You tried to keep it under control. He was your best friend. Your movie-night buddy. The guy who knew your favorite ice cream flavor and let you scream into his chest when your favorite character died in a drama. But now?

Now he walked into your apartment after a workout, sweat-slick and flushed, with his hoodie slung over one shoulder and his water bottle dangling from two fingers, and your brain just… emptied.

“Ugh,” he groaned, dropping onto your bed like he belonged there, limbs sprawled, shirt clinging to his chest. “Kill me. Everything hurts.”

You leaned against your desk, sipping your iced coffee and pretending to be unfazed. “Did you even stretch?”

He threw an arm over his face. “Forgot. Again.”

You raised a brow, setting your drink down. “That’s why you’re sore all the time.”

“I know,” he mumbled. “You should become my trainer.”

A wicked little idea bloomed in your head. You walked over and sat beside him, knees brushing. “Seriously. Let me help. Where’s the worst of it?”

He peeked out from under his arm, wary. “My shoulders. Arms, maybe. Back.”

You hummed thoughtfully, eyes skimming down his body like you were considering a patient and not undressing your best friend with your eyes. “Roll over.”

He blinked. “What?”

You patted the bed. “C’mon. I’m giving you a free massage.”

He hesitated for a second before groaning and rolling onto his stomach. His shirt rode up just a little, flashing a strip of skin at the small of his back. You bit the inside of your cheek and straddled his thighs, pretending your pulse hadn’t just spiked.

“Let me know if anything hurts,” you said sweetly, placing your palms on his shoulders.

You felt him tense.

Then, slowly, he relaxed.

You started soft, thumbs tracing slow circles into the muscle. He was warm under your touch, all taut skin and heat, and he smelled like sweat and fabric softener. You let your fingers trail lower, down his biceps, deliberately grazing a little closer to his ribs than necessary.

He shifted beneath you.

“You okay?” you asked, voice syrupy.

“Y-Yeah,” he muttered. “Just ticklish.”

Liar.

You leaned down a little, letting your chest brush his back. “You sure?”

His breath stuttered.

You smiled.

Ten minutes later, you rolled off him and collapsed beside him on the bed like nothing happened. He lay very still, face turned away, ears flushed pink.

You stretched with a content sigh. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

He muttered something you didn’t catch.

You turned your head toward him, smirking to yourself as he fumbled for his hoodie and refused to meet your eyes.

He didn’t say it, but you knew.

You’d started something.

⸻

It was freezing outside, but your apartment was always too warm.

Well—that’s what you told him.

The truth was simpler. You didn’t want to layer up when Seungmin was around. You didn’t need a bra under your soft, thin cotton shirts. And you definitely didn’t care that it was the middle of winter when your nipples pressed visibly against the fabric, catching the light like a fucking weapon.

Seungmin knocked on your door like he always did—three quick taps, followed by a dramatic sigh when you didn’t answer right away.

You opened the door in one of your old college shirts. It hung loose off your shoulder and just barely covered the top of your thighs.

“Dude,” he groaned, stepping inside with a gust of wind behind him. “Do you not believe in heat? It’s like Antarctica outside.”

You closed the door and shrugged. “I run warm.”

He turned around to respond—but paused.

Eyes. Chest. Eyes again.

You pretended not to notice.

He cleared his throat. “You’re not cold?”

You blinked. “Nope. Why?”

His jaw ticked. “No reason.”

He followed you into the living room like a man possessed, already taking off his jacket. You flopped onto the couch, legs tucked under you, phone in hand. He sat a little too far away for best friends, eyes fixed on the TV, posture painfully upright.

You stretched.

Not dramatically. Just enough to raise your arms, to arch your back, to make the fabric slide up your thighs and tighten across your chest.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught it—his sharp inhale. The way his hands curled into fists on his lap. How he shifted just slightly, like he couldn’t find a comfortable position.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

“You good?” you asked innocently.

“Me? Yeah. Fine.”

But his voice cracked a little.

You slid closer, under the guise of sharing a blanket. Your bare leg brushed his thigh. You saw the way he tensed. How he didn’t move away.

“I think you’re cold,” you murmured, pressing your body against his. “You’re shaking.”

He let out a soft, strangled laugh. “I’m not.”

“Then why are you so tense?”

“Because,” he said, finally turning to you, voice low and tight, “you keep forgetting to wear a damn bra, and I’m a guy, not a monk.”

You blinked up at him.

Silence.

Then you smiled. Sweet. Coy. Wicked.

“We’re best friends, Seungmin.”

He stared at you.

And you?

You curled up beside him again, laid your head on his shoulder, and let your nipple graze his arm like a silent fuck you.

He didn’t speak for the rest of the movie.

But you felt his pulse—racing under your palm when you took his hand later, like everything was still perfectly innocent.

⸻

You always tried it at movie night.

Popcorn. Blankets. A stupid horror movie that you’d pretend to be scared of just to curl up in Seungmin’s lap. He’d roll his eyes, toss a comment about how you were the worst, but he never pushed you off.

Not once.

That night, he arrived in his usual hoodie and sweats, hair still damp from a post-gym shower. You opened the door in the tiniest cotton sleep shorts known to mankind and a faded crop top with a neckline that dipped far too low to be innocent.

His eyes did a quick up-down scan before he looked away. “Are you even wearing pants?”

“Barely,” you said, walking away with a shrug.

He didn’t answer.

He never did. I

You waited until you were halfway through the movie before curling into his side. First your shoulder against his. Then your thigh draped over his lap. His muscles tensed like clockwork—every time, without fail—but he didn’t move.

Your head dropped to his shoulder. You exhaled softly, letting your hand slide up to rest on his chest.

He stayed perfectly still.

You closed your eyes, and smiled.

You “fell asleep” sometime after midnight.

In reality, you were very much awake—especially when you felt his hand hovering awkwardly near your hip, unsure of where to rest. You were practically on top of him, pressed flush against his side, one leg tangled between his, your chest smushed against his ribs.

You could feel everything.

The tight line of tension running through his body.

The way his breath stuttered when you shifted in your “sleep.”

And… yeah. You could feel that too.

You shifted again—just slightly. A slow grind of your hips as you turned in his arms. Your thigh brushed something dangerous, and you swore you heard him gasp.

You waited for him to pull away.

He didn’t.

You could feel his heart hammering in his chest, hard and fast. You exhaled against his neck, lips just grazing his skin.

He flinched.

Still, he said nothing.

In the morning, you “woke up” with a stretch and a yawn, like you hadn’t spent the night dry-humping your best friend’s thigh under the guise of innocent cuddling.

“Did you sleep okay?” you asked sweetly.

He got out of bed without looking at you, muttered something about needing a shower, and disappeared into the bathroom.

You could still see the outline of him in his sweats.

He was very awake.

⸻

Seungmin had this stupid habit of crashing at your place after a long day.

Sometimes with takeout. Sometimes with his laptop and a hoodie slung over one shoulder. Sometimes, like tonight, he brought nothing at all—just himself in gray sweatpants and a fitted black tee that should’ve been illegal.

“I’m using your shower,” he called over his shoulder as he kicked off his sneakers. “Your water pressure’s better.”

You leaned on the kitchen counter, eyes raking over his back. “Help yourself. You know where everything is.”

He didn’t hear the way your voice dropped when you said it.

He didn’t see the way you bit your lip when his shirt lifted as he stretched, exposing a sliver of toned stomach.

Ten minutes later, he walked out in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, steam trailing behind him, hair dripping onto his shoulders.

“Forgot my bag in your room,” he mumbled, heading straight past you.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t offer a spare shirt.

Didn’t look away.

He returned in your favorite pair of his sweats and a hoodie that somehow did nothing to hide the curve of his chest or the flex of his forearms. He plopped onto the couch beside you, hair still damp, smelling like your body wash.

Your thighs touched. He didn’t move.

You flipped to the next episode of your show, pretending your skin wasn’t tingling everywhere he brushed against you.

Then your feet ended up in his lap.

Innocently, of course.

He stared at them for a second, frozen, then settled his hands on your calves. His thumbs traced idle circles—subconscious, mindless, dangerous.

You bit back a shiver. “That tickles.”

He stopped. “Sorry.”

“Didn’t say I wanted you to stop.”

He looked up.

Your gaze locked.

The air shifted.

You didn’t say anything else. Just laid your head back and let him keep touching you. Let him figure out whether he was comforting you or feeling you up. Let his hands drag a little too high, just under the hem of your shorts.

You could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. His leg bounced once. Then again. Then he let out a long, slow breath and moved your legs off him.

“I’m gonna head to bed,” he muttered.

You smiled lazily. “Mine or yours?”

He looked at you. Eyes dark. Jaw tight.

He said nothing.

Just left the room.

And you swore—just swore—you heard him muttering a prayer under his breath.

—-

Seungmin already looked uncomfortable when you dragged him into Victoria’s Secret. The store smelled like sugar and sin, and he stood out like a sore thumb—tall, stiff, silent, trying not to make eye contact with a single mannequin.

You were glowing.

“This is cute, right?” you asked, holding up a deep wine-red lace set—strappy, sheer, the kind of thing no one wore to sleep unless they wanted to be devoured.

He blinked. “It’s… sure. Yeah. Cute.”

“You didn’t even look,” you teased, pouting slightly as you headed toward the changing room. “Be honest with me, Minnie. That’s what best friends are for.”

He sat down on the little bench outside the fitting rooms like he was awaiting trial.

You emerged in the first set.

It was all lace—deep burgundy, semi-sheer, with triangle cups that left nothing to the imagination. The panties were minimal, strappy on the sides, clinging to the curves of your hips like they were sewn on. You’d left your hair messy, lips glossy, and your eyes locked on him when you stepped out barefoot onto the plush carpet.

His entire body went still.

“Thoughts?” you asked, turning slowly to show the back—where the straps dipped dangerously low across your spine.

He blinked once. Twice.

Then swallowed. “It’s, uh…”

You walked closer. “Too much?”

“No. Not— not too much.” He sounded strangled. “It’s just…”

You leaned in like you couldn’t quite hear. “It’s just what?”

He looked at you like he was fighting for his life. “We’re in public,” he hissed under his breath.

You smiled.

“I’ll try another.”

The second set was worse.

So much worse.

Black satin. High-cut thong. Delicate mesh cups that teased at opacity but left your nipples perfectly visible in the right light. The garter belt cinched your waist. The matching choker clasped at your throat.

You looked like a fantasy someone wasn’t allowed to say out loud.

When you stepped out the second time, Seungmin actually stood up—too fast. Like something broke.

His eyes dragged over you once, from the tops of your thighs to your barely-covered chest to the glinting clip around your neck.

His throat bobbed.

You turned again, slow and smooth, letting him see everything.

“So?” you asked, lips pouted in faux innocence. “Would you be honest now?”

He didn’t say anything.

He just stared.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

You stepped closer—soft, quiet steps until you were standing in front of him in nothing but satin and lust.

“I trust your taste,” you murmured, fingers brushing his forearm. “You always know what looks good on me.”

He exhaled like he’d been underwater too long.

“I think,” he said lowly, voice thick and dangerous, “you’re playing a very dangerous game right now.”

You tilted your head. “What game?”

“The one where you walk around like that, looking at me like that, saying shit like that—like you don’t know exactly what the fuck you’re doing to me.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Every night,” he muttered. “Every time you touch me. Crawl into my laps. Walk around in those tiny shorts, no bra, all soft and sleepy and warm. And now this?”

His eyes raked over you again. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe any of it was real.

“You’re gonna get yourself fucked,” he whispered. “And not gently.”

Silence.

Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.

“I’m leaving.”

Your breath caught. “Seungmin—”

“Before I lose control. Before I stop caring that you’re pretending this is normal.”

He turned and walked out of the store without another word.

You stood there trembling, skin hot, still in the black lingerie that had pushed your best friend to the brink of feral rage and sexual implosion.

He was running.

And now? You were chasing.

—

You didn’t expect him to say it.

Not like that.

Not with heat in his voice and warning in his eyes and a low growl in his throat like he’d been holding it back for months.

You had been teasing.

Playing.

Flirting with the edge of something wicked because it was fun. Because he was your best friend and he never said anything, so it couldn’t have been that bad, right?

He was always so soft.

Puppy Seungmin. Chill Seungmin. Safe Seungmin.

Until he wasn’t.

Until Victoria’s Secret.

Until he looked at you in that black satin set and told you—told you—that he knew.

And worse:

That if you kept it up, he was going to fuck you.

Hard.

Like you weren’t his best friend at all.

And then he left.

He left you standing half-naked and breathless and undone.

And now?

He won’t even look at you.

He started avoiding you immediately.

Late replies. Closed doors. Canceled plans.

He wasn’t mean. Just distant.

You came over to watch your show? He “had homework.”

You texted something flirty? He liked it—but didn’t respond.

You asked if he wanted food? “Already ate.”

He stopped crashing at your place.

Stopped falling asleep beside you.

Stopped letting his thigh brush yours like it didn’t mean anything.

And every time you saw him, you could feel it in the air.

Something thick and charged and dangerous.

Like a storm crouched on the horizon.

⸻

You found him on campus.

Outside one of the side buildings, earbuds in, head down, walking like he had somewhere important to be even though he very much did not.

“Minnie?.”

He paused. Didn’t turn.

“Seungmin,” you said again, stepping in front of him this time. “Are you really ignoring me now?”

He tugged one earbud out, looked past you like you weren’t even standing there.

“You’ve been weird all week.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Cut the crap.”

He sighed—like you were exhausting him—and finally looked down at you.

You were wearing your little white tennis skirt. The one that barely hid anything when the wind hit just right. Your top was cropped and ribbed and soft, your nipples faintly visible beneath the fabric. Nothing intentional. Nothing illegal. Just… you being you.

And that’s what made it so much worse.

“You want me to pretend?”

Your heart skipped. “What?”

“You want me to pretend you didn’t walk out in that fucking lingerie looking like you wanted me to drop to my knees right there? You want me to pretend like I haven’t been losing my mind every goddamn time you touch me, every time you look at me, every time you sit in my lap like it’s nothing?”

You stared, breath caught in your throat.

“I’m not stupid,” he said, stepping closer. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And I let it happen. Because I kept telling myself it was innocent. That you were just being you.”

His eyes dropped to your chest—just for a second. Just enough.

“But then you walked out in that second set. The black one. And I realized it wasn’t innocent. You were daring me. And if I stayed one more second, I was gonna take you right there in that changing room.”

You should’ve said something.

You should’ve stopped looking at him like that.

But your mouth was dry and your thighs were clenched and your heart was in your throat.

So he shook his head and turned again.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he said quietly. “I’m protecting you. Because the next time you test me like that…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

He walked away, leaving you in the hallway shaking—hot and cold and soaked through with the memory of his voice, his stare, his confession.

—

You weren’t proud of it.

You hadn’t meant for it to go that far.

The lingerie, the teasing, the bedroom eyes—it was always a game.

Until he broke the rules.

Until he said it.

Until he told you how badly he wanted to ruin you.

And now?

Now you couldn’t stop hearing it. Couldn’t stop seeing the way his jaw clenched when he looked at you. Couldn’t stop feeling the tension that had been boiling beneath your friendship like a livewire all this time.

You didn’t plan to go to his place.

But your feet brought you there anyway.

He didn’t answer the door at first.

Probably debating whether he should see you at all.

But then it cracked open, and there he was—bare chest, low sweatpants, damp hair, glowing with the heat of a recent shower.

And there you were—nervous, unsure, but still dressed like a fucking menace in that oversized hoodie and the tiniest sleep shorts you owned.

“Can I come in?” you asked, voice soft.

He exhaled. Tired. Guarded. “Yeah.”

You stepped inside.

His room was quiet. Dark. Intimate.

And he sat back down on the edge of his bed like he didn’t want to look at you for too long.

You hovered awkwardly. “I… I wanted to say sorry.”

His brows lifted. “For what?”

You hesitated. “For pushing too far. The lingerie thing. The teasing. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He gave you a long, unreadable stare.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he said finally. “You made me hard.”

Your pulse skipped. He didn’t even blink as he said it.

“But,” he added lowly, “I meant what I said. I can’t keep being around you if you keep pretending this is normal. I’m trying not to fuck you. That’s not easy when you look at me like you want me to do it.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Because the second he lay back on the bed, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes closed and jaw clenched—like he was exhausted by the very thought of you—

You moved.

Climbed onto the mattress like it was yours. Crawled across it slow and quiet until you were behind him.

And then you slipped your arms around his torso.

Pressed your chest to his bare back.

Rested your cheek between his shoulder blades.

He went rigid. Tensed under you.

But you whispered against his skin, “I’m sorry…”

And kissed his back.

Soft.

Sweet.

Just below the base of his neck.

He didn’t breathe.

“I’ll be good,” you murmured, kissing the curve of his spine.

Still no reaction.

“Don’t stay mad,” you whispered, lips ghosting the edge of his shoulder.

Then—snap.

He grabbed your wrists.

And flipped.

In one motion, he turned and pinned you to the bed beneath him—arms over your head, his body caging yours, hair falling into his eyes and rage simmering low in his voice.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” he demanded, voice hoarse.

You blinked up at him, speechless, thighs clenched.

“I’m not gonna ask again,” he growled. “You get one chance to answer me right. What the fuck do you want?”

His voice was low. Frayed.

His grip was bruising your wrists, but you couldn’t move—not even a little.

He was on top of you, his thigh between yours, the hard line of his cock pressed tight to your core through layers of sinful nothing. Your tiny shorts. Your no-panties boldness. His loose grey sweats. His bare chest heaving with restraint.

You could feel every inch of him.

His hand was pinning both your wrists above your head, one handed, like you weighed nothing.

“Because I’m done pretending I don’t want to fuck you, and if you say the wrong thing right now…”

He lowered his head until his lips brushed your ear. “…I’ll stop trying.”

“So. What do you want from me?” he asked again.

And you— You whimpered.

Like a bad little slut.

Eyes wide. Lips parted. Back arching under him without even realizing it.

You didn’t answer with words.

You didn’t need to.

Your body said everything.

The way your thighs rubbed together.

The way you stared at his mouth like you wanted it on every inch of your skin.

The way you breathed like he already had you split open and moaning his name.

Seungmin’s jaw locked.

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Something in him snapped.

He let go of your wrists—and his hand dropped straight to your throat.

Not squeezing. Just resting. A threat. A warning.

“You like playing games?” he muttered, eyes dark and jaw clenched. “You like walking around teasing me like I don’t see it? Acting like this is normal?”

His palm dragged slowly down your chest—over the hoodie that still clung to you, over your aching nipples pressing hard against the fabric. Then he hooked his fingers in the hem, yanked it up, and groaned when he found you bare beneath it.

“Fucking course you’re not wearing a bra,” he growled, rubbing his thumb across your nipple, watching you squirm. “You never do. You wanted this. Didn’t you?”

You gasped. “Seungmin—”

“Say it.”

You whined under him.

“Say it, or I stop.”

“I wanted it,” you whispered, eyes pleading. “I wanted you.”

That’s all he needed.

He crashed down and kissed you—filthy, like he was trying to erase every second of self-control he’d ever shown you.

And when he pulled your shorts down and shoved his knee between your legs?

He didn’t pretend anymore.

He didn’t stop.

And he didn’t hold back.

The second he kissed you—really kissed you—there was no going back.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t soft.

It was filthy.

Seungmin kissed you like he was mad at you. Like you’d done something unspeakable.

Like you’d been a bad girl—his bad girl—and this was how he planned to punish you.

He shoved the hoodie off your shoulders and let his hands roam.

Everywhere.

Your chest, your waist, your thighs. His palms were hot, rough with calluses from the gym, fingers spreading your legs wide and slipping under your shorts like he already knew what he’d find.

“No panties too?” he muttered, dragging his fingers through your wetness with a broken groan. “Of course you didn’t wear fucking panties.”

You were soaked—slick and swollen and throbbing for him.

He didn’t tease.

Didn’t warm you up.

He plunged two fingers inside you and kissed you deeper when you cried out, one hand sliding back to pin your wrists again as he pumped you open.

“Look at you,” he whispered, dragging his mouth down your jaw. “So wet. So fucking needy.”

You whimpered, arching into him, thighs trembling.

“You like being under me?” he growled. “Like when I hold you down like this?”

You nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

“Yes—yes, Seungmin, I love it—”

“You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” he snarled. “All those little games. You wanted me to fuck you.”

You moaned. “Please—please—”

And then he was gone.

You gasped at the loss, barely catching your breath as he shoved his sweats down and wrapped a fist around his cock—thick, flushed, angry red at the tip. Veins along the side. A bead of precum already sliding down.

He lined himself up with your entrance, gritting his teeth as he pushed just the tip in.

You shattered.

“Seungmin—!”

“Look at me.”

You did.

He stared down at you with his hand still around your wrists, his hips rolling slowly, inch by devastating inch—until he was buried so deep inside you, you couldn’t breathe.

“Feel that?” he whispered.

You nodded, tears prickling in your lashes.

“That’s not your best friend.”

And then he snapped his hips into yours—and all you saw was white.

The first thrust knocked the breath out of you.

Not just because of his size, but because of the way he looked at you—like every ounce of restraint he’d shown for the past year had finally snapped and now he was going to make you regret every single moment you played innocent while dripping in sin.

“Fuck,” he hissed, bottoming out again. “So fucking tight. You were made for this.”

Your back arched off the mattress, the stretch nearly too much. His cock dragged against every oversensitive spot inside you, nudging your cervix, owning you in ways no one ever had.

“You been thinking about this?” he gritted, voice dark as his hips slammed into yours. “Touching yourself in your little dorm bed, thinking about your best friend fucking you like a slut?”

You whimpered—nothing coherent—just a mess of yes and please and Seungmin.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t even slow down.

He was already sweat-slicked, breathing hard, pinning your wrists above your head like he’d die before letting you go.

And when he pulled out just enough to slap the tip against your clit, you squealed.

“Oh my god—!”

“You like that?” he sneered. “You want me to make you cum like this? Beg for it.”

“Please—please—”

“No.” He slapped your inner thigh. “Beg right.”

“Seungmin, please fuck me harder. I wanna cum on your cock—want you to ruin me—”

That was all it took.

He growled—a deep, feral sound—and pounded into you again, hard enough to shake the bed.

Your eyes rolled back.

His grip tightened around your throat, just enough to make your head spin as he leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“You asked for this,” he snarled. “Now take it.”

You came violently, thighs locking around him as your whole body spasmed beneath his. He fucked you through it—chasing his own high now, cock twitching, slamming into you over and over until—

“Shit—fuck—” he choked, and pulled out just in time to paint your stomach with thick, hot ropes of cum.

You laid there, dazed. Legs trembling. Mind shattered.

And Seungmin?

He looked at you like you’d flipped his world inside out.

“Fuck—fuck,” Seungmin growled, the words gritted through his teeth like they hurt to say. “Look what you fucking made me do.”

His voice was wrecked. Deep. Raw with emotion.

You were shaking beneath him, your legs still trembling from your last orgasm, your body completely limp, skin glistening with sweat and cum and tears. But he wasn’t done.

He couldn’t stop.

Not even if he wanted to.

He was already hard again.

Already sliding back between your legs, pushing your thighs wide as your fingers curled in the sheets. Your stomach and chest were a mess—covered in his first release, his fingerprints bruised into your hips and arms, and your wrists? Still red from his earlier grip.

“Shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered under his breath. “Shouldn’t fucking want this.”

But he was already inside you.

No warning this time—just the stretch, the pain-pleasure burn of his cock shoving deep into your soaked cunt like he owned it now. Like he’d already decided this body, this pussy, this mess was his to destroy.

“Fucking made me this way,” he snarled, voice breaking. “You knew exactly what you were doing. Walking around in those little tops, rubbing up on me every fucking chance you got—no bra in winter? You think I didn’t notice?”

Your head was spinning.

He was already moving again—hard, fast, deep, his hips slamming into yours with punishing thrusts that had the whole bed creaking. And still—still—he held your throat in one hand and your thigh in the other, forcing you open.

“You played with me,” he groaned. “You pushed and pushed—made me lose my fucking mind—”

His hips snapped forward. You cried out, nails raking down his back. You couldn’t even answer. Couldn’t speak. Your eyes were rolling back, mouth open in a silent scream as he hit the spot perfectly with every brutal thrust.

“You like this?” he growled. “Being ruined by your best friend?”

You nodded through tears, a wreck under him.

“You like when I choke you?”

His hand tightened around your throat. You gasped, grinding up to meet his thrusts.

“You like being spanked, yeah?”

He flipped you over like you weighed nothing and smacked your ass—hard—his palm leaving a red sting that had you clenching around nothing. And then he slammed back in, making you sob into the sheets.

“Is this what you wanted?” he hissed into your ear. “You wanted me obsessed with you?”

He reached down, wrapped your hair around his fist, and yanked your head back to kiss you—sloppy, desperate, spit-slick and heated.

“I’m never fucking letting you go now.”

Your cheek was pressed into the sheets, ass arched high, legs shaking uncontrollably as Seungmin relentlessly fucked you from behind.

His hand was tangled in your hair. His other hand was at your throat again, pulling you back into him with every deep, punishing thrust.

“Mine,” he gritted out. “You’re fucking mine.”

You didn’t even know what you were moaning anymore—his name, maybe, or just some pathetic cry for more. But it didn’t matter. Your body knew. You were dripping down your thighs, already on the edge again, too full, too overstimulated, too wrecked to make sense of it.

And then—he stopped.

You gasped—outraged, ruined.

Seungmin grabbed you, flipped you onto your back again, and looked down at you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin.

His chest was heaving, his jaw clenched, his face twisted in some devastating combination of guilt and obsession.

“I can’t stop,” he whispered.

You blinked, lips parted.

“I should,” he said, leaning down, pressing his forehead to yours. “But I can’t. I’ve wanted you for too long. You made me crazy.”

You whimpered. “Then don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened.

You said it again—softer, filthier.

“Don’t stop, Seungmin… Please.”

And that broke him.

His mouth crashed into yours—finally—and it was not sweet. It was all teeth and tongue, all desperation and heat and frustration and want. He kissed you like he hated you. Like you ruined him. Like he was trying to breathe you in before you disappeared.

And when he slid back inside you?

It was slower. Deeper. More devastating.

His forehead pressed to yours. His mouth hovered above yours, catching every little moan. His hand slid under your thigh to pin it high on his waist, angling you perfectly so he could thrust in deep, again and again, until tears spilled from your eyes.

“You feel that?” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “Feel how good I fit inside you?”

You nodded, dazed.

“You’re gonna cum again, baby. Right on this cock. I wanna feel you lose it.”

You were already there.

You clenched around him—tight, desperate—and his groan was inhuman.

He didn’t even try to hold back this time.

His thrusts turned frantic, mindless, and when you came—screaming his name into his neck, body convulsing—he followed. Deep inside you this time, filling you with everything he had, his mouth open in a stunned groan as his body shuddered above yours.

He collapsed on top of you—still inside, still panting—and whispered the softest, most ruined confession against your throat.

“Fuck. I’m so in love with you.”

The room went quiet.

The only sound was your breathing—shaky, shallow—and Seungmin’s heart pounding hard against your chest as he laid there on top of you, his face buried in your neck, arms locked around you like he still couldn’t believe it happened.

Neither could you.

But you couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t even think.

Your body was too sore, too used, too full of everything he gave you.

Still, your mouth moved without permission.

“Seungmin…”

Soft. Croaky. Barely a whisper.

He didn’t lift his head. Just held you tighter.

You tried again—more broken this time.

“Seungmin—baby…”

That did it.

He lifted his head slowly, eyes bloodshot, lips kiss-swollen, hair a complete mess. He looked like he’d been through hell. Like he’d dragged himself through fire just to get to you.

And now he was scared to look at what he burned down.

“You didn’t mean to say that,” you whispered, touching his cheek with trembling fingers.

His jaw clenched.

But he didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he rasped. “But yeah. I meant it.”

You just stared at him. For a long moment.

And then… a crooked, devastated smile tugged at your lips.

“You’re so dumb.”

He blinked.

“You didn’t even realize it, did you?” you murmured, brushing your nose against his. “I started all of this the moment you started hitting the gym. The moment you started looking like this. I’ve been losing my mind over you. Every day. Every fucking day.”

Seungmin’s breath caught.

You tilted your head. Bit your lip.

“I didn’t mean to fall for you, either.”

And then you kissed him.

Slow. Deep. A little messy.

Not because it was rushed. But because it meant something.

And he kissed you back like he was never going to stop.

When you finally broke apart, his thumb stroked your cheek.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered.

You laughed softly, threading your fingers through his damp hair.

“You say it every time you look at me, stupid. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

He dropped his head to your chest with a groan, and you giggled, wrapping your arms around him.

And that was it.

No drama.

No denial.

Just two best friends who finally got too close to the line—and realized they belonged way past it all along.

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Authors note: ok so i might be obsessed with the bestfriends trope… sue me 🥹 but this seungmin is in my headddddddd!!!!!!