#like4more

You always joked that Minho was a cat in a man's body. Aloof, picky, fond of sunlight but only if it wasn’t too warm. He could spend an entire day curled up in bed and then complain about being restless. And of course, he'd swat at your affection like it was some offense to his dignity.

But he never actually asked you to stop.

“You’re too cheerful,” he muttered that morning, as you danced into the kitchen humming a summer pop song, barefoot and in your oversized shirt. His hair was a mess, eyes puffy from sleep.

“Good morning to you too, Grumpasaurus,” you chirped, sliding a mug of coffee toward him.

His fingers brushed yours as he took it. He didn’t look up. “What did I say about nicknames?”

“You hate them. So I use them to test your patience. You’re welcome.”

That earned you a twitch of a smirk — the closest you usually got to a real smile before noon.

You'd been living with Minho for over a year. It started as a convenience thing. Two dancers in the same company, both single, both used to erratic schedules. You weren’t best friends, but he let you in more than most — in his own quiet, snarky way.

Still, lately, the air between you had started to change.

Like last week when you came home tipsy, collapsing onto the couch in a giggly heap. You asked him to dance with you, and he’d said no — then surprised you by actually grabbing your waist and moving with you. Not teasing. Not joking. Just eyes locked with yours in the low light, chest brushing yours, and his grip firm.

He didn’t say anything after that night.

But he also didn’t avoid you.

_

It was a rainy Friday when everything finally snapped.

You were both off that night. You’d ordered takeout, queued up a rom-com, and were currently poking Minho with your toes on the couch, trying to get him to laugh.

He grumbled, shifting. “If you keep touching me, you’ll regret it.”

“Oh no,” you gasped in mock terror, scooting closer, “is the grump going to unleash his wrath?”

“Try me.”

You paused. The tone was different.

So was the look in his eyes — darker, unreadable.

And when you leaned forward to press your forehead against his, expecting a playful shove, he didn’t move.

Instead, his voice dropped. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like I don’t want you.”

The words froze you.

He licked his lips, jaw tight. “You flirt. You tease. You climb into my space and act like you don’t know what it does to me.”

“…Minho…”

He surged forward and kissed you. Hard.

It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t testing the waters. It was weeks — months — of tension breaking like a wave. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head just right, mouth moving with heat and need. You gasped, and he took the opening, tongue slipping against yours, slow and hungry.

When you finally broke for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”

You swallowed. “Then stop pretending.”

He pulled you into his lap, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. You could feel him — already hard, straining against his sweats. Your shirt rode up as his hands explored your thighs, slow and possessive.

“You always wear this shirt around me,” he murmured, tugging at the hem. “Do you know what that does to me?”

You rolled your hips, grinding against him. “Show me.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He lifted your shirt, baring your skin inch by inch. His eyes devoured you, pupils blown wide, hands reverent as they cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you moaned.

“Lie back,” he growled.

You slid down onto the couch, legs parted, breath quick. He kissed down your stomach, eyes locked on yours the entire time, like he was drinking you in.

Then he peeled off your panties and buried his face between your thighs.

The first lick was slow — deliberate — tasting you with the patience of a man who’d thought about this too many times to rush. Then another, firmer, tongue pressing flat against your clit. You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked and licked, building you up with maddening precision.

“You’re so wet,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak. “All that sunshine. All mine.”

You barely had time to beg before he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right as his mouth returned to your clit. You came with a shudder, thighs clenching around his head, voice breaking on his name.

He didn’t stop. Not until you were gasping, trembling.

Then he kissed you — open-mouthed, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

“Your turn,” you whispered.

But he was already undoing his pants, and your eyes widened.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long,” he said, voice rough. “I’m not gonna last if you do that.”

“Then don’t hold back.”

He slid inside you slowly, inch by inch, both of you groaning at the stretch. He filled you completely — the kind of full that made your head spin. He held still, trembling with restraint.

You cupped his cheek. “Minho. Move.”

He did. Hard and deep.

He set a rhythm that was all-consuming — slow enough to feel every thrust, fast enough to make you dizzy. His mouth found yours between gasps, hips snapping, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the quiet room.

When you clenched around him, his breath caught.

“You close again?”

You nodded, barely coherent.

He reached down, thumb circling your clit just as he thrust deep one last time. You shattered beneath him, and he followed with a hoarse cry, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

You lay tangled together, the room filled with the soft patter of rain.

Minho brushed your hair from your face. His usual scowl was softened — unreadable in a new way.

“You’re still a grump,” you whispered.

The screen lit up, bathing your face in a soft glow as your call finally connected. There he was — Felix — sitting in his gaming chair, hair tousled from his long day, his blue headphones wrapped snugly over his ears. The sight of him made your heart ache a little. You missed him. More than you could say.

"Turn your camera on, baby… I need to see you," he murmured, voice raspier than usual, already thick with longing.

You hesitated, fingers lingering near the camera icon. "I don’t really feel pretty today…" you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Felix's brows knit together gently. "Babe. You’re always pretty. Don't say that."

You hesitated for a second longer, then finally tapped the button. The camera flipped, revealing you sprawled on your bed in nothing but a pair of panties and one of Felix’s oversized shirts, the fabric slipping casually off your shoulder.

He let out a soft exhale — somewhere between awe and hunger. "God, you're beautiful… What are you wearing?"

You smirked, shifting your laptop just enough so he could see. “You tell me.”

Felix’s eyes darkened as he bit his bottom lip, his gaze roaming over every inch of you through the screen. "That’s my shirt, isn’t it?"

"Maybe." You giggled, cheeks flushing as you pulled the fabric up slightly, teasing him.

The sound of your laugh made his chest tighten. He couldn’t reach you — not physically — but the desire was clawing at his throat. You always did this to him. So effortlessly.

"You’re killing me, love," he murmured, shifting in his seat. "I miss you so much it hurts."

"I miss you too," you said softly, your voice dipping into something more sultry. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and looked into the camera, head tilted slightly, eyes full of want. It was your way of telling him I’m yours, even from here.

A tense beat passed. Then, he asked, voice lower now, rawer: "Can we try something tonight?"

You raised a brow. "Try what?"

His answer was a breath, laced with desperation. "Take off your clothes."

You sat up slowly, legs folded beneath you as your fingers toyed with the edge of the shirt. Felix’s eyes followed the motion, his breath caught in his throat. The air between you, even through the screen, was heavy with want.

"You sure you want this?" you teased, voice honey-sweet, but your gaze burned into him.

"Babe..." he growled, shifting in his chair. One hand already pressed against the strain in his pants. "Don’t tease unless you're ready to be ruined."

That was all the encouragement you needed.

You peeled the oversized shirt over your head slowly, deliberately, revealing bare skin inch by inch. Felix's jaw clenched, eyes flicking over your exposed chest. He looked like he could devour you through the screen. His hand moved with a new urgency, unzipping his pants to free his cock, already thick and leaking with anticipation.

"Fuck… you're unreal," he muttered, wrapping his hand around himself, letting out a shaky breath.

Your fingers drifted over your breasts, toying with your nipples as you lay back against the pillows. You arched your back just enough so he could see how your body moved for him, how much you were aching. Your thighs parted instinctively.

“Touch yourself, baby,” he said, voice darker now. “Nice and slow. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”

Your hand slid down your stomach, slipping into your panties. You were soaking — embarrassingly so — and when your fingers brushed your clit, you let out a soft moan that made Felix's cock twitch.

“Mmh—feels good already,” you whispered, fingers circling your clit in slow, sensual motions.

“Let me see,” he breathed.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs, tossing your panties aside. You spread your legs for him, positioning the camera so he could see everything — the glisten between your thighs, the way your fingers dipped into your soaked folds and came back shiny with arousal.

Felix groaned, his hand stroking himself steadily now. “God, you’re so fucking wet… All for me?”

“All for you,” you whispered, slipping a finger inside and gasping softly. You imagined it was him — his fingers, his mouth, his voice in your ear instead of through a screen.

“Add another,” he commanded.

You obeyed, sliding a second finger in with ease, your back arching from the stretch. Your other hand continued to tease your clit, rubbing slow circles. Felix was moaning now too, soft and low, his fist moving faster over his cock. You could see the red flush in his cheeks, the tension in his thighs, the veins standing out in his forearms.

“Fuck—yes, just like that,” he groaned. “Pump those fingers, baby. I wanna hear how wet you are.”

You didn’t hold back. The sound of your fingers plunging in and out of your soaked cunt filled the room, mixed with your breathy whimpers and the wet slick echoing through the speaker. Felix was visibly trembling now, his cock swollen and angry-red, precum dripping down the shaft.

“Felix,” you moaned, your voice cracking with need. “I want you so bad…”

His hips bucked into his hand. “You have no idea what I’d do to you if I was there.”

“Tell me.”

“I’d spread you open on that bed,” he growled, eyes locked on the screen. “Face buried between your thighs, tongue fucking you until you scream my name. Then I’d flip you over and pound you until you couldn't walk straight.”

The words made you whimper, your fingers working faster now. The pressure in your belly coiled tighter.

“You’re gonna cum for me, yeah?” he asked, stroking himself harder now. His whole body tensed with the need to release. “Look at me when you do. I wanna see your face when you fall apart.”

You opened your eyes, locking your gaze with his as the orgasm crashed over you — hot, intense, all-consuming. Your thighs trembled, your moans broken and desperate, your cunt clenching tightly around your fingers.

Felix lost it.

“F-Fuck, Y/N!” he groaned, jerking his cock in rough strokes as ropes of cum spilled over his hand, dripping down his wrist and onto his stomach. The way his brows furrowed and his mouth fell open in ecstasy — it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.

You both collapsed — him sinking into his chair, you flopping back against your pillows, panting, bodies spent.

“Jesus…” he chuckled breathlessly, dragging a hand down his face. “You just ruined me.”

You giggled softly, heart still racing. “You deserved it.”