🫰🏻~ATEEZ reaction to making out with them mid fight~🫰🏻
Warnings: slight suggestive Themes
Disclaimer: Not my picture
You’re standing in the middle of the room, fists clenched, heart hammering in your chest. The silence is thick after the last words you threw at him, still hanging in the air like smoke from a fire that refuses to die out.
“You always take over, Hongjoong,” you snap, voice trembling with restrained emotion. “You act like I can’t handle anything on my own.”
He stands across from you, arms crossed, face unreadable—but the storm in his eyes says it all.
“That’s because when you screw up, it’s not just your ass on the line,” he grinds out, stepping closer. “You think I like being the one who always has to fix things?”
Your breath catches. The audacity. “You don’t have to fix me. I never asked you to.”
His jaw clenches, and you swear you see something flicker across his expression—panic, maybe? Desperation?
He scoffs under his breath. “Right. Because you’d rather run into danger alone and get yourself hurt—just to prove a point.”
You flinch. The words sting because they’re too close to the truth. “At least I don’t treat people like pawns on a chessboard.”
He’s suddenly in front of you, close enough to feel his breath on your face. His hands are curled into fists at his sides, and you’re practically daring him to yell back. Instead, his voice drops low—dangerously low.
“You really wanna do this right now?” he murmurs, his gaze flickering to your lips.
The next second, his hand is gripping the back of your neck, and his mouth crashes into yours. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s war. Teeth and tongues, lips moving in a brutal rhythm as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall. His thigh slips between yours, and you moan into his mouth as he presses in harder.
His other hand slides under your shirt, fingers splaying across your waist as he growls, “This what you wanted? Me losing control?”
You don’t answer with words—just arch into him, grabbing his shirt in both fists and tugging him closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. You feel the hard line of him through his jeans, and it sends a thrill through you.
He drags his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark. “You drive me insane, Y/N.”
“Good,” you breathe out, gasping when his teeth graze your collarbone. “Then maybe now we’re even.”
His laugh is low and wrecked. “You always have to get the last word, huh?”
His thigh presses up firmly between your legs, and you gasp. He smirks. “Not this time.”
You’re done pretending everything’s fine.
“Why do you keep shutting me out?” you ask, your voice sharp as glass. “You act like I don’t matter when things get hard.”
Seonghwa doesn’t look at you. He’s standing by the window, jaw tight, arms crossed over his chest like a shield.
“I’m not shutting you out.”
You laugh bitterly. “Bullshit.”
That gets his attention. He turns, eyes dark and unreadable, but there’s something brewing under the surface—something raw.
“No,” you say, stepping forward. “You’re protecting yourself. Every time things get intense, you disappear. Emotionally, physically—you vanish. And I’m left feeling like I’m in this alone.”
His silence cuts deeper than any reply.
You’re both breathing heavily now, the space between you charged like a live wire.
“You don’t get to decide that I can’t handle you,” you continue, voice trembling. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for real. Even if it’s messy. Even if you’re scared.”
He moves then—slowly, deliberately. When he reaches you, he doesn’t touch you right away. His eyes search yours like he’s still looking for an excuse to keep his distance. But you don’t flinch.
“I’m not scared of being with you,” he finally whispers. “I’m scared of what I’ll become if I lose you.”
That’s when you kiss him.
It starts slow, almost unsure—like neither of you wants to shatter the moment. But when his hand cups your cheek and you feel him melt into it, the hunger rushes in all at once. His lips part, and your tongue slips inside, meeting his in a wet, desperate kiss. He groans low in his throat, hands sliding down to your waist and pulling you flush against him.
Your fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging it up, and he lets you—raising his arms so you can pull it over his head. His skin is hot, smooth, and you can’t stop your hands from running across the firm planes of his chest.
“I’ve been dying to touch you,” you murmur into his mouth.
Seonghwa presses you backward until your knees hit the couch. He eases you down, climbing over you with a knee between your legs. His lips return to yours, but this time, slower—deeper. His hand slips under your shirt, fingers grazing your bare skin, then gliding up over your bra.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear.
You shake your head quickly. “Don’t stop.”
His hand moves to unclasp your bra, pulling the cups down just enough to expose your breasts. When his mouth wraps around one nipple, hot and wet, you gasp loudly—arching up into him as heat pulses between your thighs.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking soft… all mine.”
Your hips shift, grinding slowly against the thigh he’s pressed between yours, and his breath catches. He kisses you again, harder, more urgent now, hand sliding between your legs over your clothes, pressing against your heat.
“I should stop,” he groans, biting your lower lip.
“But you won’t,” you whisper, staring into his eyes.
“You could’ve died, Y/N!”
Yunho’s voice booms louder than you’ve ever heard it, echoing in the kitchen where you’re still catching your breath from the mess you got yourself into. He’s pacing in front of you, eyes wild with disbelief.
“And you didn’t even think to tell me? You just handled it all on your own like I’m not even here?”
“I handled it,” you snap. “It’s over now.”
He stops dead in his tracks, jaw tight, eyes narrowing as they lock on yours.
He storms toward you, towering over you, eyes burning with something so intense it makes your breath hitch. “The point is that you didn’t trust me. That you’d rather get yourself hurt than let me protect you.”
“I didn’t need protecting,” you whisper.
He grabs your chin, not rough, but firm—tilting your face up toward him. His voice drops, low and dangerous. “Bullshit.”
Your lips part just as his crash into yours, like something inside him finally snapped. It’s not sweet. It’s fierce, possessive, and messy—like he’s been holding back for weeks and can’t anymore. His hands slide down your back, gripping your hips hard as he walks you backward until your thighs bump into the counter.
You pull at his shirt, yanking it over his head, revealing the lean, strong lines of his body. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, muscles rippling as he lifts you up onto the countertop like you weigh nothing. You gasp when your legs fall open around him, the thick bulge in his jeans pressing right against your core.
“You drive me crazy,” he growls, lips moving down to your neck. “Always so stubborn. So fucking reckless.”
You tilt your head, giving him more access, moaning when his teeth graze your pulse point. “You love it.”
“I hate it,” he mutters against your skin—though the way his hands are grabbing your ass, grinding you down on him, says otherwise. “And I love it. And I don’t know what to do with myself when you scare me like that.”
Your breath hitches. “Yunho…”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand sliding up under your shirt. “Take this off. Now.”
You don’t hesitate, lifting it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. He growls again, hands roaming your sides, then unclasping your bra with one practiced motion. The way he stares at your chest—dark eyes glazed over with hunger—makes you clench around nothing.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, bending to kiss between your breasts, dragging his tongue over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moan loudly, thighs squeezing around his waist.
His hands grip your hips again, grinding you hard against him—slow, controlled rolls that make you whimper.
“You’re gonna tell me next time,” he says, voice low, dangerous, teasing. “Or I swear, I’ll punish you.”
You whimper again. “Yunho—”
He smirks, cocky now. “Say it. Tell me who takes care of you.”
“You do,” you whisper breathlessly.
Then he kisses you again—deeper, slower now, like he’s tasting every piece of you. His hand slips between your thighs, pressing against your clothed heat, and you swear you’ll melt if he keeps going.
“You don’t even try to understand me,” you say, voice rising with every syllable. “Every time I open up, you shut down. Every damn time.”
Yeosang stands across the room, arms folded, expression unreadable. That perfect poker face that’s driven you mad since the day you met him. Always too composed. Always a little too quiet when things get emotional.
“I don’t shut down,” he says coolly. “I think before I speak. You should try it.”
You glare at him. “You think that’s some kind of strength? Silence? Detachment? It’s cowardice.”
That hits. His jaw tightens, and for a moment you think he’s going to walk away—like he always does.
He walks toward you instead. Slowly. Deliberately. Until he’s standing right in front of you, so close you can smell his cologne—clean, soft, and maddeningly addictive.
“You think I don’t feel things just because I don’t perform them for you?” His voice is low, but there’s heat under every word. “You have no idea what’s going on inside my head when I look at you.”
Your breath catches. “Then show me.”
His hand lifts to your jaw, thumb brushing across your lower lip. You see the crack in his composure—the tiniest twitch of his lip, the fire finally reaching the surface.
“I’ll do more than show you,” he murmurs.
It’s not gentle. It’s precise. Controlled at first, like he’s tasting you on purpose, exploring every corner of your mouth like he’s memorizing it. But when you moan into him—when your hands clutch at his shirt and pull him in closer—he finally lets go.
He pushes you gently but firmly back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You sit down, and he follows, his body towering over yours as his hands lift the hem of your shirt and slip it over your head in one smooth motion.
“You always talk like you want a fight,” he whispers, staring at your exposed skin. “But I know what you really want.”
He leans in, kissing down your throat, teeth grazing lightly before sucking a mark into your collarbone. You gasp, grabbing at his waist to pull him closer, and he smirks against your skin.
“Take off your bra,” he orders softly.
You shiver—not from the cold, but from his voice. The quiet command, the unexpected dominance laced into his calm demeanor. You obey, unhooking it and letting it fall, and the look in his eyes darkens instantly.
“Fuck,” he whispers, palms sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “You’re even better than I imagined.”
You whimper when he dips his head, licking and sucking one nipple while rolling the other between his fingers. His hips press against yours, and you feel how hard he is through his jeans. Slowly, he rocks into you, just enough to make you arch against him.
“I bet you think I’m boring,” he whispers into your neck.
Your hands tug at his shirt. “Take this off.”
He does, revealing sculpted lines and smooth skin, his gaze locked onto yours the entire time.
“I’m not boring,” he says, pressing a hand between your thighs. “I’m just patient.”
You whimper at the pressure, grinding against his palm instinctively.
“And right now, I’m done being patient.”
You storm down the hallway, wiping angrily at your face, hoping he won’t follow you—but of course, he does.
“Don’t walk away from me!” San yells behind you.
You spin around, fuming. “You don’t get to tell me what to do!”
His eyes are blazing, his chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile. “I do when you’re acting like this!”
“Like what, San? Like someone who doesn’t want to be pushed around by a guy who can’t handle his own emotions?”
He recoils slightly—only for a moment. Then his lips curl into that sharp, bitter expression he gets when he’s barely holding it together.
“Don’t fucking twist this. You keep acting like you don’t care if I’m there or not.”
He sees it, and his voice softens—but only for a second.
“You know what that does to me?” he says, stepping closer. “Do you even know what it feels like to care about someone who always pretends they don’t need you?”
You’re breathing hard. Your fingers shake at your sides. “I do need you. But you make it impossible sometimes. You’re intense and demanding and—”
“I’m like this because I feel everything, Y/N!” he roars, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m like this because when I look at you, I lose every bit of control I have left.”
You stare at him, chest tight.
Then—suddenly, violently—you crash together.
His mouth slams against yours, lips bruising, teeth clashing, breath short and panting as your hands tangle into his hair. He lifts you up without a word, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you into the bedroom, dropping you on the bed like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to ruin.
Shirts are yanked off. You drag your nails down his back as he grinds into you, his hips already frantic, already needy.
“You make me fucking crazy,” he growls against your lips, kissing you again and again, like he’s trying to erase the fight, the anger, the doubt—everything but this moment. “I hate fighting with you. I hate it.”
You reach down, fingers fumbling at his belt. “Then shut up and fuck me already.”
He stills. His hand grabs your wrist tight, eyes burning into yours.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it,” you whisper. “I want you.”
Something inside him breaks. He growls your name like a curse, like a prayer, and his hands roam your body—hot, rough, greedy. He kisses down your neck, down your chest, tugging your bra down to reveal your breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth while his hand dips between your thighs.
“You’re already soaked,” he whispers, almost in awe. “Just from yelling at me, huh? You like the fire.”
Your only answer is a moan when his fingers press against your clothed heat, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jerk.
“I’ve got you,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I always do.”
And that’s exactly how he kisses you: like he owns you and he’s never letting go.
“You think I didn’t see that?” Mingi snaps the second the door shuts behind you both.
You whirl around, confused. “See what?”
He’s pacing now, hands running through his hair, the vein in his neck pulsing with restrained rage. “That guy at the bar had his hand on your back. You didn’t even push him off.”
You stare at him, breath catching. “Are you seriously mad about that? He brushed against me, Mingi. I didn’t even notice—”
“Oh, you noticed,” he cuts in sharply. “You just didn’t care.”
You take a step forward. “So what, now I’m not allowed to exist near other men?”
“You’re mine,” he growls before he can stop himself.
The room goes silent. Your heart stutters in your chest.
He looks up, eyes burning.
You don’t say a word. You just stare at him—and the jealousy bubbling in his chest spills into something else. Something darker. Needier. His fists unclench, and he takes two slow, heavy steps toward you.
“You like making me jealous, don’t you?” he murmurs, backing you toward the bed.
“You want me like this? Furious? Possessive? You like seeing how far I’ll go?”
Your knees hit the mattress, and Mingi doesn’t give you time to answer. He grabs your waist and throws you back onto the bed, crawling over you like he’s ready to devour you.
The kiss is wild—hot, fast, too much and not enough. You gasp when his hips grind down against yours, already hard, already desperate. He tears your shirt over your head, bra following a second later.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, eyes roaming every inch of you. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You arch into him, tugging at his hoodie. He rips it off, mouth crashing into your collarbone, licking and biting until you’re moaning, breathless and clinging to his shoulders.
“You think I’m gonna let anyone else touch you?” he groans. “Not after this. Not after the way you sound when I do this—”
His hand slips into your pants, fingers pressing against your soaked panties, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that make your hips buck. “Mingi—!”
He moans into your neck, grinding into you harder. “You’re gonna come just from this, aren’t you? So fucking needy for me.”
You whimper, dragging your nails down his back. His pace speeds up, rubbing you faster, rougher, and the tension is unbearable.
“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re mine.”
He kisses you hard, needy, tongue claiming your mouth like he’s marking you from the inside out. “Damn right you are.”
And he doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking around his hand.
“Oh, you’re mad again? What else is new?”
You slam the door shut so hard the frame rattles.
“Don’t fucking act like this is nothing, Wooyoung!”
He’s lounging on the couch like he doesn’t have a care in the world, one leg over the other, fingers tapping his phone screen.
“I’m not acting. I genuinely don’t know what I did this time.”
“You embarrassed me in front of everyone! You made a joke about me sleeping in your bed like I was some random hookup!”
He smirks. Slowly. Infuriatingly. “It was a joke. They all know you’re not random. They know you’re mine.”
“Then why do you always make me feel like I’m just some game to you?”
That wipes the smirk right off his face.
And suddenly he’s not the cocky flirt anymore — he’s dangerous. Focused. His jaw is tight, his gaze burning through you.
“You think I’m playing?” he asks, stepping toward you. “You think this is some fucking game to me?”
Your breath catches as your back hits the wall. He leans in close, nose brushing yours. “You think I haven’t thought about bending you over that table while they were still in the other room? About making you scream my name until they knew exactly who you belonged to?”
You try to speak. You really do. But your mouth is dry, your heart pounding so hard you feel it in your fingertips.
He smirks again — but this time it’s dark. Dangerous. “No words now?”
His hand slides up your thigh, under your skirt. You gasp when his fingers find your soaked panties, stroking slowly. “You get this wet when we fight? That’s fucked up, baby.”
He cuts you off with a filthy kiss, tongue slipping between your lips, one hand gripping your hair, the other teasing your clothed heat. You whimper against him, and he chuckles low in his throat.
“I’m gonna ruin that smart mouth of yours,” he whispers against your lips. “Right after I make you beg for me.”
You moan when he presses harder, the heel of his palm grinding into your clit while his fingers slip the fabric aside.
“Say it. Say who makes you feel like this.”
He kisses down your neck, biting hard. “That’s right. Say it louder.”
“You, Wooyoung. Fuck—you.”
He kisses you again, hard and unrelenting, grinding his thigh between yours until your hips move on their own. He doesn’t let up — not until you’re moaning his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.
“You’re cold sometimes, you know that?” you spit, pacing the living room.
Jongho just watches you, arms crossed, jaw tight, unmoving.
“You act like nothing touches you. Like I could disappear tomorrow and you’d barely notice.”
His expression doesn’t shift — but something in his eyes goes dark.
“That’s not true,” he says, low.
You scoff, not even hearing the warning in his tone. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“I said, that’s not true.”
You stop. “Then why do I feel like I’m the only one falling here? Why do I feel like you’re holding yourself back—like you’re just waiting for me to break first?”
One second he’s across the room — the next, he’s right in front of you, grabbing your face in both hands and pressing you back into the wall with enough force to make your breath catch.
“You think I don’t care?” he growls, forehead pressed against yours, breath hot against your lips. “You think I’m not fighting every single day to keep my hands off you so I don’t ruin you?”
“I want you all the fucking time,” he continues, voice like thunder, chest heaving. “I want to strip you bare and fuck the attitude out of you, but I hold back because I respect you.”
His lips crash into yours — no finesse, just hunger. Raw, aggressive, claiming.
When you whimper against him, his hands slide down, gripping your ass hard as he lifts you effortlessly and pins you fully to the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist, and you can feel him already thick and hard between your thighs.
“Don’t you ever say I don’t care,” he whispers, grinding into you. “You have no idea how much I care.”
You tug at his shirt, desperate, and he peels it off quickly before grabbing your own top and yanking it over your head. He groans at the sight of your bare chest, then leans down, biting into the soft skin below your collarbone, leaving a deep, possessive mark.
“You think anyone else gets to see you like this?” he mutters. “Think I’ll ever fucking let them?”
His hips jerk up, making you cry out, your panties soaked and clinging to you. He presses two fingers there, right against your slit, even through the fabric, and grins when you whine.
“This? All mine,” he growls, thrusting his fingers against your heat harder.
You moan helplessly, back arching against the wall.
He kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense. “Damn right it is.”
And in that moment, you know he’s not cold — he’s burning for you, always has been. He’s just been waiting for the moment you were brave enough to strike the match.
