet - something hopeful but hesitant, like he’s worried he’ll scare you off any second - it’s different to last night with no confidence from his rum. When his brows lift, eyes flickering with uncertainty because you haven’t said enough yet, you realise that you never ever want to be the reason he doubts himself again. 

“Mingi,” you say, steady even though your heart is racing, “I think I’ve been obsessed with you for a long time. Like, a long time. After this, you never have to doubt that.” You inhale, “Not having you was killing me. The dreams felt so real, and I fell for you so quickly but the way you acted around me… It was so up and down. I didn’t know if you felt anything at all, or if it was-“

He’s moving mid sentence to meet your lips with his, decisive and a little desperate. He tastes like weed and Mingi, enticing, and you melt into it, following his mouth without thinking - how did you hold yourself back from jumping him last night, when he’s real, here, in front of you? 

His lips are buttery, grounding against yours, and when you reach out to touch his arms he finally exhales and pulls you closer, yanking you onto his lap on your bed with his hands at your waist.

He mumbles against your mouth, words stumbling out between breaths, “I tried- I did try to tell you how I felt, I just- fuck, I don’t know how to-“

“I know,” You manage, and this time you really do. Two people circling each other, both too excited, too unsure, mistaking intensity for indifference. “I thought… I thought you just wanted something physical after last night, maybe, I didn’t know.”

“God, no,” He chuckles, throwing his head back for a second with closed eyes. “I just get so excited I don’t shut up, and none of what I say ever comes out right.“

“I understand,” Your hand strokes over his hair. It’s said with purpose this time - you really mean it. With Mingi, it was never fear; it’s excitement, pure and unfiltered, knocking everything else out of order, and now that he has permission to show it he can’t stop himself.

The kisses he lays on your neck prove it to you that this is possible, you and him. It’s possible and it’s happening right now, your thighs clenching around his and hands moving to roam down his body, over his broad shoulders and firm chest as he sucks on your neck. 

“Fuck,” Mingi breathes. “I feel like I’m dreaming. You’re unreal, baby.”

“I’m right here,” You laugh, because it’s insane he would say that to you, knowing that his mere presence has you feeling like you’re away with the fairies and has been for a while now. “I’m right here, Min, fuck, do you wanna- get this off, please-“

He pulls back and tugs his oversized jumper off by the back of the neck, launching it somewhere in the room and leaning back for you to follow his body - you do, chasing his heat, but with your eyes down. The removal exposed planes of tan skin, muscles that rival the ones you’d fantasised about. It’s soft to touch too, satin under your fingers as you slide your fingers down the muscles of his tummy.

“Pretty,” You murmur, and he shivers under your touch, breath hitching. “You are. I’ve- I’ve thought about how you look, but this is even better, Min.”

“Oh, baby,” He moans at your words, hands sliding under your shirt and onto your skin. He gives you a hesitant look, and you nod, before he’s sliding them upwards and cupping your breasts over your bra. He lets them sit in his hands for a bit, kissing over your jaw again before he slides his fingers underneath the lace. They’re a little cold, and when his fingertips hit your nipples you shiver, further collapsing into his hold, but he takes your weight easily. “So good, fuck, they feel so- can I- can you take your shirt off? I want to see.”

You pull it off over your head quickly, baring your bralette and Mingi’s palms situated under the fabric, and he moans, quickly sliding his hands out to look at them. He exhales, eyes fixated as he starts to pull at your nipples, and you don’t know if you’re just sensitive or if it’s because it’s him, but your spine arches into him with a gentle noise. 

“Fuck, so pretty, so pretty. Like that, that’s okay?” He murmurs, and you nod eagerly, making him pinch them again, on the line between pleasure and pain, “tell me more about your dreams. What was I like?”

His fingers flick over the nubs until they yank at the lace, hard and swollen, and he pulls your bralette over your head, leaving you naked from the waist up. You gasp when his head ducks down, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, your hand going to dark strands to keep him there - but you remember he asked you something.

“You… talked a lot,” you admit, embarrassed but he hums around your nipple, encouraging. You whimper and continue, writhing, “You were nice, but- dirty. Pervy. Am I- was I right?”

Mingi pops off your bud. “Well, your dreams sound a lot more innocent than mine,” he grins easily, lips slick and cheeks pink, “I had you bent over my desk with one of my songs playing. So yeah, I guess I am a pervert.”

It shocks you so bad that you don’t make a noise when he moves you, pushing you back on his dark bedsheets and moving over your body. He’s so big above you, just like you imagined, using one strong arm for support and leaning down to kiss you filthy again. 

He tangles his tongue with yours again as he fiddles with the button of your jeans, eventually managing to flick it open and tug the zipper down. You wrestle out of the denim underneath him, giggling when it gets caught at your knees; Mingi lets out an amused huff, smoothing your hair down like he did in the library, fond. 

Eventually, you’re left in your underwear wanting him to strip, too, but he pushes your legs apart. “This- this is okay?” He asks again, against your lips, and moans when you nod, “I didn’t want to last night, when we’d been drinking. I wanted it to be special, baby, I-“

“I know,” you say, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, landing on his lips when his skin begins to heat in embarrassment, “but I think if you don’t fuck me soon I might die.”

“We’re not drunk now,” his breath is impatient, heavy, and his spare hand moves down to brush against your panties, where the cotton is slick between your legs, “I’m high as hell though, and this pussy feels wet. G’na let me touch it?”

Fuck. Your head spins, like the high is returning but stronger because it’s Mingi; you’re finally here, beneath him, his to touch, his to hold. “You can touch it,” you heave, “I wanna touch you too. Please, I think about it so much, I wanna- wanna see it.”

Mingi’s face crumbles in a desperate noise, but he doesn’t move from his position, kissing you again like he can’t get enough of it.

When he speaks, you can hear him holding back, voice strained, “Not yet, baby. Let me taste it first, yeah? Then you can, I promise.”

“Okay,” you breathe against him, squirming when he rubs his fingertips over your panties, right where your clit is. He feels the pudge and brings his thumb down over it a few times, firm, and you let out a strangled whine. You hope San and Wooyoung are out, but you didn’t even bother checking the house before you let your man in. Your man - your breath stutters, and all of a sudden you’ve stopped caring. “Okay, fuck, please Mingi, want you, touch me properly-”

His fingers hook into your panties and yank them down your legs. Your legs rest over his, relaxed, toes curling into his thighs when you’re finally exposed to him. Despite the insecurity biting at your gut again from being so bare and vulnerable in front of him, he quells it quickly, wiggling down the bed onto his chest to examine you closely.

“Look at that, doll, so fucking wet,” He murmurs, thumbs coming up to spread your folds. They stick together with your arousal, something you’d be embarrassed about if he didn’t moan so loud at the sight, plush lips parting and eyebrows knitting together. “Fuck. G’na eat it now, ‘kay? If you need me to stop just-”

You force him into your pussy by his hair, and he moans at the first taste. His fat tongue swipes through your folds, impatient, and he licks up to flick it over the pudge of your clit, spreading your arousal everywhere. It’s so sensitive that you whimper and writhe underneath him, but he doesn’t seem swayed, burying his face into your cunt and making out with it viscerally, messy, claiming.

It’s just like your dream - except better. He’s pulling you down by your hips, rings biting into your skin, whining into your folds but he’s messier - he sucks all of your arousal into his mouth and spits it back on your pussy just to lick it up again. Your pussy is clinging to his lips by strings of sticky arousal and he flicks his tongue over your clit to hear you moan loudly, incomprehensible. 

“You’re- how are you so fucking good at this, fuck, please, more-”

“Told you, I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he states matter of factly, lips brushing against you, and you can see your slick has spread all over his chin, up to his nose. He doesn’t look bothered - he looks like he enjoys it, voice slurred, eyes half lidded, tongue licking over his lips, down to his chin. “This pussy’s fucking pretty. Tasty, too. I’m gonna have to eat her all the time, okay?”

He rubs over your clit, looking up at you expectantly. He’s waiting for a response, but you can’t focus, legs twitching at the stimulation. “F-uck, Mingi-“

“Mm, what do you say, baby?” He says, voice lower, and you keen. He chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head, rubbing a little faster, your pussy making an embarrassing wet noise with his movements. “Are you gonna let daddy come and eat her whenever he wants?”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you babble, squirming, desperate for him to eat you again and he’s still fucking laughing at you, eyes full of admiration. “Yes, pleasepleaseplease daddy, you can eat it whenever- whenever you want!”

“Good giiiirl,” He hums, diving back in again. He’s just as vigorous and you’re panting, making way too much noise, gripping and tugging at his hair and bucking into his mouth when he groans in delight at the pain. 

“Haa, fuck, Mingi- baby, baby, ‘s so good-“

He slides his fingers inside, past the resistance of your hole, curling them up instantly. It’s a stretch so quickly but feels so good, you squeal, humping your hips down onto him. He’s trying to find your g-spot, and it only takes a moment of prodding and pressing for you to make an incoherent noise, hips bucking. He taps a few times, teasing it, and you can’t shut up, gripping the pillow, eyes crossing in pleasure. “Noisy girl. Cunt’s fucking noisy too, talkin’ to me. Can you hear that? She’s telling me I own her now.”

“Mingi- f-fuck, you can’t say-“

“What? Don’t you like daddy talking to you?” He’s suddenly over you again, wet mouth forming a lazy grin. His fingers still pump into you and you reach to grab at his wrist, silver bracelets jingling with his movements. Your eyes water, hips grinding a rhythm into him. “I think you do, ‘cause you’re made for me, aren’t you? Fuckin’ unreal,” he hisses, looking down at where your cunt leaks down his skin, “this hole clenches around me when I talk, askin’ me for more. My hole, yeah?”

“Can’t- can’t be yours if you haven’t fucked it-“

“Shush, pretty, don’t be cheeky,” His tone is firm, but he kisses against your lips with affection. “Gonna fuck it. Gonna fuck it so many times it remembers the shape of my cock and can’t cum on anything else, but I want you to cum like this for me first. Can you?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, riding his fingers, and his thick thumb reaches up to flick over your clit. “I can, fuck, daddy, I can!”

“Yeah, moan my fucking name as you cum, there’s a good girl,” He kisses you again, dirtier this time, swallowing your moans with wet lips. You can taste yourself, and it’s that which does you in, Mingi pulling away just quick enough to hear the broken whine of his name that falls from your mouth. He groans back at you, rubbing your clit slower through your orgasm to drag it out, fingers curling to let you feel the shocks from your special spot just once more. 

He’s too good. It’s like he knows your body already and you can’t understand it, but you let yourself cream and gush on his fingers with many babbled words and strangled noises until you’re eventually done. You think you see his fingers stick together when he pulls them out but he sucks them clean quick enough, offering you a crooked, toothy smile as if he just couldn’t help himself when you let out a shaky breath at the sight. He rolls off of you onto his side, leaning his head on his hand all satisfied.

“How was that?” He asks, cute as ever, and you think you see him fucking blushing. He’s so good, and fuck, he’s yours now. “Was it like your dreams?” 

Your chest is still heaving, but you lean over to give him a kiss in response. His hand smooths over your lower tummy and you swoon, too happy, too desperate all over again despite the fact his fingers have just been all over and inside your pussy. “Mm, it looked intense, I liked doing that to you,” He’s getting excited again too - you think you can tell now, when his voice starts to pick up, airy, “you’re so fucking pretty, look so sexy when you cum, I just wanna-”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you glance down to his sweatpants. Mingi is definitely still hard, although there’s a small wet patch on his clothed bulge that you think he’s created without realising and fuck, your pussy is throbbing again. You can see how big he is through the clothes, much bigger than you ever thought, ever dreamed of, and it must be aching. “Let’s do more. I wanna do more with you.”

Mingi definitely blushes now, but he’s climbing on top of you again with that look in his eyes again. “Yeah? I want to do more too, you’re so gorgeous when you cum. Do you think you can you do that on my cock?”

He’s a little impatient, pushing his sweatpants down with one hand and leaning above you with his other. You try to look down but he tuts at you, making you look back at his face straight away, and you link your arms over his shoulders. “Um- maybe? I’ll try, shit.”

“Think you will,” He kicks his bottoms off and wriggles out of his boxers, too, and when you look again he doesn’t stop you. He even leans back to make sure your view isn’t obscured. Desperate, you assume, but shit it is big. 

His muscled arm swings as he jerks it back to full hardness leisurely, and you were right, it leaks heavily in his palm. The lubrication adds to the sensation and he lets out a sigh. His cock is long but thick too, and there’s a smattering of dark hair at his base that makes you want to press your nose into it and inhale as you deepthroat him. You’re quickly distracted, though, because he shuffles forward and positions his cockhead at your hole. It tries to suck him in already, gummy and wet and pliant after your orgasm. 

He pecks your lips again, addicted, nuzzling you with his sharp nose. He looks so pretty on top of you, plush lips pillowing over your cheeks and your chin and your nose, his black hair tickling your forehead. Your belly burns - you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything this bad, and you’ve known that a while, but it’s real now, happening, not a dream although it still feels like one.

His tip catches in your folds again, and you feel him shiver on top of you but he doesn’t stop looking at you, kissing you again, over and over before he speaks hoarsely, “Condom?” 

You shake your head. No fucking way. You’re on the pill for health reasons, and you’ll be damned if you’re having anything between you and this man when you’ve finally gotten hold of him. “Raw, please, I’m on the pill, wanna- wanna feel you, all of it.”

“Shit, you are a fucking dream, baby,” he groans, finally, finally swiping his cock through your folds. You think he’s finally going to put it in but he uses your arousal to slick his cock, letting you feel the pressure of it against you. “Think it’ll fit? You’re- baby, you’re so fucking tiny down here, could barely get my fingers in- oh shit, trying to suck me in.”

You try to squirm, but he’s so overpowering you can barely move underneath him. There’s a burning feeling in your tummy like you need it or you’ll die, and he’s still playing with you. He swipes his cock through your folds over and over, watching the way his tip disappears a little into the slick mess. You can’t help it - “Mingi, please put it in!”

“Fuck, ‘m so sorry, baby,” He grunts, sounding like he isn’t the least bit sorry, repositioning himself on his knees so that he’s more comfortable. You see him pull at his cock, moving the foreskin down to expose the tip, leaking pearly precum that makes your mouth water, “‘s too fucking pretty, all creamy like that, hadta play a bit. Gonna take it all for me now? It’s not gonna be too big?”

“Mingi, please- please, I’ve thought about this for so long, just- please, oh my god- oh, oh-“

You’re cut off by the deep, gravelly groan he lets out as he finally pushes inside. It slides in easily from how soaked you are, but it’s still a stretch, so thick and hard that your pussy throbs and tries to gush around him, begging for more.

“Please,” you gasp wetly, and he gives you the first inch. It’s barely anything, not compared to the whole size of him, but you moan and he grins in satisfaction. His tongue licks over his teeth as he slowly starts to fuck the first inch in and out, over and over until you start to shake, hands scrabbling for his hips to push him further inside. “Please, Mingi, daddy, I want more, all of it, give it to me-“

He grunts, sliding all of his length home as he pushes your thighs further apart, letting the pits of your knees rest on his elbows. It’s then that he begins a sinuous grind, hips steadily rolling against your ass, jiggling the flesh upon impact. Your bed is creaking with his steady movements, a thud every second that has you worried your housemates can hear you but well, you decided a while ago that you were over that.

“That’s w-what you needed, yeah?” He coos, voice shaky from the way your pussy is clenching around him. Every time his hips roll backwards, your hole grips and clings as if you can’t bear to have him pull out, so Mingi shortens his thrusts - quick, deep bursts that almost pain your cervix when he hits it. It feels too good to hurt though, and you can’t help but push against his tummy, overwhelmed with sensation. He catches your hands, pinning them above your head and grinding his pubic bone against your clit. “I know, ‘s so good, just- baby, f-feel it, feel it. Gonna feel it for the rest of your life. Yours now.”

You feel dizzy. It’s so good, and he’s right - this is all yours now, finally, after everything. 

Mingi quickens his thrusts, hitting right where you need him to. His shoulders catch your attention, broad and rippling with exertion as he holds himself above you, wet, hot pants spilling from his lips with every movement and you can’t help yourself, you feel so full your eyes start to water. He’s throbbing inside of you, desperate to split you open with his teeth biting into his lower lip as he gazes down at where you’re connected. Your pussy drools, slicking up to your mound and over his pubes, up to his happy trail.

“S-so fuckin’ tight, so wet, so warm,” His voice breaks, palm moving to your lower stomach to keep you steady. It quivers under his touch, but he doesn’t notice, thinking solely with his dick. “Wanted to fuck you so bad. Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long, feels too good, p-please, baby, I gotta fuck you harder-”

“You can, please, please,” You gasp when he does, shifting his knees to balance himself. His hips start move against you steadier, harder, cock pistoning into your pussy, abs rippling as he grinds himself inside of you. It’s everything you dreamed of and more, and it’s almost too much, too full, too big - you can’t help but whimper and scramble at his shoulders, squealing when he starts to rub over your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s so swollen, so sensitive that you squeal as he makes contact, cheeks burning as your back arches into him - you’ve been waiting so long for this, and it’s ruining you, every thrust taking you apart and putting you back together again. 

Mingi’s just as affected. He drools wetly onto your bare shoulder, wrapping one arm around the small of your back and letting the other hand move to cup your breast. He’s flushed, warm and rutting into you like a mindless animal, but the whines falling from his lips are nothing but grateful. “H-How does it feel, baby, is it as good as you imagined?”

“Better,” you hiccup, because it is, “fu-uck, Mingi, so much better, s-so deep!”

“Yeah, pussy’s t-too fucking good,” He cups your head with his hand, pulling your body upright so he’s essentially holding you off the bed to fuck you. He can go harder like this, and you feel his balls slapping against your ass, lips drooling messily on your shoulder while he talks. You don’t think he could be quiet if he tried, and you can’t believe your brain got this so right. “So fuckin- warm, tighttighttight, I could fuckin’ bust now,” he babbles, “feels so good to fuck you open finally, thought about it- s-so much-“

“Baby, oh my god, ‘s so good,” you mewl, hands moving to his chest, cupping the ample flesh and scratching down further, leaving red lines in their wake. It only makes Mingi fuck you harder, thighs trembling as he drives into you over and over, and you realise he’s right - you are gonna cum around his cock, too soon to be acceptable. “Feels- you’re perfect, I can’t, I’ll- it’s so good I’ll cum, I-”

“Oh, honey,” Mingi groans, long and drawn out, “i-it’s okay, you can cum for me. I want you to cum as m-much as you can, okay?” he kisses you, messy and wet against your cheek, “as much as that little pussy lets you, soak my dick over ‘n over, please, baby.”

You hump yourself onto him, managing to push yourself over his shaft and he lets you, lets you fuck your hole on his thick length until you feel it starting to build, too fast, too sudden, too perfect. He holds you close, ruts into you just enough to abuse his cockhead against that spot inside of you and it doesn’t take much, only a few grinds over him until you’re shaking apart.

“That’s it, oh, good girl, my girl, all mine, so pretty,” Mingi babbles through it, and at the crest of your orgasm your lips part in a sharp noise. Your moan is strangled, almost pained, and he moans right back at you, moving one thumb down to your clit to rub over it and extend your orgasm as long as he can. Your walls flutter around him, gummy and soft and gushing so wet down to his balls that he can’t help the way he rocks forward, chasing the wetness - he only causes you to leak more, cumming so long that your pussy starts to force him out; he presses his hips hard against yours to keep himself inside.

“A-Ah, I,” you cry, unsure, still stuttering with the remnants of it, “so good, I- thank you, daddy.”

Mingi gasps, plush lips parting, cock throbbing inside you. “don’t fucking- don’t say that, I almost came,” all of a sudden, he pulls out, gripping his cock at the base to stave off his own orgasm. You see how slick his shaft is, drenched with your arousal and it looks so dirty, white cream moistening his tan skin and contouring the veins with wet mess. As if it catches his attention, he looks down too, groaning at the sight of your release before his eyes move to your body, raking down you unabashedly. You can’t fucking believe this. Was he always this obvious? “Fuck, I… baby, can I have you on your hands and knees? Always wanted-”

You’re moving before he can finish, shaky limbs pushing your body up to your hands and knees. Your back forms an arch that he runs his hand down with a noise of appreciation, and then you hear the sheets rustle where he walks on his knees towards you, impatient. 

“Good girl,” he mumbles, smoothing down the curve of your spine and down to your ass, where he seems to hesitate before he lands one firm slap. The flesh ripples as you cry out, but you don’t run from him - instead, you’re bucking back for more, and Mingi pushes his dick back through your folds once again. “Thought of this s-so much. Your ass, you grinding back on me, tellin’ me- tellin’ me how it feels. Thought of you too fucking much to be normal, baby, thought I was going insane.”

“Mm, Mingi,” you shake your hips, distracted, trying to entice him, and it works. His noise is almost pained, eyes fixated down on where your ass perks up in the air, and he’s sliding back in in one quick thrust. It’s deeper like this, and he hits your cervix almost immediately - this time he doesn’t wait, hips hitting your ass consistently. The headboard thuds against the wall again, too loud and steady to be anything else, incriminating.

Mingi hisses and pulls out right to the tip, “P-please, baby. Shake it on me, like I said, shake it for daddy, good girl.”

Perhaps you’re too obedient but he’s engrossed by it, cock throbbing inside you. You start to grind your hips before you can be embarrassed, moving yourself up and down on his shaft in such a slick slide your chest hits the mattress, hands forming fists on your sheets. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you gasp, scrambling for dear life - has anything ever felt this good outside of those damn dreams? You knew it, knew it had to be him, knew it was always gonna be him - “feels so good, please, please-”

Mingi gasps, hand coming to grip your hips, moving you against him, “You’re unreal. Fucking- oh my god, that’s it, just like that. My girl, my f-fucking dream, god, let me-“

He takes over. You’re thankful for it, because you’ve never felt anything so thick and long and veiny and so fucking perfect inside you - it’s like he’s made for you, carving his ridges and curves into your walls until you couldn’t possibly think of anything else. You’re glad you’re his now, because it’d be impossible to be anyone else’s, to even try to be after he’s given you a taste of what you could have. 

Mingi’s ravenous. Hands come to push you down, like he’s realised he can be rougher, and you’re forced fully onto your front before his teeth bite at your neck. His hips slap into you, sloppy, uneven, size forcing the cream you’ve created to form a ring around his base, and he whines at the wetness. 

“G’na cum, can’t hold it,” He murmurs, hands wrapping around your shoulders for purchase, pulling you back into him. “Can you- f’me, another- fuckin’ give it to me, girl, all for your man.”

His finger and thumb come to roll your clit, and you’re done for. Combined with the feeling of him aching so heavily inside of you you can do nothing more but babble nonsensically, eyes crossing and cunt clenching around him so deliciously that he roars, pressing deep. Bites turn into kisses, softer as he gets closer and he tries to keep the pace the best he can but it’s unnecessary; just feeling his weight on you, his skin, his chest against your front triggers your orgasm, and one hand shoots down to hold Mingi’s wrist right over your bud.

“That’s it, f-fuck, I can feel it,” He gasps, knees scrambling on the bed to get closer to you. He pushes deep once, twice more and then with a sharp whine you feel him too, the head of his fat cock erupting and filling you with more than enough proof that he likes you back.

“Mngh- it’s- fucking deep, I-“ You choke, and Mingi shushes you, voice shaky, pulling your hips back to get it even deeper as he pumps you full, breaths stuttering. Something awful flashes through your brain, something domestic and too serious but it makes your cunt throb, gummy and soothing around his shaft as he empties himself. 

Mingi chuckles, kissing the slope of your shoulder. “Maybe it’ll take, h-huh? Claim you properly. Will you believe it’s real then?”

“J-Jesus,” you stutter, squirming - how did he read your mind like that? - and he laughs again, finally coaxing his softening cock out of your hole. It feels stretched, and you know it is when he groans, elongated, thumb rubbing over the slick opening.

“Could fuck you again looking at that,” He muses, and you wriggle your hips, tempted - he huffs and gives you another smack, this time on your thigh, admonishing you. “Behave. We’ll have a spliff and we’ll go again.”

You roll over on your back, deflated, finally seeing him. He sits next to you on the bed, skin flushed, eyes half lidded. He’s just as fucked out as you but somehow more composed, eyeing you like he wants to laugh but he knows he can’t as he’s not much better.

“Weed and then more sex,” Your hand reaches up to smooth over his cheek, and his eyes flutter shut, a smile pulling at his lips until he falls into you again. Limbs intertwined, you peck at his nose again. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Buying you banana milk and trying to be normal around you, actually.”

“Right, yeah,” You giggle, and he plasters himself to you closer. You’re both sticky and exhausted but it’s comfortable, the heat satiating rather than stifling. Nails trailing up his arm, he shivers, and you watch the goosebumps form - real. It’s real. “We have a lot of making up to do. We could’ve been doing this a while ago.”

Mingi’s eyes open, glinting. “You’re not leaving this room until it stinks, baby.”

“Okay, disgusting,” You shove at him, and he’s amused, finally rolling away to put some clothes on with a shake to his shoulders. Watching him as he moves, sitting on the edge of your bed, you’re unashamed this time - he’s yours to look at - and you hum as his back muscles flex, reaching down to pull his discarded boxers back up. When he stands, you see his thighs tense, and well, that ass… your eyes want to water. How lucky can one girl be?

Mingi stretches his arms above his head and turns to you, making you avert your eyes promptly to the blanket beneath you. “Pervert, I saw that. But, hey, are Wooyoung and San still in?”

You yawn, shrugging, finally reaching over for your own clothes. “Honestly, no idea. Stopped caring.”

“They can thank us for the show, and the many more to come,” Mingi grins, cocky, and you roll your eyes like you aren’t obsessed with him. With that, your phone starts to ping on your bedside table, three tones one after another, and you furrow your eyebrows. It’s quick throwing your clothes on before you check - a fresh pair of panties and a tee as your last pair of panties were ruined - and when you pick your phone up, he sidles in behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and kissing over your neck.

Nosy ass, you think, but you open your phone with a satisfied little smile, before it promptly falls at seeing that it’s your house group chat.

[2:13pm] wooyo: definitely still in baby

[2:14pm] sannie: Told you he’s a nice guy

[2:14pm] sannie: Do u guys want anything btw we’re ordering food

You splutter. “Oh my god-“

“How kind of him,” Mingi coos. “I think San’s nice too.”

“Mingi,” You scowl, but he doesn’t flinch, and when he plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek you can’t help but smile. “You know that’s not the point!”

“Oh, right. Ask him to get me some chicken. He knows what I like.”

“That’s still-”

“Baaaaby. Chicken, please.”

“Fine.”

your MacBook that barely ran the sims now being put on the cooker, your hands moving faster than your brain, a long list of last-minute birthday gift ideas. if all went to hell you had a 35-dollar Chipotle gift card leftover from a gift exchange.

the beaming light of your laptop burning into your eyes. hours of useless scrolling felt like a lifetime. just as you were settling for that easy escape of the gift card— your phone rang, not one quick text, a full-on call. at 1 a.m. on a tuesday?

it was maki, “german boii” — that goofy banner photo you set from the Tokyo trip staring back at your half-dead face, barely wanting to interact with a soul following the birthday gift hunting of doom and despair.

reluctantly— you picked up.

“what now birthday boy?” annoyed and confused.

“so. . . you know how i never really ask for muchhhh—“ the clearly anxious tone was notable, you almost dreaded to hear a ridiculous gift request after that.

“mhmm…” groaning into your palm. shoulders slouching forward nearly meeting your chest.

“it’s embarrassing and awkward to ask, but—“ the sound of his trembling voice, his head fighting his heart.

“ugh— whatever. . . i just wanted to let you know, if you haven’t settled on a gift— since i know you leave things to the last minute. that you could instead help tutor me about— learning the ropes.” each word smushed together, his tone shaky as he blurted out the last sentence.

“huh? ‘learning the ropes’ — of what?” head tilted to the side, hands picking at your bed sheets.

“you know. . . uhm— whatever, what i’m asking is if you could give me sex tips” a deep sigh of relief static in the microphone. “if you could come over tomorrow and i don’t know. . . just maybe help me with some of the basics” he hung up before you could ask exactly what “the basics” were. . . surely he want asking for a hands on session. right? just a couple of verbal tips.

you knew he was a picky guy, he rarely had any partners due to his taste . . in brief mention he’d brought up being a virgin. it was shocking to hear, HIM— a virgin?

that night you grabbed the diary from your bedside table, jotting down whatever general concepts came to mind.

“how to treat your s/o in bed”

“importance of after care and protection”

it all almost felt so strange to think about— how every detail you wrote was meant to be recited in front of your best friend for his birthday. this is really what he wanted? no expensive jewelry, no fancy dinner— just a couple of tips for him. whatever made your life easier— i guess.

that next morning your body felt tense, uneasily nauseous, why was it such a taboo thing in your head? from every small errand you ran it all felt heavier, suffocatingly heavy. your body acted as if you were giving a long essay to a college of virgins on your “mediocre sex guide for newbies”.

although you weren’t the most experienced you had a few times on your resume. all of which ended with the most unpleasant outcome.

that last stop you made felt like a slap in the face, your basket full of different-sized condoms, baby wipes, a bottle of sweetly scented lube, a chipotle gift card, and lastly a massive two-layer cake. the looks the cashier gave you— a knowing giggle while trying to stay professional. your cheeks burning as you bury your head, cursing every last member of maki’s bloodline.

when you finally tidied yourself one last time in the car, hopping out with a large bag of random shit, the cake now decorated with said gift card and a large gold packet “king size” in bold font.

you didn’t know what dick size he was— well obviously not. but you hoped the joking manner could lighten the mood.

bags full of junk, the cake wobbled in your hands, and feet kicked at the door of his apartment.

the door swung open, maki’s tall figure towering over you, his short pink hair messy, gaming headset still on, his friend's voice shouting through them.

“oh— you’re sorta. . early?” his voice was barely above a whisper before he reached out helping you hold the massive bag.

you let out a scoff “better than late isn’t it?” feet already kicking the chunky crocs into his apartment, sweater halfway down your shoulders, pushing past him.

“yeah make yourself at home, i guess.” a bit offended and shocked at your lack of greeting. you felt every small thing annoying you, the sweat creeping on your neck, hands shaking, body a few degrees off from giving you frostbite.

the place was oddly homey, small messes but nothing outrageous. his tv screen projected the ongoing game, lights dimmed in an insufferable man cave way. but not what you expected from him, it was well decorated, furniture strangely clean, a pizza box spread open on the coffee table.

The loud footsteps behind you, rushing to sit back on the couch, controller buttons smashed as he plopped down on the soft cushions.

“i’ll be done soon— you can have some of the pizza if u want. . .” his eyes darting back to the tv, your eyes following his— seemed like a game over LoL.

“yeah— okay.” awkwardly standing around, body stiff as a board. eyes scanning his body language, his body relaxed in the cushion, legs spread, hands smashing random buttons. you head to the bathroom first, washing your clammy hands in the sink, shaking off the excess water.

by the time his first game was already over his friends convinced him to re-queue another. a deep whine escaped your lips, head buried in his shoulder, back pressed to his arm.

“sorry . . . i couldn’t say no—“ he turns to you, eyes meeting yours, the dim lights reflect in his deep black eyes. your chin propped on his shoulder, eyes locking with the pretty twinkling orbs.

his breath tickling the tip of your nose, heart beating out of your chest.

tension high enough you could cut it with a knife. it felt intimate, he didn’t quickly turn away embarrassed. his ears burning red, his lips twisting before smashing into yours, his hand lets go of the controller, his hands shaking as they softly grip your jaw, pulling you in deeper.

your body responds, shoving your phone behind you, lips slowly sync with his. slowly pulling back, a string of saliva follows your lips. “maki . . .”

his cheeks burned a soft red, lips glossily plump, eyes never leaving your figure.

you note the small tent forming in his grey sweatpants, the way his eyes darted back to the screen when you noticed, trying to calm his horny mind.

it felt like a stupid idea in the moment, lowering yourself infront of him, kneeling between his legs, that soft grey fabric wrapped around your sides. maki’s hands busy fidgeting with the couch cushions, his attention flickered between your lowered body and the ongoing game, internally fighting himself for ever entertaining another round.

“ wait— “ he paused, his leg slowly bouncing, it was clear how nervous he was. he slowly exhale, one deep breath.

“i’m sorry. . . i’m just like really nervous.” words tripping over each other, the soft click of his tongue after each word.

a soft giggle escape your lips, hands softly resting on his thighs, one hand gently petting his bouncing knee.

“it’s okay to be nervous” eyes locking with his, his face tense, his sharp jaw flexing. you tilt your head, moving one hand to flick his forehead, both your heads parallel. “ow-“ he hiss. planting your knee between his legs

maki’s hands abandon the controller, one cautiously wrapping around your waist, the other low on your thigh. “i’d never force you to do this if it’s uncomfortable though—“ your lashes fluttered, body now slithering back down between his legs. maki’s hand move to lift your chin, his slender fingers brushing your cheek. with one small nod he relaxes, the guilt of letting his best friend suck him still lingering in his mind.

your fingers gently tugging on the waist of his sweat pants, slowly dragging them down. every action felt like trying to defuse a ticking time bomb, not wanting to make a move or gesture too sudden or aggressive. but now only a hint of a hesitation graces his features.

“how’s the game going?” his heavy eyes that were once watching your every move now shot up to your face. “i’ve long abandoned that—“ he chuckled nervously.

your hand briefly massaged the growing length in his boxer, letting out a soft hum of approval.

the air thickened, maki biting down on his lips, a soft whimper rattling out. with one clean tug, you pull his boxers down.

his hardened cock springing up, smacking the soft black fabric covering his stomach. your name on his lips, his head thrown back, the air thickening further with his scent.

his cock abnormally large, the tip a plump pinkish red— reminding you of his blushed cheeks.

one hand gripping his length, the other spreading the salty pre cum, head easily moving forward, swirling your tongue around his tip.

goosebumps prickling against his pale skin, one hand frantically grasping at your hair, burying his thick fingers into your scalp.

his heart racing, breath hitching as your plump lips wrap around his head. sinking the thick length into your hollowed cheeks, struggling to take every last inch.

the final inch filled you, eyes watering, a hint of pain as your jaws stretched.

“i’m sorry— if it’s too much. . .” you cut him off, tongue stroking the girthed veins, his words slurred into held back moans. the sharp nails digging into your scalp, his hips jerk at the new sensation, gagging the thick cock down your throat.

his free hand gripping the couch for his life, back arching off the cushion behind him, slowly sliding down to the edge of the sofa.

choking on every last inch as your head bobs on him, the large tip down your throat till your nose is buried into the base.

occasionally pausing at his tip to lap your tongue along the thick cherry head. his patience slowly slipping, lips parted as he fights the urge to face fuck you.

a never-ending cycle of the playful edging to his cock— his hips buck forward, unsatisfied, needy, craving a sweet release in your throat.

“ngh— shit— let me face fuck you. . .” his voice cracking, the whiny words sputtered.

you halted halfway on his cock, staring back at his messy face, sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead, small tears forming in his eyes. your gaze met with his heavy eyelids, and the dark desire laced his pupils.

hips squirming below your hands before picking a steady pace, the thick shaft being thrusted down your throat.

thrusting his hips into your mouth, gagging at the hard hits at the back of your throat, your hand lowering from his hip to the softness of his inner thighs.

his hand choking your lips down, roughly shoving every bit he could get out of you. the throbbing veins rub against your tongue, his cock rapidly twitching. every snap received a gagged whine from you.

“mmm~ fuckk— i’m so close” hands fisting your hair harder. his cherry on the brink of popping.

your throat closing around the thick tip of his cock, the head spewed his thick white strands of cum. cheeks full of his sweet release, his hands pinning you down, the length twitching against your cheeks. his nerves on fire.

maki’s cries now fill the once quiet apartment.

The ride home is quiet in the best way.

Soobin’s hand never leaves you once you’re in the backseat. Even half-asleep, he keeps you tucked into his side like instinct, fingers warm over your thigh while the city lights smear across the windows. His head tips against yours every few minutes whenever the car slows down, sleepy little apologies falling from his lips each time.

“Sorry,” he murmurs after bumping your shoulder again.

“You’re literally fine.”

“M’heavy.”

“You are enormous, actually.”

His tired laugh rumbles low in his chest, warm through the quiet interior of the car. For a second he just looks at you with those heavy-lidded drunk eyes, dimples appearing slowly like his face is too sleepy to fully smile.

Then his eyebrows lift. “That’s what sh—”

“Babe,” you cut him off immediately, already laughing in disbelief as you shove lightly at his chest. “Stop. You’ve been watching way too many episodes of The Office.”

Soobin’s grin spreads wider instantly, all pleased with himself for getting a reaction out of you. It looks especially ridiculous on him right now—slumped bonelessly against the seat, cheeks pink from alcohol, hair falling over his forehead while he fights to keep his eyes open.

“I’m practicing my English, jagiya,” he says with exaggerated seriousness, words slightly slurred around the edges.

His laugh comes softer this time, quieter, until it dissolves into a sleepy sigh when he drops his head onto your shoulder again. One of his large hands slides lazily over your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth absentmindedly beneath the fabric of your jeans while the city lights flicker across his flushed face.

By the time you finally make it home, he’s visibly running on fumes.

The second the apartment door shuts behind you, the silence wraps around both of you instantly—warm, familiar, private. Shoes abandoned by the entrance, your bag dropped onto the console table, the faint scent of laundry detergent and vanilla from the candle you forgot to blow out earlier lingering in the air.

Soobin exhales deeply like he’s been holding himself together all night. Then the man just… melts. His forehead drops onto your shoulder dramatically, arms sliding around your waist from behind.

“Home,” he mumbles into your neck, voice rough with exhaustion.

You laugh softly, prying his hands loose enough to turn around. His cheeks are still pink from the alcohol, fluffy hair falling into his eyes, lips slightly swollen from unconsciously biting at them all night. He looks unfairly good standing there all sleepy and oversized in his wrinkled button-up.

“You need water.”

“M’kay.” He says it immediately, obedient and soft, eyes already drifting shut again like agreeing to the task was enough to complete it.

He does not move an inch.

You stare at him for a second from where you’re standing while he remains exactly where he is—tall body slumped against the wall, shoes half-kicked off, blinking slowly at absolutely nothing.

“Soobin baby.”

“Hm?” His head lifts just enough to acknowledge you, sleepy gaze finally finding yours.

“The water?”

“Right.”

Still doesn’t move.

You snort, stepping around him toward the kitchen, immediately hearing his socked feet dragging after you. The kitchen light spills soft gold across the countertops while you fill two glasses. Behind you, Soobin leans heavily against the island watching you with hooded eyes, completely silent.

You slide his water toward him. He takes two obedient sips before abandoning the glass entirely the second you step between his legs to put yours down beside the sink.

Immediately, his hands settle on your hips. Warm, heavy, like they belong there.

“You know,” he says slowly after a moment, voice warm with sleep and alcohol, “I think Beomgyu was trying to hit on that staff tonight.”

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Mhm.” His thumbs drag lazily against your sides. “That funny one. Soram-ssi.” He squints slightly like he’s replaying the memory in real time. “He kept filling her drink everytime she was finishing.”

You laugh instantly. “Poor Gyu.”

Soobin hums in agreement, cheek pressing briefly against your head before he looks at your eyes again. “He's the worst at flirting.”

“He’s still trying to recover from his trainee-days heartbreak,” you tease softly, reaching up to smooth his messy fringe away from his forehead. “That boy sees one cute girl and immediately starts planning the wedding.”

A sleepy grin spreads across Soobin’s face. “He really does.”

“He’s probably writing sad lyrics about her already.”

His laughter comes out quieter this time, dissolved into a tired sigh as his arms tighten around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer between his knees. The kitchen falls comfortably silent again for a few seconds except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside your apartment windows.

Then, completely unprompted, Soobin murmurs against your shirt:

“I’m glad I don’t have to flirt anymore.”

Your expression softens immediately. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” His eyes drift shut for a second. “Too much work.” A pause. “You already like me.”

The smugness in his sleepy voice makes you laugh again, but the sound catches somewhere in your chest when he continues. “Still can’t believe it sometimes,” he admits quietly. His smile turns soft at that. Really soft. The kind that always catches you off guard after all these years together.

He pulls you a little closer until your knees press between his, face getting closer for a second before he looks at you again. His expression shifts slightly then—slower, warmer. Charged.

“You wore that perfume on purpose tonight,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches a little. “What perfume?”

“That one.” His nose brushes your jaw when he leans closer. “The one that I told you I really really really really liked last time.”

“So dramatic.”

“M’serious.” His voice drops lower on the last word, making the room suddenly feels smaller.

You try to look away first, but his hand slides up your side, fingertips disappearing beneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch warm skin. Lazy, absentminded, possessive.

“Soob,” you whisper, mostly because he keeps staring at your mouth.

“Hm?” His answer comes automatically, eyes half-lidded and fixed on your lips while his thumbs continue their slow lazy circles against your waist beneath your shirt.

“You were literally falling asleep five minutes ago.” You try to sound unimpressed, but it’s difficult when he’s looking at you like that. “Are you trying to get in my pants because this is the first time you’ve been able to sleep in since promotions started?”

The corner of his mouth twitches immediately. You narrow your eyes slightly when he leans forward again like he’s about to kiss you instead of answer properly.

“Don’t you have a schedule tomorrow morning?” you ask, pressing a hand lightly against his chest before he can fully close the distance. “Something about getting drunk on live broadcast all over again?”

That finally makes him laugh, a soft, sleepy sound that vibrates warm against your palm.

“That’s next week,” he mumbles, words brushing against your skin because he’s still trying to sneak closer between every sentence. “Tomorrow we’re off.”

“Convenient, right?” You side eye him.

“It’s true.” His nose nudges your jaw affectionately. “Stop pretending I didn’t send you my whole schedule last night, jagi.”

You blink and then narrow your eyes harder. “You sent me seventeen screenshots and a voice note where you forgot what day it was halfway through.”

“I was tired.”

“You said—and I quote—‘Thursday is either dance practice or dentist.’”

Soobin immediately starts laughing again, shoulders shaking this time.

“That could’ve been accurate.” His dimples deepen when you try—and fail—not to smile back at him. The expression on his face softens instantly at the sight of it, drunk affection settling over his features so openly it nearly melts you on the spot.

Then, quieter this time, his hands sliding a little lower against your waist:

“So can I focus on you now?”

The way he says it—low, sleepy, sincere—sends heat straight down your spine. You laugh under your breath, but it dies quickly when he pulls you flush against him between his knees, burying his face briefly against your chest with a tired groan.

“Missed you all night,” he mumbles.

You run your fingers through his hair slowly, feeling Soobin practically melt beneath your touch. His nose brushes lazily against the warm skin just above your collarbone, lips following a second later in slow absentminded kisses that feel more affectionate than intentional at first. Like he’s kissing you because he missed the feeling of it.

You feel his breathing change before he speaks again. “Hate sleeping alone,” he murmurs softly against your skin, confessing. “Couldn’t sleep properly last week,” he admits after a moment, words slower now, almost drowsy. “Kept waking up.”

You tilt his face up gently until his eyes meet yours again. They look glassy with exhaustion, pink-cheeked and soft under the kitchen lights, all the bravado from dinner gone now that it’s just the two of you.

“You should’ve called me,” you whisper.

“Mmm.” His thumb strokes beneath your shirt absentmindedly. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

You feel the exact moment his attention shifts from sleepy affection into something slower and deeper. His hand slides further beneath your shirt, broad palm flattening against your side while he leans in again, mouth brushing your neck with more intention this time. Not teasing anymore. Not distracted.

His lips press slowly beneath your jaw, warm and slightly parted, and the quiet sound he makes against your skin nearly melts your knees on the spot.

“Soob…” you breathe.

He hums softly in response, still kissing your neck like he’s half-asleep and addicted to the feeling of you under his mouth. His other hand tightens on your hip when you shift closer between his legs instinctively.

He murmurs quietly against your skin, voice rougher now. “Missed this.”

His mouth drifts lower while he speaks, kisses getting slower and wetter now, lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming across your skin. One of his hands slips around your back, fingertips spreading against the base of your spine before pulling you fully flush against him.

You can feel how deeply he exhales at that.

The second you kiss him back properly, something in him changes, his grip tightens sharply at your waist. A low sound catches in his throat before he kisses you again, deeper this time. The kiss turns deep instantly — slow, wet, filthy in that way only years of knowing each other can make it.

“Missed your mouth,” he breathes against your lips, voice gravelly and thick with soju and need. He kisses you again before you can answer, tilting his head to get the perfect angle. He’s so tall that even when bending his torso he still towers over you, shoulders curved forward like he wants to wrap his entire frame around you.

The sound that leaves him when your fingers tug lightly at his hair nearly makes your knees give out.

“Bin…” you breathe against his mouth, already a little dizzy from the way he keeps pulling you closer every few seconds like he’s unconsciously trying to climb inside your space.

“Hm?”

You laugh softly despite yourself, chest rising unevenly while he keeps kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, anywhere he can reach without letting you go for more than a second.

“I didn’t shave today,” you murmur between breaths, trying and failing to sound serious. “Tone it down a little, Choi.”

Soobin pauses.

“Be fucking serious.”

You burst into laughter immediately, but it gets swallowed halfway when he crowds back into your space again, huge hands gripping your waist tighter.

“Do you genuinely think I give a fuck right now?” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again, slower this time but somehow even filthier. “I’m trying to get into my girlfriend’s pants because it’s been, like, a whole week since I saw her.”

“Whole week,” you repeat weakly.

“A tragic week.”

His voice drops lower at the last part, words vibrating against your skin while his mouth drifts back down your neck again. You can feel him smiling faintly against you when your fingers tighten instinctively in his hair.

“Do you know how hard it was sleeping alone after FaceTiming you every night?” he murmurs. “You’d answer looking all comfy in bed on purpose.”

“I literally wear pajamas.”

“Tiny pajamas.”

“They’re shorts.”

“They’re evil.”

You laugh breathlessly again, but it dissolves into a shaky exhale when his hands slide beneath your shirt more fully this time, palms warm against your bare skin while he kisses slowly beneath your jaw. Then his grip tightens suddenly.

“Jump,” he murmurs.

You blink, breathless. “What?”

“C’mon.” His hands slide down beneath your thighs already, sleepy impatience slipping into his voice. “Jump, baby.”

You laugh softly, but wrap your arms around his shoulders anyway. The second you hop up, Soobin catches you effortlessly with a quiet grunt, hands locking beneath your thighs while your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.

And immediately—

“Oh my God,” you choke out, laughing against his shoulder. Because now you can fully feel him. Hard. Very hard.

Pressed directly against you beneath his jeans.

Soobin freezes for half a second as your laughter gets worse.

“Binnie,” you gasp, trying to breathe through your cackling. “You're so hard, baby.”

“Shut up,” he mutters instantly, voice deep and embarrassed against your neck while he starts walking anyway. That only makes you laugh harder.

“You were acting all sleepy five minutes ago and now this!”

“Baby,” he groans warningly, squeezing the back of your thigh hard enough to make you jolt a little. “Please.”

You’re still giggling when he carries you out of the kitchen, one large hand supporting you easily while the other keeps sliding up and down your thigh absentmindedly. His face stays buried against your neck the entire walk down the hallway like he’s trying to hide both his expression and his dignity.

“You think this is funny?” he mutters.

“Yes. You literally told me to jump.”

“Because I missed my girlfriend.”

“You missed having sex.”

“That too.”

You laugh again under your breath, arms still looped loosely around his shoulders while he carries you down the hallway. The apartment is quiet except for your giggling and the soft sound of his socked feet against the floor, his hands warm beneath your thighs as he holds you effortlessly against him.

Soobin nodges your bedroom door open with his shoulder.

The room is dim except for the soft amber glow from the lamp near the bed, your half-folded laundry still abandoned on the chair from two days ago and one of Soobin’s hoodies draped over the edge exactly where he left it two weeks ago.

The second he reaches the bed, he lets himself fall forward with you still attached to him.

You squeal, laughing as the mattress dips beneath both your weights, but before you can fully collapse backward, Soobin catches himself with one arm and carefully lowers you onto the middle of the bed instead.

Then he finally straightens up between your legs, hands still resting on your thighs for a second like he doesn’t quite want to let go yet.

Then his eyes drift downward. “Fuck,” he mutters quietly to himself. You follow his gaze instantly and burst into laughter again because his jeans look genuinely painful now.

“Oh, you are suffering.”

“Jagi,” he groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Please have mercy on me.”

Still muttering under his breath, Soobin reaches for the button of his jeans, fingers slightly clumsy from the alcohol while he starts undoing them with a tired sigh. You push yourself upright against the pillows to watch him, entirely too entertained by the situation.

And shameless.

Your eyes drag slowly over him while he struggles with the button for a second, broad shoulders still stretching that button up distractingly well, hair messy from your hands, cheeks flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

God.

The second his eyes flick back up toward you, you pull your shirt over your head in one smooth motion.

Soobin freezes.

Actually freezes.

His half-open jeans suddenly seem completely forgotten while his gaze drops instantly to your chest, the expression on his face shifting from sleepy amusement into something visibly heavier.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes.

The words come out rough, almost reverent. Soobin’s hands drop away from his half-undone jeans like he’s completely forgotten they exist.

He’s on you in a second.

Big hands slide under your thighs, gripping hard as he pulls you down the bed so you’re flat on your back. You yelp at the sudden shift, a surprised little sound that melts into a laugh — which he immediately swallows with his mouth.

The kiss is messy and desperate from the start.

Soobin groans low in his throat the moment your lips meet, tilting his head to slot your mouths together deeper. His tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, hot and slick, sliding against yours in slow, filthy strokes. He kisses like he’s starving — wet, open-mouthed, a little clumsy from the alcohol but so familiar he still knows exactly how to wreck you. His tongue curls around yours, sucking lightly before he licks deeper, exploring like he’s trying to map every inch of your mouth.

You moan into him and he answers with a wrecked sound of his own, one large hand cupping the back of your neck to keep you right where he wants you while the other palms the buttons of your jeans.

He manhandles you again — suddenly flipping you so you’re straddling his lap, your knees sinking into the bed on either side of his hips. You yelp against his mouth at the easy strength, the way his big hands grip your behind and yank you flush against him. The sound only makes him kiss you harder.

Soobin’s breath is hot and ragged between kisses. While his mouth devours you, his hands are busy — shrugging off his button-up in one impatient motion, shoulders rolling as the fabric slides down his arms and drops somewhere behind him.

You feel the heat of his bare chest instantly, flushed pink and burning against your skin. His broad shoulders flex under your hands as he reaches between your bodies, fingers working open the button of your pants with surprising focus for how drunk he is. The zipper comes down next. He doesn’t even break the kiss while he does it — just keeps licking into your mouth, tongue slow and teasing now, like he’s savoring every little whimper he pulls from you.

“Lift,” he rasps against your lips, voice so deep and hoarse it vibrates through you.

You obey without thinking. The second you lift your hips, Soobin’s hands slide beneath the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your legs with impatient roughness. He groans quietly into your mouth the moment your skin brushes his bare chest again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping briefly against yours like he needs a second to collect himself. “Missed this so bad.”

Your hands slide instinctively over his shoulders while he finishes pulling your pants off completely, tossing them somewhere onto the floor without looking. The movement shifts him closer between your legs, enough that you can feel the heat of him again through the thin fabric still separating you both.

You reach down between both your bodies this time, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans where they’re still hanging half-open around his hips. You end up brushing your fingers on him.

His entire body reacts instantly.

A sharp inhale. Shoulders tightening beneath your palms. His head dropping briefly onto your shoulder with a low groan that sounds almost pained.

You push his jeans down properly this time, slow enough to make him visibly suffer through it. His forehead stays buried against your neck while he shifts just enough to kick them off the rest of the way along with his socks, one of his large hands gripping your thigh hard the entire time like grounding himself.

The second they’re finally gone, he exhales deeply against your skin.

“Better?” you whisper, unable to stop smiling.

“No,” he says immediately, lifting his head just enough to look at you with drunk ruined eyes. “Worse, actually.”

You laugh softly against his mouth, but the sound dissolves quickly when he flips your bodies and kisses you again.

Your fingers slip through his hair while he goes back to kissing you, mouths parting and meeting again in soft wet presses that grow deeper every few seconds. Somewhere between one kiss and the next, he shifts higher onto the mattress, nudging you backward against the pillows while his broad body settles naturally between your legs like muscle memory.

Years together. Years of this. You can feel it in every touch.

His hand drifts down your side slowly, fingertips grazing your thigh before disappearing briefly off the edge of the mattress. At first you barely notice what he’s doing because he never stops kissing you, but then you hear the soft sound of your left nightstand drawer sliding open.

You break into a breathless laugh against his lips immediately. “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” he hums without shame, still kissing you between words while blindly reaching into the drawer beside the bed. “Know this room better than my own.”

You snort softly, but the laugh catches when his hand finally finds what he’s looking for and he pulls back just enough to glance at the condom in his fingers with sleepy satisfaction.

“There we go,” he murmurs.

Soobin tosses the condom onto the pillow beside your head, then finally lets the drawer click shut. His eyes drag down your body like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again — black lace bra, tiny matching panties, skin already flushed from his hands and mouth. A low, appreciative groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Look at you…” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

Before you can tease him for his corniness, he moves.

Big hands slide under your thighs and he yanks you down the bed in one smooth, powerful motion. You yelp as your back slides against the sheets, but the sound cuts off into a gasp when Soobin settles fully on top of you. He’s so tall and broad he blocks out the low lamplight, caging you in completely. His flushed chest presses against your lace-covered breasts, hot skin against delicate fabric.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

With a low grunt, he hooks one of your legs over his hip, then the other, spreading you open beneath him. The manhandling is effortless — years of experience and that quiet strength letting him move you exactly how he wants. He rolls his hips forward and presses right against your core.

The thick, heavy outline of his member in his black boxers slides perfectly against your lace-covered heat, pulsing hot and hard. You moan loudly at the contact, back arching off the bed.

“Goddamn—”

He laughs a little at that and you realize he didn't do it on purpose, which makes everything worse.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding hot and wet against yours while his hips keep rolling in these devastating, lazy circles. Every thrust makes his clothed dick drag right over your most sensitive part, the thin layers between you doing almost nothing to dull the sensation. He’s so big between your legs, the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulses and twitches against your warmth — it makes your already tipsy brain spin.

Soobin groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through both of you. One of his hands grips your behind, squeezing the soft flesh as he grinds harder, fitting himself even more perfectly against you. The other hand slides up your back instead, fingers finding the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. Even half-drunk and hazy, he undoes it one-handed in a single smooth motion — years of knowing your curves making it effortless.

He pulls the lace away slowly, letting it fall somewhere off the side of the bed, and immediately palms your bare breast, warm and heavy, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple as he keeps grinding against you.

“My pretty girlfriend,” he murmurs hotly against your neck between kisses, voice raspy and full of affection. “So fucking perfect.”

"Bin—"

“So lucky to have you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm and uneven. “Love you so bad, baby… you have no idea.”

His words are slurred at the edges from the alcohol, but they’re so sincere they make your chest ache.

His shoulders shake slightly while he drops his face into your neck again, one large hand spreading across your waist like he needs something to hold onto.

Then, muffled against your skin:

“I’m so fucking hard, Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Feelin' like in our first time again.”

You burst into laughter instantly.

“I’m serious,” he mutters, lifting his head just enough for you to see the genuinely offended look on his flushed face.

Still laughing softly under your breath, your hand slides between both your bodies before he can stop you, palming him through his boxers deliberately this time.

The reaction is immediate, Soobin’s entire body jerks.

“Fuck—”

The curse tears out of him rough and low while his forehead drops heavily onto your shoulder again, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave crescents. You can physically feel the way his breathing stutters when your palm strokes over him once more.

“Oh, you weren’t exaggerating,” you tease breathlessly.

“Baby,” he groans warningly, voice wrecked already.

But you keep touching him anyway. Slow. Curious. Mean.

The second you shift your hips experimentally against him too, Soobin completely loses whatever remained of his drunken patience. A broken sound leaves him instantly.

His hands fly to your hips, holding you still for half a second like he physically can’t process the sensation before another shaky exhale punches out of him against your neck.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters again, sounding genuinely tortured now. “Do not start that unless you wanna kill me.” You laugh softly into his hair, but the sound catches when he suddenly looks up at you again. Completely gone.

All of him focused entirely on you now.

Soobin’s eyes are dark, glassy, and completely locked on your face. His breathing is heavy, chest rising and falling against yours as one of his big hands slides slowly down your body. He cups your breast for a second, then keeps going, fingertips tracing over your stomach until they hook gently under the waistband of your lace panties.

His voice comes out low and raspy, almost shy despite how hard he is against your thigh.

“Can I?” he whispers, eyes flicking up to yours.

You nod, biting your lip.

Soobin doesn’t waste time. He sits back on his knees just enough to peel your panties down your legs, lifting your hips with one hand like it’s nothing. The cool air hits your soaked core and you shiver. He groans softly at the sight of you, completely bare now, then quickly shoves his own boxers down and kicks them off.

The second his cock springs free — thick, flushed dark pink, and painfully hard — it slaps against his stomach. He’s so big it still makes your stomach tighten even after years together. The moment his bare skin presses against yours again, both of you shiver hard.

“Fuck…” Soobin breathes, lowering himself back on top of you. The heat of his cock slides right against you, hot and heavy, pulsing against your wetness. He groans at the same time you do, forehead dropping to yours.

“It’s been a while, baby,” he murmurs, almost apologetic, voice rough. “Can it be my fingers?”

Even drunk and desperate, he’s careful.

"Fuck, yes." You nod.

One large hand slips between your bodies, warm and sure. Soobin doesn’t rush. His fingers glide slowly through your folds, parting them gently, spreading the slickness that’s already accumulated there. The first touch is feather-light — just the pad of his thumb brushing over your clit in a slow, lazy circle.

You inhale sharply.

He gathers a little more of your wetness with two fingers, then brings it back up, using it to properly moisturize your clit, making the glide smoother, slicker. It’s so familiar, so practiced — the way he knows exactly how you like it after years together. His thumb stays there, rubbing slow, steady circles while the rest of his hand just rests warmly against your pussy, not pushing yet.

Soobin watches your face the entire time, that lazy, dimpled grin tugging at his lips even though his eyes are dark and heavy with lust.

“Fuck…” you breathe, biting down hard on your lower lip as a shiver runs through you.

His grin widens, dimples deepening. “You like this, right baby?” he murmurs, voice low and raspy, sweet in that devastating way only he can manage when he’s drunk and turned on. “Feel good?”

You nod quickly, unable to speak at first. Your hand flies up to grip his shoulder, nails digging into the flushed skin as your hips twitch. He keeps the rhythm slow and consistent — perfect little circles that make heat pool low in your stomach. Every time his thumb passes over the sensitive bundle of nerves, your thighs tremble around his waist.

Soobin leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, still grinning against your skin.

Another soft circle, then he gathers more of your wetness again, making everything even slicker, warmer. Only then does he finally slide two knuckles down to your entrance. He teases the tip of the finger just inside, barely breaching you, before pulling back and rubbing your clit again — keeping you on edge, making everything wetter, hotter.

You whimper, gripping his shoulder harder. “Soob—”

“I know, baby,” he coos sweetly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Just prepping a bit, 'most done.”

He finally pushes one finger in slowly, all the way to the last knuckle, curling it gently while his thumb never stops its lazy circles on your clit. The intrusion is perfect, familiar, and so fucking good. A broken “fuck” slips out of you again as your back arches slightly off the bed.

Soobin chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond. His flushed chest presses closer to yours as he watches every little expression on your face — the way your brows furrow, the way your teeth sink into your lip, the way your eyes flutter.

Your boyfriend praises you quietly, adding a second finger on the next stroke, stretching you open so easily.

His fingers move in and out in long, slow pumps, curling just right against that spot inside you while his thumb keeps working your clit in those steady, mind-melting circles. He’s completely focused on you — grinning, flushed, whispering sweet little things between soft kisses to your neck and mouth, completely lost in the way you fall apart under his hand.

Soobin curls his fingers inside you one last time, pressing firmly against that spot that makes your toes curl, before he slowly slides them out. The sudden emptiness makes you whine in protest.

He watches your face with a soft, apologetic smile, his own breathing ragged. His cock is throbbing visibly against your thigh, flushed dark and leaking steadily.

“Sorry, jagi, I'm just…” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy. “Really in a rush right now—” He glances down between your bodies, brows slightly furrowed even through the haze of alcohol.

He leans down and kisses your forehead, then your lips, sweet and slow.

“In the morning I’ll take my time with you properly, eat you out for as long as you want, make you come on my tongue first… but right now—” His hips twitch involuntarily, cock sliding against your slick folds. “I feel like I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a curse when his cock lightly drags through your warmth. While he’s still chuckling softly, he reaches down and wraps his long fingers around him, using your wetness to stroke himself slowly. The wet sound is filthy in the quiet room. He groans deep in his chest, eyes fluttering for a second as he pumps himself a few times, spreading your slick all over his length.

The sight makes heat flare through you. The ache between your legs is suddenly unbearable, making you needy for something inside you right now.

Your hand fumbles blindly on the pillow beside your head where you remember him tossing the condom. Fingers brush the foil packet and you snatch it up immediately.

Soobin’s eyes widen slightly when he sees it in your hand, but he doesn’t stop stroking himself, thumb brushing over the leaking tip.

You tear the wrapper open with your teeth — a practiced, familiar motion after years together — and pull out the condom. He shifts back just enough to give you room, still hovering over you, flushed chest rising and falling fast.

You sit up a little, reaching for him. He helps guide your hands, one of his big palms covering yours as you roll the condom down his thick length together. It’s smooth, natural, the same little dance you’ve done countless times. He lets out a shaky breath when you reach the base, giving him one firm stroke for good measure.

“Fuck,” he breathes, half-laughing, half-groaning as he presses you back down into the mattress.

Soobin hovers over you, breathing heavy, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance. Even in his drunk, urgent state, the careful boyfriend in him wins.

He reaches over to the side of the bed and grabs one of the extra pillows. As he leans, his heavy cock bobs forward and drags right over your swollen clit.

Both of you freeze for half a second, then burst into soft, breathless giggles.

“Shit—” he laughs quietly, shoulders shaking. “Sorry.”

He tucks the pillow under your hips with practiced ease, lifting you gently like he’s done a hundred times before. The new angle immediately makes you feel more open for him.

Soobin settles back between your thighs, one hand on your waist, the other wrapping around his cock again. You reach down at the same time, your fingers overlapping his as you both line him up together. The head of his cock presses against your slick entrance, hot and thick.

He leans down and kisses your bare shoulder softly, lips lingering there.

“You sure you don’t want prone tonight?” he asks gently against your skin, voice raspy but sweet. “I know it’s your favorite, I can fuck you deep like that if you want.”

You shake your head, a breathy whine slipping out as you spread your legs wider for him. “No… want you like this,” you murmur, guiding the tip of him just inside you. “Want to see you, Binnie— fuck...”

You try to pull him in with one impatient roll of your hips. A sharp, needy whine escapes you instantly. He’s so big, and it’s been two whole weeks — the stretch is intense, almost too much even though you’re basically soaked right now.

Soobin freezes right away, concern flashing across his flushed face.

“Breathe, baby,” he says softly, voice steady and comforting. One big hand strokes your side. “I already told you to not do that. It can hurt you, jagi.”

He gently takes your left leg and hooks your ankle over his broad shoulder as he's talking, opening you up even more. The new position makes you both moan quietly. He leans forward, folding you nicely under him, and lines himself up again with your help.

“That’s it,” he whispers, pressing a slow kiss to your knee. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time — drunk, adoring, and a little worried even as his cock throbs against your entrance. He waits, patient, until you relax and nod.

Only then does he start pushing in — slow, careful, and so fucking thick. Soobin’s breath catches as the head of his cock slowly sinks into you, stretching you open inch by inch. He’s so thick that even after the improvised prep, your mouth falls open in a silent moan. The pillow under your hips and your leg hooked over his shoulder make the angle devastatingly deep.

“Shit,” he groans, voice raspy and strained. His eyes flutter shut for a second before he forces them open again, watching your face carefully. “Squeezing me too tight... Just breathe, honey.”

You nod shakily, fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he keeps pressing forward, slow and steady. Halfway in, you let out a broken whimper. The stretch burns in the best way, that perfect mix of too much and not enough.

He gives you another moment, then rocks forward again, sinking the rest of the way in until his hips are flush against yours. A deep, relieved groan rumbles out of his chest when he bottoms out. You can feel him throbbing inside you, so full and heavy it makes your head spin.

“Oh my god, baby…” you moan, back arching off the bed.

He stays there for a few seconds, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours while both of you just breathe through it. His flushed chest is pressed against your breasts, skin burning hot. One of his big hands strokes your hips soothingly, the other holding your thigh against his shoulder.

Soobin’s breath hitches. His grip on your thigh tightens almost possessively as he slowly folds you further underneath him — pushing your leg higher, pressing your knee closer to your chest. The new angle forces him even deeper, and a broken moan slips out of you.

Before you can catch your breath, his other hand slides up your back, fingers threading firmly into your hair. He grips the strands near your nape with surprising strength, tugging just hard enough to tilt your head back against the pillow. His long fingers curl tight at the base of your skull, holding you right where he wants you.

Your eyes roll back instantly.

“S— fuck—” The word comes out shaky, almost slurred. The alcohol in your system basically all gone now.

He lets out a low, satisfied groan at your reaction, lips brushing your jaw.

“You like that?” he rasps, voice deep and rough.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He starts moving.

A deep, deliberate roll of his hips that makes you feel every thick inch dragging inside you. With your leg folded high and his strong grip on your nape and hair, you’re completely pinned under him, helpless in the best way. Soobin pulls out almost all the way, then sinks back in with a wet slap, setting a steady, filthy rhythm.

Your hands fly around desperately, not knowing where to hold on. You fist the sheets first, twisting them hard as he bottoms out again, a broken moan tearing from your throat. On the next thrust you reach for the pillow above your head, gripping it tight, but nothing feels steady enough.

Soobin notices. His grip in your hair tightens just a fraction as he leans closer, chest pressed flush to yours, lips against your ear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

On the next deep thrust you finally settle — one hand flying up to wrap around the thick bicep of the arm that’s gripping your nape. Your fingers dig into the firm muscle there, nails biting into his flushed skin as he drives into you again and again. Your other hand slides across his broad back, scratching down the length of it hard enough to leave marks.

Soobin hisses through his teeth, a shaky groan following right after.

He keeps that steady, punishing rhythm — pulling out slow, then slamming back in deep, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. Every thrust forces a helpless sound out of you. Your nails rake down his back again as he grinds against your walls, and his grip on your hair tightens in response, keeping you right there with him.

Soobin keeps that deep, steady rhythm for a few more thrusts, then suddenly slows. He reaches up, grabs your hand that’s clawing at his bicep, and guides it to the back of his head.

You know exactly what that means.

Your fingers thread through the fluffy strands at the back of his neck and grip tight. The second you tug, you feel your boyfriend's hips stuttering.

He starts giving you shallow, experimental thrusts — little rolls of his hips that let him search for that perfect angle. Not pulling out much, just grinding and adjusting, like he was trying to find momentum or something else your drunken fucked out brain couldn't wrap around it yet. His brows were furrowed in concentration, flushed cheeks glowing under the low light, drunk eyes locked on your face like he’s studying every reaction.

You tug his hair again and his breath catches.

“Fuck—” he murmurs, voice raspy.

He then angles his hips a little higher and gives another shallow thrust.

Your whole body jolts.

A sharp, broken moan rips out of you as he finally hits it — that sweet spot deep inside that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. Soobin’s face lights up instantly, a bright, satisfied grin breaking across his flushed face, dimples deep.

“Fucking finally” he whispers triumphantly, almost giddy even while buried inside you. “Found it.” You want to laugh at his ridiculousness but you're too busy moaning his name out loud.

Soobin doesn’t waste a second. He shifts his weight, one big hand reaching down to fix the pillow under your hips, pushing it a little higher so the angle is even better. Then he hooks your leg more securely over his shoulder, folding you open wider for him.

Now that he’s locked onto your sweet spot, the man turns into a beast so he can focus completely.

His thrusts stay deep but become more targeted — slow, powerful drags that grind right against that patch of warmth on every stroke. The hand that was before gripping your hair, now grips the bed behind your head. The wet, filthy sound of him moving inside you fills the room as he keeps that perfect rhythm, never losing it once he’s found it.

You can only nod and moan, fingers tightening desperately in his skin and back. Every precise thrust makes your eyes roll back again. Soobin groans at the feeling of you pulling his hair, hips snapping a little harder as he chases your pleasure.

He adjusts the angle of your leg one more time, pressing your thigh closer to your chest, and the new depth makes you cry out. Soobin smiles against your neck — proud, drunk, and completely lost in you — while he keeps fucking you with those devastating, focused strokes.

Soobin keeps that perfect rhythm for a few more deep strokes, then suddenly slows again. You're about to curse him out when he gently lowers your leg from his shoulder, letting it wrap around his waist instead. You whine at the loss of the stretch, but the sound turns into a gasp when he slides his long arm underneath your lower back.

“Come here, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough.

With one smooth, powerful motion he pulls your hips up and glues your bodies completely together. Your chests press flush, sweat-slick skin sliding against skin. His arm stays locked around your waist like a steel band, holding you so tightly there’s almost no space left between you. Every breath you take, he feels.

The new angle makes him sink even deeper.

You both moan loudly at the first thrust.

“Fuck— Soobin,” you whimper, legs instinctively circling his narrow hips, heels digging into the back of his thighs to pull him closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers threading back into his hair at the nape like you knew he loved. "This is new, baby—"

“Better, right?” he rasps against your ear, voice wrecked. “Dreamt of this last night and wanted to try with you so bad.”

Soobin groans, deep and broken, burying his face in the crook of your neck for a second. One of his arms is still banded tightly around your waist, holding your entire body glued to his. The other arm is braced beside your head, forearm flexing hard as his hand grips the sheets in a white-knuckled fist.

"Woke up so hard and leaking all over my bed, jagi, just thinking about you like this."

Soobin looks devastating like this.

Broad shoulders curled over you, flushed chest pressed to yours, the muscles in his arm standing out as he holds himself up just enough not to crush you. His messy hair falls over his forehead, cheeks and neck still that pretty, deep pink from the alcohol and exertion. Every time he rolls his hips, the flex of his back and shoulders is mesmerizing.

He starts moving again — slower, but heavier, grinding strokes that press him right against your sweet spot with almost no space to pull out. Because he’s holding you so tightly, every thrust makes your bodies slide together, your clit rubbing against his pelvis on every roll. The wet, intimate sound of him moving inside you is filthy and constant.

You cling to him harder, legs locked around his hips, arms tight around his neck like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp and the back of his shoulders.

Soobin lets out a shaky breath right against your neck.

Your moans mix together, breathy and desperate. He keeps that tight, glued-together rhythm — hips rolling in deep, filthy circles, barely pulling out before pressing back in, keeping you full and pressed against him the whole time.

His flexed arm beside your head tightens, knuckles white on the sheets as he fights to keep control.

He turns his head just enough to kiss you — messy, open-mouthed, and needy — while still holding your entire body flush against his, fucking you deep and slow in that perfect, intimate grind.

You’re getting closer.

Every deep, grinding roll of his hips pushes you higher, that tight coil in your stomach winding impossibly tighter. You can’t stop the needy sounds spilling from your lips. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his back as you pull him even deeper.

Soobin feels it — the way you start clenching around him, the way your breathing turns into short, desperate whimpers.

He grins.

That devastating, dimpled smile spreads across his flushed face, eyes half-lidded and sparkling with drunk affection even as he keeps fucking you slow and deep.

Your lips press messily against his mouth first, then trail across his jaw, sucking lightly at the sharp line there. Soobin’s grin widens, dimples carving deep into his cheeks as he tilts his head to give you more access. You kiss down the flushed column of his neck, open-mouthed and wet, tasting the salt on his skin and the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to him.

Every time your lips or tongue touch him, he lets out a soft, pleased hum, hips never losing their rhythm.

“Fuck… keep doing that,” he breathes, dimples still on full display. His arm around your waist squeezes you tighter, pressing your bodies impossibly closer as he grinds into you. “Love when you kiss me like you can’t get enough.”

You whimper against his neck and bite down gently right below his ear. Soobin’s breath stutters, the arm braced beside your head flexing hard, knuckles white on the sheets.

His arm around your waist holds you even closer, almost lifting your hips off the bed as he drives into you with those perfect, deep grinds. Your arms stay locked around his neck, fingers tugging at his hair while the heat inside you starts to blow up.

“Soobin—” you whimper against his flushed neck, voice shaking.

“I know, baby. I can feel it,” he murmurs, that dimpled grin still tugging at his lips even as his own breathing turns ragged. “You’re getting tighter.”

You bury your face in his neck, kissing and panting against his skin, desperate little moans spilling out with every roll of his hips. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard, and Soobin groans deeply, the sound vibrating against your lips.

“That’s it… let go for me,” he whispers hotly, voice raspy and sweet. “I’ve got it.”

The coil snaps without warning.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard. A broken cry tears from your throat as your whole body seizes up, thighs clamping tight around your boyfriend's waist. You clench around him in pulsing waves, so intensely that your vision whites out for a second. Your back arches hard against him, pressing your chest even tighter to his as pleasure floods every nerve.

Soobin’s dimples disappear as his mouth falls open in a wrecked moan, but he doesn’t stop moving. He keeps grinding deep and steady through your orgasm, drawing it out, letting you ride every wave.

Your nails dig into his back and scalp as you shake in his arms, whimpering and moaning his name like a prayer. The arm around your waist holds you impossibly closer, almost lifting you completely off the bed while he keeps fucking you through it, slow and deep, making sure you feel every single second.

You’re still trembling, thighs shaking around his waist, when Soobin’s thrusts start getting a little more desperate, his breathing turning ragged against your neck.

“Baby… I’m so close,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Still overstimulated and sensitive, you push at his shoulder and then gently but firmly shove his face away from your neck. Soobin blinks, confused for half a second, dimples still faintly visible as he tries to understand.

Before he can ask, you push him harder, rolling him onto his back.

He gets it instantly.

A surprised, breathy laugh escapes him as he wraps both big arms around you and pulls you with him, never once letting you disconnect. In one smooth motion he flips you so you’re straddling his lap, him still buried deep inside you.

“Shit— okay, like this?” he rasps, eyes wide and dark with lust.

You don’t answer with words. You brace your hands on his flushed chest and start riding him.

Soobin’s head falls back against the pillow with a broken moan, eyes rolling for a second as you sink down on him again and again. The new position lets you take him even deeper, and the way your walls flutter around his oversensitive cock makes him look like he’s about to lose his mind.

“Good fuck, jagi—” His voice cracks. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, fingers digging into your skin as you roll your hips in deep, filthy circles.

Soobin looks completely gone underneath you.

Cheeks burning red, neck and chest flushed dark pink, messy hair sticking to his forehead, mouth open in a constant stream of shaky moans. His abs flex every time you sink down on him, and those pretty dimples keep flashing whenever he tries (and fails) to smile through the overwhelming pleasure.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whines, voice raspy and high. “So fucking tight— slow down a little, Y/N, I’m— shit—”

But you don’t slow down. You ride him harder, bouncing on his cock with wet, obscene sounds filling the room. Soobin’s grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as his thighs start trembling underneath you.

His head presses back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before they fly open again, locked on where you two are connected.

“Look at you… riding me so good,” he pants, half-lost in it. “My pretty girl using me after she came all over my cock… fuck, I love you. I love you so much—”

You slap your hand over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his lips.

Soobin’s eyes widen instantly, a muffled, surprised sound vibrating against your palm. You don’t let him recover — you grind down harder, faster, rolling your hips in tight, filthy circles that make his cock drag perfectly against your walls.

His breath hitches sharply through his nose. You can feel the hot, desperate puffs of air against your skin as he’s forced to breathe only through his nose, eyes rolling back slightly.

“Mmm—!” The sound is choked behind your hand, needy and broken. His eyebrows furrow, that pretty flushed face looking completely wrecked as you ride him without mercy.

You lean forward, putting more weight on your hand, keeping his mouth covered while you bounce and grind faster. The wet sounds between your bodies get louder, messier. Soobin’s hands fly to your hips, gripping so hard you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow, but he doesn’t stop you. He can’t.

He starts thrusting up desperately to meet you, hips snapping off the bed in short, frantic strokes. His thighs tremble underneath you. Every time you slam down, he drives up, burying himself as deep as possible.

You feel him throbbing violently inside you.

His eyes squeeze shut, then fly open again — glassy, drunk, and completely gone. Harsh breaths keep punching through his nose against your palm as he fucks up into you with everything he has left, muffled whimpers and groans vibrating against your fingers.

A few more hard, sloppy movements and he breaks.

Soobin’s whole body seizes up beneath you. His back arches sharply off the bed, a loud, broken moan tearing through your hand as he comes hard. You feel every thick pulse of his cock as he spills into the condom, hips jerking uncontrollably while he keeps thrusting up into you through his orgasm, chasing every last second of pleasure.

His eyes stay locked on where you're both connected the entire time — wide, desperate, and so full of lust and love it makes your stomach flip.

When the last powerful spasm finally fades, his body collapses back onto the mattress, chest heaving. You slowly lift your hand from his mouth. He immediately sucks in a deep, shaky breath, lips parted and shiny.

“Jesus” he rasps, voice completely shot. His hands slide up your back, pulling you down onto his chest as he pants against your neck. "You're so fucking hot."

His hands slide up your back immediately, pulling you down onto his chest while both of you try to catch your breath. His heartbeat is still hammering wildly beneath your cheek, skin damp and burning hot against yours. You can barely move without feeling the aftershocks still rolling through both your bodies.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

The room is filled only with uneven breathing and the occasional twitch of Soobin’s thighs underneath you whenever you shift slightly.

Then:

A weak little laugh escapes him.

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His hair is sticking everywhere now, cheeks completely flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy and half-closed from exhaustion and alcohol.

You whisper. "Are you still drunk?"

“Debatable.”

You snort softly.

Soobin groans when you move to sit up properly, arms immediately tightening around your waist to keep you exactly where you are.

“No,” he mumbles.

“I can feel you in my lungs, baby. Is getting uncomfy for me.”

“Stay there.”

“Soobin, we need to breathe.”

“We are breathing.”

Barely.

You laugh quietly again, fingers brushing damp hair away from his forehead while his eyes drift shut under your touch almost instantly.

Drunk Soobin after sex is always devastatingly soft. Especially tonight.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs sleepily against your shoulder. “Feels nice.” A lazy smile tugs at his lips before he suddenly starts laughing under his breath again.

“What?” You look up at him.

“I can’t believe you did that again.”

Your face heats immediately because you know exactly what he means. “You liked it last time.”

“Liked it?” He looks genuinely offended, eyes finally opening properly to stare up at you. “Baby, I begged you to do it again for like three months straight.”

You burst into laughter.

“I’m serious!” he insists, dimples appearing despite how exhausted he looks. “You can’t just do stuff like that and expect me to be normal afterward.”

The memory alone visibly affects him again because his hands squeeze your hips instinctively while he groans dramatically into the pillow.

“Oh my God,” you laugh. “You’re still hard?”

“A little,” he mutters with zero shame. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m drunk and in love with you.”

The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache a little. He notices immediately, because of course he does after all these years. His expression softens. Then quieter now, thumb rubbing slowly along your waist beneath the sheets.

“I hate your idol stamina sometimes,” you mumble, voice muffled against his chest while your fingers lazily trace over the warm skin of his stomach. “I’m really sleepy, Soob. Can't go another round.”

His entire expression melts instantly.

“Aww,” he coos quietly, drunk affection taking over his face so fast it makes you laugh weakly. “My baby’s tired.”

“You literally ruined me.”

“Mhm.” His hand slides slowly up and down your back beneath the sheets, soothing and absentminded. “You did kinda start fighting for your life there at the end.”

You groan immediately and shove weakly at his chest.

“Shut up.”

His laugh rumbles warmly underneath your cheek. The room feels smaller and warmer, filled only with your shared breathing and quiet giggles. Soobin’s arms stay wrapped around you like he has no intention of ever letting go, his big hand still rubbing slow circles on your back.

After a minute, he sighs deeply, the sound content and sleepy.

“Okay… I should probably deal with this,” he mumbles, glancing down between your bodies where he’s still buried inside you, the condom now full.

You hum in agreement but don’t move. Neither does he for a few seconds. He just holds you tighter, pressing one last lazy kiss to your forehead.

With a soft groan, Soobin gently starts to pull out. You both hiss at the sensitivity — you from being overstimulated, him from how raw he feels. The moment he slips free, you immediately miss the fullness, letting out a tiny whine.

Soobin chuckles softly at the sound.

“'Can't go another round',” he mocks you, voice hoarse.

He carefully rolls you onto your side beside him, then sits up with visible effort. His tall frame sways a little as he swings his long legs off the bed. The lamplight catches on his flushed skin, the red still blooming beautifully across his neck and chest, sweat making his broad shoulders glisten.

You watch him lazily from the pillows as he peels the condom off with a tired grimace, ties it, and pads across the room on slightly unsteady legs. Even drunk and fucked-out, he’s graceful in that quiet, giant-boy way — tall, broad back flexing as he tosses the condom into the small trash bin near your desk.

He comes back immediately, crawling onto the bed like a big, clingy cat and collapsing half on top of you again. His head lands on your chest with a dramatic sigh, one arm slung heavily over your waist, leg tangled between yours.

“Done,” he mumbles against your skin, already sounding half-asleep. “Can we stay like this forever now?”

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, smiling.

“Yeah, Soob. Forever sounds good.”

He nuzzles closer, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss right over your heart. His voice is barely a whisper now, warm and sleepy.

“Love you… so much. Thank you for letting me have you.”

You kiss the top of his head, heart full.

“Always, baby. Now sleep.”

Soobin hums happily, already drifting off with his flushed cheek squished against you, dimples still faintly visible even in sleep.

author's note — had so much fun writing this mwahahahah

His phone lights up. A notification. He ignores it for exactly three seconds.

Then he grabs it anyways. His self-respect? Non-existent.

psycho stalker: i feel insane psycho stalker: don’t laugh at me

Yeonjun lets out a slow breath. He types back with his thumbs, pretending he’s calm.

yeonjun: i’m not laughing yeonjun: you’re just dramatic

Your reply comes instantly.

psycho stalker: YOU’RE DRAMATIC psycho stalker: you literally said “ u okay?” every two minutes like safety briefing

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He rolls onto his back, phone above his face.

yeonjun: consent is sexy yeonjun: sue me

psycho stalker: i’m going to sue you for emotional damages psycho stalker: also i can’t stop thinking about it

His hands go numb. He keeps his reply blunt, because if he gets soft he’ll hate himself.

yeonjun: thinking about what exactly

There’s a pause. Long enough that he stares at the typing… bubble like it’s going to slap him.

psycho stalker: the make out

Yeonjun closes his eyes. He shouldn’t encourage this. He should be responsible. He should—his phone buzzes again.

psycho stalker: also i can feel my heartbeat in my clit and i hate that sentence but it’s true

Yeonjun sits up so fast his pillow falls. “Jesus Christ,” he says out loud, to an empty room.

His thumbs hover over the screen. He types.

yeonjun: congratulations yeonjun: you’ve unlocked being horny

psycho stalker: don’t say horny like you’re a doctor

yeonjun: you’re the one sending me medical updates about your clit

psycho stalker: I’M PANICKING psycho stalker: i’m literally not built for this

Yeonjun stares at the last message. He’s built a whole reputation off being built for this. Being the guy who knows what he’s doing—being unbothered. And you’re sitting somewhere, wide-eyed and spiralling, and you still chose him.

His phone starts ringing. Your name. Yeonjun freezes, then answers before he can overthink it.

“Yeah?” he says, voice low, steady. A little too smooth. Habit.

On the other end you inhale, then laugh in a way that sounds half-crazed. “My fingers hurt,” you whine.

Yeonjun blinks. “From what?”

“From texting you,” you say. “From typing lies for months. From existing.”

He snorts. “That’s tragic.”

“Don’t start,” you say, but you’re smiling. He can hear it. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” Yeonjun says, and regrets it immediately because it sounds too intimate.

You pause. “Why not?”

Yeonjun doesn’t answer honestly. He answers safely. “Because you’re chaotic,” he says. “My nervous system hates you.”

“Your nervous system?” you repeat. “You talk like you read one self-help book and made it your personality.”

“I did,” Yeonjun says. “It was on Twitter. It counts.”

You laugh again, softer this time. Then you say, quieter, “Can we talk about something else before I embarrass myself more?”

Yeonjun shifts in bed, jaw ticking once. “Go on.”

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “One Piece.”

Yeonjun grins, relieved. “Thank fuck.”

“I’m not even joking,” you say. “I need you to tell me you’re not one of those people who thinks Sanji is better than Zoro.”

Yeonjun scoffs. “You called me at 2am to start a fight?”

“Yes.”

“Zoro clears,” he says instantly.

You make a satisfied noise. “Good. Because if you said Sanji I’d have to block you.”

“Bold threat from someone who asked me for blowjob lessons,” Yeonjun says, deadpan.

You choke. “Yeonjun—”

“What?” he says, too calm. “It’s factually correct.”

“I hate you,” you whisper, mortified.

“You don’t,” he replies, and he can hear the grin in his own voice.

You groan. “Okay. Fine. Zoro. Great. Favourite arc?”

Yeonjun hesitates. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Why.”

“Because you’re going to judge me.”

“I’m already judging you,” you say. “That’s our dynamic now.”

Yeonjun laughs, quiet. “Dressrosa.”

You scream. “I KNEW IT.”

“How the hell did you know?” he demands.

“Because you give Dressrosa energy,” you say, smug. “Also, I saw you watch a Dressrosa edit like five times in a row.”

“So you’re not only stalking me,” he says, “you’re spying on my screen.”

“You should be honoured,” you reply. “I’m selective with my crimes.”

Yeonjun shakes his head, smiling into the dark despite himself.

“What about manhwa?” you add. “Please tell me you read Solo Leveling.”

Yeonjun hums a breath of amusement. “Obviously.”

“Okay good,” you say, triumphant. “Because if you didn’t, I was about to revoke your hot card.”

“My hot card,” he repeats. “That’s insane.”

“You’re literally the campus playboy,” you say. “You don’t get to act offended.”

Yeonjun goes quiet for half a second, then says, lightly, “Yeah. The playboy.”

You don’t notice the shift. You keep going. “And your music,” you say. “Don’t lie. You look like you’d listen to Chase Atlantic and pretend it’s for the aesthetic.”

“It is for the aesthetic,” Yeonjun says. “And because it hits.”

You hum, pleased. “Okay. We have taste. That’s dangerous.”

Yeonjun’s throat tightens. He keeps it crude to cover the softness. “Dangerous for who,” he says. “Your crush in Switzerland or my peace of mind?”

You laugh, then go quiet. When you speak again your voice is smaller. Real. “Yeonjun,” you say. “Do you think I’m… pathetic?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Not because he doesn’t know—because he wants to answer it right. “No,” he says, firm. “I think you’re stressed.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is,” he says. “Because you’re not trying to be a player. You’re trying not to be embarrassed.”

You swallow audibly. “I’m scared he’ll go in for a kiss and I’m going to freeze.”

“Then you say you’re scared,” Yeonjun replies. “Out loud. In the moment.”

You scoff. “That’s humiliating.”

Yeonjun’s voice stays steady. “Humiliating is pretending you’re fine and then having a panic attack mid-hookup.”

You go silent. Then, “True.”

Yeonjun shifts, relief creeping in. “See. You’re not stupid.”

You yawn, suddenly. “What time is it?”

Yeonjun checks. His eyes widen. “It’s nearly seven.”

You make a horrified sound. “Oh my God. We’ve been on the phone all night.”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says, rubbing his face. “We’re idiots.”

You laugh, sleepy. “I have seminar.”

“Same,” he mutters.

A beat. Then you say, soft but blunt, “I’m still thinking about your mouth.”

Yeonjun’s breath catches. He forces his voice to stay casual. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “And I hate that I liked it.”

Yeonjun swallows once. His dick starts twitching again and he squeezes his eyes shut, annoyed. “Get used to it,” he says, low. “You’re allowed to like things.”

You’re quiet. Then you murmur, “Okay.” Another beat. “See you,” you say.

“See you,” Yeonjun replies.

You hang up.

Yeonjun lies there staring at the ceiling in the grey morning light—fully awake, fully exhausted, and very aware that this is getting messy in a way he can’t solve with rules.

Yeonjun walks into the seminar hall looking dead on his feet and somehow still grinning. He sees you first.

You look wrecked in the same way—hair a little chaotic, eyes puffy, mouth glossed, expression soft around the edges. The second your eyes meet, you both lose it. A full laugh escapes before either of you can stop it.

People turn. Your friend, the loud one, turns too—slowly, dramatically. His gaze flicks between you and Yeonjun, then narrows. “What the fuck is this,” he whispers, loud enough to be heard by God. “Why do you both look like you just committed a crime together?”

Yeonjun drops into the seat beside you, leans forward, and mutters, “Don’t.”

You try to swallow your laugh and fail. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “I’ll start laughing again and then I’ll have to fake my death.”

Your friend’s—Beomgyu’s—eyes widen with joy. “Oh my God. You’re flirting.”

“We are not,” you and Yeonjun say at the exact same time.

Beomgyu presses a hand to his chest, delighted. “That was synchronised. That’s disgusting.”

Yeonjun stares straight ahead, jaw tight, trying to look bored. It’s his best defence. It’s also useless because under the desk your knee bumps his again—small, accidental—and his whole body reacts anyway.

He doesn’t move. He just whispers, “Stop touching me.”

You blink at him, offended. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m just… fragile.”

You snort into your sleeve.

The lecturer starts talking. Something about policy. Something about ethics. The seminar drags. Yeonjun and you don’t.

You whisper little comments under your breath—about the lecturer’s dead tone, about the guy two rows down who keeps coughing like he’s trying to summon attention, about the fact that you’re both running on fumes and bad decisions.

Yeonjun murmurs, “If I fall asleep and start drooling, kill me.”

You whisper back, “If you drool, I’m taking a picture.”

Yeonjun turns his head, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

Your mouth twitches. “Watch me.”

Yeonjun breathes out, controlled. He should stop this. He should shut it down. He should act normal. Instead, he nudges his foot against yours under the desk once, quick and stupid. Your eyes widen and you smile like you caught him doing something he’ll deny later.

Yeonjun looks forward again, annoyed at his own face. 

Halfway through, his phone buzzes. A notification from the cinema app. The Demon Slayer movie. The one you both complained about missing on opening weekend. He opens it, checks the time slots, then hesitates.

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t feed this. Then he slides his phone over to you anyway. On the screen is the listing for the movie. Two seats. Late showing.

Your eyes light up. You glance at him, then the screen, then him again.

Yeonjun keeps his voice low. Casual. Like he’s asking you to borrow a pen. “Wanna go?” he whispers.

You blink. “Are you—”

“Don’t overthink it,” Yeonjun cuts in, quiet. “It’s literally a movie.”

Your smile grows. “Yeah. I wanna go.”

From two seats in front, Beomgyu’s head snaps around so fast it’s almost athletic. “Oooooh,” he says, grinning. “Is that a date?”

You and Yeonjun turn to him at the same time.

“Shut up, Beomgyu,” you hiss.

“Shut the fuck up, Beomgyu,” Yeonjun echoes, equally sharp.

Beomgyu clutches his chest again. “Double shut ups. Wow. I’ve never felt so seen.”

“It’s not a date,” you whisper, mortified.

Yeonjun adds, “It’s an anime. Relax.”

Beomgyu’s grin turns feral. “That’s worse. That’s nerd intimacy.”

“Turn around,” Yeonjun warns.

Beomgyu turns back around, still smiling. “Well alright then,” he says, voice smug. “Enjoy your nerd foreplay.”

Yeonjun pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes forward. “I’m going to kill him.”

You whisper, “Please do. I’ll help.”

The lecturer keeps talking. Nobody is listening.

Yeonjun can feel you vibrating with excitement beside him and it does something annoying to his chest.

You clear your throat, trying to sound normal. You fail. “So,” you whisper. “Movie next Thursday?”

Yeonjun nods once. “Yeah.”

You hesitate, then shift closer, voice dropping lower. “And—after the movie—we can go to my place?” You pause, cheeks going pink. “For lesson two.”

Yeonjun’s whole body goes still from the way you say it—quiet, direct, brave in that shaky way you have. No flirting. No performance. Just you asking for what you want. Heat shoots low, immediate. His jaw tightens. He forces his face not to react.

He manages, very carefully, “You’re just saying that in public? In a seminar? With your friend two feet in front of you?”

You whisper back, “I said it quietly.”

Yeonjun’s eyes flick to the back of Beomgyu’s head. He knows Beomgyu is the type to hear frequencies only dogs and gossip can pick up. Yeonjun leans closer, voice barely there. “You’re going to get us murdered.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “You’re dramatic.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Because I enjoy living drama free.”

You look at him, still smiling, and something in him loosens despite every instinct screaming to tighten up. He nods once. “Okay.”

Your eyes widen. “Okay?”

Yeonjun keeps his voice low. “Okay. Movie. Then your place. Lesson two.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath all semester. Then you add, because you’re you, “We’re still doing the rules, though.”

Yeonjun huffs a laugh. “Yeah. We’re still doing the rules.”

“No feelings,” you say, a little too quickly.

Yeonjun’s throat tightens. He doesn’t look at you when he answers, because he can’t afford to. “Yeah,” he says anyway. “No feelings.”

Beomgyu turns around again immediately, eyes glittering. “Why do I feel sexual tension behind me?”

Yeonjun doesn’t even blink. “Because you’re unemployed in the head.”

Beomgyu gasps. “I’m just saying—”

“Turn around,” Yeonjun says.

Beomgyu turns around, laughing to himself. “Okay, okay. God. Touchy.”

Yeonjun stares at the front of the hall, and tells his face to behave.

Under the desk, your knee bumps his again—this time on purpose. Yeonjun swallows. He’s supposed to be teaching you. Instead, he’s the one sitting here with his pulse in his throat, thinking about the fact that next week you’ll be alone again.

A week later, Thursday arrives.

Unlike lesson one, you have been wanting lesson two. You’ve been thinking about his mouth for days and it’s getting embarrassing.

You tell yourself it’s not a date. You say it out loud while you’re getting dressed, as if your mirror is going to argue back. 

“Not a date,” you mutter, pulling on your best outfit anyway.

Because if it’s not a date, why are you shaving? Why are you moisturising? Why are you picking underwear that makes you feel confident instead of underwear that says I’m here for comfort and survival?

You check your phone.

yeonjun: outside

Your stomach drops—annoyingly dramatic. You grab your coat, lock your door, and step out.

He’s leaning against a lamppost, hands in his pockets, hair a mess in that intentional way that makes him look expensive without trying. He looks up when he hears you, and his face changes in this small, stupid way—like he’s genuinely glad to see you.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink. “Hi.”

He glances you up and down—quick, polite, controlled—but his mouth twitches. “You look—” he starts.

“Don’t,” you say instantly, because compliments right now will actually kill you.

He huffs a laugh. “Okay. You look normal.”

“You’re such a liar,” you say, walking past him.

He falls into step beside you. “What? I’m just respecting the agenda.”

“Don’t talk about the agenda out loud,” you hiss. “If you say lesson two in public I’m going to fake my own death.”

Yeonjun looks pleased with himself. “So dramatic.”

“You’re unbearable.”

He bumps his shoulder lightly into yours, and the contact is so casual it makes your chest tighten. You hate him a little for that.

The cinema is nearly empty.

It’s Thursday. Late screening. Everyone who cares has already watched it. Everyone who doesn’t care is at home doing something normal—like sleeping, instead of going to a movie with the campus fuckboy they’re allegedly using for sex homework.

Yeonjun buys popcorn like he does this every week. He does the whole thing—one hand in his pocket, the other tapping his card, face bored, like the cashier isn’t watching him the way people always do.

Then he hands you the popcorn and says, “Don’t spill it.”

You snort. “What are you, my dad?”

“I’m your supervisor,” he says, deadpan. “This is a practical.”

You choke on a laugh. “Stop calling it that.”

He leans in slightly, voice low. “You’re the one who asked for… tutoring.”

Your cheeks go hot. “Okay. Okay. Be quiet.”

Yeonjun smiles like he won something.

You both walk into the screen and pick seats in the middle because you’re pretending you’re normal people who came here for a movie and not two idiots with a rulebook and a shared secret.

The trailers start. The room is dark. The sound is loud. You can feel him beside you even when you’re not looking. His knee is close to yours. His shoulder. His warmth. You try to focus on the screen. 

You do, for a while.

Then your hand dips into the popcorn at the exact same time as his. Your fingers brush. Your breath catches.

Yeonjun doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t jerk back. He just stills for half a second, fingers against yours, as if he’s deciding whether to pretend it didn’t happen.

You turn your head. He’s already looking at you. Dark room. Flickering light. His eyes steady on your face.

He raises a brow—silent question. You swallow. Your whole body goes hot, not from romance—fuck romance—just from the fact that you’re suddenly aware of your own mouth again. Your own body. Your own nerve.

You lift your hand out of the popcorn slowly. Yeonjun’s gaze follows it. You can see the exact moment he realises you’re not reaching for more popcorn.

His jaw tightens. His throat moves when he swallows. He leans closer, voice barely a thread. “What are you doing?”

You keep your eyes on him. You force the words out even though your heart is trying to escape. “Tell me if I’m doing this wrong,” you whisper.

Yeonjun goes very still. Then he lets out a breath that sounds half laugh, half warning. “In a cinema?” he murmurs, incredulous. “Are you actually insane?”

Your lips part. “Maybe.”

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up, and it feels like he's done this a dozen times before—in dark corners, with girls who know the score. But you're the one here now—pulse hammering.

You slide your hand over to his thigh, fingers trembling just a little as you press down, feeling him through his jeans. He shifts in his seat, not away, but into it—subtle, like he's guiding without saying it.

"Here?" he whispers, voice rougher now—glancing back at the scattered people in the rear rows, their heads lolling, eyes half-shut against the glow of the screen. 

The movie's started, explosions rumbling through the speakers, masking everything. No one's looking. No one cares.

You nod, biting your lip, and let your palm slide higher—fingers fumbling before finding the growing bulge straining against the denim. He’s hard already, or getting there fast, the outline hot and insistent under your touch. 

You squeeze tentatively, then firmer when he hisses softly, his hand coming up to grip the armrest like he's bracing. Is this right? You think it must be—but your grip is uneven as you rub up and down the length of him through the fabric, feeling it twitch under your palm.

Yeonjun's head tips back against the seat for a second, eyes fluttering shut before he forces them open, locking onto yours in the dim light. "Slower," he mutters, voice strained. 

His free hand lands on your knee, squeezing. It sends a jolt straight between your legs, your panties dampening as you squirm in your seat, thighs pressing together for friction you can't quite get.

You adjust your rhythm, stroking him through his pants with long drags, your thumb circling what you think is the head. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you, and his hips buck up into your hand, like he can't help it. 

"Like that?" you breathe, leaning closer—your breath mingling with his.

"Yeah," he rasps, but it comes out choked.

His fingers are digging into your thigh now, sliding up a bit too fast and bumping your hip before retreating. 

His other hand reaches over, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he pulls you in for a kiss. In the dark, his lips land on your chin before he corrects, slanting his mouth over yours. Tongues tangle, wet and eager, the taste of butter and salt from the popcorn mixed with mint and smoke.

You keep stroking him, your hand speeding up without meaning to, feeling him throb under your fingers. Pre-cum must be soaking through—slick under your palm as you rub harder. 

Yeonjun breaks away to gasp against your neck, teeth grazing your skin too sharply before he licks over it. "Fuck, you're gonna make me—" He cuts off with a muffled grunt, hips jerking up again and grinding into your hand.

The people in the back shift in their seats—one coughs, half-asleep—and you freeze for a heartbeat, heat flooding your face, but Yeonjun just pulls you closer, his breath hot on your ear. "Don't stop," he whispers. 

You start again, slower, squeezing the base before sliding up. You feel him pulse. Your own body's on fire, clit throbbing untouched, but the risk of it all—the public dark, the chance of getting caught—makes it sharper.

He comes with a stifled moan into your shoulder, body tensing as warmth spreads under your hand—soaking through his jeans in sticky pulses. 

You keep rubbing through it until he grabs your wrist gently, stopping you with a shaky laugh. "Easy," he murmurs, eyes dark and dazed as he looks at you, chest heaving. 

His hand slides between your thighs then, fingers pressing over your jeans right where you're aching—hesitant, circling too low, then higher when you shift into it with a whimper.

But the lights flicker—the movie's hitting a bright scene—and he pulls back, both of you breathing hard, rearranging clothes with fumbling hands. 

You glance at him, lips swollen, a wet spot darkening his crotch that he hides with the popcorn bucket. You swallow, still throbbing—because fuck, if this is what inexperience feels like with him, you want more.

The bathroom lighting in this cinema is criminal.

It’s too bright, too white, too honest—the kind that makes everyone look tired and guilty even when they’re just here to piss and go home.

Yeonjun looks guilty anyway.

Not because he did anything wrong. Because he did something stupid.

He stands at the sink with his hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands wet, jaw clenched. He’s trying to scrub at his boxers with cold water, and it’s not working. It’s cum. It’s biology. It’s a consequence.

He mutters under his breath, “Fuck.” Then, louder, to himself, like it’ll help, “Fuck.”

He catches his reflection in the mirror and freezes for a second—dark hair a mess, mouth still a little swollen from kissing, pupils dilated from poor decisions. He’s meant to look effortless. He’s meant to look smug. He looks—wrecked.

He leans closer to the mirror and stares at himself like the glass is going to explain why his life has turned into a porno plot with a budget of zero. His throat bobs when he swallows. His dick is still an idiot, soft now but sensitive in a way that makes him want to punch a wall. He adjusts his waistband and winces.

You had no experience. He had no business letting you do that in a room full of strangers. What the hell is wrong with him?

He rinses his fingers again, scrubs harder, gives up—then stuffs the ruined boxers into a wad of paper towel with the resigned fury of a man disposing of evidence.

His shoulders lift with a slow breath. He straightens. Fixes his face. Easy grin. Doesn’t care.

He opens the door.

And there you are, leaning against the wall outside the bathroom, pretending you’re casually waiting for a friend when you’re obviously waiting for him.

Your hair has slipped a little. Your lip gloss looks smudged, and your eyes are bright in a way that makes his stomach tighten for reasons he doesn’t want to name. You’re holding your phone in both hands, thumbs moving too fast—fake calm. 

He stops.

You look up.

For half a second, you both just stare at each other, and the memory hits again—your hand in his lap, your mouth on his, the stupid little grunt he made as he came undone.

You swallow. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, which is what men say when they are absolutely not fine.

You step closer anyway, eyes dropping to his jeans, then lifting back to his face. “Did you—”

“Don’t say anything like that in a hallway outside a public toilet,” he says, low and sharp. Then he pauses, and adds, quieter, “Please.”

The please knocks you off balance. You nod once. “Okay.”

Yeonjun’s jaw flexes. He looks down at you—really looks—and his eyes flick to your mouth again, like he can’t help it. Then he drags his gaze away, annoyed at himself. “Come on,” he mutters.

You fall into step beside him.

Outside, the air is cold enough to sober you up even though you weren’t drunk to begin with. The cinema sign glows behind you, neon and stupid and cheerful. People spill out in small groups, laughing, complaining about plot holes, living normal lives.

You and Yeonjun walk in silence for about ten seconds before you break.

“I can’t believe I did that,” you whisper.

Yeonjun doesn’t look at you. “I can.”

You stare. “Excuse me?”

His mouth tightens. “I knew you were feral since you asked me for sex lessons.”

You choke. “I am not feral.”

Yeonjun finally glances at you. One brow lifts. “You gave me a handjob during Demon Slayer.”

You hiss, “Stop saying it so loud.”

“I’m not loud,” he says, immediately lying.

You walk faster, mortified. “I was nervous.”

“You weren’t nervous,” Yeonjun replies, voice flat. “You were confident.”

You nearly trip. “I was terrified.”

Yeonjun’s gaze slides over your face. “You didn’t look terrified.”

“Because I’m insane,” you say. “Because I’m trying to fix my life with—dick skills.”

Yeonjun lets out a single laugh that sounds more like a choke. “You keep calling it skills like you’re talking about a CV.”

You throw your hands up. “That’s what this is.”

Yeonjun shakes his head, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitching—amusement he’s trying to bury because the situation is too stupid to encourage. You look at him again, properly. He’s walking a little stiff. His shoulders are tense. His hands are in his pockets like he’s holding himself together physically.

You slow. “Okay,” you say, more gently. “Talk to me. What’s the plan, then? Because you can’t just go home in that state.”

Yeonjun rubs his face. “My plan is to go home, shower, burn my jeans, and pretend I didn’t just commit a felony in a cinema.”

“You can’t,” you say, stubborn. “You said no roommates, no audience, no one finding out. If your mate sees you doing the Walk of Shame in your own house, he’s going to rip you apart.”

Yeonjun glares.

You hold his gaze. “Come to mine.”

His steps slow. He looks at you properly now—suspicion, caution, the flicker of something hot under it. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “We’re not going to your place because I came in my trousers.”

You lift your chin. “Why not?”

“Because that sounds insane,” he says. “Because it sounds deliberate. Because it sounds—” He stops, then says it blunt, “Because it sounds like you’re trying to fuck me again.”

Something dips low in your gut. You don’t pretend it doesn’t. You take a breath. Decide to be honest. “I am trying to fuck you again.”

Yeonjun freezes.

You keep going, because you’re already dead. “Not right now on the pavement. I’m not asking you to bend me over in an alley. I’m asking you to come to mine so you can clean up and not get caught. And yes—I also don’t want you to leave.”

Yeonjun stares at you for a long second. Then, tightly, “You’re dangerous.”

You shrug. “You agreed to teach me sex. You can’t act surprised I want sex.”

He drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.” He sighs, defeated. “Fine.”

Your chest loosens. “Thank you.”

Yeonjun points at you. “Don’t thank me. And don’t make it weird.”

You blink, innocent. “When have I ever made anything weird?”

Yeonjun deadpans, “You’re literally the reason I’m walking around with cum in my jeans.”

You clamp a hand over your mouth to stop the laugh. It escapes anyway.

Yeonjun looks away, jaw tight, but you see it—the tiny smile he can’t fully kill.

Your place feels too close.

You’re aware of it the whole way there. The fact that you’re leading him to your door. The fact that you’re both still buzzing from what happened in the dark. When you unlock your door, your hands fumble. 

Yeonjun watches. “You’re shaking,” he says.

You glare without heat. “So are you.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Inside, you kick off your shoes. Yeonjun pauses on your threshold and scans the space again—quick and sharp—checking for people, cameras, judgement.

“No roommates,” you say. “It’s just me.”

Yeonjun nods once. “Bathroom.”

“Down the hall.”

He moves fast, like if he slows down he’ll start thinking. The door shuts. You stand in your kitchen for a second and stare at nothing, heart hammering.

Then you hear his voice, muffled through the door, “Do you have a plastic bag?”

You grab one. “Yes.”

You walk over and slide it through the crack without looking. A beat.

Then Yeonjun says, dry as hell, “Thank you for handling my biohazard.”

“Anytime.”

The door opens a fraction. A hand appears with his jeans and boxers bundled together in the bag.

You take them. Your fingers brush his for half a second. Both of you go still.

Yeonjun’s voice drops. “Don’t touch me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll get hard again,” he says—and the honesty hits so sharp you feel it behind your ribs.

Your mouth goes dry. “Oh.”

Yeonjun shuts the door.

You stand there for a second holding his clothes, pulse roaring. Then you walk to your washing machine and dump everything straight in, no ceremony. Hot wash. Extra rinse. Detergent. You press start with the solemnity of disposing of evidence. The machine begins to churn.

A minute later, Yeonjun comes out, hair damp at the edges, t-shirt clinging slightly and a towel from your bathroom wrapped around his lower body. He looks calmer—until his eyes land on the washing machine and then on you.

“You actually did it,” he says.

“You thought I was joking?” you ask.

Yeonjun scoffs. “I don’t know what you are.”

You open a drawer and pull out sweatpants. “Wear this.”

He stares at it. “That’s yours.”

“They’re clean,” you say. “And they’re big.”

Yeonjun’s brows lift. “This is humiliating.”

“You came in public,” you remind him. “We crossed humiliating hours ago.”

His lips part. He shuts them again, fighting a smile. He takes the sweatpants, disappears into the bathroom, then comes back a minute later.

Your mouth goes dry.

Yeonjun catches you staring. His voice goes low. “What?”

You clear your throat. “Nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Say nothing when you’re obviously thinking something filthy.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not thinking something filthy.”

His gaze holds yours. “What do you want?”

The question lands heavy. You don’t dodge it. You say it simply. “I want lesson two.”

Yeonjun’s breathing shifts. The air changes with it. He steps closer. “You understand,” he says, voice rough, “if we start again tonight, it’s not going to be the cute make-out version.”

Your pulse stutters. “Good.”

Yeonjun’s eyes darken. Then he gives you one last out, because underneath the mouth and the reputation, he’s still careful even when he’s trying to be hard about it. “You sure?” he asks, quiet.

You swallow. “Yes.”

Yeonjun’s heart slams against his ribs. The pull toward you twists sharper than it should, but he shoves it down. 

He steps closer, thumb grazing your jaw in a move he’s practiced in mirrors—confident, or at least it looks that way. “Bedroom,” he murmurs, low and rough, borrowing from some late-night scroll through advice forums.

You nod, leading him there. He follows, eyes flicking to the curve of your back, his cock already twitching in those ridiculous sweatpants. 

The room smells of you—laundry detergent and something sweeter—and it hits him harder than expected, making his steps falter for a split second. 

He recovers, shutting the door with a soft click, then turns. “Get on the bed,” he says, aiming for commanding, but his voice cracks at the end.

You perch on the edge, looking up at him with a bold stare that makes nerves skitter under his ribs. He kneels between your legs, hands landing on your thighs. Yeonjun’s fingers dig too deep before he lightens up, sliding them higher. 

Leaning in, he kisses you, tongue pushing forward eagerly, clashing with yours in a wet skid that makes him pull back half an inch. “Shit—sorry,” he mutters, laughing breathlessly against your lips, heat creeping up his neck. 

But you laugh too—a soft, shaky sound—and it eases something in him. “Okay, again,” you whisper, pulling him back.

He dives in slower this time, tasting popcorn salt on your tongue. Yeonjun’s breath hitches when your fingers tangle in his hair, yanking a strand too hard. He trails kisses down your neck, teeth grazing skin—nipping too sharply once, making you yelp. 

“Ow—wait, that tickles more than hurts,” you say, giggling through it, your body squirming under him.

He smirks to cover the flush on his face, murmuring, “Ticklish, huh? Noted for next time,” like it’s all part of the plan. 

Inside, he’s scrambling—does that even count as sexy?—but you arch closer, so he keeps going, hands fumbling with your shirt hem. “Lift up,” he says, tugging it off. 

The fabric catches on your elbow for a stubborn second before it gives. Your bra comes into view, and he stares—transfixed by the lace and the way your chest rises with each pant.

“Yeonjun?” you prompt, voice small and trembling.

“Yeah—fuck, you’re hot,” he blurts. 

His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp, fingers slipping off the hook twice—three times—muttering a curse under his breath. “Come on,” he grumbles to himself, finally unhooking it with a triumphant snap that’s louder than intended. 

The bra slides off, and there you are, nipples hard, and the sight punches the air from his lungs. Fuck, you’re beautiful, curves and softness that he wants to bury himself in. His cock strains harder.

He dips his head, mouth latching onto one nipple too hastily, sucking—firmer when you gasp. Your hand tightens in his hair again, guiding him. He switches sides, tongue flicking out in experimental swirls, saliva trailing down your skin. 

“Do you like that?” he asks, pulling back for a breath, voice rough—eyes searching your face to make sure he’s not screwing up.

“Yeah—keep going,” you breathe. Your thighs shift restlessly.

Emboldened, he hooks fingers into your waistband. “These need to go too,” he says, trying for a practiced line, but it comes out breathier than planned. 

You lift your hips, and he yanks your pants down, fabric snagging on one ankle—he tugs harder, nearly toppling you both with a muttered “Whoops.” 

Panties still on, he pushes them aside, exposing you—wet and inviting. The scent hits him like a wave. Yeonjun’s mouth goes dry, pause stretching too long as he stares, unsure where to start.

“You okay?” you ask, propping up on elbows, cheeks pink.

“Totally,” he lies smoothly, recovering the persona with a grin. “Just admiring the view.” 

He leans in, breath ghosting over you, then presses a kiss to your inner thigh—too close to your knee at first. Then adjusts higher with a slide that bumps his nose against your core prematurely. 

You jolt, a surprised laugh bubbling out. “Hey—warn a girl,” you say, swatting his shoulder lightly.

“Sorry—not sorry,” Yeonjun shoots back. 

His tongue darts out, licking a stripe over your clit. You moan, hips bucking up too fast, smacking his chin. 

“Easy,” he chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but inside his heart races—is this right? Too much? 

He tries again, tongue circling slower. His rhythm falters as he explores, tasting you fully now—salty, sweet, tangy, and addictive. He's hard as hell, grinding subtly against the mattress for relief.

He slips a finger in, pushing too deep at first—you tense, whispering “Slower”—and he pulls back a bit, curling, breath catching when you whimper approval.

“Fuck, Yeonjun—that’s—don’t stop,” you pant, words clashing with the way your hand fumbles to his shoulder, squeezing.

He adds suction, lips closing around your clit too loosely before tightening. You grind up, smearing wetness across his cheek. 

It’s chaotic—his free hand slips on your thigh, gripping too high then sliding down—but the sounds you make spur him on, his own arousal throbbing painfully. 

“Taste so good,” Yeonjun mutters against you. The dirty line feels awkward on his tongue, like he’s quoting something he shouldn’t, but your moan makes it worth it.

Your breaths quicken, body trembling—close, he thinks—and the need to feel more overwhelms him. 

“Wait—turn around,” he rasps, pulling back with a gasp, lips slick. “I want—wanna try this way.”

You blink, hazy. “Like—on top?”

“Yeah, trust me,” Yeonjun says, the mask holding as he maneuvers you—elbows bumping, your knee nearly clipping his ear.

You straddle his face backward, ass hovering uncertainly until he guides you down—hands slipping on your hips once before steadying. 

His tongue dives back in greedily, lapping at you as you settle, but now your fingers tug at his waistband.

“These are in the way,” you say, bold as you pull his cock free—just enough, sweatpants shoved down his thighs. You wrap a hand around him, stroking dry and hesitant, thumb smearing pre-cum. “Like this?” you ask.

“Fuck—yeah, but wetter,” he groans into you, the vibration making you twitch. 

You spit into your palm—dripping onto his shirt—and try again, grip too loose then tightening. 

When you lean down to take him in your mouth, your lips stretch around the head tentatively. Your tongue is flat and probing at first, teeth grazing lightly. He hisses, hips jerking up involuntarily, bumping too deep.

You gag, pulling off with a cough and a watery-eyed laugh. “Too much—sorry.”

“No—keep going—it feels good,” he encourages, voice strained, thrusting shallowly again without control. 

It’s a disaster—your bobbing falters when his tongue slips off-target, hitting your inner thigh instead. His laps turn sloppy when you suck harder, distracting him into a muffled “Wait—fuck, right there.” 

Saliva drips from your mouth onto his base, his chin soaked with you, breaths ragged and interrupted by petty whines—yours when he pauses too long, his when your hand twists.

But the need overrides it all, building frantic. 

“I’m—I think I’m close,” you warn, voice muffled around him, thighs quaking.

“Do it—come on my face,” he blurts, the filthy line cracking out unbidden, desperate and pushing you over. 

You cry out around his cock, convulsing, flooding his tongue as he licks through it. It’s too much—he thrusts up once more, spilling into your mouth with a groan, hot and erratic, some dribbling down your chin as you swallow what you can, coughing lightly.

You both collapse, panting—bodies tangled in a sweaty, awkward heap. He stares at the ceiling, heart racing. The unnamed pull in his chest is stronger now, but he brushes it off as afterglow. You roll off him, looking wrecked and satisfied. 

He pulls you close without thinking, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Yeonjun lies still for a moment, staring at your ceiling as if it’s going to tell him what the hell to do next.

Your room is small, warm, lived-in. Unmade bed. Hoodie on a chair. Charger on the floor. The air now smells of your perfume and the two of you.

You’re beside him—hair a mess, mouth swollen, eyes glassy in that post-orgasm haze. You don’t look embarrassed. You don’t look regretful. You look comfortable. That hits him in the chest. 

He pushes himself up on one elbow and clears his throat, buying time. His voice comes out rough anyway. “You okay?”

You blink slowly. “Yeah.”

“Yeah as in I’m fine or yeah as in I can’t feel my legs?”

Your laugh is quiet and wrecked. “Both.”

“Good,” he says automatically, then winces at himself because good sounds too pleased. 

He sits up properly, then immediately reaches for tissues on your bedside table. He shoves them closer to you, then grabs a couple for himself because he’s not going to pretend he’s above being a mess.

You watch him, amused. “You’re—very organised.”

He gives you a look. “Don’t bully me.”

“I’m not bullying you. I’m observing.”

“Observation is bullying with a degree,” he mutters, and it makes you snort again. “I’m literally just doing basic human maintenance.”

“Basic human maintenance,” you repeat, delighted.

“Stop talking,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.

You shift under the duvet, and the sheet slides down your shoulder. You’re still bare. Still warm. Still looking at him like you’re not embarrassed at all. Yeonjun’s mouth goes dry. He forces his eyes away and grabs the hoodie off the chair—yours, by the look of it, soft and oversized. 

He tosses it onto your lap. “Put that on,” he says, aiming for casual.

You lift it. “Why?”

“Because you’re cold.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re literally shivering,” he cuts in, then adds, quieter, “And I’m not trying to have you sat here naked while my brain keeps replaying—everything.”

Your smile turns slow. Dangerous. “Everything?”

Yeonjun releases a breath, measured. “Put the hoodie on.”

You do, pulling it over your head, hair exploding, sleeves swallowing your hands. The sight of you in it does something to him that feels stupidly soft.

Yeonjun closes his eyes for a second and the thought hits him—fuck. He really like this. Not just the sex. The mess. The laughter. The fact he can say One Piece without someone calling him cringe. The fact you’re not looking at him like he’s a rumour you want to test-drive.

He stands too fast, restless. “Water,” he says, pointing nowhere. “I’m getting water.”

You blink. “Are you ordering me around?”

“Yes,” he says, already halfway out of the room. “Drink water. Eat something. Don’t pass out. I don’t need that kind of trauma.”

From behind him, you call, “You’re so dramatic.”

He mutters, “Says you,” and heads for your kitchen. He comes back with two glasses and whatever he can find that resembles sugar. He sets one beside you, nudges it closer. “Drink.”

You sip, watching him over the rim. “You’re acting like you’ve done this a lot.”

The sentence lands sharp. Yeonjun’s body goes weightless for a second. He keeps his face steady anyway, because unfortunately he’s good at that. He shrugs, aiming for a smirk. “I’m acting like I don’t want you to crash and decide I’m a menace.”

You snort. “You are a menace.”

“Yeah, okay.” He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee knocks yours. “Eat.”

You pick at the snack, still staring. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Yeonjun’s throat works. He wants to say it. He wants to be honest. He wants to tell you he’s not who the campus thinks he is. That he’s been performing for so long he doesn’t know how to stop. That he likes you enough to want you to know the real version of him.

Instead, he goes for the safer lane. “Next time,” he says, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Before we do anything else—we talk properly.”

You lift a brow. “About what?”

“About rules. About not doing insane shit in public again.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “About you. About me. About that Switzerland boy.”

Your expression softens, the teasing fading into something warmer. “Okay,” you say. “We’ll talk.”

Yeonjun nods once, like he didn’t just promise himself something else entirely—next time, he tells you the truth. No more rumours. Not more campus playboy. No more cigarette-and-smirk myth. 

Just Choi Yeonjun. 

The guy who likes cold pizza for breakfast, argues about One Piece arcs, listens to Joji when he can’t sleep, and is scared out of his mind that he might actually—like someone.

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a/n: hiii my loves! we are back with lesson two much sooner than i thought. im so grateful for all the love you guys have given to virgin playboy. and omg lets talk about this chapter. these two are FREAKS. they really escalated 0 to a 100 real quick. also pls give me a break if the smut is kinda shitty because this is not my usual genre!! i went into this trying to explore more and get better at writing smut so pls be kind i have a soft heart. pls do let me know your thoughts and i'll be back soon hopefully with lesson 3, im halfway though it!!

dedication note: i just want to dedicate this chapter to my beautiful bby @matchastwb her fic gameboy (specifically jungkook's charcter) has massively inspired yeonjun's character unconsciously. pls do check out her fic (im sure most of you have already!!) if you haven't

target: i'm acc blown away that you guys met the last target of 250 notes in less than 48hrs. what are you guys made of? so i now have to increase the target to 500 notes since the next part will be the finale and a big ass word count and i also need the time to finish writing up. but im sure you can meet the target as the teaser has above that!! so as usual, spam me with reblogs, comments and asks!! literally scream at me, im here for it

pas de deux /ˌpɑː də ˈdəː/ noun a dance for two people, especially as part of a ballet.

"One, two. Let those muscles tighten," the professor's voice bounced off the walls. "Jiwoo, I really hoped you would learn to do your plié better," he tsked, disgust visible on his harsh features. "We're not in starting classes anymore, this is third year ballet if I remember right."

Jiwoo knew better than to try to explain her situation and instead turned her hips out more, the muscles in her glutes burning just as hot as her calves. Minkus' Don Quixote blared through the studio, almost deafening, as sweat rolled down her forehead.

"Minseo, lower," he looked at her in the mirror, giving her a really harsh look from the side. He began softly nudging her legs, turning her pointe outward and pushing her lower into position. The uncomfortable look was clear on her face, her hand holding onto the barre shaking with the strain.

When he moved forward, his eyes settled on your figure, just for a second and went on to Ikhyun's, and then a sort of appreciative noise left his lips, threatening a smile to break out on your face. He just continued walking behind the line of students in front of the mirror, adjusting everyone with small yet harsh moves. Ikhyun's gaze found yours in the mirror, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Okay, stop." Professor Lee dismissed his hands, coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose in feigned disappointment. The class sighed collectively, dropping from their toes, "disastrous." Okay, maybe not feigned… "I want everyone's pliés looking like those two's by next class, or I swear to god I am failing all of you." His words made some people give you and your partner envious stares, in their breathless misery.

"y/n, and Ikhyun, stay. Everyone else, leave." His arms crossed against his chest, and his nose flared with the breath he took. "So, La Bayedére." His eyebrows shot up in an impressed manner as the classmates scurried out of the room while they could.

"Yes, sir." Your voice betrayed the confidence in your choice.

"You couldn't have picked a piece that requires more control and trust," his lips curled into a snarl, gaze picking you and your best friend to pieces. "Why?" he questioned, looking genuinely intrigued, "for Varna especially, Swan Lake or Don Quixote would've gone even better."

Because Varna called for something new, something unfamiliar to you. It was the biggest challenge for pair dancers. You recall dancing mindlessly at the mere age of six, dreaming of the competition while your seniors trained for it - you even remember the tone in your voice when you asked Ikhyun if he believed you could succeed. Imagine flying to Bulgaria, returning with a gleaming gold medal in hand and a smile wider than you ever imagined.

"We like a good challenge, sir," Ikhyun smiled up at him, his back straight, ready to answer all of his concerns - and voice just as confident as it was when you first asked him. "and as you said, Varna actually requires stepping out of the comfort zone." The Professor only hummed in response, his hand rubbing his chin.

"Okay, show me what you've got," he motioned to the now empty classroom, backing up to his phone to put the music on.

"Gladly, sir."

Both of you were on mark by the time the music started, the violins slicing through the air sharply. You knew the set by heart. Effortless with the movements, turns, lifts and supports. Back as straight as it can get. Moving elegantly from one side of the floor to the other. You didn't need to look at him to stay in sync anymore.

Usually, during performances with Ikhyun - even in the classroom for only one professor - your mind cleared of all worries. Only focusing on his steps and moves as if it were muscle memory rather than a dance. As if it were something rehearsed, not felt.

When the music suddenly stopped after what felt like only seconds, your lungs burned. Sweat gathered everywhere - forehead, ribs, palms. Your feet were nearly numb in the pointe shoes as you held your ending pose. After a few moments, both of you released the pose simultaneously without any cue, because after all this time, that's simply how it happened.

Professor Lee gave one firm nod - which translated to a storm of applause from a real and not-so-harsh audience. "Lift your legs higher, y/n, let the music guide you, not the habit," he told you with a puzzled look on his face, "The same goes for you too, Ikhyun, but with enough practice it will settle, hopefully." You both nodded at his critiques, still breathless from the dance. "What about the competition this Friday?"

"I wanted to tell you one of the reasons we're not doing Don Quixote is because we're doing it this weekend," Ikhyun explains easily, between ragged breaths.

"Easier, not as flashy; and definitely for smaller competitions," you finished for him, trying to stretch your forefoot with the pointes impeding your movement. Mr Lee nodded along to your words, looking deep in thought.

"Take this win home, this is child's play for a pair like you." his voice turned softer than the authoritative loud tone it usually held in class. "Who will be there? No-names, maybe Minho and Mina are the only pair as a respectable rival there," he scoffed, dismissively rolling his eyes. "You will do it." his voice held no argument, practically demanding your return with the golden trophy in hand.

"Of course, Sir," you replied at the same time, bowing in front of him, taking those last words as a dismissal from class, finally. Your bag's strap cut into your aching shoulder, trying to kick off your pointes as fast as possible.

"You want me to give you a ride home?" Ikhyun's voice came from behind you as you stepped through the door he held open.

"Obviously," you giggled at him, shooting him a playful glance, which he rolled his eyes at. This banter was an everyday thing for you since you both learned to talk, way before all this ballet lunacy started.

But when it started, you did it with him in tow - parents pushing you financially to the best masters and educators. The ultimate goal was to get into the ballet university of your choice, an ambition that had seemed entirely childish at the time.

When the letter of acceptance came to both you and Ikhyun, you told the boy to pinch you at least fifteen times in a row, making the soft skin of your forearms sting with every squeeze. All those late nights spent in the practice room, sweat, tears and blood put into your moves and reps - as if it was more than just a passion. It was worth it in the end, but the real work only started in the first year of university.

They pushed you harder, stronger, until failure every day. Attendance was mandatory for first-year students at every competition, even if they weren't selected to perform their variation.

And soon it started to show: the ballet community began talking about your pair, quickly making it one of the most-liked young pas de deux dancers in the country. Ikhyun's shredded figure next to your own, in such contrast, brings out each other's best features: his height and your fluid grace. Everything had an eternal essence to it. That's what people loved most about the two of you.

And that's why, when the music ended, the applause came louder than it had for any dancer at today's competition. It echoed off the walls, swelling around you, forcing your smile wider despite the strain in your chest.

You needed to hold the pose, even though the headpiece rubbed your scalp raw. Even though you wanted nothing but to get off stage, holding the pose at the end sometimes got appreciated more than the whole performance. Even though you felt the last few notes of Don Quixote try to rip your head apart.

These seconds felt longer than the dance itself, but everything must come to an end, right? You bowed to the audience in unsaid synchronisation with Ikhyun, hearing the claps even from the side of the stage.

Some guys from your school clapped Ikhyun's shoulders as soon as he was in reach, not helping the ache in every limb of his - or yours, for that matter. But right now, the adrenaline was still in you, feeding the fire of your ambition, blurring everything that came after the performance.

"You were lovely as always out there, darling." Ikhyun's mother came up to you with your parents behind them. Both of them held flowers in their hands, which was a habit rather than a congratulation at this point. Her soft hand caressed your cheeks, eyes shining in a way they only did after seeing you and her son connect on a different level.

But her supposed son was still all laughs and jokes with the guys - Mingi, Yunho, and some others you didn't recognise. Just other dancers in your year that never lived up to Ikhyun's skill - or at least to you.

They were here tonight to compete in solo categories, dressed in way too tight clothes that have always been the norm for ballet dancing - but on Mingi, the black unitard with silver details seemed to look… good. You wonder if he has already danced his variation - or if you could still wish them good luck.

But your eyes returned to Ikhyun, who was still school girlishly giggling around, not even registering that you had left his side to talk to your families, who seemed to blend after all this time seamlessly.

You called out his name rather sharply, pulling one eyebrow up questioningly.

"Oh, I gotta go, think about that party tonight, Mingi," his smile was wide still as he fist bumped everyone in his little circle. "Hey, Mom," as soon as he was in the vicinity, he planted a loud, sloppy kiss on her cheek. She laughed, swatting him away to wipe her face, but the affection was practically a ceremony by now. He greeted your parents, too, with that usual boyish charm he always wore proudly.

His arms wrapped around your shoulder, "Don't be so stiff, y/nnie, you're coming tonight also," his tone held no argument, but oh, this guy was nothing to one up.

The thought of anything other than a hot shower and your bed made your skin crawl right now, and you doubted it would change any time soon. And there wasn't even a win yet to celebrate. "You know damn well I won't," you chuckled, turning back to face your families. As soon as you were about to speak, the booming voice of the announcer called up the last pair to the stage.

"Hwang Hyunjin and Kazuha Nakamura from Seoul Arts University performing Swan Lake."

Your head snapped to the pair walking onto the stage. A small smile grazed your lips at their grace-filled steps, already giving themselves to the performance.

"I didn't know Hwang was here," Ikhyun said, his tone making it sound more like an accusation than a question, making your eyes roll. Did this guy even use his brain? - better one, did he even have one?

"Name one competition in Seoul- in the country we haven't seen them at," you deadpanned. Your eyes found their way back to their performance, magnetised to Kazuha's frame, "I still envy the elegance with which she moves." A weary sigh escaped your lips.

Ikhyun only chuckled, "You move better, and I outdance Hwang in every possible criteria." his chest puffed with pride, "They are no match."

And suddenly the adrenaline started to wear off, kicking back the strains and sorespots at full force. Giving place to the anxiety to claw its way into you, until the announcements came.

Pointe shoes were discarded everywhere backstage. Sweat mixed with some left behind bouquets that made everything smell like a flower field in the worst way possible. But hearing your name being called for the gold medal made all of this endurable.

When you were packing in your still ecstatic mood, Ikhyun came begging, almost even going as low as getting on his knees to get you to the after-party. But the call of your bed was way stronger than anything he could have promised.

By the time you got home, your mind was muddled. Long forgotten about that shower collapsing headfirst into the bed, still smelling like sweat and hairspray - unusual, but not unheard of.

You woke up early the next day, not by your own will but rather the non-stop buzzing of your phone. Endless messages flood your home screen.

Dahyun have you seen?

Jiwoo wake up this is bad. link attached

Your stomach dropped even before you opened the article. Skipping every other notification and opening what they all had in common.

Prestigious ballet university student involved in street fight

No.

No, no, no.

Soo Ikhyun, a student at the School of Korean Ballet - and widely regarded as one of the nation's most promising young dancers - has been involved in a disagreement that appeared to escalate into a physical altercation with a student from a rival school, An Kangmin.

Footage from nearby street cameras shows the presence of multiple students from both institutions. The cause of the conflict remains unclear, though further statements are expected once An Kangmin is discharged from urgent care.

With potential legal consequences pending, the university has yet to release an official statement regarding disciplinary action. However, sources suggest that expulsion is being considered, as students have previously been dismissed for significantly lesser offences.

This incident places a shadow over Ikhyun's rising career. The dancer has been preparing for the upcoming Varna International Ballet Competition in Bulgaria, where he was expected to compete as a leading contender in the pas de deux category alongside his long-time partner, y/n l/n.

Tears blurred your vision by the time you finished the article. Your knuckles turned white with how hard you were holding the phone with your grip, and your breath came in short bursts. This isn't real. How will you compete now? How will- wait, will they expel him? Will they let him stay because he is the Soo Ikhyun?

This isn't a matter money can hush; this will be the talk of the ballet community for at least the season - if not the next five. What was he thinking? Going out all mighty, getting drunk beyond recognition, just to hit someone …for what reason exactly?

Your fingers worked with haste, opening the chat with your best friend, who, as of right now, felt like someone you didn't know.

Ikhyun <3 - 12:07 am i wish you would've came tn its so empty w/o uuuuuuu

Ikhyun <3 - 01:54 am fuck this is baasd thatfucker kangmin is here

Ikhyun <3 - 03:21 am pick up please i am so sorry please wake up fuck i messed up please don't be mad

Don't be mad?

Don't be mad?

You what the fuck have you done

Your calls go unanswered. Ikhyun and whatever he might be doing better be important. The tears just pour down your face, shaking your whole body with the force. The door opens, figures come in, but it's way too blurry to even think about who it might be. There must be a way to salvage this, there must.

What has he done.

On the other side of town, Ikhyun is taking in the damage from yesterday. The dean and Professor Lee are sitting in the room - or rather, the latter is pacing back and forth along the walls of the room.

"Such careless actions!" the professor murmurs under his breath, the hand he holds in front of his mouth somewhat muffling his words. "What were you thinking?" His voice doesn't carry the strictness that has bounced off the studio's walls every day; students have never seen this side of him.

"Mr Lee, I advise you to sit down," The dean's voice is more collected, her well-manicured hands tapping against the wooden surface of her table. How can one be so calm in a situation like this? "You're only making matters worse."

"Worse?" his steps falter, facing Ms Payer, his eyes turn eerily dark as his next words boom off the walls, "He won't be able to compete at Varna- or more like any competition!" his hands gesture animatedly, anger overtaking all of his earlier rationality, "He will be locked out of ballet circles because of this! It doesn't matter what we decide; it has already been decided by the others!"

"I understand, Mister Lee, and that is why you should calm down; the outcome is out of our hands." He huffs at her words. Hands crossing over his chest, while shaking his head, "And most importantly, I am sorry, Ikhyun," she says to the boy, whose eyes were just snapping from one figure to the other until she finally addressed him. Sorry about what exactly? "You threw away your career the exact time you threw the punch, but I am sure you know that by now."

Oh, wouldn't she like to know. His chest has been convulsing as if it wants to give up on him any minute since he registered what exactly happened. But he couldn't just let the guy degrade you freely when you weren't there to protect your pride. He nods at her, head falling between his sagged shoulders.

"You were the only competition we had against the Russians." Mr Lee's voice broke the sudden mourning silence that settled over the room. Ikhyun's hands balled into fists next to him, nails breaking the delicate skin of his palm. Because that's all he was, an asset - a chance for the school.

When he was dismissed from the room, his eyes immediately took in your shaking frame, barely held up by your parents. Your first reaction was to grab onto his jacket, maybe shake some sense into him, but you just collapsed into his arms. Now crying on each other's shoulders.

Your eyes sting from being unable to cry, and you must ask him: Why did he do it? Why would he do it? Was there no other way to resolve this? What will you do without him now? You never danced with anyone else before - only during practices he missed due to sickness, and never for more than a few hours.

But you can't form the words, can't force them out, no matter how much you want to. You sit there in the suffocating mourning silence in the comfort of your bed and his arms. He is the one to break the silence first after all.

"We went over a few things with Miss Payer and Mister Lee." his words die down into an unsteady breath that shakes your head on his chest. "It's not official yet, but I will be expelled."

The words crumble every last hope you had, starting the dry tears to come back again. He released a weary sigh, letting the silence take over.

Until he couldn't.

"There are a lot of good dancers in the school-"

"No." You support yourself up from the bed, grabbing his shoulders for purchase. Eyes wide in disbelief as the tears still fell.

"I don't want you to not reach your dreams because of me."

"Are they really my dreams if you're not in them?" The words hit him like a shot. He is shaking his head as he closes his eyes, unable to look into your broken gaze anymore. And your cries come back at full force, until his comforting words lull you to sleep.

Your chemistry was a weird one. Everyone thought there must be some romantic aspect to it, but there never was. You loved each other as siblings would. You grew up together, glued together by ballet. But what would happen to the bond if ballet weren't there anymore?

—

plié

/ˈpliːeɪ/

noun

a movement in which a dancer bends the knees and straightens them again, usually with the feet turned right out and heels firmly on the ground.

—

Getting to university is way harder on Monday than it should have been.

Ikhyun wasn't there in the morning to pick you up. He didn't force you to listen to his horrible music, and he didn't tell you at least fifty dad jokes before arriving at the parking lot.

Dahyun and Jiwoo joined your side the minute you stepped into the building, trying to shield you from the pitying glances every student threw you, with more or less success. It wasn't their fault; men twice their size wouldn't have been enough to block them all.

Your blood boiled more with each. Nails digging into your palms, drawing blood. No breathing exercise could have helped, no topic Jiwoo or Dahyun could have brought up, because there wasn't any that didn't concern you or him.

And even the professors joined in the public pity. Making you stay behind after class to ask you if you need help with anything, as if Ikhyun died, not just left.

The cafeteria was the worst part. As if everyone judging each other's plates wasn't enough, you craved the little comforting touches the others gave you with their mock-up sad smiles. The most mind-blowing part was the way some first-years let you go in front of them in the line. You couldn't even help the little "what the fuck" that escaped your lips, and the scowl that came with it.

There were always whispers everywhere you walked, but now they were louder, crueller, and not as slick as they were before. Almost as if the absence of Ikhyun made them bolder.

You were taking your tray back when you bumped into someone.

Poor girl's face drained from blood, white as a ghost, as she murmured repeated apologies while she scurried away, head pulled between her shoulders. Jiwoo and Dahyun chuckled when you looked at them with a questioning glance.

Okay, maybe I lied when I said the cafeteria was the worst - it definitely was the studio.

Chatter fully died down when you stepped inside. You felt every eye on you, but they all looked away the moment you stared back.

These were the same mirrors you looked at for three years now, the same studio, same everything. But all of it was so wrong. How can one feel so out of place, especially somewhere they spend their everydays? Tying your pointe shoes was an unfamiliar experience, as if you were looking through their eyes, only seeing the empty pot next to you.

When Mr Lee came in, that was usually the time he told you to practice the set for any upcoming competition, but even his voice faltered at the sight of you. It might've been the puffiness of your eyes, the messiness of your hair, or the way your leotard was crooked; it could have been anything, honestly.

His eyes quickly averted, not even giving you any task. Just calling out to the others to do their variations, avoiding your existence altogether.

So you do what you know best. Dance.

You try just letting go to the current variation's music playing through the studio's speakers, trying to feel the music instead of letting your body search for the warmth beside you. But somehow entirely different routines steer you right back to a move that's in a dance you did with Ikhyun, and you just let it happen from there.

You dance that choreography anyway, even though he won't be there to lift you, to guide you through it. Because maybe if you held your arms out further and jumped higher, he would be there to catch you.

The stares didn't disappear; they just got softer, not as pointed. Just like Mingi's - his gaze lingering a little longer than the others'. He hurt too. Maybe not as a partner, but as someone who had lost a friend, a constant. So he just watched you in pure silence from across the studio.

By Wednesday, you were over the stares, staring back openly at everyone who still felt the need to pity, who still pointed out the lack of him next to you. On Thursday, you also called them out loudly, "Why the fuck are you staring holes into my head?" and, "Don't you have turnouts to practice?"

Jiwoo and Dahyun only fueled it, adding their own degrading comments to the people you didn't notice, maybe even going further than you would. "You're staring, asshole," came from Dahyun. "At least close your mouth, it smells," Jiwoo said to someone.

On Friday, the verdict finally came. You were called into the dean's office, trying hard not to stab an insult into anyone who passed you. When you saw his frame, your shoulders dropped, knots relaxing immediately, no matter the context. No matter, you know he is here to get expelled.

Mr Lee, Ms Payer and another professor stood there with Ikhyun. Their looks no different from any student you lost yourself over. But with him there, you swallowed the words down before you joined your best friend in being expelled.

The greetings were cut short by Mr Lee, who quickly started explaining, "I'm gonna be straight with you, there is no need to sugar coat it." his voice held despair, and maybe anger, "You have two choices, you don't compete at Varna, or you pick another partner."

You looked around the room, Ikhyun's hand caressed yours in a barely there touch. His eyes are quietly pleading with you to choose the second option. The other professor spoke up, her voice so much more caring than Mr Lee's was before, "There are plenty of dancers who would jump at the chance to partner you." she gave you a weak smile but dropped her gaze before you could reciprocate it.

What was there to lose if you didn't go? You would probably save yourself the humiliation of showing up with someone you barely know and have no chemistry with.

But on the other hand... What was there to lose if you didn't go? Nine-year-old you would shatter. She would scream at you for throwing away an opportunity as not dancing at the biggest international competition.

Would it be worth it?

"I…" Words died down your throat, but the questions just got louder in your head, bringing up more questions. More things to be worried about, more to be mad about. "I'll think about it."

They gave you a defeated smile. Nodding along, because this wouldn't be an easy decision.

Ikhyun couldn't stay any longer. As soon as you left the office, he left, but hugged you tightly before he did.

What you haven't thought of before is how all of this went down on him? He was actually the one getting practically exiled from everything he learned to love from a young age. Ballet was everything for him, too, not just you.

He would soon be shut out of every circle as the guy who beat up the competition. Because in ballet, this was worse than doing drugs or actually sabotaging someone. Drugs were so normalised due to the extreme thinness it required, and the sabotage just came with them.

Everyone thought they were too elegant to physically hurt someone with their hands. Too refined. Too sophisticated. And they made your skin crawl.

You didn't even notice heading to the studio; your feet just took you there. You could've just hoped nobody would actually be there to disturb your sudden need to practice. The doors were open, lights down and… Nobody was there.

You slammed your bag down, letting it fall where it may, already tugging your pointe shoes on. But as soon as they were, you actually realised: for the first time in years, you didn't know what to practice.

—

grand jeté

/ˌɡrɒ̃ ˈʒɛteɪ/

noun

a jump in which a dancer springs from one foot to land on the other with one leg forward of their body and the other stretched backwards while in the air.

—

People don't talk about how hard the first week is without someone who was always there before, a prominent figure. Not in an absolute sense - like dying. Just being robbed of doing your passion, while still breathing… And that somehow feels worse than passing.

Because there Ikhyun was again, lying in your bed with you in his arms, staring at the ceiling endlessly. "You should still go," his chest rumbles under your head, "I'm sure there is someone to match your energy."

His shirt was cold with your spilt tears on it. You were too exhausted to start explaining your worries again, because he was just as stubborn as you were, sticking to his opinion until the very end.

You already told him about everyone's stares, words and endless pity towards you. He listened in silence, a hand rubbing circles on your back, eventually steering the conversation away from school, from ballet, because the wound was still too fresh to be ripping it up continuously.

At some point, the conversation faded. Your voices were overpowered by a random show that was screening on the TV. Occasionally broken by your sniffles, or his longing sighs. The weekend slipped away from your fingers, just like everything seemed lately - no matter how hard you hold onto it - and you were back in the studio.

Warm-up already done and forgotten, as you do certain spins and moves. Getting comfortable high on your toes. But there isn't music to filter out the others' words from your head, and one particular moment catches your attention while you tie your shoes tighter.

The boys are doing Grand Jetés left and right, trying to show how it's done around here, while laughing around, smiles wide on their faces.

San jumped with finesse, arms elegantly folded around his torso, maintaining perfect posture mid-air. He glides momentarily, reminding you so much of Ikhyun. They applaud him, Wooyoung's jaw nearly drops in amazement, while Mingi appears barely entertained.

"Ikhyun still did it better." Mingi declares while still clapping. Your fingers paused mid-knot. And he earns himself a slap on the back of his head from Yeosang. "Yah! It's not like I'm lying!" His hands flew up to shield himself, failing to block the incoming onslaught.

As you watch them, - so domestic, and child-like - you wonder what Ikhyun would do. Playfully order them around, playing his strict ballet teacher part for the day. Which would only make them laugh harder, while also practising and improving. A smile tugs on your lips at the sight; it doesn't last long, nevertheless. Because the thoughts only spiral with the what-ifs from there.

But this was the first time you genuinely smiled since that Saturday.

Jiwoo and Dahyun are still stuck to your side as soon as you leave the studio, leading the way to the cafeteria. "Have you thought about what Ms Payer said?" Dahyun's head is tilted to the side as she looks at you from across the table.

Both of them wait for your answer with curious glances. "I did." They wait for a few seconds only to realise you don't intend to explain further.

"And?"

"I don't know." The truth felt harder to confess out loud. Because yes, you have thought about it. But there were too many odds against both that neither seemed like a good idea. You're getting lost in your thoughts again when someone takes a seat at your table.

And it's… Mr Lee?

The sigh that leaves him as he sits down is sharp. "Girls," he nods to all three of you, but a harsher frown pulls at his when his eyes settle on you. "Have you decided?" Not playing around, I see.

"Not yet."

He scoffs at that, shaking his head before he speaks up again, "You had the time. Your and your future partner's time isn't the only one you're playing with."

Confusion pulls your brows together. It was easy for him to say. While in practice, this is a bigger stake than just a few days of thinking.

Before you could reply, he was talking again. "If you want Varna, you choose this week." He paused, hesitation crossing his eyes. "Or I pull you from the lineup myself." And with that, he was back on his feet, grumbling a goodbye.

His words resonate in your head in classes. The pressure of it is almost physically sitting on your shoulders, hoping to pull you under. And they do, in a way. Pulling your focus from the lectures.

You don't remember pulling your phone out on the way to the studio. Nor typing a message out to Ikhyun. Mind hazy with the spiralling thoughts.

I don't think anyone will match you

Your fingers hover over the mockingly blinking send button. Regretting participating will always be better than regretting not. It could go either way if you try, but at least you tried and didn't give up when you already saw the finish line.

You pocket your phone and pick up your steps towards the building. The message stays unsent. Your chest tightens when you step in, finding Mr Lee alone.

"I'll do it."

You swear you could've seen a smile threatening his way onto his face, but he just nodded.

By the next morning, the whole school seemed to know, and that made you realise this decision didn't concern you alone. But most male dancers in the school.

"Do you have anyone in mind?" The professor who was in the office with you the other day asks. The soft smile seems to be the default on her face.

"No. I haven't danced in pair with anyone except Ikhyun."

"Aah, I understand why it was so difficult-"

Her voice is cut off by the clattering opening of the studio doors. Mr Lee waltzes in with multiple men in tow. "Stand aside, Eunseo, I got this."

The boys set their bags to the side, voices overbearing in the studio. You notice familiar faces, from your classes and lower-years who Ikhyun hung out with. Maybe some were even there at the after-competition parties he dragged you to.

"I don't think this would require such an upheaval." Your voice only reaches the female professor - Eunseo - but even calling her by her first name in your thoughts only feels weird.

She chuckles, but her eyes are just as wide as yours as she takes in the stretching forms. "Warm up well, gentlemen, we're gonna look over lifts, and particular steps from La Bayedére."

One of the younger students straightened immediately. "Yes, Mrs Lee."

—

Ballet lifts are dynamic partner movements designed for height and spectacle in a pas de deux, relying on core strength, precise hand placement, and mutual trust. Key techniques include secure waist grips, using pliés for momentum, and maintaining upright posture to ensure safety. Common lifts include overhead lifts, shoulder sits, fish dives, and the split over, often enhanced by creative, fluid transitions.

—

What you thought about this part was everything, but definitely not this.

Swan Lake blared over the speakers as another pair of unstable hands lifted you high. It just didn't feel right. He was too stiff, too careful. And something you know by now is: being careful gets you nowhere.

The second he put you down, you stopped. Hands finding purchase on your hips as your ribs expanded with each strained inhale. You just shook your head in the Professors' direction, and they looked at each other with an unreadable expression before cutting the music.

Your limbs feel numb after all the trying. You lost count of the partners after the fifth. Nobody felt like him. They didn't even try. Maybe they already felt defeated, knowing whose replacement they would be. But your blood began to boil. May it be all the failed attempts, the hunger, or just the exhaustion - you didn't know, didn't care.

Then the next promising gentleman came. His figure was similar to the one you were used to; he even was in your class - Yeosang.

No more room left for the fatigue to set in, because the music started again. His form was so effortlessly pretty as you locked on his reflection in the mirror. The hold was stable- until it wasn't. The same mistake, over and over again.

This time, you didn't even shake your head; you just stared at them, barely containing your eyeroll.

The next guy that stepped up boomed with confidence. Chest all puffed up as he murmured a small, "Watch this," to his friends in the back. The scowl this time couldn't be held back; it sat out on your face loudly.

The music started again, and you could see the way his eyes were locked on himself in the mirror. Yeah, no. He danced for the mirror. Not for you and definitely not with you. When the lift came, he didn't wait. He just took it. Your stomach dropped mid-air, and you landed harder than you should've. "Is this a joke?"

Another guy, another lift, but this time it just felt wrong. Maybe it looked all right from the outside, given the hopeful looks of the professors. But you shook your head again as soon as the music died down, and collapsed against the handrail on the walls. Your own hope started to fail you, doubts getting louder in your head again, "Next."

The next guy came after you had a few breaths. He looked familiar again, and not just from class. You've seen Song Mingi standing on the sides with displeasure on his face the whole time, eyebrows drawing together every time you dragged someone down. You wonder how he feels to have to compete as Ikhyun's replacement.

But he stepped in, music started, and he followed your lead. Hands exactly where they supposed to be at the lift, stable and controlled.

"…again."

He wasn't perfect either; his touch lacked that familiarity and trust, but that's something you can work on.

What you didn't notice was how everyone stopped for a second. Nobody moved, not the professors, not the boys in the back. And not even him.

Then he nodded when he realised you were on mark already. This time, the move came easier. Not perfect again - far from it - but something clicked. His grip adjusted faster, still following you but taking less time. Your timing met his halfway, instead of dragging behind. Not forced or shaky, and not wrong either.

Your breath hitched, but you didn't falter. Going further with the choreography, pushing, testing him and yourself. He followed, no hesitation, not getting ahead of himself.

The music faded out, silence hitting you harder than the ones before. You stepped away first, looking at the professors again, because you didn't trust yourself to look at him.

Mr Lee's expression was different from before. Arms still crossed, and so were his brows. But he was leaning forward with interest, calculating sharply with his eyes. Mrs Lee watched you more softly, smiling wider than she was before.

"Next." Her smile dropped immediately.

The next few dancers came one by one. One too unsure, too slow, too much thinking, the other not thinking enough. Your voice was harsher with them, "Stop." poor guy's face drained. You knew the next is going to be the last.

But when his arm slipped on your waist mid-air, everything broke. "That's enough." The words slipped out before anyone could stop them. Your chest was falling with rapid breaths, fingers slightly trembling as you took a seat right in front of the professors. The exhaustion caught up with you, but not from the dancing, no. From the trying.

Your gaze flickered across the room, taking in everyone's pained expressions. Until it stopped on him, still standing where you left him. Your eyes snapped away first.

"Alright," Mr Lee's hands clapped together, "You're done for today." Shoulders drooped, long sighs left, and they left eventually. Their packing was loud, but not as chaotic when they came in. But the contrast was still felt when you were alone with the professors again.

"Take the evening," Mrs Lee's voice was the first to break the silence. "Think about it."

You barely heard her over the thoughts. Her eyes lingered on your crumpled-up form. Almost as if she were ready to answer all your doubts. But then she smiled again, "But you already know."

You nodded, even though your mind was anything but settled. Your body, however- has already decided.

You didn't sleep much that night, because every time your eyes closed, you saw the same thing. Lift, almost fall. Lift, fall. Then him - stable, flexible, and adjusting to you. And it repeated every time sleep was about to pull you down.

You went to the studio before classes. The first rays of the rising sun painted the sky yellow behind the building. But he was already there with his little group, stretching, laughing, causing havoc before a normal person would be even up.

You watched him through the glass doors for longer than you'd like to admit. Dancing through a variation on his own, slower than the variation demanded. But it felt refreshing rather than uncomfortable. Emotional.

You took a deep breath before you strutted into the studio, like you owned the place. You didn't bother yourself with the audience, went straight to him, stepping in front of him as he regulated his breaths.

"So you're free for Varna, right?"

His eyebrows drew together, and he took a step back. He took a towel from the handrail, slightly patting it over his forehead. "Am I?" his head tilted.

Your eyes closed to hold back an eyeroll, and with a deep breath, you continued. "You're the only one who didn't make me want to walk out yesterday." The confession felt bitter in the back of your mouth. Especially because you knew Yeosang was here too. His eyes searched yours with caution, snapping from left to right. Not like he would find anything.

When you realised he won't bother with a reply, you spoke up again. Tone lighter than before, losing the attitude. "If we do this, we do it right." Your fingers fiddled with the strap of your bag, and his eyes snapped to the motion. "Just tell me if you even want to do it."

He stared at you for another long minute before he replied, "I don't exactly half-ass things." you could see his jaw tighten, tongue poking his cheek. His gaze was scrutinising, mean. He looked away for a second, dissecting something else rather than you. "So you're… serious."

You scoffed, which made him look back at you, "I don't have time not to be."

His eyebrows twitched, but so did his lips, "Then yeah, we're doing this." You nodded at his response, then left. You won't have to come back here until ballet anyway.

San and Yunho's chests let out a breath they didn't know they were holding, their eyes rounded out. "Fuck, she's intense," San says, trying to make the tense air disappear with humour.

"And a bitch." Wooyoung adds, clearly not pleased by your attitude.

Yeosang hits his arm, "You never felt what she is going through," he tries to reason, but it falls on deaf ears.

"But I am sure, if I were to, my approach would be very different."

—

La Bayadère ("The Temple Dancer") is a classic 19th-century Russian ballet choreographed by Marius Petipa with music by Ludwig Minkus, premiering in 1877. It tells a tragic story of love, betrayal, and vengeance set in India, involving the temple dancer Nikiya, warrior Solor, and princess Gamzatti

—

Your schedule became crammed after that. Practices earlier than when most were awake, staying later than the sun was up. Between classes - everywhere, your timetables aligned.

The texts exchanged were brief between you, calculated and always to the point.

You I'm free after next lesson

Song Mingi i am alr here

When you finally joined him, his hand found your waist again. Firmer than before, and definitely not hesitant. But he didn't take the lead; he just waited. You almost missed the cue.

With Ikhyun, you never had to think. Your body would've moved before you even realised. His grip already guiding you into place, every shift anticipated before it happened.

But now - you were a fraction late. He didn't even make a mistake, but he stopped too. His touch a ghost on your skin as he said, "Again," quietly. But he didn't look annoyed or mad, no matter how hard you searched for a reaction.

You swallowed and nodded, already stepping back. Your fingers curled into his shoulder, more deliberate. Checking the placement twice rather than failing once more. Music started again, the count muted in your head. One- two.

You stepped and felt it. The transfer of weight, the slight delay in his response. His hands adjusted, not you, but his grip. It threw you off. Frustration pulled your eyebrow together again, failing to hold back the snarl on your lips.

Your turn faltered, coming a breath too early. His grip tightened, just enough to steady you, but he didn't force you back as Ikhyun would have.

He let it be wrong. Let it be off.

Making you spiral, because you knew you were the one to mess it up, yet it somehow still felt as if it was his fault.

Your feet hit the floor too hard - letting you know exactly where you messed up. You pulled back then, ready to lash out, to reset- to apologise. But he didn't stop. You watched him for a second, resuming the choreography as if nothing had happened. "Keep going." The words were low, between his controlled breaths.

For the first time in years, you had to think. Not just move, with your body guiding you, as if it were carved into it. But listen to the music, to the count, to him. And to yourself.

You joined back on the next count, a little slower intentionally. Falling into rhythm with him. Waiting - just half a second - to feel where his balance would lead him, before settling into yours. Meeting you in the middle. It wasn't clean or perfect. No, it wasn't anywhere near. But you finally felt - knew - where he would be.

Another lift came, this time you didn't rush it. You let the momentum build while paying attention to everything. Felt the axis of your body instead of assuming it would be there. When you landed, his grip steadied you. Not because you made a mistake he needed to correct, but because you chose the timing together.

Maybe this was something you needed. Because no one learned from someone doing it right instead of them. They learned from patience and guidance. From being forced to be great. Because he had nothing to lose if he didn't correct you.

And fuck, it made you mad.

Mr Lee was keeping an eye on you, without disturbing the scene. But when you finally stopped between sets, you saw the low smile curling at his lips. Only making your ambition burn harder, wilder.

With every practice, something simmered deep within you. An unexplainable feeling that kept you up at night. Thinking about all the times you let Ikhyun correct you, instead of pushing to do better himself.

The next day, you were dancing in the back of the room while the others were doing something orchestrated by Mr Lee. You didn't want to be loud, because your newfound audience would hear everything, in the panting silence that settled over the classroom. But it was clear that Mingi didn't share those agendas.

"Stop."

You blinked at him, still breathing unevenly. 

His hands dropped from your waist, discarding the contact as if it burned. "You anticipate too much," he ran a hand through his hair. "You already move before I even finish the last step."

A scoff left your lips, "Because if I don't, the lift doesn't happen."

His jaw tightened at your tone, unshaken by the eyes on you. "Or maybe it happens differently."

"Different doesn't win Varna."

"Yeah, neither does not knowing basic counts." The words hung sharply between you. Brows pulling together in another reason now.

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath and started again with a mocking smile on your lips, "Then explain on which count am I supposed to be even near you?"

He stepped back into position, jaw tight as he looked at you. This became an everyday thing between you. Mocking, doubting. The snarls on your lips were default as soon as you stepped within the vicinity of one another.

—

Ballet positions are the foundation of classical dance, focusing on turnout from the hips, posture, and grace. The five basic foot positions, numbered one through five, involve rotating legs and hands.

—

"I hate when people's default expressions are like dying swans," You muttered under your breath as a first-year passed by, clearly shaken from practice. Dahyun snorted at your comment, while Jiwoo suppressed a giggle.

Mingi wasn't even trying to listen; he just heard it as he walked past you with Yunho and Wooyoung. His steps halted, eyes flicking toward you with disappointment. It sat wrong in his chest, "Pretty sure yours isn't any better," he huffed. Not even sure if he meant you to hear it.

Your eyes narrowed on him, "At least I don't look like that all the time."

Mingi's expression didn't change. Which somehow made it worse than if it had. "Funny," he muttered, voice flat, "Could've sworn you did."

Wooyoung's eyes widened as he let out a little "shit-" under his breath, while elbowing Yunho lightly. After that, the whole hallway went quiet. Waiting for your rebuttal or surrender. But you never knew when to stop, did you?

"Maybe it's just because I see you," you shrugged, continuing your walk towards your class.

At practice that day, he was snappier. His moves were cold and rushed, antsier than usual. It reflected on his performance more than you would like. His hands on your waist weren't as firm as they were the day before, having lost that precise anchor point just above the flare of your hip.

"Okay, stop," you snapped, already on your way to turn the music off. "What's up with you today?"

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, lightly tugging at the roots to stay present. "Nothing," his voice was dull, almost empty. Then he began walking toward you, taking your phone and resuming the music. "Let's move on."

He went back to the middle of the empty studio, already standing in fourth position. His muscles were on display with his arms elegantly in the air, and your eyes lingered a second too long. With a shake of your head, you settled near him in your starting pose too, feeling the music guide you.

You felt free. Dancing, moving to the sound, finally acclimatised to his moves and style. You felt better than you had a few weeks ago, finally feeling as if you had your grounding back. Your jumps were synchronised better, more aware of each other- until today it seems.

His moves were delayed. It was barely noticeable, but you felt it. Especially when he wasn't where he was supposed to be when the lift came, he was a few centimetres more to the left than usual, throwing off your count and rhythm as you had to get closer to him. But still, his hands weren't stable around you.

He stumbled - or rather his hands did - resulting in you slipping from his grasp and having a hard time catching your balance. He grunted, arms still around your waist as you stood closer to him than usual. Your chests pushed against each other with swallowed air. Your hand rested on his shoulder as you stared into his eyes.

His fingers flexed against your side, eyebrows still drawn together, as he stared back. Breaths short and loud when the music stops. You felt your heart beat uncontrollably, faster than usual, faster than it does after an average dance.

The thought of that made you snap out of whatever tiredness-induced daze you were in and pull back from him. "Your timing was off," you said quickly. Gaze averted to the barre on the wall - anything but him.

He took a deep breath, eyes still on your distancing frame. "Yeah," his tone felt defeated. "We should just stop here today." You hummed back in response, hands already working on the ribbon of your shoes. But before you even finished with one, the door slammed shut behind Mingi.

You prepared yourself for his attitude the next day. Whatever snarky reply he may throw your way, what will either of you mess up that day. But today wasn't anything like that. The practice went well, without any insults or huffs. He even stayed longer after, asking about how it would be better for you in supported turns, and even about other classes.

It was almost worse this way, with no snapping, no tension thick enough to choke on. Just small corrections, short nods, and movements that almost worked. You didn't trust this - or him, for that matter.

The next day, you were on the side of the studio, Mr Lee's voice boomed through the open space with instructions to the others. You were practising turns with Mingi, his hands warm on your waist, but never staying there long enough for you to enjoy the feel of it.

You felt the eyes Mr Lee set on you, his gaze basically burned against your nape. Whenever you stopped a turn, you looked at him and saw a specific glint in his eye, which never meant anything good for you. He felt ready to turn your life upside down again.

"Switch partners," His voice made you freeze, snapping your head in his direction. He was still looking at you, which meant that the instruction was meant for you.

"I'm sorry, what?" you barely choked out. Even Mingi's hands stayed on your waist in shock.

"Yunho, Jiwoo, come here."

Oh no.

Now the two of them stood in front of you and Mingi. The other two students were just as shocked. "You do the same thing now but with other partners." He explained, and Mingi's thumb caressed your waist softly, and you fucking hoped that movement was done unconsciously. "Get to it, we don't have all day."

Yunho stood in front of you with a little flush on his cheeks and fidgeting fingers. "So uh-" his voice cracked, "-partnered turns, right?" you nodded in response, the saliva burning and staying lodged in your throat as you tried to swallow, weight shifting from one leg to the other.

His hands were bigger than Mingi's, more slender; when you finally feel comfortable with Mingi,Mr. Lee had to make it difficult again. Despite the initial awkwardness, Yunho's hands were firm around your waist as you turned. Your jaw felt tight, calves burning in an addictive way that made you fall in love with the sport at first. There wasn't anything to mess up in turn like this. But it still didn't feel right.

Maybe the professor heard that thought form in your head with the way his eyes still shone. "Okay, now both of you try the actual dance." All four of you froze again. What was the point of this? Mr Lee's hands crossed in front of him, watching you with careful eyes. "Same combination," He immediately started the music, leaving no room for argument.

You stepped back hesitantly, the music barely made it through the loud pounding of your heart. You saw the way Yunho forced his body to move into position, eyes meeting yours for a second before you had to move.

Your body was screaming at you just like the first time you danced with Mingi. He wasn't there to meet you in the middle again; you had to correct yourself. Maybe that unspoken familiarity formed with Mingi, too. Yunho wasn't a bad dancer; he was always where he needed to be. Hands exactly how they are supposed to be, almost textbook perfect.

But your body was hesitating again before every move, not knowing where to go.

"Again." Mr Lee's voice cut through the violins.

You swallowed again, forced to think about your next move and focused on the count, alignment. You panicked as the lift came, faltering for a second. But Yunho was fast to catch up, adjusting quickly. But it wasn't smooth; you could feel his effort in it.

"Good," Mr Lee said. Your head whipped to him with force, eyebrows drawn together to the point where it hurt. Good? This was good? You never once before heard him say anything was "good" before. Especially not to a move that was mediocre at best. Your chest felt tight- too tight.

Mingi and Jiwoo were watching, their chests heaving as they struggled to catch their breath, their faces holding pained expressions. You wish you could've seen how they danced. Did Jiwoo stand exactly where she was supposed to? Or did Mingi also have to adjust? Did she also hesitate?

You felt a sharp pain in your head. Eyes snapping from Mingi to Jiwoo with haste that made your stomach churn. Air was getting harder to force into your lungs with each passing minute. You weren't staying late tonight, no matter what. You needed to get out of there fast.

It might have been a coincidence or pure luck, but Mr Lee was saying his usual closing monologue. You were out of there as soon as possible. Not even noticing you basically ran home until you were in your room with your back against the door.

Your feet still hurt, but you barely feel them over the pain in your head and stomach. Next second, you were hiccupping with choked tears escaping. Why did you even think you could do this without Ikhyun? How come you never noticed the imperfection of your moves before? Have they always been there, carved deep into you? Maybe that's just who you were.

It was selfish of you, like Mingi said. You should've dropped the idea of Varna that morning you read the texts - maybe earlier, when you applied first with smiles on your face with Ikhyun. How come nobody ever told you this? Maybe you weren't the dancer you thought you were. The thought didn't settle. It scratched at the inside of your skull, repeating, reshaping, getting uglier each time.

You didn't sleep much. Or maybe you did - it didn't feel like it. Every time you closed your eyes, you were back in the studio, half a count too late.

The next day, you were waiting for him in the studio, already warming up, stretching, staring in the mirror with someone so hollow and zombie-like staring back. The warming up you were doing was more muscle memory than thought-through. The door behind you opened with force, but you didn't have it in you to look who it was. Too distracted by the still screaming thoughts.

"You're early." He was stunned, dropping his bag down in his usual spot.

You hummed back in response, staring out of your head without anything to actually look at. You could feel him looking at you longer than usual. As if he was waiting for something - a comment, a jab, anything that sounded like you. But you didn't give it to him.

Your hamstrings stretched as you lay your weight on your leg. The barre creaked as he leaned on it, breaking the silence that settled over the room. The studio has an eerie feeling to it in the morning, with the cold air that travels through the windows and makes goosebumps break out on your skin.

Soon you felt you had to dance; however, you didn't feel ready, yesterday was still too recent in your mind. You reached for your bag, taking the new pointe shoes out, you had already somewhat prepared for today.

"New shoes?" Mingi's eyes were nearing his hairline, and you nodded. He knew from being your classmates for three years now that you didn't change shoes often; you actually dreaded changing them. "How come?"

"The last ones are…" ruined, to say prettily. You didn't notice your feet hurt yesterday because you ran home in them, forgetting to actually take them off in the overwhelming haste. It's a shame, though, you just replaced them not too long ago. "-They had the ribbons sewn in all wrong." The words died down in your throat, feeling bitter in your mouth.

Something unreadable passed in his eyes, and his head cocked to the side. He was looking at you, taking in your half-dead appearance; something unreadable passed in his eyes. He cocked his head, tracking your half-dead appearance with a scrutiny that made you wonder if he’d seen you bolt out of the studio the day before with your pointes still tied to your feet.

"Alright," he clapped his hands together, and saw you flinch subtly at the loud sound - fuck, it's worse than he thought. "Where did we leave it off?"

You were totally out of it as you danced. You were focused, yes, but he saw that you were too focused on certain things. Like the distance between you before the lift, or the placement of your hands on his shoulder. He even saw the little snarl on your lips as you were half a count behind. He let it be; everyone had bad days - maybe you had more than the average person did - but you weren't even friends for him to ask about it.

More like… beneficial partners? No, he didn't benefit from this in any way.

You didn't even say goodbye when you left. Didn't think much of it either, just that it didn't matter. After all it was just practice. But it wasn't just anything.

He was still standing in front of the mirror, repeating some steps and pirouettes that didn't seem good enough for him, and you just… left.

—

For a ballet dancer, shoes are as essential as a pencil is to an artist. Each dancer has their own preferences, methods for using, breaking them in, and customising them. They sew in the ribbons, make the boxes harder if needed; they use everyday items, like Super glue, markers, nail polish - whatever you can imagine, as mundane as possible. They are the most delicate aspect for a ballet dancer because a good pair of shoes provides a solid foundation. But what happens if there's nothing to ground you?

—

Today was one of those days when you had a few free hours before Mingi finished and needed to meet you at the studio. You needed calmness, some quiet in those hours. You needed to be alone.

Some classical music was playing in your headphones as you sat on your bed and looked around the bedroom. Eyes drifted across the shelves. Trophies, medals, and old shoes you kept for- just because. No books you've chosen, no hobbies, no mess. Just a clean room, nothing but ballet. Because what were you without ballet?

The thoughts hadn't quieted one bit, even when you stood in front of the mirror, Mingi's arms around you. Nor did they in the next few weeks. You became softer, no snapping remarks or anything to give him. No words for him, actually, you barely talked.

Considering all of your setbacks, you were doing amazing - both of you. But despite the progress you'd made together, there was still that lack of trust, that undeniable bond only years of being partners could forge, and that hell of a tension was suffocating. Because his hands felt electric on you. Every touch lingered longer, and you found yourself resenting the moments they actually stopped.

You correct more steps and moves for yourself, so he doesn't have to do it for you. So you don't have to feel the humiliation of not knowing a basic step - but also, you don't want him to think less of you. You're the supposed best in this school so act like it. You want- no you need Mingi to believe you are a good, the best partner.

So fake it 'til you make it, right?

But you weren't sure anymore if you were getting better - or just better at pretending.

Mingi took a breather after you'd done the whole dance twice. His eyes never left your figure as he crashed down in front of the barre, taking a few sips of water. You still stood there - dancing and practicing one particular turn that you couldn't get on point with yourself with.

"One, two- ugh, fuck." You mumbled under your breath, the bitter taste of dissatisfaction settling deep in your throat. The studio only gave comfort to you and him in these late hours. Your eyes snapped to his sprawled-out figure as he watched you with piercing eyes. He was biting the inside of his cheek, something unreadable passing in his eyes.

When he finally stood beside you again, his chest was not heaving as hard as it had been before. He was staring in the mirror, hands never finding their place on your waist, the music was already past your queue. Your eyebrows etched together as you looked at him, "…What?" you snapped, more snappy than you wanted to.

Your eyes followed his gaze to your feet, where they were shifting the weight from one leg to another. Your eyes lifted back to find him staring at you. "Are you nervous?" His hands tensed awkwardly beside his body.

"No- what- why would you think that?" There was a bite to your words, nose scrunching in distaste and confusion.

"You're shifting."

"Yeah, and?" He didn't mean to leave the silence that long.

"Every time before a lift - left to right - and you don't even notice it." His hands motioned animatedly with his words, punctuating this habit deeper with every word. Making your stomach drop, because now that he said it, you noticed it.

Heel to toe, heel to toe. Preparing, bracing yourself.

You heard it as criticism first. Not concern, and not quite an observation - just another thing you were doing wrong and he had to point out. "'m just adjusting-" Your jaw tightened before you even finished the sentence. As if you said it confidently enough, maybe it would become true.

"No," he shook his head, "you just don't trust the timing." You just don't trust yourself. The studio felt hotter, smaller. Louder, even though the music had already stopped - and so did your shifting.

"I-I know the timing, I have been dancing for years." Your words are still sharp. Wonder who you are trying to convince, him or yourself.

"Yeah," he ran a hand through his hair as his jaw tensed. "You have."

His words didn't feel like validation, it felt like anything but that. "Then what's your point?" you pressed, already knowing you wouldn't like the outcome, legs already moving your weight - but you stopped it mid movement.

"You're not dancing what's supposed to happen," he breathed out, voice lower than before and softer, "But what you think will go wrong."

The more he spoke, the less oxygen you had in your lungs, and it was crushing your chest - snapping something, so suddenly you even forget there was an option to breathe. Because he wasn't wrong, and that made it even worse.

"I'm not-" Your voice cracked, and you hated how weak you sounded. "I'm just trying not to mess it up."

"I know." He responded, too sincere, too soft.

You turned away from him, hands going to your hair, your temples - anywhere but him. Your weight shifted again without meaning to. Heel. Toe. Heel-

"Stop,"

You froze, one leg on point, the other flat on the ground. "All I'm trying to say is, you don't even realise you're doing it." Your throat felt tight, heartbeat loud in your ears, almost louder than his reassuring, soft-spoken words. "I just told you," he continued, still as patient as ever, something he wasn't usually with you, "and you still did it again."

Your vision blurred before you even registered the tears. The tears came all at once - sharp, sudden, impossible to stop. You turned away immediately, wiping at your face as if it offended you, as if crying itself was the failure. "Fuck," you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. "This is stupid."

You hated that he saw this. Hated the fact that it was him, of all people, standing here while you fell apart. For a second, you almost told him to drop it. To leave it alone, to leave you alone. He didn't move closer, didn't try to comfort you with touch. But he was there, eyebrows drawn together, hands still tensed next to him. "You're relearning," he said after a moment.

You let out a bitter laugh. "Feels more like unlearning everything."

"Yeah," he shrugged lightly, though his eyes didn't leave you, "that's usually how it works." He sighed, flexing his fingers a little before speaking up again, "You relied on him," he stated matter-of-factly, but not unkindly, "That's not a bad thing." Your chest tightened at the mention, nails biting into the skin of your palm. "But now you can't, so you notice everything you didn't have to before."

He finally let silence settle over the studio again, but now it wasn't suffocating, just still. It lets the thoughts consume you. "I hate it," you admitted, eyes on the floor, not daring to look even in his direction.

"You're better like this."

"What?" Your head snapped up, and your expression soured quickly because it didn't feel like a compliment. It felt like being stripped down to something unfinished and told to be grateful for it.

"You hesitate," He said, gesturing slightly, "you overthink, you mess up the count-"

"Wow, thanks-"

"But you know why now." That was quick to shut you up. Words got stuck in your throat as you watched him, teary-eyed. He tilted his head slightly, smile low, playful on his lips as he asked, "Again?"

You nodded, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands with haste. Quickly shaking off your legs and hands, cracking your neck left to right. "Yeah," you gulped down the tears that didn't have the place to escape now. You didn't feel ready - but you stepped in anyway. 

It didn't click all at once.

Some days, you catch yourself. Some days you didn't, and some days, you didn't even try.

But then also… You moved with more ease; the tension didn't fully leave your shoulders or moves, but you caught yourself more frequently in the bad habit. If you hadn't, Mingi tilted his head with a pointed gaze on your feet, one eyebrow cocked, making you chuckle every time. Less panic, and fewer moments where your body locked up completely.

You stayed longer one day. The professor was about to leave, too, but he sat down beside you.

"How is it going?" Mr Lee asked, with an unreadable expression on his face.

The words were stuck in your throat. Because, how was it actually going? Mingi made you doubt every step, relearn the basics. Make you want to join first-year classes again to learn everything from the start. Slowly making you realise what you had with Ikhyun wasn't perfect.

You were just lost in the haze of this whirlwind around you, which stopped you from questioning your knowledge and precision. Because if it got you golds, then there wasn't anything to evolve. You reached the top. There is nowhere to develop further.

"Well," you tried to say, but it sounded more like a question. "It's different." His eyes were on your forearm, where you started unconsciously rubbing it with your hand. Legs ready to place your weight from one to the other, but you stopped the motion. "He- he's making me question everything I've stood by before."

He nodded, directing you to continue and pushing you to make this realisation by yourself.

"With Ikhyun, everyone was sold on our connection and- and chemistry, not our skills." His head tilted disapprovingly, "I'm not saying we didn't dance well - I mean, I am - but we could've danced worse and still have gotten podium." you stammered.

"We lacked awareness of our imperfections." Your voice was low, barely above a whisper. "We- we trusted each other too much that we lost the meaning, the art in ballet."

Mr Lee smiled widely as he looked at you, proud of your realisation, before his expression dropped back to that similar stoic one. His hand ran through his silver hair before he stood up and nodded. "Alright." He took a glance around the room, nodding one to your left, before he left.

You haven't even registered that Mingi still sat in the otherwise empty studio with you. But you stayed where you were - by the barre, stretching a little longer than necessary, retying ribbons that didn't need fixing… thoughts storming in your head.

You didn't want to leave first. Didn't want to think about the walk to your car, the suffocating, different quiet that waited there. The one in here felt comforting, like an embrace.

Mingi was doing the same thing in his own way. Not stretching - just… taking his time. Folding his towel, unfolding it again. Taking another sip of water, he clearly didn't need. Breaking the silence occasionally.

Eventually, you stood, slinging the strap over your shoulder with more force than necessary, already heading for the door before your thoughts could catch up. Mingi held the door open for you. When did he even stand up? A small smile grazed his features as he looked at you, motioning for you to go first.

Your synchronised steps were loud against the tiled floor of the hallway. Echoing through the empty, cold space. He was a breath behind you, not too close - but not too far behind either. The moon was already up in the dark sky outside. Mingi opened the door with his shoulder, and you immediately felt the absence of your jacket.

Your steps slowed for half a second - barely noticeable - but he caught it anyway. You saw it in the way his gaze flickered to your arms, then away again. He didn't comment, just adjusted his pace to match yours.

The parking lot was quieter than usual. A few scattered cars, dim lights casting long shadows across the pavement. Your keys clinked in your hands as you walked towards your car. He was still walking with you, silently. Most people would've peeled off by now. Said something, left, made it obvious.

Something he has been doing lately - this silent support. But you couldn't put a start to this, you didn't feel it, and lately you just began to expect it. If it was for a lift or a conversation with the professor, he was there like a pillar - quiet, unmoving. But his presence was enough for you to be aware of everything, and it somehow grounded you. It was strange - how nothing felt fixed, but something felt… quieter.

You reached your car, slowing as you fumbled with the keys a little more than necessary. Your fingers felt clumsy all of a sudden, as if they didn't quite belong to you. You looked over your shoulder when the car finally opened with a low flash of lights. "…Do you need something?"

He pursed his lips, head shaking in response. His hands were in the pocket of his hoodie, his lips pulled into a half smile, "Can't I accompany you to your car?" his smile was full now, teeth on display. "It's dark outside." He motioned around animatedly, "Someone could've kidnapped you."

The sound of your chuckle felt foreign, "Such a gentleman, Song," he shrugged, rolling his eyes playfully.

He was still standing beside your car when your fingers hovered over the start button. He didn't look at you when he said it, "Text me when you get home." The words came out so casually that it took you a few seconds to register them.

"What?"

"So I know you didn't crash."

"Aaah," Your smile widened, nodding at him as you blew out a breath. "I will, then." You barely believed the words as you said them. Mingi was already turning away, walking towards his car.

You didn't drive off immediately. Through the windshield, you could still see him - walking away, hands still shoved into his hoodie pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, but he didn't look back.

Before you could think better of it, your hands reached for your phone, opening the chat with Mingi.

You got home

You stared at the way his car's headlights lit up the almost empty parking lot. Your lips pressed together, put your phone down, then drove out.

Your phone buzzed ten minutes later, at a red light. But you withstood the desire to look at it until you were already in the driveway.

Mingi liar

You stared at the screen longer than you should've, and a breathless chuckle came out. And you noticed how your cheeks hurt from smiling all the way home.

You Okay, I am for real home now.

Mingi didn't crash?

You Nope We still have to practice tmr

Mingi :( thought i could get away w it

You Damn you hate me so much?

Mingi you know it

You stared at the messages, with your bag on your shoulder, keys in hand, but still sitting behind the wheel. The screen went dark with a click as you got out. But another message chimed from it when you were kicking your shoes off.

Mingi goodnight y/n

You Goodnight Mingi

—

Ballerinas wear specialised ballet costumes - particularly tutus - to facilitate unrestricted movement, showcase technical musculature, and enhance storytelling. These costumes, ranging from classical stiff tutus to flowing skirts, evolved to make movement look effortless, highlight precise lines, and transport audiences into the performance's world. Because ballet isn't just about dancing well - it's about making it look effortless. And sometimes, if you wear it long enough, you start to believe it.

—

Last night, when you went to sleep, you didn't think the house next door would pick that day to throw the biggest party in the neighbourhood. So when you woke up to the sound of your mother's voice instead of the alarm, you already knew the day would be unbearable.

You were awake - technically - but nothing about it felt real. Your mom noticed the second you stumbled into the kitchen, twenty minutes later than you were supposed to be out the door. She didn't even comment. Just grabbed her keys and jerked her head toward the door.

Those thirty minutes spent slipping in and out of consciousness in the car did more damage than help. Your head knocked lightly against the window every few minutes. You felt like a zombie, and probably looked like one too - if your mom's chuckle was anything to go by.

The classes blurred together; your notes were gibberish, words slanting into each other like they didn't want to exist either. Next class was practice, and by now you were sure you wouldn't survive it.

It was honestly a miracle that you could tie the ribbons of your shoes- they were all crooked, and pointing in every direction, but they were on you at least, weren't they? Mingi was trying to suppress a smile when you walked towards him or dragged yourself there rather.

"Rough day?" You didn't need to look at him to see the way he was smiling now. You just groaned in his direction, standing in front of him, ready to dance. But even standing felt wrong - like your weight wouldn't settle properly. This was a new low, even for you.

The rest of the class passed by with Mingi laughing. You even got a half smile from Mr Lee. You weren't there enough however, to notice the anxious shifting of your legs, but you would thank Mingi the next day that he didn't point it out.

At the end of class, Mingi stood tall above you as you fought off your pointe shoes and wrestled them into your bag. He opened the doors for you because he was pretty sure you would've walked into them if he didn't do so.

The next surprise was not finding your car in its usual place. The realisation hit slowly, then all at once. "Shit," you groaned, stopping mid-step. Mingi froze beside you. His head snapped toward you. "What?" past you, to the space where your car should've been. You didn't even bother explaining. Just dragged a hand over your face and reached for your phone, already pulling up your mom's contact.

He resumed walking, just like that. Your head snapped up, watching his back as he moved ahead like nothing happened. Fucking asshole. You couldn't suppress the sigh that came from you as you pressed the phone to your ear- "You coming?"

Your head jerked up again. He was already a few steps ahead, looking over his shoulder at you, brows slightly raised like this was obvious. He reached out to his passenger door, opening it before he walked to the driver's side to sit in.

You blinked at him, still halfway stuck between dialling your mom and processing the fact that your car wasn't there. "…With you?" you asked, slower than usual.

He raised an eyebrow as the car's headlights lit up, "No, I just like asking questions."

You huffed, rolling your eyes as you shoved your phone back into your bag. "You're insufferable."

"Get in." There was no room to argue. Not with your brain lagging two steps behind everything. Not with the cold creeping under your thin clothes. His car was already hot. The leather seats felt like heaven against your skin, already making your eyes droopy, combined with the heat. Your head tipped back against the headrest, eyes closing just for a second…

"Hey," You felt the light tap on your thigh. Your eyes fluttered open, and he was closer than you expected. His whole body was turned towards you, with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the middle console, hovering just above your legs without actually touching them. Your eyes rested on his hand, how you still felt where he had touched it a few seconds ago. As if staring at it will make it come back. "y/n, seatbelt."

He huffed out a breath that sounded awfully like a laugh, and watched you as you fumbled with it. After a few seconds, he reached over, "I got it." his hand brushed yours as he clicked it into place. Hand settling into that same spot it had been in before. Not quite touching but still there.

His gaze flickered up - not to your eyes at first, but your face. Your mouth. Then finally, your eyes. "Are you always this useless when you're tired?" he asked, voice quieter than before.

You let out a soft scoff, but it came out weaker than you meant it to. "Shut up." For a second, you sat there, both of you too close to one another. Eyes on each other's faces, with the low hum of the car mixing with your heartbeat in your ears. But then he pulled back, clearing his throat, eyes on the mirror as he started reversing out.

"Don't fall asleep," he muttered, "'m not carrying you inside."

You swallowed, forcing your gaze out the window, even though your reflection stared right back at you. "Wouldn't dream of it," you mumbled back through pursed lips.

The drive already felt too steady, too quiet, because both of you were too aware of the distance between you. You were fidgeting with your hands in your lap, looking around, but not daring to glance in his direction.

Because if you would, it would all feel real somehow.

Your eyes remained locked on the outside scenery for the time being - or until your eyes stayed shut for longer than what could be considered a blink, and half a second longer every time, until the combination of warmth from the vents and the slow music on the radio basically screamed for you to close your eyes.

And you totally could, right? You wouldn't fall asleep, but with your eyes closed, you wouldn't have to worry about where to look.

When you next opened your eyes, for a second, you didn't move. There was a dull panic in your chest. That disoriented, floating feeling of not knowing where you were or how much time had passed.

It took you a few seconds to register where you were. Still in Mingi's car with him sitting completely relaxed behind the wheel - thighs spread wide enough to graze the gear shift, one hand resting on the windowsill while his knuckles pressed against his lips. Is pouting his default? He was lazily scrolling on his phone as you watched him.

Your eyes slid to the dashboard eleven-fifty pm. Oh my god. Did he seriously let you sleep in his car for hours? As you were wiggling in your seat, he looked at you, rolling his shoulders as he said, "Good morning, princess."

Your cheeks heated with the nickname before you could even register that he meant it in a derogatory way. "Did you let me sleep in your car for three consecutive hours?" You semi-yelled, as much as you could after waking up.

He looked at you deadpan, "I told you I wouldn't carry you in," he said as if it were obvious.

"And your solution to that was driving up to-" you looked outside the window, was just a random parking lot? "-to wherever the fuck we are, instead of waking me up?- because that is what a normal person would do, by the way."

"Whoa, hold your horses, sleeping beauty, do you always get feisty after you wake up?" His hands came up in front of him protectively, and a small smile tugged at his lips. "And by the way, did you finally get enough sleep? Maybe not, but we're one step closer, and also by the way, did you know you talk in your sleep? Because you do, and it's fucking creepy." He was mocking you now. That fucki-

You scoffed while closing your eyes, trying to bite back any remark with little to no success. "You're unbelievable."

"So are you." You let out a loud groan at that, but your cheeks were still warm. Even though he turned the heating off, but not the radio, it still played random songs you fell asleep to.

You really hoped you didn't actually talk in your sleep. Who could know what things unconscious you aired, as if it were Mingi's business.

You couldn't help but wonder, this is the same man who acted like an ass with you randomly, and also who let you sleep in his car. The same guy who challenged your every word, but also helped you when something was wrong, and he was the person whose touch you didn't want to leave your body. Well, that is a discovery, and even thinking it felt wrong.

"So uh," he put his phone down with a little thud on the middle console, "You hungry?"

"Mingi, it's almost midnight."

He raised an eyebrow, "And?" his lips pursed, "Does the absence of the sun in the sky take away your appetite or?" Why does his sassiness have to be funny? You licked your lips as you collected your composure, but you smiled anyway.

"Alright, what you got on your mind?"

Turns out, it wasn't just a random parking lot; it was next to a seven eleven. The store run was fast; you were back with your desired items in the comfort of his car in a few minutes. And as you munched on your samgak kimbap, you tried not to think about the way his body pressed against yours between the aisles, and the ease with which he pressed his card to the reader when you tried to pay.

He even had the biggest smile on after, that smug bastard.

He was looking out the window and drinking his banana milk when he suddenly asked, "What do you think is the most elite flavour?" and it was safe to say you were shocked, so much so that you choked on your food.

"What are you even talking about?" Your laugh was loud in the car, body almost folding in half with the intensity.

His eyes were shaped into half crescents with his big smile, "What? I'm serious."

You needed a few minutes to be able to talk without bursting out laughing again, "Of what? In general?" He hummed a yes back. You pretended to ponder the question with your finger on your mouth, which he rolled his eyes at. "For sweets, I think vanilla, for savoury, I'd say… I don't know cheese?"

His features twisted into visible disgust. "You're so weird."

"You asked me for my opinion!"

"Yeah, and it's fucking disgusting!"

You scoffed, scrunching up the wrapper of your food in your hand, "Okay, then what do you think is the best flavour?"

"Mint choco, and tofu."

"Tofu doesn't even have a taste! And mint chocolate is like the worst of them all!"

"You just can't believe my opinion is superior to yours." He shrugged.

One day, after the competition, you were going to strangle this man with your bare hands. You didn't reply to his last comment; you were sure neither of you would like it. So you just let the quiet take place, and ate your remaining food in silence.

Until you had a thought, "What the hell did you even do until I was asleep?"

He had a spoonful of pudding in his hand when you looked at him. "I drove around for a while," He said as if it was the most normal thing in the world, "Then I parked here and scrolled on my phone."

You nodded faux-amusedly, "Tough."

"I mean, what would you do if I fell asleep in your car?" Well, now that's a real question.

"First of all-" You pointed one finger up, just as he mocked those words in a high pitch, "I can't think of a scenario which would result with you in my car. Second of all, I would wake you up?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That is the obvious answer, sorry for wanting to be a good person," He waved you off with an eyeroll. His eyes will literally roll out of his head at this rate.

The time after was cut short after a message from your mom. But this turned into a habit - not the part where we were horribly exhausted, and fell asleep in his car, but the driving around and talking one. It wasn't immediate, although. The first few times felt accidental. As if neither of you wanted to acknowledge that it was becoming a thing. As if it would stop, or break if either of you pointed it out.

He always had a random question he would ask you and make you laugh until your stomach hurt - the Mingi special of the day, if you may. It felt good, domestic even. You still bantered; you did it a lot. But you finally smiled at the end instead of letting it ruin your day.

And seeing you together didn't seem strange to the students at the school either. Everyone got used to it, so much so that even the paper that wrote Ikhyun's article got word of it.

The fallen prodigy and the replacement prince

So unique. They even had a picture of you with him coming out of the studio attached. Sometimes journalists go off the rails. But you didn't think it was worth your attention, nor did you mention it to Mingi.

Mingi did you see this? link attached

You Yeah, but I didn't read it

Mingi "While Ikhyun might have left abruptly, his 'for life' companion seemed to find a replacement quite fast." who are these people

You Exactly why I didn't read it lol

Mingi 🙄

Texts became regular too, and not just the "where are you" or "I am ready to start if you come" but more ordinary ones too. As much as you can call this ordinary.

Mingi you still like ur things vanilla flavoured or did you grow up?

You Do you still like choco mint flavoured things, or did you develop tasting buds?

Mingi this was a yes or no question btw

You Yes, I do.

So it was safe to say, the picking spread to a form that could be read again.

You didn't notice it at first - or you just choose to ignore it deep down - the way your shoulders relaxed more, the way your replies came faster or the way you didn't dread practice as much, almost as if you were looking forward to it.

…But the girls noticed did, via you smiling an odd amount at your screen. "What'chu smiling about?" Dahyun leaned over your shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of said thing. But you were fast to lock it and place the phone next to your tray.

"Nothing special."

But Jiwoo's eyes were on the other culprit across the cafeteria - also smiling at his phone, which made you feel this weird thing in your stomach. Her eyes locked on Dahyun's and explained all of it with a slight nod in his direction, with a knowing smile on her face.

"Yeah, or no one…" Jiwoo said, and you hit her arm lightly.

"Stop," You dragged the letters out as your cheeks heated, "It is nothing." But then your phone lit up with a notification.

Mingi wanna dip?

Your hand hovered over the screen, just so you could close it if any prying eyes found it. "But I gotta go practice, now," One of your legs was already off the bench, bag in your hands as you stood. The girls watched as Mingi also stood from his table, and Jiwoo found his eyes colliding with Yunho's just as he shook his head slightly.

A smile pulled on her lips as she muttered, "Unbelievable," to Dahyun.

In front of the mirror, his hands already found your waist, after warm up - just as always. With that practised ease that crept in over the last week. You felt as if you had the lead back over your dancing more every day. That certain ground that got ripped out, you started rebuilding it - but now not in pretend, in faux perfection, but in a real way that still left you specifics to perfect, but you now knew what to improve. And you wanted to be better.

With this newfound mentality, practices also became harder in one way.

You weren't only hyper aware of what you needed to do better at, but also his touches. Those lingering touches, and when your breathing was synchronised, after the music ended - especially when you were way too close to each other, with his warm hand wrapped around your torso.

Today was no different. Every touch felt energised; they lit you up as you danced. And as the music ended, he was close again, too close. So much so that if you even lifted your head just a little bit, your lips would touch.

As you saw his eyes look down to your lips, you knew he was thinking the same thing. You felt it too, because his hold got tighter on your waist. You felt his every exhale on your cheeks, the way it fluttered when you leaned just a breath closer. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, with that rush that couldn't quite be named but was always present with him.

But then the music started again, breaking the moment - although neither of you moved for a second too long, a second when it could no longer be denied. The "what ifs" started in your head, loud and overpowering every previous thought, but not loud enough to make your ears skip his voice.

"Again," His voice was raspy, deep, and also quieter than before. And you just danced, from the outside, everything looked the same, but both of you felt the change.

And after you buckled your seatbelt in his car, you mumbled quickly, "Can't stay out today." you didn't even throw your bag to the rear seats, but let it rest in your lap. "I got- something at home."

He didn't question it, no usual banter about the way you stuttered or how you clearly just made that really bad excuse up. He just replied with an "Alright," and dropped you off at home.

—

Spotting is a crucial ballet technique used during turns to prevent dizziness and maintain balance by focusing on a single point. The dancer isolates the head from the body - holding their gaze as long as possible before snapping it back into place with each rotation. It keeps everything controlled and predictable. But that only works if you know where to look. Because the moment your focus slips, even for a second, the world doesn't just blur - it spins.

—

You groaned into your pillow as you rolled to your stomach. Your phone rested next to you, with one specific contact, that was your lifeline for years - your anchor. But as time moved on, so did your relationship. But now everything felt weird, new.

You wanted to talk about it because if you needed to think about it in the comfort of your room alone, you would cry. Fuck it.

That familiar screen lit up as you pressed the call button, and it didn't even take him five seconds to respond. "Hello?"

"Hi, Ikhyun, how are you?" When did talking to your best friend get this hard?

"I'm… managing," He chuckled at the other end. You could see his half smile in front of you. "What's up? Why'd you call?"

"Just wanted to talk," your voice was muffled from your hand, your face rested on. "We haven't talked in a while, Hyun."

He hummed before asking, "How is uni?"

The words were on the tip of your tongue, "You know, same old." But instead you said, "Tiring," after a little pause. "We practice every day, more than before. We… We even started hanging out after."

"y/nnie, that's good," His tone was higher in a way it always got when he was happy. "I'm glad you guys get well."

You snorted when he said that, "Yeah, maybe a little bit too well."

"What do you mean?" He chuckled, but his tone felt more serious.

You hesitated a bit, or rather gathered your thoughts. "It's just- different, you know?" He didn't reply, just let you finish. But how were you even supposed to explain this? The way your chest tightened, the way your thoughts wouldn't sit still or the way everything felt louder around Mingi. "Practice goes… Well. But then the minute the music ends, I don't know how to act."

He hummed, his eyebrows probably gathered at your words as he tried to piece them together, "You'll get used to it." His words felt easy, "It's just the new partner, it takes time to adjust." His chuckle made your hold tighten around your phone, "You're probably just overthinking it."

You turned to your back, phone abandoned on the pillow next to you. Overthinking. Yeah, it was possible, and would explain a lot of things. But this time it doesn't feel like it. It felt- feels real. "Hm, yeah, probably." You hummed, but your phone buzzing snapped you out.

Mingi so is that thing over now?

Your eyebrows furrowed. You murmured a small "What?" under your breath, but Ikhyun caught it.

"What did you say?"

"Nothin'."

You Why? Desperate to talk to me?

Mingi how come every time i ask you a question you reply with one back?

A snort left your lips.

"y/n?" Ikhyun's voice pulled you back. "You still there?"

"Yeah," You responded quickly, clicking back into the call, and letting your phone drop back.

"You always get into your head like this," His tone was higher again, smile evidently on his face. "Especially about things that'll fix themselves."

You let out a quiet hum because normally, he would be right. As he always was - but this was maybe something else. Maybe you didn't say it right - or maybe… There just wasn't a way to say it."Yeah, I'm probably just tired." You said instead, voice lower now.

"Get some rest y/nnie," His voice softened. "Don't overwork yourself."

A smile pulled at your lips, even though he couldn't see it. "Hey Hyun?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

He chuckled as he responded with delight, "Always." The call ended with a soft tap of your finger. The chat with Mingi lit up your screen again.

You Don't you like it?

Mingi fuck off man

You It's finished tho Why?

Mingi i have that drink that's horrible but you seem to like and i refuse to carry it with me anymore

You And what you're trying to say is?

Mingi be outside in 10

Your fingers hovered over the screen, as you reread the messages - because this was new, and you didn't know if it meant good. You should've lied, thought of another excuse - you already did today, what else was there to lose?

But you grabbed your jacket anyway and waited for him outside. When he arrived, you slid into the passenger seat, immediately noticing two drinks sitting in the middle console. "Wow," he glanced at you briefly, before looking ahead, "No attitude today? Should I be worried?"

You shut the door a little harder than necessary, "Just give it a minute."

"Ah," He smiled satisfiedly, "There she is." You rolled your eyes at him, but it didn't have the same energy as usual. Neither of you spoke, just let this awkward silence settle over the car.

You heard him gulp before he started driving. He reached to the middle, shoving a drink your way, "Almost threw it out by the way," as you took it, his fingers brushed yours for a split second. Not as if it mattered.

"So dramatic," You muttered, unwrapping the straw so that you had something to do.

"You're the one who likes it," He shrugged, and for a second, your heart stopped. Are we still talking about the drinks? He might have seen the way you froze when he glanced at you. "That says more about you than it does about me."

A quiet huff left your lips as you took a sip, leaning back into the seat. The silence settled again, but heavier. You watched the scenery change outside the car, but it did faster than you were used to. Your eyes snapped to the speed indicator over a hundred kilometres per hour already.

"Are we late somewhere?" Your tone was chipped. He didn't really drive when you sat in his car, but when he did, he never went above the limit.

"No? Why?" He glanced at you, then his eyes dropped to your hands holding the edge of your seat to the point your knuckles turned white. You saw how his foot pushed the gas pedal harder. He had a smirk on his lips.

"Then why are we going way above legal?" He reached for his drink, and your jaw dropped for a second. "Just give me that." You snatched it out of his hands to open and place the straw in for him, then pushed it in front of his lips.

His eyes dropped down to it for a second, hands reaching for it before you swatted them away. He looked at you, smile still wide. Hands back on the wheel, "If you're gonna princess me for driving this fast, I might have to do it more."

You closed your eyes for half a second and took a deep breath, then said, "Look at the road, Mingi, not me and just drink." He chuckled but did as you told.

After you put the bottle back in the middle console, he spoke up, "So," he started, voice a little lower now, "what was so important?"

You stopped yourself before your eyes could widen. Right… that.

But it was as if you almost considered telling him. Maybe you should have, just 'Don't you remember?' But you didn't say it. It wouldn't even make sense because he is thinking about a family emergency or something along those lines- not you spiralling in your bed.

"Nothing," You said quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Just uh, family stuff." How pretty is the scenery. But when you looked back, he was already looking at you.

"You're a terrible liar." He said simply, and your stomach dropped. You probably looked like a deer in headlights - but you surely felt as one.

"I wasn't lying."

"Right," He pulled out the syllables, but didn't press further.

He drove for a little after that. The speed indicator didn't go lower; maybe it even went a little higher. But you didn't dare actually to turn your head to look at it. The silence just felt too suffocating, and you both knew he caught you.

You reached another town - or another part of town - either way, you were way past the usual streets and familiar roads. He cleared his throat before he spoke, "So did you eat at this family function?" the words were mocking, almost harsh.

You shook your head - you didn't trust your voice right now.

His grip was tight on the leather of the wheel, turning toward the drive-through of the fast-food restaurant you didn't notice was right next to you. He got you both some fries and an ice cream - per your request.

The plastic spoon's clatter filled the car. You sat with your feet crossed under you, and your back resting against the door, turned towards him as usual. His body faced you also, but not fully.

He finished his ice cream first, but he didn't ask any random questions while he ate. In fact, he didn't even look up from his cup. His eyebrows were furrowed - deep in thought. You let the uncomfortable silence take hold of your lungs; it burned. It didn't burn as much as the idea of opening your mouth and saying something you didn't actually want to.

He might have noticed it - the ideas daring to tear you apart, or maybe the stiffness behind your movements. So he spoke up first - or at least tried to. Multiple times. He took a deep breath, opening his mouth as if he would say something, but hesitated and surrendered to the quiet in the last second.

When he finally seemed to put the thought together - or rather gather the bravery for it. He spoke up, "Do you always run?" What? The word landed wrong - too small for how tight your chest felt.

"What do you mean?"

"When something happens, your first instinct is to fly, run."

The questions made your tongue feel dry, and the car now felt ten times colder. You just stared at him wide-eyed, heartbeat loud in your ears. Because how could you respond to this?

He watched you for another second before he realised you wouldn't say anything. "Or is it just with me?"

"I don't- I- I just." You wanted to reply quickly, and maybe that was your fall. Exactly why the words came out ragged, mirroring the exact chaos in your brain without even finishing a sentence. You tried to piece a defence together, but his eyebrows lifted in quiet challenge, and the words fell apart in your throat before they could mean anything. His eyes stayed on you for a second too long - searching, waiting - as if he was giving you a chance to say it properly, to defend yourself. But you didn't. - His eyebrows dropped right back with a huff and a shake of his head.

"We have an long schedule tomorrow," His hands hovered over the wheel, "I'm gonna take you home." you saw as his jaw tightened, maybe with unsaid words, or just with the tension. But then his hand was already on the start button, not even waiting for your interval. But he knew you wouldn't say anything other than a murmured goodbye in your front yard.

The drive back felt slower, longer. Maybe it was because he was now driving within the speed limit. But something other than that, too. That unexplainable thing that lifted, but neither of you knew where to place it anymore.

The next morning, you didn't want to get out of bed, let alone get to practice. Thursdays were always the longest because you had a few normal classes, then ballet for three hours. After that, you could run to biology, and back to the studio after classes for another three hours minimum - or as much as your body lets you.

Mingi didn't call you out on anything. He didn't talk much during the first practice. Just a little, "Again," or groans came from his direction - towards you at least. He talked to Yunho, Yeosang, San, and Wooyoung with a wide smile on his face. He even made jokes that cost you expensive minutes of practising. Not like that could bother him at the moment.

The second he came back behind you, his smile gradually fell. His attention was there as always, maybe a little more than usual. But just so he could get his touches as short-lived as possible. They were precise, so you couldn't complain, but it hurt. The combination of these interactions made you more exhausted than a common practice would. And that biology class was just the cherry on top.

You tried pushing through the last hours, with more or less success.

You lost count more than once. Not because you didn’t know it - but because every time he stepped close, your focus slipped half a second too late. With the studio empty other than him and you, his focus felt suffocating.

You could hear his eyes roll as he murmured the "Again," behind you - it was sharper this time, closer. You turned, eyes closing a second too long to keep the words in that kept threatening to escape your mouth. But his hold on your waist tightened, "Wait-" his voice was hurried, "From here." his hand moved you back to your position. "Just this turn."

Suddenly, it felt as if someone had sucked all the air out of the classroom. There certainly wasn't enough in your lungs. Your eyes met in the mirror, and you signalled for the turn. He lifted you high. Your muscles strained in the posture, but you need to hold it- definitely not think about the warmth of his hands. Focus.

When he put you down, it was easy, soft. His hands stayed on your waist until he was sure you were stable. The two of you were too close now. The distance seemed like nothing with you now facing him. You looked up at him, his mouth open as he breathed heavily through it. When your gaze reached his eyes, he was already looking at you.

If you craned your neck even a fraction of an centimetre, your lips would touch. You could finally see if he was thinking about the warmth of your skin instead of the combination you were supposed to be executing. If he, too, felt how perfectly you fit in his hands.

But if he doesn't? What if he pulls away and looks at you as if you were crazy?

Maybe then he wouldn't be this close still. You could count his eyelashes. You can clearly see his moles - one on the side of his face, the other under his left eye. His hands were still on you, fingers flexing around you as if he were also contemplating, calculating his chances.

You should just let it happen. Consequences be damned.

Both of you leaned in. Your hands rested on his shoulders, and his pulled you closer, until you felt his lips brush yours. It was electric, just as every other touch you shared in the past few weeks - pulling, addicting.

But also, it was soft. Or at least soft until both of you got pulled into the rhythm. Finding that same accord, just like the one you find when the music starts.

Then it burned. The awareness pushed you away from him. Your hands slipped from his shoulders first, like touching him for another second would make this irreversible. But his stayed on your waist a moment longer - not tight anymore, just there, as if he also didn't quite know how to let go.

Everything felt wrong, too loud, too wide. You could hear the way the lights above clicked as the wind rattled the trees. You became too aware of everything to the point you felt raw.

His hands eventually dropped, and he cleared his throat, "Once more." It took you a few seconds to realise what he meant. But as he stood in position waiting for you, it clicked.

Your heart was loud enough to throw you off count, every time after it. Your breaths were shaky as you stood next to him, following the moves you should be doing, but your mind was elsewhere. His gaze seemed far away, too - both of you moved on muscle memory rather than actual thoughtfulness.

Your mind - minds apparently - revolved around where you touched, and where it lingered too long again. But neither of you looked anywhere near the other's eyes, which would mean something more than what you were ready for.

The practice got cut short. When you brought up going because you were tired, he easily shot you the idea of leaving without a second thought.

His car's engine echoed loudly in the otherwise empty parking lot. The tyres screeched as he drove out. He didn't wave to you, better off he didn't even look at you after you muttered out your excuse, "My mom's picking me up, we gotta go to grandma's." Your words were low, the same kind he already knew you used when you lied, but this time, he didn't argue. Maybe distance would be the best for both of you right now.

You still noticed how his jaw tightened when he gave you one nod.

The next day, it was as if the world tipped on its axis. Or maybe different people attended the school in your skin. An out-of-body experience, yet you did it all. You chose for it to be this way - or at least the silence after it.

He sat with his friends at lunch, just as usual. Laughed with his head thrown back, in that "I know people pay too much attention to me" way. It pissed you off to the point you texted him for it.

You I'm pretty sure nothing Yunho could say is THAT funny

Mingi i'm pretty sure the food isn't as bad as your scowl also i can feel the way your stare is burning my head can you stop pls im gonna have a bald spot

Dahyun and Jiwoo didn't even say anything about your furious typing. They just shared a look they usually had a lot of.

You You already have one, that's what I'm staring at

Mingi that's cruel princess myb i should just call u cruella

You You done?

Mingi don't act so tough i can see ur smile

You Then maybe you can also see that I'm waiting for you to finish so we can practice

Mingi practice? thought u were avoiding me again

You watched him shove his phone into his pocket before standing from the table. Yunho said something that made Wooyoung grin, but Mingi only shook his head once before walking toward you.

Every step closer made your chest tighten harder. As much as you wanted to play it off, the banter didn't have its usual easy rhythm. It felt charged - a thin wire stretched tight between you, making it impossible to tell where the joking ended, and the truth began, especially when he said, "You're distracting today."

"Then stop looking at me," You said in a sing-song voice without missing a beat.

He scoffed as he massaged his arms for a second, "Maybe stop giving me reasons to."

You couldn't think of a reason today for why he shouldn't bring you home. Not as if he believed yesterday's one. So when you sat beside him on the passenger seat, you felt like you could explode any minute.

Frustrated with him not calling you out on your bullshit yesterday. So you did what you did best. "You're in a weird mood today."

His finger tapped once against the wheel before responding, "Am I?"

You hummed back, "Mhm," your eyes on the phone in your hand, "You usually talk more."

"You usually lie less." There it is.

Your fingers tightened around the phone, "Oh my god, you're still hung up on that?"

"Well, you are making excuses to avoid me," He glanced at you briefly.

"I am not avoiding you."

"Right, so that's why you have something with your family every time something happens."

You scoffed, "What do you want me to do, Mingi?"

"I don't know, maybe act like kissing me didn't ruin your life?"

"You're acting like it meant nothing to you either."

You saw his reflection in your window, the way he was looking at you in that suffocating silence that somehow is always present in this car. Your eyes instead, focused on the University, through the glass. The lights were still bright in some classrooms.

His hand snapping to your jaw caught you entirely off guard - but not half as much as his mouth slamming down on yours. It was rougher than the day before, his jaw still tight with an unyielding frustration that effectively drowned out every unsaid word between you.

His eyes were dark when he pulled away. Something sharp flickered behind his eyes - frustration, disbelief, maybe something worse. "You really think that?" His voice came out quieter this time. Both of your chests rose unevenly yet somehow in sync, finding the same length even in distress. "You keep talking like I don't want this," he muttered.

Your lips still brushed when you answered, "Then stop acting like you don't care."

His laugh came out sharp, mocking. "You're unbelievable."

"You kissed me."

"Yeah," his fingers tightened against your jaw again, "because you wouldn't shut up."

You were the one to close the distance this time. Craving the plush of his lips on yours, moving with such fervour. He kissed just as he talked, with a bite and not afraid to hurt. His tongue moved against your lips, fingers tightening around your jaw.

The kiss felt messy in a way ballet never allowed you to be. No measured movements, no counts. Just heat and frustration moving to the surface in a way it didn't need words.

Your hands slipped into his hair without thinking - as if it was second nature - tugging hard enough for a low sound to leave his mouth. One that you let consume you.

"See?" he muttered against your lips, his breath hot and slick against your skin. "You keep acting like you’re scared of me…" He caught your lower lip between his teeth, and a high, breathless echo of his own sound escaped your throat.

"Because you don't give me a second to think," you shot back, though the words dissolved the second his mouth found yours again. He leaned closer over the middle console, one hand braced beside your thigh now, the other still holding your jaw as if he thought you would disappear if he let go.

The windows had started fogging slightly. The air felt too warm, too small. And suddenly you became painfully aware of everything again. The parking lot outside, your dance bag and cardigan abandoned in the backseat - the fact that tomorrow you would still have to stand in front of the mirror together and pretend this wasn't happening. You pulled back first this time, breaths shaky. "This is a bad idea," you whispered.

His eyes searched yours for a second before he laughed quietly in a tired, disbelieving way, "Yeah," he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek once. "Probably."

But rational thoughts never really stopped you, did they?

His mouth curled as he looked in your eyes, that sparkled - sparkled with need, with the inevitable outcome that both of you knew that you won't sober up enough in any scenario to stop.

Your hand found his that rested beside you, and slid it to your thighs and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. You saw as his tongue smoothed over his teeth, but he didn't move his hand. He tried to read your eyes, to see if you felt the same way he did.

Because maybe this is what you needed, to let the tension form into something physical, to a language both of you understood.

When one of your eyebrows lifted challengingly, that's when something broke inside him and freed a part that was raw with need. His hands slid under your legs, and he easily lifted you over to his lap, mouth already on yours the second your thighs touched his.

The movement knocked the breath from your lungs. One of your hands caught against his shoulder to steady yourself, the other still tangled in his hair as he kissed you as if he had been holding himself back for weeks and finally got permission to stop trying.

His grip tightened instinctively beneath your thighs, pulling you closer until there was barely any space left between you. "You drive me fucking insane," he muttered against your lips, words roughened by the way he was breathing. He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

His hair is messy from your hands, and his lips swollen. Eyes dark every time they flicked down to your mouth, then dragged back up again, as if he couldn't decide where he wanted to look most.

And the worst part was how natural this felt.

As if all those nights in the car, all those lingering touches during practice, every argument, every stupid text, and every almost-moment had been leading here the entire time.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie as another kiss stole the rest of your thoughts away. Slower this time, more deliberate. Because now both of you finally understood what the other was asking for.

You felt every part of him as he kissed you. His thick, muscled thigh tensing under you, the feel of it dizzying, enough to make you feel as if you were underwater. He bit your lower lip again, pulling another embarrassingly loud sound from you.

His hand on your waist moved with a new purpose - to map out in a way he hadn't before. Because, yes, he had touched you before, but not in this hungry, all-consuming way. He hadn't let himself feel your silky skin under his palms. He only knew the calculated points he was supposed to hold you, so he wouldn't hurt you. But he had enough of it.

His hand traveled to the strap of your leotard, tracking the line of the elastic before smoothing over your collarbone, a hot, breathy kiss following the exact trail of his fingers. But he didn't push it further until your hand enveloped his, guiding him past that studied precision.

You lead his hand, moved without a second thought - straight to the strap, letting his fingers push it down the slope of your shoulder, in a feather-light touch. Your eyes were drawn to his face - his gaze that followed your bodysuit, basking in every new inch of skin that was bared to him.

Your chest rose with wild breaths, even as your breasts were exposed to the foggy air of the car, nipples pebbled. His hands glided from the curve of your chest down your waist, finally resting at your lower back, pulling you in to another kiss.

You moaned into his mouth at the feeling of his rough finger tips on your upper body. He moved with boldness to see which points made you squirm in his hands, which made you let out those delicious sounds he hungrily swallowed down. But never quite touching where you wanted him most.

You felt vulnerable. He was still fully clothed under you, while you had your camisole bunched at your hips; only your tights and wrap skirt remained.

The fog on the windows thickened around you, shutting the rest of the world out. But not enough to stop you from noticing the messages on your phone go off. There were a lot, blowing up your little bubble with him.

His lips hadn't stopped moving against yours, moving with haste, all teeth and tongue, as if he wasn't going to waste a moment now that he had his hands on you. His hand moved from your waist to reach for your phone, which you'd left on the passenger seat.

"Mind if I?" He motioned to it, and you couldn't stop the needy sound that escaped you.

"Jus' do it," your voice was muffled against his jaw as you kissed your way down, leaving little bites and marks all over his neck and collar bones. You didn't miss the way his breath hitched at that particular spot above his collarbones.

His hand's warmth moved down to your buttocks, kneading the flesh of them over your tights. It was feverish, the car was hot with your sighs and moans. He pulled you closer to him, seating you directly above the tent of his pants, both of you moaning from just the mere touch.

His sounds were all-consuming, addicting - you needed to hear them more. So you rolled your hips against his slowly with a wicked smile on your lips, appearing as soon as a dark and gravely tone left his mouth. His hands tightened against your flesh, leaving you with marks of this night for days to come.

You felt soaked; soaked in a way your panties became one with the fabric of your leotard, clinging to your swollen labia - the grinding only making matters worse; until you were certain the heat of you would burn right through the heavy denim of his jeans, leaving a ruinous, undeniable mark of exactly what he was doing to you

His eyes were dark, absorbing mysteriously, demanding everything you had left, daring you to let go of the last shred of your control. Let him do as he pleases, you're just there to feel; to feel the textured leather of the steering wheel pressing hard against your shoulder blades as he crowded you into it, his mouth finally taking total possession of your skin.

The breath that escapes his open mouth that hovers over your nipples sends shivers down your spine, making you arch your back - pushing your chest towards his face. His eyes are following every reaction, pulled- thrilled by them. He craves those pretty sounds, responses. You feel the warmth and wetness before you see it. Your head throws back with the contact, and you can feel him smiling smugly against your skin where he is lapping at your nipple.

He doesn't fully pull back before giving the other bud the same treatment, and you can't help the whine and immediate response of your hands reaching for his head to pull him back. "Where did those snarky replies get lost, hm, Princess?" His tone was raspy, dripping with that familiar, mocking arrogance. A fierce heat rushed to your cheeks as you tried to stare him down, but with your fingers tangled helplessly in his hair, it probably looked like nothing more than a plea.

You were reduced to a puddle in his strong hands, which were now moving down to your inner thighs. Drawing slow, barely there lines along your muscles, always getting closer and closer to the aching centre of you, but retreating to draw another sweet, caressing line on your upper legs. "Fucking- stop teasing me," you whined, eyebrows pulling together in frustration.

"Why?" He rasped, low. "You have another family gathering to attend?" Your eyes shut at his taunting tone, but then his finger finally found your throbbing clit, circling it with careful precision. "Gotta get to it then, huh?" A wicked smile wide on his face, "Wouldn't want you to be late."

The words had barely left his mouth before you felt the sudden, tight pull of nylon against your skin, followed instantly by the sharp, unmistakable sound of delicate fabric ripping. A breathless gasp left your mouth at the feeling. Your eyes snapped to his in your confused state.

"Sorry, Princess," He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, the words said in one quick breath against your mouth. "I'll buy you a new pair," Another kiss. "Someone's just really impatient." That smug motherf-

You didn't have time to finish the thought, because his fingers pushed your leotard and panties aside in one rough movement. His fingers then dipped into your wetness, spreading it to your clit, still teasing you. Testing your limits - and what little patience you had left - to a degree you hadn't known you were capable of enduring. Lewd noises paired with your moans fill the car as he toys with you.

When he finally pushed two fingers inside you, it felt like way more. Already too overwhelming after being denied pleasure for too long, from having the control ripped from your hands with a few sweet words whispered in your ears. Yet he still worked you open at a maddening pace, the heel of his palm rubbing against your bud lusciously.

The volume rise in your moans was enough to tell him he found your spot. You squirmed wildly in his lap, chasing the bliss until a hand on your hips anchored you with a rasped whisper, "Stop moving, baby," he drew circles with his thumb, "You wouldn't want me to stop, right?" You shook your head frantically, whining at him with your lips trapped between your teeth. "Then be a good girl and stay still for me."

The rough pads of his fingers gave you extra pleasure, that undeniable high coming closer and closer - so close you felt it on your tongue. Until his hands left your frame entirely. Right on the brink of ecstasy.

His name left your lips in a loud sob and sniffle. Tears you hadn't registered yet ran down your wet cheeks. And when you looked at him, you didn't see anything but that smug smile that seemed stuck on his face now. He didn't say anything before moving down to work on the metal zipper of his jeans.

His hips lifted, pushing down his jeans and underwear in one solid motion, shifting you in the process too. Your eyes locked onto the V-line of his lower abdomen, paired with a happy trail running down the middle. You felt his gaze on you, piercing, searching for a reaction. A reaction he caught instantly, mapping the way your breath completely hitched in your throat.

Your eyes rounded as his hard cock slapped against his stomach, angrily red, the head slick with precum that caught the low light of the car. The sound of his chuckle broke you out of your trance, raising your gaze to meet his.

His eyes were hooded, head thrown back against the seat. Pumping his shaft in slow, unhurried movements as he looked at you. His head tilted to the side, "Gonna sit on it, pretty girl?" he purred, still moving his hand in a deliberate pace, but tugged your frame closer. "Work for what you've been begging for, hm?" He looked so full of himself, you could feel it roll off from him in waves - yet you didn't have it in you to deny a single word.

You nodded in a barely there motion. Lifting yourself over his cock, you felt his hand guide you down. But it left the moment the head was inside you. You move slowly, slow enough for him to grab onto your hips and still you on top of him with only the head in. Reminding you in the most painful way that he was still the one in charge. You wailed and moved in his hold, trying to get some friction - anything. Because just a little movement would be enough to unravel you.

"Mingi," You cried out, high-pitched, grabbing at his shoulders, even going as far as sinking your nails into his flesh. But he only moaned at the feeling with his head thrown back. "Please."

"Can't understand you, pretty."

This man will be the end of you. The only man who could rip your awareness so far out of reach that you were reduced to begging. Begging for anything he would give you. "Please, Min-" You gritted out through your teeth, "Stop- already." your words were ragged with your breaths, chest heaving wildly.

These moments stretched into what felt like years. Braced against his solid frame, you had been forced to taste that agonising stretch without ever getting what you needed. His hold finally softened around your torso, letting you sink on him. The strain was everything. A heavy burning feeling in your sensitive nerves. your eyes rolling back in your head with every single centimetre.

He watched your face contort with overwhelming pleasure, adapting to his size with a long moan. You looked ethereal, lit from the low lights of the dashboard, hair all messed up and sticky against your temples. He let you find your own rhythm - let you work for your own pleasure in his sick, selfish yet so pleasurable way.

But he supported you, hands helping your thighs work, moving the weight of them - letting you get lost in the feeling. You didn't need much for that all-consuming whiteness to appear behind your closed eyelids, moving faster to reach your peak.

His moans increased in volume too; he whispered some sweet nothings in your ears, you were too gone to understand. Crushed beyond repair. You felt his cock twitch inside you just as you tightened around him, following you into the bliss, filling you up - painting your insides white.

You collapsed against his chest, which rose with heavy breaths. His arms holding you tight against him, caressing your sweat-tainted skin softly. "Everything's alright, Pretty?" You nodded against him, painfully unaware of your spot in the university's parking lot - fully blissed out and content in his arms.

—

Arabesque /ˌærəˈbesk/

noun

A position in ballet where the dancer balances on one leg while extending the other behind them, creating a line meant to appear effortless and endless. It looks weightless from the outside - suspended, almost perfect. But no matter how beautiful it seems, a dancer can only hold it for so long before gravity reminds them where they belong.

—

Everything was sore. Every limb of your body felt strained in the way it usually did after hours of practising - nothing unusual in that - but rather in the fact that you woke up against a very firm chest.

"You really need to stop passing out in my car, Princess." He chuckled, low, chest shaking under your cheek. You just snuggled closer to the warmth, your face buried in the crook of his neck. The windows were still completely fogged over, sealing the two of you away from the chilly outside air. It had only been a few hours since you both had collapsed into each other, your bodies still tangled together on the reclined driver's seat. His heavy arms were wrapped securely around your waist, holding you in his lap as if it were the only place you belonged.

For a few blissful seconds, you just breathed him in. But the lingering thought of the time, or perhaps just the sheer habit of checking your phone, made you pull back slightly. Your phone was lying face down on the passenger seat, silenced long before things had gotten messy.

With a soft groan, you shifted on his lap, stretching your back to reach over the centre console. Mingi didn't let you go; his grip merely loosened enough for you to lean over, his chin resting lazily on your bare shoulder as his eyes blinked open, watching you with quiet, relaxed fondness.

You flipped the phone over and unlocked the screen. The sudden glare illuminated the cramped car, revealing frantic texts from Dahyun and Jiwoo just sent over two hours ago.

Jiwoo oh my god, tell me you're awake

Dahyun link attached someone leaked the unedited video from the bar

Jiwoo the audio is completely clear look at the background watch Mingi

Your breath hitched. Your thumb trembled as you clicked the link in the message, making sure the volume was set to a low so the sound wouldn't echo off the glass.

The video was shaky, filmed just a little further from where they stood - the exact night the scandal had broken and Ikhyun’s career had vanished. But unlike the blurry, chaotic clips that had circulated for months, this audio was crisp. You could clearly hear the mocking, arrogant voices of the male group members at a nearby table.

"...thought she was the untouchable prodigy, turns out she’s just a pass-around for the department..."

A sickening wave of ice flooded your veins at the sound of Kangmin. But before the familiar humiliation could completely swallow you, a figure slammed into the frame, completely shattering the table's glass drinks.

It was Mingi. He looked visibly tipsy, his posture loose but terrifying as he kicked a chair out of his way, stepping directly into the space of three guys. His recorded voice snarled through the phone speaker, deep, raw, and completely unhinged. "Say that again. Say her name again and see if you walk out of here on your own two feet."

You watched in absolute shock as Yunho, San, and Wooyoung desperately grabbed the fabric of Mingi’s hoodie, trying to haul him back. Mingi had thrown the first punch. He had started the entire thing. And it was only when the brawl escalated into total, violent chaos that Ikhyun had thrown himself into the conflict to protect the guy who was fighting for you - ultimately taking the fall that should have belonged to Mingi.

The phone nearly slipped from your fingers.

Every single muscle in your body snapped tight. Your spine straightened instantly, your thighs tensing against his lap as you went entirely, terrifyingly rigid.

Mingi felt the exact second your body locked up. The lazy, comfortable warmth radiating off him vanished in an instant. His arms tightened around your waist, his hooded eyes sharpening as he stared at the side of your face, his brow furrowing at the sudden, absolute terror rolling off you.

"Hey," His voice was raspy, the casual afterglow completely dropping from his tone. He nudged your shoulder with his chin, trying to peer into your face. "What's up? What's wrong?"

You couldn't answer. Your jaw felt completely wired shut, your eyes wide and pinned to the glowing screen where the pixelated, chaotic brawl was still playing out in a loop.

Sensing the absolute lockdown gripping your frame, Mingi’s gaze shifted from your face down to the phone clutched in your trembling fingers. He leaned in closer, his broad chest pressing flush against your back as he looked over your shoulder, his eyes tracking the video.

The phone speaker whispered out the muffled, violent audio again.

"...Say her name again and see if you walk out of here on your own two feet."

The exact second his own recorded voice cut through the quiet of the car, Mingi froze. The warm breaths he had been exhaling against your neck completely stopped. Every single muscle in his frame went just as rigid as yours, his arms locking around your waist - not out of affection this time, but out of a sudden, defensive reflex.

The screen flickered, showing Ikhyun throwing himself into the fray to drag Mingi out of the line of fire, the camera panning wildly as the table shattered.

Silence fell over the car. A thick, suffocating silence that made the fogged-up windows feel like a prison.

You slowly turned your head, your neck straining from the tension of the movement, until your eyes met his.

The fondness that had been in Mingi's eyes just moments ago was entirely gone. His expression had turned completely blank, his hooded eyes dark and unreadable. But the sharp, furious pulse beating against his jawline betrayed him. He didn't look away from your stare. He didn't even blink.

"You started it," Your voice came out as a ghost of a whisper, barely a breath against the cold air of the car. "It wasn't Ikhyun. It was you."

part two coming soon... likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated!!!!

taglist (open): @belongjoong @kisssan @strhwa @thatateezgirl @karlee10261990 @stxrrywoo @minkieater @moooonandroses @redemptions @seeyouinheaveen @frayaatiny

Your studio hums softly around you. Low music. Warm light. The familiar buzz of the tattoo machine steady in your hand like a second heartbeat.

Outside, the street beyond the front windows is already dark, neon signs reflecting faintly against the glass. Your last appointment of the night stretched later than planned, the rest of the building long since quiet.

The smell of antiseptic and ink clings to the air, clean but intimate in a way most places never are. People let you touch them here. Let you get close enough to hear the change in their breathing, to feel tension beneath their skin before they even notice it themselves.

You’ve always liked that part.

“Breathe out,” you murmur.

Your client obeys immediately.

He’s stretched beneath the lamp, shirt tossed somewhere behind him, skin warm under your hand where you steady him by the waist. The tattoo curves along his ribs in clean black lines, and you lean closer to finish a careful stroke, thumb pressing lightly into his side to keep him still.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

“There,” you say softly. “Relax.”

“You say that every five minutes.”

“And somehow you still trust me.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dragging down to your mouth for a second too long. “Hard not to.”

You ignore that easily. You’ve heard versions of it a thousand times before. You wipe excess ink from his ribs.

His gaze flicks down to your hands again. “You always this nice to clients?”

“You’re paying me.”

“Could charge extra. I’d still come back.”

The bell above the studio door jingles softly. You don’t look up immediately. You know who walked in anyway. The heavy steps. The careless confidence of someone who’s been here enough times to stop asking permission for anything. The fridge opening.

“Beer tax,” Mingi calls from the back.

Your mouth curves before you can stop it.

“Get your own studio.”

“You’d miss me.”

You don’t answer. Because you would. Terribly.

Instead you lean closer to inspect the tattoo, fingers spreading against your client’s stomach as you stretch the skin carefully beneath the needle.

From behind you, the couch creaks, and you finally glance back at him.

Big hoodie. Work boots still on. Slouched deep into the couch cushions like he lives there. Watching you over the rim of the bottle with that lazy heavy-lidded stare that always does something unfortunate to your nervous system.

He comes here almost every night after work.

At first it had been accidental. Quick stops before heading home. Then takeout between appointments. Then sitting with you while you cleaned your station at midnight. Then coffee appearing beside your machine before you could ask for it.

Somewhere along the way, your studio started feeling wrong without him in it. Somewhere along the way, you started falling in love with him. Quietly. Stupidly. 

Because Mingi is like this with everyone. Warm. Affectionate. Easy with touch. The kind of person who leans into you when he laughs and throws an arm around your shoulders without thinking. The kind of person who makes you feel chosen even when you probably aren’t.

So you buried it under routine and late-night beers and the hoodies he keeps leaving behind in your studio chair. Under the certainty that none of this would ever become more.

Your client shifts slightly beneath your hand. “You know,” he says, “if I met you somewhere else, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

You drag the needle into a clean line. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m serious.” His smile turns crooked. “Soft voice. Hand on my waist. Eye contact. It’s confusing.”

“You came to a tattoo appointment.”

“Yeah, but you’re making it hard to stay professional.”

Mingi sets his beer down a little too hard against the table. You glance back automatically. He’s staring at the floor now, jaw tight for half a second before he notices you looking.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

Your client looks between both of you once, then keeps talking. Unbothered. As if Mingi isn’t watching his every word. 

“No, but seriously,” he says, looking at you again. “You’ve got dangerous energy.”

“Dangerous.”

“Yeah. Like you flirt for fun and ruin lives accidentally.”

You laugh softly through your nose. 

But Mingi doesn’t. He should. He could. He usually does.

Instead his eyes keep lifting every time your hand settles against the client’s ribs. He goes quiet whenever the client calls you sweet. He keeps trying to insert himself into the conversation and failing to catch your attention the same way the client does.

And underneath all of it, something uncomfortable starts pulling tighter in his chest. Because the client gets your teasing. Your soft voice. Your hands all over him. And Mingi suddenly can’t stop wondering if that’s just who you are with everybody.

The rest of the session passes normally. Mostly. Your client keeps trying.

“You gonna miss me when I’m gone?”

You smooth the wrap carefully against his ribs. “I’ll think about you sometimes.”

“Damn. Sometimes?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

He laughs again, completely charmed by you in the way men always are. 

And every time you touch him, Mingi notices. Not angry. Not even resentful. Just painfully aware. Like hearing your favorite song playing from somebody else’s car.

By the time the tattoo’s paid for, the studio feels strangely dense. Your client grabs his jacket, already backing toward the door.

“Same time next week?”

“We’ll see if you survive this one first.”

“I survived because you were gentle.”

Something shifts in Mingi’s jaw. The client notices immediately. A grin spreads slowly across his face.

“Tell your boyfriend thanks for the emotional support.”

The door closes before either of you can answer. Silence spills into the studio after him. The buzzing needle’s gone now. The music suddenly sounds louder. Slower.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Mingi pushing himself off the couch. He flips the sign on the front door to CLOSED before sliding the lock into place with a quiet click. Then he walks toward you.

You start cleaning your station, peeling off gloves and reaching for disinfectant.

Usually Mingi waits for you to drift back toward him naturally. Tonight he comes to you instead. You feel him before he speaks. Close enough that your body notices immediately.

“So,” you say lightly, wiping down the tattoo bed, “my boyfriend, huh?”

Mingi nearly chokes on his beer. You glance over just in time to catch the way his eyes widen above the bottle.

“He was joking,” he says too fast.

“You seem stressed for someone who’s definitely not my boyfriend.”

“I’m not stressed.”

You hum like you totally believe him.

Mingi reaches past you for the paper towels at the exact same moment you turn. His chest brushes your shoulder. Tiny contact. Barely anything. Still, his hand lands automatically at your waist to steady you.

Your stomach flips immediately. 

Neither of you moves. Then his thumb shifts once against your side before he pulls away like he only just realized where his hand is.

“You were very attentive with him,” he says casually.

You glance sideways at him.

“It’s my job.”

“Hm.”

Not convinced.

He leans against the edge of the bed while you keep cleaning, entirely too close for someone pretending to be normal right now. His knee knocks yours once.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about getting another tattoo.”

You snort softly. “You complain through every appointment.”

“And yet I keep coming back.”

“For the art?”

His mouth twitches.

“For the experience.”

“The experience.”

“Special treatment. Soft voice. Emotional support.”

“You want me to hold your hand?”

Mingi’s mouth twitches.

“…Maybe.”

The answer slips out so easily you almost miss it. Almost. 

Your mouth curls before you can stop it. That seems to make him realize he said it out loud, because he looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck while you reach for the petroleum jelly beside him. 

His hand catches your wrist first. Lightly. You freeze.

“There,” he murmurs, thumb brushing across the inside of your wrist. “Ink.”

Your breath catches a little stupidly. 

Mingi has always touched you easily. Like affection is something that lives in his hands naturally. This doesn’t feel careless. This feels slow. Aware.

His thumb drags once more before he lets go. Neither of you pulls away right away.

“That guy was flirting with you.”

You tilt your head. “You think?”

Mingi gives you a flat look.

“He literally asked for your number.”

“And?”

“And you flirt back.”

You blink. “I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

That lands heavier than it should. Like he’s been holding onto it longer than just tonight. You turn fully toward him, arms folding loosely.

“Oh my god,” you say slowly. “You’re jealous.”

“No.”

Immediate. Too immediate.

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“I don’t care.”

“You looked ready to bite through drywall because he called me dangerous.”

“That’s because he sounded ridiculous.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. Mingi’s eyes narrow slightly.

“There,” he says immediately. “That.”

“What?”

“That. You do that with everybody.”

“Do what?”

“That—” He gestures vaguely at you. “That thing.”

You stare at him for two full seconds. Then burst out laughing. Mingi groans instantly, dragging both hands down his face.

“Forget I said anything.”

“No, no,” you say, stepping closer. “I want details. What thing?” 

“I hate you.”

“That’s not very boyfriend of you.”

His head snaps up so fast it almost makes you grin.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Maybe you are. Because suddenly everything from tonight rearranges itself perfectly in your head. The hovering. The watching. The way he kept interrupting. The way his eyes tracked your hands every time you touched the client.

And now this.

Song Mingi, who walks through life like nothing rattles him, suddenly can’t even look at you properly. 

You should let him recover. You don’t. Instead, you step closer. Slow enough that he notices. Close enough that his attention snaps back to you immediately.

Now there’s barely space left between you. 

Your hand lifts automatically toward the silver chain half-hidden beneath the collar of his hoodie, the pendant twisted awkwardly into the fabric. You hook two fingers under it, easing it free, then straighten it against his chest. A small gesture. Almost domestic.

Your knuckles brush warm skin where the chain slips under his shirt.

Mingi freezes. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to feel it.

“You’re touchy today,” he says softly.

“You started it.”

“Did I?”

“Mhm.”

Your fingers trail once along the chain before falling away. He watches every second of it. Like your hands are speaking a language he’s trying desperately to translate before it disappears.

A reluctant smile threatens at the corner of his mouth again, weaker now. Distracted by the fact you’re still standing too close. 

“How many clients leave here thinking you’re into them?”

You blink once. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious.” His jaw shifts faintly. “You look at people like that and then act surprised when they start falling in love with you.”

The sentence lands hard enough to knock the air slightly out of your lungs. Because he says it like an accusation. But underneath it, there’s something rawer. Softer. Something dangerously close to confession.

Your mouth twitches despite yourself. “It gets me better tips.”

“Right.” He glances away briefly. “Cool.” Then, quieter, “you flirt with me for free.”

Mingi’s eyes widen slightly like he physically felt the words leave his mouth and wants to grab them out of the air. 

You blink once. Then tilt your head.

“…Do I?”

His ears turn red instantly. Actually red. And that’s new enough to make warmth bloom low in your stomach.

“I just mean,” he says quickly, taking half a step back, “you’re naturally like that. With everyone.”

“With everyone?”

“Yeah.”

You follow him when he steps back. Not enough to scare him. Just enough to make him realize you noticed.

“And you hate it?”

“No.” Too fast again. “I mean. Not hate. I just don’t like watching people flirt with you.”

The words slide warm and heavy into the room. Your heartbeat stumbles.

“Oh,” you say softly.

Mingi laughs once, humorless around the edges. “Yeah. Oh.”

Another step back from him. Another forward from you. The rhythm becomes almost absurd. Mingi retreating inch by inch while you slowly invade every space he gives up. Like he’s trying to survive this conversation and you’re trying to see how long until he breaks.

“I just think,” he says carefully, “most people don’t pay attention properly.”

“And you do.”

He hesitates. Then nods once. Small. Honest.

God.

The air suddenly feels too thick in your lungs.

“I know when you’re tired before you admit it,” he says quietly. “I know you pretend to hate sweet drinks but steal mine every time. I know you stop talking when something’s actually wrong.” His voice softens. “I know you hum when you tattoo.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

Mingi keeps talking now like he can’t stop once he’s started.

“I know which clients piss you off before they even sit down. I know you clean your station twice when you’re stressed. I know you act meaner when you’re embarrassed.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

“And I know,” he says, finally looking at you again, “that you flirt with people when you want them comfortable. But it doesn’t feel the same when you do it to me.”

The room goes quiet. Not empty. Heavy. Your heart is beating so hard now it almost feels embarrassing.

“Mingi…”

He keeps backing up as he talks. You keep moving forward. Until eventually his back brushes the wall near the hallway leading to the back room. Trapped. His breath catches slightly.

He tries to shift forward again on instinct. He can’t. Because you’re still there. Not crowding. Just close enough that the space he needs is gone. He’s actually stuck. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Just physically there, pinned between the wall and you. 

His breath turns shallow.

And suddenly you realize he’s actually nervous. Not teasing nervous. Not playful nervous. Real nervous. Mingi, who flirts with strangers like breathing and walks through every room like he belongs there, is looking at you like one wrong sentence might crack him open completely.

The realization sends warmth blooming painfully through your chest.

“I think about you too much,” he blurts suddenly.

The words hang there between you. Honest. Unpolished. Mingi winces immediately after saying them like he regrets how revealing they sound. But he keeps going anyway.

“Like… an embarrassing amount, actually.” His eyes flick away again. “At work. On my way home. I see things and think you’d laugh at them. Or hate them. Or make fun of them for being ugly.”

Your lips twitch helplessly.

“And then you flirt with random guys in front of me and suddenly I’m sitting on your couch acting like a fucking psycho because some dude called your hands magic.”

The laugh that escapes you is soft. Warm. Fond enough to make his face flush deeper.

“I’m serious,” he mutters weakly.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

That lands differently. The air shifts with it. Mingi swallows hard, debating whether to say the next thought out loud. 

“I…” His voice catches briefly. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary. Like you’re enjoying this more than you should.

“You said that out loud,” you murmur.

Mingi groans again, covering his face briefly. “I know.”

The words leave him too easily. You see the exact moment he realizes that. Mingi drops his hands from his face slowly, looking at you now with this exhausted kind of honesty that almost hurts to look at.

“And the worst part,” he says more quietly, “is that I don’t even think it’s just a crush anymore.”

Something deep in your chest folds in on itself. Because his voice changes in that sentence. Softer. Heavier. Deeper. Like he didn’t mean to admit that part out loud.

“I think…” He exhales shakily, eyes finally lifting fully to yours. “I think somewhere along the way you became the first person I look for everywhere.”

The room goes completely still. No music. No neon outside. No buzzing lights overhead. Just him, and the way he’s looking at you like he’s just handed you something fragile with both hands and doesn’t know what you’re going to do with it.

You should say something. You should probably breathe. Instead, you step closer. Slow enough that he notices immediately.

His eyes widen slightly. A flicker of confusion first. Then something sharper, like he’s just realized the distance is disappearing.

 Your hand catches lightly in the strings of his hoodie, fingers curling there as you guide him back into the wall behind him. Not rough. Just certain.

The soft thud of it stops his breath for half a second. His shoulders hit first. Then stillness.

Mingi blinks up at you, wide-eyed now. Caught off guard in a way that makes him look younger, softer. Like his brain is a beat behind his body catching up to the fact that he’s not moving anymore.

Trapped, but gently so.

The realization flashes across his face in real time: 

Oh.

Your hand stays at his chest, twisting the soft fabric once around your fingers. And for the first time since he walked into your studio tonight, Mingi has absolutely nothing left to hide behind.

No jokes. No easy grin. Just wide dark eyes and a pulse hammering visibly in his throat beneath your touch.

He stares at you like you’ve just pulled the floor out from under him.

“…You have to stop looking at me like that.”

His voice barely survives the sentence. Low. Rough around the edges. Like every nerve in his body is pulled too tight beneath your hands.

You tilt your head slightly, still twisting the drawstring between your fingers.

“Like what?”

Mingi shuts his eyes for one dangerous second. Like he physically can’t withstand this much of you at once. When he opens them again, there’s only helpless honesty bleeding through every crack.

“You know,” he says quietly.

“Explain it to me.”

A shaky breath leaves him.

“It’s just…” His eyes flick helplessly between yours. “You keep looking at me like you already know every stupid thing I’m trying to say before I say it.”

Your pulse stumbles.

“And it’s making me insane because I had this whole speech in my head on the drive here and now you’re standing this close and I can’t remember any of it anymore.”

A laugh threatens at the corner of your mouth.

“Mingi—”

“No, wait.” He shakes his head quickly, words starting to tumble out faster now. “I’m serious. I was gonna do this properly. I had actual thoughts. Like coherent ones.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” His ears are pink now. “And now all I can think about is your mouth.”

That almost breaks you immediately. Mingi realizes what he just admitted and groans softly, the back of his head nearly knocking against the wall behind him.

“See? This is exactly what I mean.”

“You’re doing great.”

“I’m literally not.”

You smile despite the violent rhythm of your heartbeat. Because this is what you’ve wanted for so long. Not perfection. Not some polished confession. Just him. Big hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Voice falling apart mid-sentence. Looking at you like wanting you has become unbearable to carry alone.

His eyes snap back to yours instantly. And that does it. 

Because Mingi has always looked enormous next to you. Broad shoulders. Height that swallows space when he walks into a room. But right now? Right now he’s melting under your fingertips. And the realization floods through you like heat.

You step even closer. Until his breath catches against your mouth. Until the wall is the only thing keeping him upright.

“I just…” His voice catches again. “I really like you.”

The sentence lands between you soft and devastating. And suddenly kissing him feels less like a decision and more like instinct. So you do. Fast. Sudden. Like finally giving in to gravity after fighting it for months. 

Mingi freezes instantly. A sharp inhale catches hard in his chest the second your lips touch his. For half a heartbeat he doesn’t move at all. Like his brain genuinely stopped working. Then his hands hit your waist. Hard. Not rough. Desperate.

A wrecked sound tears out of him somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as he melts forward into you all at once, like the kiss physically knocked the strength out of his body.

You kiss him harder immediately. Months of swallowed wanting snapping loose at once.

Mingi tries to follow too fast, too overwhelmed already, and his head knocks lightly against the wall behind him with a soft curse breathed straight into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your lips.

You laugh softly into the kiss.

“You talk too much.”

“I was trying to…”

Another kiss cuts him off.

“I know.”

Mingi makes that sound again. That helpless little exhale that seems to punch straight through your ribs. 

His hands finally settle at your hips, huge and shaky and warm through your clothes. Not controlling. Just holding on. Like he’s afraid this might disappear if he loosens his grip.

You pull back barely enough to look at him. His lips are flushed already, swollen and wet from your mouth. Eyes blown wide and dazed beneath messy dark hair. 

He looks ruined. By a kiss. 

The realization sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

“Mingi,” you whisper.

He visibly swallows. You brush your thumb against his jaw and he leans into it immediately without thinking. That almost undoes you. 

“You don’t get it,” he says suddenly, breath uneven.

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t when you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you want to eat me alive.”

You smile slightly. “Maybe I do.”

His entire body reacts. A shiver runs through him so obvious you feel it beneath your palms.

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

Mingi’s forehead drops briefly against yours with a quiet groan, like even hearing you laugh right now is too much for him.

“You make everything worse,” he blurts suddenly.

You blink once. “Excuse me?”

“I mean good worse,” he says quickly. “Jesus Christ.”

His forehead bumps yours again, embarrassed.

“I’ll be fine all day. Totally normal. And then you smile at me once and suddenly I can’t think straight for hours.”

Your expression softens before you can stop it. Mingi notices immediately. You can see the exact second he realizes he said too much. But instead of retreating this time, he exhales shakily and lets his forehead stay pressed to yours.

“It’s not just this,” he says quietly. “It’s never just this with you.”

Your fingers loosen against his hoodie. The teasing drains out of you slowly, replaced by something warmer. Deeper. Aching.

“Then what is it?” you whisper.

Mingi’s eyes close. And for a moment he just breathes against you. Like he’s spent months holding this inside his chest and doesn’t know how to survive finally letting it out. 

Then, barely above a murmur:

“It’s you.” Your heart stumbles violently. “It’s always been you.”

That one nearly steals your breath. You kiss him again before he can recover from saying it. Slower this time. Intentional. And he melts properly. No hesitation left now. 

Mingi makes this quiet, wrecked sound into your mouth like the kiss physically knocks the air out of him. His hands tighten at your waist for a second before one of them slides higher, tentative at first. Like he’s not fully sure he’s allowed.

Your breath catches when his fingertips slip beneath the hem of your shirt at the small of your back. Warm skin against warm skin.

Mingi shudders immediately at the contact. You feel it happen under your hands.

The kiss breaks for half a second on his end, like his brain short-circuits from touching you there, but then he’s kissing you again instantly. Hungrier now. Still soft, still careful, but with this desperate edge underneath it that makes your pulse stumble hard.

His hand spreads slowly against your lower back beneath your shirt. Huge. Shaky. His fingertips drag upward inch by inch along your spine like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone.

The sensation sends heat straight through your chest.

“Mingi,” you breathe against his mouth.

That sound almost ruins him. A helpless exhale leaves him as his forehead bumps yours briefly before he kisses you again, deeper this time. Like hearing his name in your voice just dissolved whatever restraint he had left.

He keeps touching you carefully. That’s the dangerous part. Not greedy. Not rough. Just unbearably attentive. His fingertips trace lightly along your spine again and your entire body reacts before you can stop it. You feel him notice immediately in the way his breath stutters into the kiss.

“Oh my god,” he whispers against your lips, sounding dazed. “You felt that.”

You hate how much your stomach flips at the shaky little note of wonder in his voice.

“Keep kissing me,” you murmur.

He obeys instantly. Like reflex. Like he’d do anything you asked right now.

Every sound you make wrecks him further. You can feel it happening in real time.

The little breathless noises he keeps losing into your mouth. The way his hand trembles slightly against your back every time you kiss him deeper. Every time you pull back half an inch, Mingi follows immediately like instinct. Like distance physically hurts now that he’s had you this close.

Your hands slide fully into his hair now, tugging lightly at the roots.

A shaky sound breaks out of him immediately. You feel it against your tongue.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, ruined already.

One of his hands stays spread beneath your shirt, warm against the center of your back. The other slides up suddenly, almost clumsy with urgency, until his fingers bury into the hair at the back of your head.

Then he kisses you deeper. Not confident this time. Needy. Like he can’t get close enough anymore.

Your breath catches softly against his mouth. One of your hands stays tangled in his hair while the other drifts slowly down his arm, fingertips tracing the hard curve of his bicep beneath his hoodie sleeve before sliding higher again. Over his shoulder. Around the back of his neck. Up along his jaw.

Mingi visibly shivers when your thumb brushes beneath his ear. You feel his hand flex hard against your spine beneath your shirt. Like he doesn’t know what to do with how badly he wants to touch you.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. His jaw. The warm skin beneath his ear.

Mingi’s head tips back against the wall automatically, exposing more of his throat with a helpless inhale that nearly destroys your composure entirely.

“There you are,” you murmur softly against his skin.

A wrecked sound leaves him immediately. Not even words anymore.

“You have any idea,” you breathe between kisses, “how hard this has been for me?”

Mingi goes still for half a second.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His lips are parted now. Eyes dark and blown wide beneath messy hair. Completely wrecked.

“I mean it.” Your forehead presses against his again. “You take care of me without even thinking about it. You show up every single time. You make every room feel safer just by walking into it.”

His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking.

“And you have been driving me insane for months,” you confess softly. “So don’t stand here acting shocked because I finally kissed you.”

A wrecked laugh breaks out of him, immediately swallowed by another desperate kiss.

Your mouths keep finding each other between breaths, between half-finished sentences, between tiny overwhelmed sounds neither of you can hide anymore.

Everything feels overheated and too close and slightly off balance.

Then suddenly his kiss falters. Not because he pulls away. Because his body gives out first. A rough breath punches out of him against your mouth as his knees buckle unexpectedly beneath him.

“Mingi—”

Your hands grab for him immediately, trying to steady him, but he’s already sliding down the wall in one overwhelmed motion, dragging you with him instinctively. One hand catches hard at your waist while the other slips from your hair, fumbling clumsily for balance that clearly no longer exists.

“Wait, wait—”

A helpless laugh breaks out of him mid-collapse.

Your knees hit the hardwood on either side of his thighs as he lands heavily against the wall with a stunned exhale. Boots scraping awkwardly against the floorboards. Long limbs everywhere at once. Completely uncoordinated now.

For one messy second, neither of you knows where to put your bodies.

Then stillness.

Mingi’s chest heaves beneath you. Your brows knit immediately. Concern flashes through you first.

“Min?”

He shakes his head once quickly. Not hurt. Just catastrophically overwhelmed.

You can see it everywhere. The violent flush spread down his throat. The dazed look in his eyes. The way his hand is still under your shirt like he forgot it was there entirely.

And something about it feels almost surreal. Song Mingi. All sharp height and broad shoulders and effortless confidence. Reduced to this because you kissed him.

“…Did your legs just give out?”

“No,” he says immediately.

“They literally folded.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re on the floor.”

“So are you.”

The comeback would land better if he wasn’t staring up at you like he’s moments away from short-circuiting completely. 

And then you feel it. The thick, hard press of him beneath the dark denim where you landed directly on his lap. Heavy and unmistakable, pressing right up between your legs through your clothes. Fuck. He feels as big as he carries himself, maybe bigger.

Your breath catches slightly. Mingi notices instantly. A mortified sound leaves him.

“Don’t start,” he says quickly.

You look back up slowly. “…Start what?”

“That face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you realize things.”

Your mouth twitches immediately. His throat bobs hard.

You feel his fingers flex under your shirt instinctively before his nails drag lightly down your back in one slow scrape that makes your entire body jolt.

Fuck.

Mingi notices that too. His eyes darken immediately.

“I’m trying so hard to be normal right now,” he whispers.

The honesty of it nearly knocks the air out of you. Because he sounds wrecked. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just overwhelmed down to the bone. Still holding onto you like letting go would physically kill him.

Your eyes flick briefly to the way his hands are gripping you now. One spread hot against your spine beneath your shirt. The other tight on your waist. Strong enough to leave bruises. Shaking anyway.

Something hot curls low in your stomach at the sight. You can feel the strength coiled in him, the way he could easily lift you, pin you, take control if he wanted to. But he doesn't. He just looks up at you like he’s dying from how much he wants you. 

When your hips shift experimentally against his, his reaction is immediate. A broken sound tears out of his throat as his head falls back toward the wall.

Your hand catches it before it can hit too hard, fingers tightening at the base of his neck as you cushion the impact instinctively.

Mingi melts instantly beneath your touch. His eyes squeeze shut for one second as your fingers tighten slightly in his hair. His grip spasms hard against your waist.

You bite your lip, suppressing your own sounds at the way he reacts so fast, so visibly, like every nerve in his body is wired directly into your hands.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, almost fascinated now. “I broke you.”

"Shut up," he breathes instantly, voice cracking. 

Your laugh brushes warm against his mouth. Mingi’s eyes open again immediately, locking onto you like he’s afraid to miss a second of this. 

And suddenly your concern dissolves into something hotter. Because he looks huge beneath you. Broad chest rising hard beneath his hoodie. Big hands gripping your body like he can’t stop himself. Thick thighs spread under yours. But none of that changes the fact he’s completely unraveling for you right now.

You tug his hair again, sharper this time. A wrecked sound punches out of him immediately.

“There he is,” you murmur softly. “My good boy.”

“Please don’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I already can’t think.”

His fingers scratch lightly down your spine again, rougher now, and the sensation shoots heat straight through your stomach. You feel him twitch between your legs, the pressure catching your clit perfectly even through denim, and you have to swallow your own moan down before it escapes.

You grin instead. Then you kiss him again. 

And whatever control he had left finally snaps. His hand fists suddenly in your hair while he tilts your head enough to deepen the kiss properly. Sloppier. Hungrier. He kisses you like he can’t get enough oxygen from anywhere else.

You drag your mouth down his jaw, over his throat, and Mingi immediately tips his head back for you again with a helpless sound, exposing more skin like instinct.

His head knocks toward the wall once more and you catch him again automatically, palm sliding behind his head while your other hand stays around his shoulders.

“There,” you murmur against his throat. “Careful.”

That almost makes him whine.

Your teeth scrape lightly over his pulse. Mingi’s hips jerk up involuntarily beneath you.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, hands tightening hard enough to drag you fully against him. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He sounds terrified.

Your forehead brushes his gently, breath mingling between you while his entire body trembles underneath yours.

You kiss him again, slower now, while your hips move in tiny experimental rolls against his. Barely anything. Just enough friction to make his breathing fall apart completely.

He’s concentrating so hard you can see it in his face. Jaw clenched. Brows pinched slightly. Trying desperately not to cum on the spot from just this. He tries to slow you once, but he fails instantly when you press closer and another helpless, broken moan slips out of him into your mouth.

Then he’s moving too, dragging desperate open-mouthed kisses down your neck like he doesn’t know where to put all this wanting anymore.

His hands slide lower.

One stays beneath your shirt, fingers tracing your spine again and again like he’s addicted to the feeling of your skin.

The other grips your ass hard, dragging you tighter against him while his mouth presses sloppy kisses against your throat.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers against your skin, voice wrecked beyond repair. "So fucking pretty, baby, look at you—"

You’ve never seen him like this before. Never seen him stop trying to perform strength. And maybe that’s why this feels so intimate it almost scares you. Because he’s letting you see every vulnerable part without fighting to hide them anymore.

“Mingi,” you murmur softly.

He looks at you immediately.

“You okay?”

A quick nod. Then, quieter, “don’t stop.”

Your thumb smooths gently across his cheek.

“I won’t.”

And that’s what finally breaks him open. You see it happen in real time. The exact second the last bit of distance leaves his face. The exact second he realizes this isn’t temporary. That you’re not going to pull away from him tomorrow and pretend none of this happened.

His forehead drops against your shoulder with a shaky exhale.

Then he kisses you again. Different this time. Slower. Still hungry, but softer around the edges, like he can’t decide whether to devour you or memorize you.

His hands roam more boldly now, your back, your waist, your hips, your ass, gripping like he keeps remembering he’s allowed to touch you like this.

Your knees ache against the hardwood, but you barely notice once he plants his boots against the floor and pulls you flush against him with one helpless pull of his hips.

The breath leaves both of you at once.

Suddenly there’s nowhere your body ends without running into his. Broad chest. Heavy thighs. Strong arms boxing you in, without feeling threatening for even a second.

That’s the thing that gets you. How big he is and how careful he still is with you anyway.

Your hand slides to his throat experimentally, fingers loose against his pulse. Mingi's eyes go dark instantly, pupils blown wide. He swallows against your palm. Breath catching hard enough you feel it against your mouth. 

"Yeah?" you whisper.

He nods, fast and desperate. "Yes. Please."

The smallest increase in pressure tears a wrecked sound out of him, his head falling back against the wall. The sound goes straight between your legs.

After that, everything loses rhythm. Kisses turning sloppy. Breathing uneven. His hands gripping harder whenever you get too close. 

His hips are thrusting up, rolling, seeking more friction, and you feel yourself getting wet just from the desperation in his movements. He's so hard it must hurt, straining against the denim, and when you grind down against him, he cries out, hands gripping your ass to try to make you move faster.

He realizes what he's doing halfway through and stills himself with visible effort, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to regain control. 

“Wait,” he breathes roughly. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”

The honesty of it sends heat curling low in your stomach.

And you're barely doing anything, but the fact that he's this close from almost nothing makes you want to feel him fall apart because he wants you that much.

You kiss him again, deep and filthy, and keep your movements light. Just small, teasing rolls of your hips.

"So pretty," he whines, "baby, you're so—fuck. Seriously. You're so beautiful, so hot, I can't—I can’t even look at you properly right now."

“You’re so cute,” you breathe against his mouth.

Your fingers slide softly through his hair again, gentler this time, scratching lightly at his scalp while his eyes flutter half-shut. 

“That’s my pretty boy,” you whisper softly. “Trying so hard to hold it together.”

His face flushes deeper immediately.

“You’re doing so good for me, Min.”

That one finally ruins him. 

His hips twitch up again, needy and involuntary, and you feel the damp heat spreading at the front of his jeans where he’s already leaking from almost nothing. The realization barely has time to settle before his whole body jolts beneath you.

A strangled grunt punches out of him.

His grip clamps hard around you so suddenly it knocks your balance backward. You catch yourself instinctively, palm slapping against the wall beside his head before either of you can crack into it.

Mingi goes tense all at once, hips stuttering up into yours before he buries his face instantly into your neck with a sharp gasp, biting down hard enough to muffle the wrecked sound that follows.

And then he’s coming. Fast. Sudden. Hard enough his whole body shudders under you.

For the first time all night, he stops holding himself back. His arms lock tight around you as he pushes himself off the wall just enough to drag you with him, forcing you to tilt back slightly in his grip while he shakes through it. Like he physically needs you closer to survive it.

Your arms loop around his neck automatically to steady both of you, one hand sliding into his hair, fingers spreading against the back of his head to keep him tucked against your throat while he rides it out.

You feel every pulse through the denim between you. The hot spread of wetness. The helpless way his body betrayed him from almost nothing except your mouth, your weight against him, your hand at his throat.

His hips jerk once more before he folds inward completely, trembling against your neck, breathing ragged through clenched teeth while he tries desperately to hide how easily he came.

Then nothing. No movement. No sound except his uneven breathing against your skin.

You blink once, heat rushing straight through you at what just happened. At how little it took. At how desperately his body gave in the second you told him what he wanted to hear.

“Mingi.”

A horrified groan muffles straight into your neck. 

You bite back a laugh instantly. Not mean. Never mean. Just unbearably fond. Because this man. This man who walked in here trying to act normal about being in love with you is now actively attempting to fuse himself into your shoulder to avoid eye contact.

You shift slightly, trying to look at him. He follows immediately, burying himself deeper against your neck.

“Mingi,” you repeat, softer now, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Hey.”

A helpless smile spreads across your face as you press a kiss against his temple. He shudders under it instantly.

“Don’t look at me.”

That actually makes you laugh. Quiet and warm against his skin.

You coax his face back enough to look at him properly and nearly lose your mind all over again. Pink cheeks. Wet swollen lips. Eyes glassy and unfocused beneath messy hair. Completely wrecked.

And beneath you, you can still feel him, hot and sticky and probably uncomfortable as hell in his jeans, but making no move to fix it because that would mean acknowledging it.

“Shit,” he says immediately, mortified. “I’m sorry.”

That catches you off guard enough your expression softens instantly. Because he sounds embarrassed, yeah, but underneath it there’s sincerity too. Like he’s genuinely worried he ruined something.

“I was trying really hard not to cum,” he blurts, words tumbling out faster now that they’ve started. “I was trying to hold it together and then you kept kissing me and calling me pretty and I just—”

He cuts himself off with another groan, dragging a hand over his burning face.

“Min.” You wait until his eyes finally flick back to yours. “Why are you apologizing?”

His brows pull together slightly.

“…Because I came in my jeans like a teenager?”

You laugh softly. “And?”

“And we were literally just making out.”

You grin despite yourself, pulse still throbbing low and hot between your legs. Because honestly? The more you think about it, the more turned on you get. 

Your hips shift unconsciously against him and Mingi sucks in a sharp breath immediately, eyes squeezing shut.

“Shit, sorry,” you murmur, fascinated. “Still sensitive?”

“Please have mercy on me.”

The shaky way he says it sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You lean in until your noses brush.

“You know this was hot, right?”

“That was hot to you? You’re not making fun of me?” he asks carefully.

Your heart actually aches a little.

“Mingi.” You brush your thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m trying very hard not to climb you again right now.”

“Oh my god.”

You kiss him again before he can get more embarrassed. Just a small one. Quick. Soft.

Mingi exhales into your mouth immediately, shoulders dropping another inch. There’s something dangerously addictive about it. Like the second you kissed him, his body decided hiding anything from you was impossible.

Your gaze drops again before you can stop it. Right between his legs. And right on cue, he shifts under you again and you feel it. Hard again. Twitching faintly beneath the damp denim. Still reacting to every little thing you do. 

You pull back barely enough to look at him. “You’re kidding. You’re hard again?”

Mingi groans immediately. “Don’t say it out loud.”

Your laugh spills warm against his skin. He shivers hard at the sound. His hips shift unconsciously like he’s trying to relieve pressure and instantly regrets it when the denim drags against him.

Mingi must see something change in your face, because his breathing catches again immediately.

“Can you stop looking at me like you’re about to climb inside my ribcage?” he whispers.

You grin. “No.”

Mingi groans. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“…No. I really don’t.”

You laugh again and finally climb off his lap. Your knees ache faintly when you stand, but the sight in front of you almost takes you back out again.

Mingi looks ruined. Hoodie twisted crooked from your hands. Lips bitten red. Dark stain obvious across his jeans now no matter how he tries to angle himself away from it.

You bite your lip softly and hold your hand out toward him.

“C’mon.”

He blinks up at you. “…Where?”

Your smirk sharpens just slightly.

“You’re a mess,” you say, pointedly glancing at his lap before meeting his eyes again. 

His face goes red all over again.

“Besides…” Your voice softens. “I don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

Mingi goes completely still. Then his fingers tighten around yours hard enough to feel it.

“Cool,” he says faintly. “Awesome. Great. Yeah,” he says quietly, standing now, towering close enough to steal the air from your lungs again. “You have no idea what you just started.” 

Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard at the look on his face now.

“That sounds threatening.”

“It is.”

You open your mouth to answer, but Mingi kisses you first. Slow enough to distract you completely. Which is exactly why you don’t notice him crouching until the floor disappears beneath you.

“Wait, wha—”

A squeak bursts out of you as Mingi hooks an arm behind your legs and lifts you clean over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

“Mingi!”

He laughs against your startled noise as he playfully smacks your thigh before he starts walking toward the bathroom like carrying you around like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, now you’re shy?” he teases.

Heat rushes straight to your face. “Put me down.”

“No.”

He punctuates it with another slap against your ass that makes you gasp so loudly he nearly folds over laughing himself.

“You were talking real brave five minutes ago.”

You bury your burning face against the back of his hoodie while his laugh rumbles warm through your legs.

“You let me recover. Rookie mistake,” he says, opening the bathroom door. “You’re gonna regret giving me confidence.”

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Normalmente você estaria na maior animação, fazendo sua rotina meticulosa de maquiagem e testando penteados novos pra sair com as suas amigas. Mas não se sentia assim dessa vez, mesmo sabendo que seu DJ favorito tocaria essa noite. Há algum tempo você tem evitado se encontrar com seu grupo de amigos, e a culpa era toda de Hirota Riki.

Ficavam há uns meses, mas a relação de vocês era um pouco "tumultuada", digamos assim. Má comunicação, discussões sem sentido, ghostings por mensagem... Tudo o que uma relação não deveria ter. Mas toda vez que se encontravam, ele te fazia esquecer de tudo isso. Já estavam há quase 1 mês sem se ver e se falar, depois de uma discussão que tiveram ao ele ver um garoto que ele conhecia praticamente se jogando em cima de você em uma festa.

Se sentia completamente indignada quando se dava conta do fato de que Maki não tinha direito algum de ter ciúme de você, se não te assumia nunca. Estava cansada dessa pataquada. Mas ao mesmo tempo, se sentia apegada. Estavam naquele limbo esquisito entre não quererem ver a cara um do outro mas, ao mesmo tempo, com saudades. Não deveria, mas queria tanto vê-lo, mas tanto...

Você pensou por uma semana inteira se se juntaria ao rolê dos amigos ou não, sem vontade nenhuma de sair e se forçar a ficar com algum cara aleatório pra esquecer de Maki. Até que um de seus amigos, Nicholas, manda a seguinte mensagem na tentativa de te convencer:

[20:11] nicho: sabe quem vai tá lá hoje? nicho: o maki nicho: 😋

Droga. Após uns minutos pensando, se sente vencida. Esfrega as mãos pelo rosto e finalmente toma a decisão de ir. O engraçado é que, sempre que dava conselhos amorosos pras suas amigas, sempre as dizia pra fazer justamente o oposto do que você faz. Ele não te responde direito e só quer te ver quando quer te comer? Tá maluca? Corta na hora! Mas quando se tratava de Maki, você simplesmente não conseguia agir assim, e se sentia um pouco patética por isso.

Antes que começasse a ter nojo de si mesma e desistisse dos planos, abana seus pensamentos pra longe e se põe a iniciar sua rotina pré-festa. Faz sua maquiagem de sempre, estiliza seu cabelo e cata uma garrafinha pequena de smirnoff ice na sua geladeira pra ir se aquecendo. Se fosse ficar sóbria, provavelmente entraria em depressão. E se fosse dar de cara com ele hoje, precisaria de muita coragem líquida correndo nas suas veias. Abre a garrafa e desce bons goles pra dentro.

Pensa e repensa sobre a sua escolha dentro do táxi durante o caminho, mas a merda já estava feita, né? Suspira alto, levemente desapontada consigo mesma. É tirada de seus devaneios ao chegar até a boate em que seus amigos estavam, agradecendo rapidamente ao motorista e saindo do veículo. Sente o coração acelerar, cambaleando levemente ao andar até o local ── álcool e salto alto provavelmente não era uma boa combinação.

[22:01]

Sobe até a seção onde a turma se aconchegava, a música eletrônica alta já consumindo seus ouvidos. Taki, Harua e Fuma são os primeiros a te verem, indo na sua direção para te cumprimentar.

── Olha quem veio! ── Taki te corteja com um sorriso largo e um abraço rápido, te dando espaço para dar oi para os outros dois garotos. Anda mais adentro do mezanino, cumprimentando o resto da galera, que se abrigava nos sofazinhos dali. Se inclina até o balde no centro da mesa, agarrando uma garrafa de bebida destilada para si.

Nota que ela seria de bom uso ao olhar para frente e encontrar os olhos de Maki, que estava largado no sofá de outra mesa rindo de alguma coisa com outro amigo de vocês. Merda. Se sente arrepiar da cabeça aos pés. Não conseguiria evitá-lo por muito tempo se continuasse olhando para aquele sorriso e as covinhas malandras. Infelizmente ele tinha o sorriso mais lindo que você já viu. Só isso já era capaz de melar sua calcinha, embora não admitisse.

── Amiga! Quanto tempo que não te vejo! ── Mahina pega a sua atenção pra si, olhando para cima ao te ver parada do lado do próprio assento. Você se vira e cumprimenta a amiga de volta, sentando ao seu lado. ── Tava com saudade de você! Por onde andou? ── A garota estranhava não te ver mais nos rolês, o que realmente era incomum. Você nunca os perdia, se não fosse por esse lance estranho entre você e o garoto.

── Ai, Mahi… ── Suspira alto aconchegando sua bolsa em seu colo, voltando seus olhos pra Maki. Mahina imediatamente liga os pontos, murmurando algo em resposta. Não gostava da relação de vocês, ela sabia que você merecia mais que aquilo. Mas também não poderia te julgar pela situação, já esteve aí. ── Eu sei…

── O que rolou dessa vez? ── Te olha desapontada reclinando os braços do apoio de costas, com uma sobrancelha erguida. Você suspira de novo, se sentindo ridícula em ter que explicar o esquema mesquinho em que Maki havia te colocado.

── Ele viu o Yuma dando em cima de mim e ficou puto. ── Diz com um meio sorriso, assistindo a amiga balançar a cabeça em reprovação. ── Nem fiquei com ele, cara. ── Olha em direção ao garoto de novo, que finalmente troca olhares com você. Não parecia nada feliz de primeira, te checando de cima a baixo. Até que dá um sorriso ladino antes de voltar a atenção ao amigo em seu lado. Que inferno. Já sentia seus instintos primitivos te traindo, e nem havia falado com ele ainda.

── Você lá tem culpa de ser bonita, porra? ── Retribui o comentário generoso com uma risada leve, recebendo um leve tapinha no braço. ── Ai, que moleque chato. ── Você a olha novamente, franzindo a testa. Embora não fosse completamente mentira, não queria que a amiga te falasse as verdades.

Ri novamente ao ver a expressão irritada de Mahina, que te dá outro tapinha no braço. Nota Maki ficando sozinho no sofá novamente, levando uma garrafinha até a própria boca. Você o assiste meticulosamente, com os olhos semicerrados. Era impossível dizer se era desejo ou raiva. Talvez os dois. A amiga nota seu transe e estala a língua na boca.

── Vai lá, vai. ── Te da um empurrãozinho pra te levantar do acolchoado. Você dá risada ao ver a garota revirar os olhos. ── Go get your man. ── Ri escrachado de novo, embora esse fosse exatamente seu plano. Queria acabar com esse showzinho dele, só esperava pelo momento certo. E, talvez por efeito da bebida, você julgou que esse momento fosse agora.

Se levanta lentamente do sofá, ajustando seu vestido curto para baixo. Anda até o sofá alheio tentando esbanjar confiança na sua presença, mas não sabe dizer se realmente funcionou. Para na frente do garoto, que sentava com as pernas meio abertas, te olhando de cima. Te oferta mais um maldito sorriso ladino, te fazendo tremer.

── Oi, Maki. Quanto tempo. ── O sorriso aumenta mais ainda, a cabeça tombando levemente pro lado. Ao invés de te responder, dá dois tapinhas no espaço ao seu lado no assento, insinuando que você se sentasse ali. Solta um ar sarcástico pelo nariz antes de obedecer à ordem. Se aconchega pertinho do garoto. ── Sentiu minha falta?

── Senti, linda. ── Passa o braço em volta de seu ombro, olhando para seus lábios. ── Mas que pena que o Yuma não tá aqui pra te entreter. ── Solta o comentário ácido com a mesma feição de antes, embora estivesse fervendo de raiva. Você imediatamente suspira e revira os olhos, o olhando de lado. Vira mais seu corpo na direção dele, se inclinando de levinho.

── Você vai ficar nisso até quando? ── O olha debochada, podendo ver através da expressão de falsa confiança. O garoto leva o braço em volta da sua cintura, te puxando mais um tiquinho para perto. ── Hm? ── Arrisca levar seus dedos até os cabelos loiros, os acariciando de leve enquanto faz um bico em desdém; e ele cede. Até o perfume de Maki te faz ficar meio tan-tan das ideias.

── Até você me provar que é só minha. ── Te dá um apertão na cintura ao levar o olhar aos seus lábios. Não sabe o que caralhos isso significaria e nem em que sentido ele se referiria. Mas tinha um bom jeito de acabar com o joguinho dele. Sua bravura se manifesta mais ainda ao decidir se sentar no colo do garoto, mesmo na frente de todos. Maki imediatamente leva as mãos para a barra de seu vestido que ameaçava a levantar, o puxando para baixo. Esse toque de possessividade que ele as vezes tinha te excitava demais.

── Assim? ── Diz alto o suficiente para que ele consiga te ouvir por cima da música, ainda que sedutoramente. O garoto aperta suas coxas, tentando se controlar diante da visão que tinha. Ao mesmo tempo que não queria que os outros te vissem assim, sua ação de certa forma assegurava aos outros ali que você era dele. Pelo menos assim ele achava. Desliza as mãos até sua nuca e te puxa para um beijo forte, colando seus lábios. Se torna um ósculo afoito, você inserindo a língua quente na boca do garoto, que vez ou outra a chupava.

── Não acho suficiente ainda. ── Maki desfaz o beijo e te olha perverso, o rosto há centímetros de distância. Morde o lábio inferior e te assiste rir sarcástica mais uma vez, incrédula. Estava completamente molhada a esse ponto, querendo o puxar para o banheiro e acabar com ele. Você se aproxima do pescoço quentinho e dá beijinhos rápidos, subindo até a concha da orelha.

── Deixa eu te chupar, então. ── Lambe o lóbulo enquanto fala a profanidade, dando beijinhos castos em toda a região. Sente o sorriso do japonês aumentar, que te retribui com um apertão na cintura. Não responde nada, apenas te acaricia. ── Hein? ── Desliza as unhas na nuca, descendo os beijos até sua boca novamente. Maki ri leve, sentindo a piroca mais dura do que concreto.

── Safada do caralho. ── Diz rouco, separando o beijo de novo e te olhando com os olhos descerrados. Você ri contida e lentamente se levanta do colo do garoto, ajustando sua roupa.

Quando viu, já estavam dentro do banheiro unissex, você sentada na pia com as pernas arreganhadas e Maki ajoelhado em sua frente circulando a língua em seu clitóris. Apertava suas coxas para mantê-las abertas, te devorando como se você fosse a última refeição dele. Chupava seu pontinho dançando a língua pelas suas dobras, soltando murmúrios contra sua pele. Você não contia seus gritos manhosos, ninguém os ouviria mesmo.

── Maki~ Mhmm... ── Não se acanhava em cantarolar o nome dele enquanto levava sua mente nas nuvens. Leva a cabeça para cima, franzindo a testa pelo prazer extremo. Solta gemidinhos pausados à medida que a língua sagaz te estimulava. O garoto se afasta e cospe rapidamente na sua intimidade, voltando a te chupar novamente. A saliva misturada com sua lubrificação natural deixava a carinha toda lambuzada, te deixando mais sensível ainda. Leva uma mão até as madeixas loira e desconta sua euforia ali, tentando se manter consciente.

Esfrega o próprio nariz contra seu clitóris enquanto balançava a língua ali de um lado para o outro, fazendo suas pernas chacoalharem freneticamente ── estava chegando perto. Era incrível como ele sempre conseguia te fazer chegar lá sem quase nenhum esforço, e nesse momento, meio que se odiava por isso. Era quase impossível manter a postura de bandidona com ele, sempre amolecia no seu toque.

É arrebatada pelos dedos sorrateiros do garoto, que enfia o anelar e o do meio de uma vez em sua buceta, os movimentando deliciosamente no meio de suas paredes apertadas. Não se segura em gemer alto, a sensação deliciosa dos dedos juntos às chupadas ficando insuportável. As pernas bambas e trêmulas, o suor descendo pelo seu pescoço e os gritos estrídulos deixando sua sensibilidade bem óbvia.

── A-ah... Eu vou gozar... ── Maki insere e retira os dedos de dentro de você rapidamente, ansiando pelo seu ápice. Os barulhos ensopados de seu buraquinho se misturam com seus gemidos pornográficos cada vez mais altos, até que finalmente é eletrizada pelo seu orgasmo. A respiração arquejante que lentamente se acalmava faz o garoto se retirar de dentro de você e se levantar lentamente, se igualando à sua altura de novo. O rostinho brilhante pelos seus sucos generosos e a boquinha rosinha te arrancam um sorriso involuntário, que ele replica.

Se aproxima mais ainda do seu corpo e te beija novamente, se segurando em seu quadril e você dirigindo as próprias mãos nos cabelos loiros bagunçados. O garoto não tarda em desfazer o próprio cinto e abrir a calça em desespero, jogando os dois tecidos no chão. Se distancia e se reclina na parede de azulejos, não tirando os olhos de você e dando um sorrisinho malandro.

── Vem aqui. ── Fala aveludado e leva a mão direita até o próprio membro grande e ereto, se masturbando devagarinho enquanto te fitava. Você saliva perversa com a visão devassa, lambendo os próprios lábios. ── Vem fazer o que só você faz, linda. ── Sorri largo com o comentário cortejante, se pondo a descer da pia em que estava. Quase engatinha até Maki, o recompensando com um beijinho molhado no pescoço antes de se ajoelhar em sua frente.

Dá uma lambida da base até a cabecinha, terminando com um selinho na glande rosinha. Continua com sua língua para fora, sendo presenteada ao Maki bater a piroca dura em seu rostinho, sorrindo em gratificação. Não se demora em alinhá-la com a sua boca, colocando tudo para dentro de uma vez. Demora a se acostumar com a sensação agonizante do engasgo, mas logo se põe a abrigar o pau grande em sua boca até o final, movimentando sua cabeça para frente e para trás. Se segura no quadril desnudo do garoto, que grunhia dengoso ao sentir suas bochechas o sugarem por inteiro.

── Puta que pariu... ── Direciona uma das mãos até o seu cabelo, os agarrando a fim de dar firmeza para empurrar sua cabeça contra a própria pelve. Os seus olhos reviravam, sentindo a garganta toda preenchida pelo membro grosso e quentinho. ── S-só eu deixo a sua boquinha cheinha assim. ── Geme manhoso de novo ao você colocar a língua para fora enquanto o chupava, sentindo o músculo áspero e molhado o envolver. Gotas de saliva escorrem de sua boca, que cobriam o pau repleto de veias. Aspira as bochechas em volta do membro o mais forte que conseguia, que incentiva Maki a foder sua boquinha mais rápido ainda.

Engasga múltiplas vezes na piroca, mas não poderia ligar menos. Gostava demais disso, sentia a cabecinha te acertando no fundo da sua garganta. Maki te olha de cima com o rosto sofrido, te assistindo o devorar com gosto. Geme manhoso repetidamente, empurrando sua cabeça o mais fundo que conseguia. Se atreve a levar uma de suas mãos até as bolas saltitantes, dando massageadas gostosas. O carinho faz a sensibilidade do garoto extrapolar o normal, sentindo a porra chegando a qualquer momento. Solta um gemido alto e grave antes de puxar sua cabeça para trás e te tirar de si, um fiozinho de saliva ainda conectando sua boca ao membro pungente.

Se bombeia rápido algumas vezes antes que pudesse chegar ao próprio orgasmo. Você se firma na mesma posição, com a língua para fora da boca e os olhinhos fechados. Maki choraminga um pouco mais até que esporra o líquido espesso branquinho no seu rosto todo. A visão erótica o faz esvaziar por completo, as pernas trêmulas pelo orgasmo extremo. Engole os fios que caíram em sua língua, logo limpando as outras levas que estavam espalhadas em seu rosto com o dedo, os levando à própria boca de novo.

O japonês sorri satisfeito, os respiros ainda fundos e pesados. Arruma seus cabelos bagunçados, te ajudando a se limpar. Se levanta e fica de pé na altura dele de novo, trocando risadinhas leves.  ── Agora eu te convenci? ── Segura nos ombros largos, o sorrisinho fofo ainda presente no seu rosto maltratado. Maki sorri de volta, te puxando pra perto pela cintura.

── Não sei... ── O garoto olha para cima fingindo pensar, a cabeça ainda não estava no lugar certo. Você ri do teatro, e ele imita. Te olha com os olhos semicerrados de novo, a expressão travessa reaparecendo. ── Só se eu puder te levar pra casa.

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1 like/reblog = um beijo virtual ♥︎

Tonight is no different, a Friday night, a movie playing in the background, the two of you tangled under a fuzzy blanket that smells faintly like his cologne. The room is dim, cozy and peaceful. You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear. Then he presses a soft, absentminded kiss to your neck. Once, then again. His breath is warm against your skin. It’s innocent at first, just a habit, a show of affection. But the way your body tenses and your breath catches, tells him something has shifted.

You turn your head slightly, just enough for your noses to brush and then you feel it again. He cursed under his breath, pulling back a little. “Shit—sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to—” You blush, heart starting to beat faster. He looks so flustered, so careful, that it made something inside you ache. You didn’t want him to hold back anymore. You wanted to show him that you were ready for him.

So before you cantalk yourself out of it, you slip off the couch and kneel down in front of him. “Wh–what are you doing?” James stammers, sitting up quickly, eyes wide. His heartbeat is loud in the quiet room. You look up at him with big eyes, your voice quiet and shy. “I wanna help you, James.” He stares at you for a heartbeat, his chest rising and falling faster than before. “Baby, you sure?” You nod softly.

Then his expression shifts, guilt melting into something darker. His hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face up gently but firmly. “Okay, princess…” he breathes, voice low, “then come here.” He kisses you hard, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger he’s been holding back for weeks. You whimper into the kiss, your fingers curling into his shirt as he deepens it, breathing ragged.

Then he takes your hand, guiding it down to his lap, to the hard outline pressing through his sweats. The moment your palm brushes over him, he lets out a low, shaky groan, his hips twitching up slightly to your touch. You squeeze him softly, and he breaks the kiss just enough to murmur a curse against your lips, “fuck…” You stroke him again, feeling the tension build in his body before your hands trail lower.

His breath catches when you start to tug his sweats down, leaving him in his boxers. You press soft, teasing kisses through the thin fabric still separating you, and he exhales, “Don’t tease me, baby.” voice low and pleading. When you finally pull the last layer away, your eyes widen—he’s bigger than you expected, and for a second, all you can do is stare, heat rushing to your face.

Your lips part as you look up at him. “J-James…” you whisper, words barely finding their way out. “You're huge...” He lets out a soft chuckle, brushing his fingers through your hair with a tenderness that makes your stomach flutter. “You're gonna take it tho...,” he murmurs, “Right, baby?” You swallow hard, nodding anyway, your hands trembling slightly as you reach for him, careful and curious, wanting to show him you’re ready.

You cup him gently with both hands, feeling the size better now. He groans softly, fingers threading through your hair, holding you close as his breathing quickens. You lean in, brushing your lips and tongue over him in soft, teasing motions, and he hisses, low and needy. “Mmh…keep going, baby.” he murmurs, his eyes half-lidded. You can already feel your panties getting wetter and wetter by the second.

You move deeper, your lips and hands working together in a slow, nervous rhythm now. His hand finds your hair, grounding himself, his thumb brushing against your scalp as he exhales your name like it’s the only thing he can say. You hum softly on his length sending shivers through him, and his hand tightens just slightly in your hair. “Holy—” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t stop, baby...” his voice rough and strained, every word edged with pleasure and disbelief.

Your hands tighten against him as you keep moving, bobbing your head up and down, deeper and deeper. His breathing turns rough, and his hand slides to your face, thumb brushing over your cheek tenderly, catching the tears that fall from your eyes. “Doing so good, princess—fuck...” he murmurs, “Love your sweet little mouth...” The words melt into a low groan and you softly moan around him.

You lick and suck eagerly as he pants. “'Fuck, I'm gonna cum baby—nghh—shit..!” You stroke him just a little more, slowly taking him almost out of your mouth, and point on your tongue with your index finger. “Holy fuck, baby—you're so hot—fuck, im cumming...” your tongue softly touches his tip, waiting, until he finally cums on it. Milky liquid covers your mouth and chin, and you lick and swallow every drop your boyfriend gives you.

He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed and chest rising with every uneven breath. When you look up at him, he reaches for you without hesitation, cupping your face and kissing you with all the warmth and gratitude he can’t put into words. “Thank you, baby,” he whispers against your lips, voice raw and full of relief. “You were amazing.”

He tucks his now wrecked cock back in his boxers, pulling you into his lap. His arms wrap around you, strong and steady. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, thumb tracing lazy circles on your back. The world feels still—just the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear and the soft hum of his voice as he whispers, “Took it like a champ...”

To be continued...

a/n: just wanna say that idc what anyone says abt this, james is an ADULT! I won't write for the other members obviously since they're kids, but james is 20 years old. periodt. this was gonna be longer and a whole fic but since this is probably the first smut fic of james on here i wanted to do something small to see how it will go. pt 2 will come out soon.

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