Don't Hold Back ⚡🦋💌[k.mg] Part 2
Summary- Aishwarya, short for Ash has been friends with Kim Mingyu for as long as she remembers, since she was eight and her family, a traditional indian bengali one, shifted to Korea. During their growing phase, Ash kinda went MIA for a while, preparing for her KSATS diligently as both of them got into the same uni- Seoul National Uni- Ash in English Literature, while Mingyu in architecture. even though her parents were against her living with a men they welcomed Ash shifting with Mingyu but it's only gonna make her life worse as the bestie she took as harmless who doesnt even see her as a woman hid behind a goofy and smily facade bringing girls over on weekends that made her think she was off his radar while she remained oblivious of their predatorial gaze at her, which is part longing, yearning and passion. Then begins flatsharing with two different rooms, but one shared bathroom and kitchen. Ash wears yard-long t-shirts to hide her curves, her olive warm complexion and blue-grey eyes, a contrast to Mingyu's honey tanned skin and brown molten soft eyes. Speaks fluently in Korean as a Korean citizen, English normally with non-Koreans. While slips Bengali and Hindi at times when she needs space to think and not let the guy she considers a puppy living with her know what she's thinking. In the story every seventeen member is a uni student majoring in something while the story revolves around Aishwarya and Mingyu.
★ 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: non-idol Kim Mingyu x Aishwarya (Ash) original character
Word Count: ~3.1k
Rating: 18+ MDNI (Minors Do Not Interact)
Tropes: Best Friends to Lovers, Non-Idol/University AU, Forced Proximity / Roommates, Slow Burn to High Heat, Hidden Yearning.
Warnings/Tags: College/University Student AU, Comedy, SMAU (Social Media AU) elements, Homoerotic friendships, Mutual pining, Dense Female Lead, Oblivious Ash, Possessive/Jealous Mingyu, Sneaky Big Puppy Gyu, Ovulation/High Libido, Cultural attire (Sari/Saree), Explicit Smut, Mommy and Lactation Kink, Handjob, Mutual Oral, Multiple Orgasms, Protected Sex, Subby Mingyu.
TMI- This came out better than I imagined lol...
Chapter Two-Silver and Skin
The walk home took seven minutes.
It felt like seven hours.
Mingyu's hand never left my back. His palm was a brand against the bare skin above my waist chain, and every few steps his thumb would move—just a fraction, just a whisper of pressure—and my breath would catch all over again. The November air cut through the georgette like it was nothing, but I wasn't cold. I was burning.
Neither of us spoke.
What was there to say? He'd already said it. I'd already kissed him back. The thirteen-year dam had cracked, and now we were both standing in the flood.
The elevator in our building was broken. Had been for two weeks. Usually I cursed the stairs—four flights, narrow, the light on the third landing always flickering like something out of a horror movie. Tonight I barely noticed them. Tonight the only thing I could register was the weight of his hand and the sound of his breathing, rough and uneven, matching mine.
Our door. Number 412. The number sticker was peeling at the corner, had been since we moved in.
Mingyu fumbled with the keypad. His fingers slipped. Cursed under his breath. Tried again.
The lock beeped green.
He pushed the door open and I stepped inside, already reaching for the light switch—
And then his body was against mine.
My back hit the door hard enough to slam it shut. The sound echoed through the dark apartment, and before I could gasp, his hands were on my waist and his mouth was on my neck and every coherent thought I'd ever had dissolved like sugar in hot tea.
“Mingyu—”
“Shh.” His breath was hot against my throat. “I've been wanting to do this for years. Let me. Just let me.”
Years.
The word ricocheted through my skull. Years. Not months, not weeks, not some recent development he'd been wrestling with. Years. All those weekends with other girls. All those times I'd heard them laughing in his room and pressed my pillow over my ears. All those moments I'd convinced myself I was invisible to him.
He'd been wanting me.
His lips traced a path down the column of my throat, and my head fell back against the door with a thud I didn't feel. One of his hands slid up my side, fingers grazing the edge of the sari's pleats, while the other pressed flat against my stomach just below the waist chain.
“This fucking chain,” he muttered against my collarbone. “Do you know what it did to me? Seeing this silver against your skin?”
I couldn't answer. Language had abandoned me. Korean, Bengali, English—all of it gone, replaced by the electric current of his mouth and his hands and the hard press of his body pinning me to the door.
His teeth grazed my shoulder. Not a bite. A question.
My hips bucked forward without permission.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “That's what I thought.”
The pallu of my sari had slipped during the walk. Or maybe during the kiss in the courtyard. Either way, it was barely clinging to my shoulder now, and Mingyu noticed. His fingers found the edge of the fabric—the delicate georgette that had taken me an hour to drape—and tugged.
The pallu fell.
His mouth followed it down.
Across my shoulder. Along my collarbone. Into the hollow of my throat where my pulse was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. The nosepin caught the faint light from the window—streetlamps, neon signs, the glow of a city that never slept—and cast tiny silver reflections across his cheek.
“You're shaking,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“Scared?”
“No.” The truth. Despite everything—the years of hiding, the months of tension, the sheer impossibility of this moment—I wasn't scared. “Just... I never thought—”
“I know.” His forehead pressed against my sternum. His breath warmed the swell of my breast above the sari's blouse. “I know, Ash. I was so fucking stupid. All those girls. All that pretending.”
“Why did you?”
He lifted his head. Even in the darkness, his eyes found mine. “Because if I let myself want you, I'd never stop. And I didn't think you'd ever want me back.”
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere—surprised, almost hysterical. “Mingyu. I've been in love with you since I was fifteen.”
His whole body went still.
Then his hands tightened on my waist and he kissed me again, harder this time, desperate and devouring and tasting faintly of the soju from the festival. His tongue swept into my mouth and I met it with my own, and somewhere in the back of my mind I registered the chiming of my bangles as I wrapped my arms around his neck.
The door was cold against my back. He was hot against my front. The contrast made my head spin.
“Bedroom,” I managed against his lips. “Mingyu, bedroom—”
“No.” His voice was wrecked. “Here. Now. I've waited too long.”
His fingers found the first pin holding my sari in place. The one at my shoulder, the anchor point for the entire drape. He didn't ask permission. Didn't hesitate. Just slid it free with a precision that suggested he'd been thinking about this exact motion for a very long time.
The fabric loosened.
“How many of these are there?” he asked, voice low.
“I don't... I don't remember. A lot.”
“Good.”
The second pin came out. The third. His fingers were steady, but his breathing wasn't. Every time the georgette slipped a little more, every time another inch of my skin was revealed, his breath hitched like he was the one being unwrapped.
The sari pooled at my feet.
I was standing in the blouse and the petticoat and the waist chain, and the look on his face—the raw, open hunger—made my knees buckle.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
His hands slid up my bare stomach. Over my ribs. His thumbs brushed the underside of my breasts through the blouse, and my back arched involuntarily, pressing into his touch.
“This too,” he said, tugging at the blouse. “This needs to go.”
“It hooks in the front.”
“I know.” A ghost of his usual grin. “I've done my research.”
The idea of Kim Mingyu researching how to remove a sari blouse—late at night, probably, phone screen glowing in the dark of his bedroom while I slept twenty feet away—sent a bolt of heat straight between my legs.
His fingers worked the hooks. One. Two. Three. Four. Each release let the fabric gape wider, and by the time he reached the last one, the blouse was hanging open and my breasts were spilling out and the cold air hit my nipples and made them tighten into hard peaks.
Mingyu made a sound.
It wasn't a word. It wasn't even human, really. Just a low, guttural noise that vibrated from his chest and traveled through his hands and into my skin.
Then his mouth was on my breast.
Hot. Wet. His tongue circled my nipple while his hand cupped the other breast, thumb stroking, palm kneading, and I grabbed his shoulders because my legs weren't going to hold me anymore. The door was the only thing keeping me upright.
“You have no idea,” he said between kisses, “how many times I've imagined this.”
“Tell me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His lips were swollen. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “Every time you walked past me in those huge t-shirts. Every time you bent over to get something from the fridge. Every time you came out of the bathroom with your hair wet and your skin pink from the shower.” His thumb traced my nipple and my hips jerked. “Every single time I brought a girl home, I was pretending she was you.”
A confession that should have made me jealous. Instead, it made me ache.
“Those girls,” I breathed. “Did you ever—”
“No.” He kissed the corner of my mouth. “Never finished with any of them. Couldn't. They weren't you.”
My heart cracked open.
I pulled his face to mine and kissed him with everything I had—thirteen years of friendship, three months of torture, a lifetime of wanting something I'd thought I could never have. He groaned into my mouth and his hands found my hips and the petticoat was the next thing to go, sliding down my legs with a whisper of silk.
I was naked now. Except for the jewelry.
The bangles on my wrists. The anklets around my feet. The nosepin. The mangtika resting against my hairline.
And the waist chain.
The waist chain that Mingyu kept touching, kept tracing, kept pressing his thumb against like it was some kind of holy relic.
“This,” he said, fingers hooking under the delicate silver links. “This is staying on.”
“Okay.”
“And these.” His hand circled my wrist, the bangles clinking. “These too. I want to hear you every time you move.”
The words went straight to my core. I was wet—had been wet since the courtyard, maybe since the moment I'd opened my bedroom door and seen his face—and now I was aching with it, hollow and hungry and desperate for something I'd never had.
A virgin. At twenty-one. My mother would be proud. My mother would also be horrified by everything else that was happening right now.
I pushed the thought away.
“Mingyu.” My voice came out high and breathy. “I need—I haven't ever—”
“I know.” His forehead pressed against mine. “I know, Ash. We don't have to go all the way tonight. We can just—”
“No.” My fingers tangled in his hair. “I want to. I want you. I've wanted you since I was fifteen, and I'm not waiting another minute.”
The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You're going to kill me.”
“Then die happy.”
He kissed me again. Softer this time. Sweeter. His hands cupped my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and for a moment he was just Mingyu again—my best friend, the boy who'd offered me rice cake on the first day of school, the one person in this country who'd made me feel like I belonged.
Then his hand slid down my stomach.
Lower.
His fingers found the thatch of hair between my legs, and I stopped breathing.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured.
“Don't stop.”
His fingers parted me. Slipped through the wetness. Found my clit with an accuracy that made me cry out—a high, startled sound that echoed off the apartment walls.
“There,” I gasped.
“Yeah?” He circled it slowly, watching my face. “Right there?”
“Yes. Yes. Don't stop.”
He didn't stop.
His fingers worked me in slow circles while his mouth returned to my breast, and the dual sensation was too much and not enough all at once. My hips rolled against his hand, chasing something I couldn't name, something that was building low in my stomach and spreading outward like fire through my veins.
“You're so wet,” he said, and the wonder in his voice made me shiver. “Is this all for me?”
“All for you. Always been for you.”
His finger dipped lower. Teased my entrance. Pressed inside just barely—just enough to make me gasp and clench around nothing.
“More,” I demanded. “Mingyu, more.”
He gave me more.
One finger slid inside me, slow and careful, and the stretch was strange but not painful, foreign but good, so good. My inner walls gripped him and he groaned like he was the one being penetrated.
“Fuck, Ash. You're so tight.”
“Another one.”
“You sure?”
“I'm sure.”
Two fingers now. The stretch was more intense, a burning pressure that made me grip his shoulders harder. He paused, letting me adjust, his thumb still circling my clit with maddening gentleness.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Move. Please move.”
He moved.
His fingers pumped in and out of me, slow at first, then faster, finding a rhythm that made my hips match his pace. The bangles on my wrists chimed with every movement. The anklets sang around my feet. The waist chain caught the light and threw silver sparks across the dark apartment.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he said, voice ragged. “Standing here in nothing but silver. I've dreamed about this. Woken up hard and had to take care of myself in the shower because I couldn't stop thinking about you.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me what you thought about.”
His fingers stilled inside me. Then he pulled them out—slow, deliberate, making me whimper at the loss—and stepped back.
For the first time since we'd entered the apartment, there was space between us.
He reached for the waistband of his pants. The same pants that had been hanging off his hips this morning in the kitchen, the same pants that had been driving me insane for months. His fingers hooked under the drawstring.
“You're sure?” he asked.
“I've never been more sure of anything.”
He pushed them down.
His cock sprang free, thick and long and already glistening at the tip. The sight of it made my mouth water—literally water, saliva pooling under my tongue—and I had to resist the urge to drop to my knees.
Later. There would be time for that later.
Right now, I wanted him inside me.
“Condom,” I remembered. “Do you have—”
“Yeah. Bedroom. Hold on.”
He was gone and back in under thirty seconds, tearing the foil packet with his teeth while I leaned against the door and tried to remember how to breathe. His hands were shaking as he rolled it on—Kim Mingyu, who'd always seemed so confident, so casual, so unaffected—was shaking.
“You're nervous,” I realized.
“Terrified.” He stepped back into my space, one hand finding my waist, the other guiding himself to my entrance. “I've wanted this for so long, and now it's happening, and I'm terrified I'm going to mess it up.”
“You won't.”
“How do you know?”
I pulled his face down to mine. Kissed him. Soft. Reassuring. The same way he'd kissed me thirteen years ago when I'd been crying in the school bathroom because someone had called my skin dirty.
“Because it's us,” I said. “It's always been us.”
He pushed inside me.
The first inch made me gasp. The second made my nails dig into his shoulders. By the third, I was making sounds I'd never heard myself make before—high, breathy moans that vibrated in my throat and escaped through my teeth.
“Okay?” He was trembling with the effort of holding still.
“More.”
Another inch. Another. He filled me completely, stretching me in ways I hadn't known were possible, and for a moment I just breathed through it—the pressure, the fullness, the overwhelming reality of Mingyu inside me.
Then he started to move.
Slow thrusts at first. Careful. His forehead pressed against mine, his breath mixing with mine, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. The bangles sang with every movement. The anklets chimed counterpoint.
“You feel—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “You feel better than anything I ever imagined.”
“Harder. Please.”
He gave me harder.
The door rattled with every thrust. My back slid against the wood, my legs wrapped around his waist, my fingers tangled in his hair. The waist chain pressed cold against my stomach while everything else was heat—his body, his breath, the slick friction where we joined.
“I'm not going to last,” he warned. “Ash, I'm not—”
“Then don't. I'm close. I'm so close.”
His hand slipped between our bodies. Found my clit. Rubbed in tight circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts, and the combination shattered something inside me—some last wall I hadn't known was there—and I came with a cry that was half his name and half Bengali, some curse or prayer or both, my body clenching around him so hard that he groaned and followed me over the edge.
I felt him pulse inside me. Felt his hips stutter. Felt his teeth sink into my shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave a mark.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
He was still inside me. Still hard, or half-hard, or something in between. His breath was ragged against my neck. His heart was pounding so hard I could feel it through his chest.
“I love you,” he said into my skin. “I love you, and I should have said it years ago, and I'm sorry I was such a coward.”
“Shh.” I stroked his hair. “I love you too. I've always loved you.”
He lifted his head. His eyes were wet.
Kim Mingyu, who'd cried at Hachiko and never been ashamed of it, was crying now. Tears tracking down his cheeks, catching on his jaw, dripping onto my bare chest.
“Don't cry,” I whispered. “If you cry, I'm going to cry.”
“Too late.”
He kissed me. Salty and sweet and trembling.
And then he pulled out of me—careful, so careful—and the loss made me whimper despite everything.
“Bed,” he said. “We should—bed. Now. Before my legs give out.”
“Carry me?”
He laughed. That full-bodied laugh that crinkled his eyes and made his shoulders shake. “You're asking me to carry you after you just made me come so hard I saw stars?”
“Yes.”
He carried me.
Past the kitchen where we'd made coffee this morning. Past the couch where we'd sat last week, his feet brushing my thigh. Past the bathroom door that had been cracked open three weeks ago, starting all of this.
Into his bedroom. Not mine. His.
He laid me on his bed—sheets rumpled, pillow dented, smelling like sandalwood and something sharper underneath—and climbed in beside me.
The jewelry was still on. Every piece of it.
“We should probably talk about this,” I said, turning onto my side to face him.
“Probably.” His hand found my waist. Traced the chain. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.” He pulled me closer. “Right now, I just want to hold you. Is that okay?”
It was more than okay.
It was everything I'd ever wanted.
The last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was Mingyu's voice, soft and wondering, murmuring something in Bengali so clumsy and sweet that I almost didn't recognize it.
“Ami tomake bhalobashi.”
I love you.
He'd learned the phrase sometime in the last thirteen years. Had practiced it, maybe, the way he'd practiced the five phrases he'd learned in our first week of friendship.
And now he was saying it.
To me.
I fell asleep with his heart beating under my palm and the waist chain still cold against my stomach, and dreamed of rice cakes and school yards and a boy who'd always, always been home.
