reveriebae

[reveriebae]

Soak Me Sweet

pairing(s) : Seonghwa x reader

word count : 3113

summary : A teasing brat, a soft dom, and a night full of mess.

genre : smut

warning(s) : overstimulation, face-sitting, squirting, spit, fingering, face-riding, pussy grinding on abs, brat x soft dom dynamic, cock worship, deep penetration, crying during sex, praise + light degradation, dumbification, aftercare, feeding water post-orgasm, creampie. Let me know if I missed anything!

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut 🪐

The moment your back hits the mattress, you already know you’re in for it.

Seonghwa doesn’t even say a word. Just stands at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s trying to figure out what kind of punishment best fits your crime — which, for the record, was simply whispering “you’re so slow, grandpa” when he took more than five seconds to unbutton his shirt.

Your legs kick a little in the air as you giggle, pretending innocence.

“Hwaaa, come on~ don’t look at me like that…”

He lets out a soft exhale through his nose, not quite a laugh, but definitely not amusement either. “Grandpa?” he echoes, slowly crawling onto the bed like a lion cornering prey. “I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already mouthing off?”

You squeal when he grabs your ankle, pulling you down toward him with one smooth yank.

“Hwa—! You’re being mean—”

“You called me a grandpa, baby,” he cuts you off with that maddeningly calm voice. His fingers tug at your shorts, slipping them down with ease. “But look at you. Dripping like you need me more than air.”

You want to argue, throw a comeback, something—but the moment the cold air kisses your soaked panties, your thighs twitch on instinct, traitorous.

Seonghwa smiles. Not the sweet smile he gives you when he makes you coffee in the morning, or kisses your forehead when you’re sleepy. No, this one is dark. Mischievous. Dangerous in the most delicious way.

“You gonna behave?” he murmurs, thumb brushing the wet patch forming between your legs.

You pout, hips squirming just a little. “M’not that bad…”

“Mm.” He hums like he’s not convinced. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck the attitude out of you.”

And just like that, his head disappears between your thighs.

Your fingers barely graze the sheets before he’s already settled between your thighs — pushing them open, kissing the inside of your knee like he’s being gentle, but his eyes burn with something else entirely.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, breath hot against your inner thigh. “You start wiggling and squirming, I’ll just tie you up instead.”

You let out a breathy laugh, but it catches in your throat the second his mouth presses over the soaked fabric of your panties. No teasing. No slow build. He groans into it like he’s been starving, tongue immediately dragging along the soaked cotton.

“Oh my god—Hwa,” you whine, hips jumping.

His hands fly up instantly—one across your lower belly, pinning you down; the other gripping your thigh with a bruising promise.

“Still, baby,” he warns, voice low and sticky. “I haven’t even started yet.”

With maddening precision, he pulls your panties aside, exposing your soaked folds to the cool air—and then warmer heat.

His tongue.

It starts with one, slow, filthy drag — a long, purposeful lick from your entrance to your clit, and it’s wet. Messy. Loud. The kind of sound that makes your toes curl, your chest stutter.

“Oh—Hwa—fuck—”

“You taste so fucking good,” he growls, barely pulling back before diving in again. His spit drips from his lips as he laps at you hungrily, tongue flattening then curling, dragging up and down until your thighs shake. “How are you this wet already? What kind of mess are you planning to make for me, huh?”

Your back arches with a whimper, fingers flying into his hair for anything to anchor you.

Then he spits.

Right onto your cunt.

A thick, warm string that lands directly on your clit, and you sob — full-body, high-pitched, like it knocked the air out of you. He doesn’t even wait. Rubs the spit in with the flat of his tongue, circular motions that leave you twitching.

“You’re drooling,” he chuckles darkly, glancing up at your flushed face. “Pretty baby can’t handle a little tongue?”

“I’m gonna die—” you gasp, high-pitched and whiny.

“Then die for me, baby,” he murmurs with a smirk before he shoves his tongue in.

The way he fucks you with it, deep and slow, alternating between curling inside and sucking on your clit like he’s trying to ruin every future orgasm you’ll ever have.

The pressure in your belly builds fast. Too fast.

“Hwa—Hwa, I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t stop. Not for a second. In fact, he groans into you, the vibrations tipping you right over.

You scream when it hits — legs jerking, hips stuttering, liquid gushing out of you as your vision goes white. You squirt hard, soaking his face, and all Seonghwa does is moan like it’s the best reward in the world.

And then?

Then he doesn’t stop.

Tongue lapping up every drop, fingers suddenly slipping in to stretch you open more, curling just right.

You try to close your legs, but he pushes them apart. “We’re not done yet, baby. You wanted to run your mouth, remember?” he pants, face soaked with your slick. “Now be good and cum again for me. Squirt again. Make it messier this time.” he whispers against your cunt, fingers sliding in smoothly right after your orgasm leaves you twitching. “So fucking pretty when you squirt all over me. Think you can do it again?”

You try to answer. You really try.

But all you can let out is a choked sob and a breathless, “Hwaaa—s’too much—!”

He grins.

That stupid, gorgeous, smug grin.

“Too much?” he teases, crooking his fingers inside you just right, angling upward until he hits that devastating spot again and again and again. “You say that, but this slutty pussy keeps sucking me in like you need it.”

Your thighs twitch again. He doesn’t even bother holding you down this time — just lets your hips writhe, lets your body jerk as your slick runs down the inside of your legs. His mouth glistens, cheeks shiny with your mess. And when you manage to lift your dazed eyes, that’s when you see it—

He’s grinning as your juices drip down his chin.

“You made such a mess,” he says, almost in awe. “Let’s make it worse.”

His pace speeds up. Wet sounds fill the room—obscene, echoing. His fingers pump hard and fast, curl deep, then scissor slightly just to watch your thighs fly open and twitch again.

“Hwa—ohmygod—fuckfuckfuck—” You sob, back arching as your eyes roll.

You squirt again—harder this time, right into his face. A splash across his cheek, chin, the tip of his nose. His tongue darts out, licking some of it off with a soft moan.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters. “Wanna bottle it. Want you dripping all over me every fucking night.”

Your whole body’s trembling, oversensitive, dumbed out—until you feel him pause.

Then—slowly—he brings his soaked fingers up to your lips, sticky and dripping. “Open,” he says, voice lower than before.

You hesitate, dazed.

He taps your lip. “Be a good girl.”

And you obey.

He pushes his fingers into your mouth—your own taste coating your tongue, salty and slick, messy from your orgasm. He groans when your lips wrap around them, when your tongue swirls over his knuckles like you’ve gone cockdrunk off his hand.

“Fuck… you look so pretty like this. Sucking my fingers after I made you squirt all over my face.”

You whimper around them, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes as your hips twitch again—like your body doesn’t even know how to stop reacting to him.

He leans closer, kissing your cheek tenderly.

Then he licks a stripe up the side of your face, whispering right against your ear—

“Bet you’ll let me do it again, won’t you? Make you squirt a third time just so I can drink it this time.”

You’re panting.

Barely conscious. Barely alive. Your thighs are soaked, your voice is hoarse, your brain’s not even stringing full thoughts together—just babbling nonsense through tear-lined lashes.

But then his hands are on your hips.

“C’mere,” he whispers.

You blink slowly, dazed. “Wha—?”

He pulls you up—gentle but firm—guiding your thighs toward his face. “Up here, baby. Come sit on it.”

You let out a strangled whimper. “I-I can’t—Hwa—too much, I’m gonna break—”

“You’re not gonna break,” he says with a dark little smile. “You’re gonna ride. Now come up here and fuck my face like the needy little brat you are.”

Your cunt pulses just from those words.

So you do. Wobbly and wet, you crawl forward and straddle his face, thighs shaking on either side of his head. He doesn’t wait—not even a second. Just drags his tongue up your slit with a deep, needy groan that vibrates straight into your core.

“Oh my god—” you cry, your hands flying to the headboard as your hips jerk forward. “Hwa—Hwa, fuck—!”

He moans into you, hands gripping your ass tight, pulling you down harder against his face. There’s no space to breathe. No air between you. Just your soaked cunt grinding against his tongue and the obscene wet noises of him slurping you up like he’s trying to drink every drop.

Your hips move on their own. Grinding, rocking, chasing that sharp edge again even though you’re already so far gone. His tongue flicks against your clit, fast and filthy, while he fucks two fingers back inside you from below—curling, pumping—

Then he spits.

Right onto your clit again, mid-lick.

You scream. No build-up. Just full-body twitching, a gush of slick releasing again, pouring onto his mouth as you squirt across his chin and neck.

But he doesn’t stop.

If anything, he groans like it’s better than heaven, like your squirt is feeding him. He’s drenched. It’s dripping down his throat, into his hair, his lashes soaked with it—but his tongue stays relentless, licking and sucking like you’re his only purpose.

You’re sobbing, whimpering, brain-fucked into a spiral. “I-I can’t—s’too much—f-fuck I’m gonna—Hwa—please—”

He pulls back just for a second, spit-slick lips glistening, eyes dark and wild.

“Don’t you dare stop moving,” he rasps, voice hoarse from moaning into your pussy. “You ride me like you want it. Wanna feel you cum again on my tongue, baby. Wanna drown in it.”

You whine like you’ve lost control of your entire body.

But you move.

You grind harder, faster—facefucking him, completely shameless now, your hips bouncing with wet, sloppy sounds as his tongue fucks up into you, fingers curling, his mouth messy and hungry—

Until you break.

You cum again.

Harder than before. Screaming his name, sobbing, gasping for air as your vision blacks out for a second from the intensity. Your squirt gushes down over his face, and he lets it, mouth open, drinking what he can while the rest drips down his cheeks and into the pillows.

When you finally collapse forward, trembling and crying, he’s panting under you — lips red and swollen, hair soaked with your slick.

“Fuck…” he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh softly. “You’re so fucking perfect when you cum like that. So messy. So ruined. My beautiful little slut.”

Your whole body’s still twitching — but instead of flopping down beside him, you crawl lower.

Right over his chest.

Seonghwa watches you with a lazy, soaked smirk. His hair is sticking to his forehead, his entire face glistening with your cum, lips swollen from your pussy, but still — he watches like he knows you’re not finished.

He’s sprawled on the bed, shirt half open, abs flexing beneath you with every breath. And your slick? Still dripping.

“What are you doing now, hm?” he asks, voice low and gravelly.

You don’t answer — not with words. Just sink your hips down and grind your messy cunt along the ridges of his abs. Soaking him. Leaving sticky, shiny trails over his skin with every little rock of your hips.

He hisses.

“Fucking hell…”

You whimper on purpose. Soft, bratty. “You’re so… hard, baby,” you murmur, grinding again — letting your puffy folds press right against the line of muscle below his ribs. “S-so strong… feels so good under me…”

His jaw clenches.

“Are you trying to break me?” he growls. “Is that it? You wanna tease me until I lose it?”

You giggle breathlessly, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his mouth — sweetly, innocently — while your hips roll again. “You can take it, right? Big boy?”

And that’s it.

With one swift, rough move, he grabs your hips and flips you onto your back, pinning you with his weight. His cock slaps against your inner thigh — flushed, thick, leaking, angry from being ignored for too long.

“I spoil you too fucking much,” he mutters, lining himself up at your entrance, guiding the thick head through your soaked folds. “Now look what you did to me. Look what you made me.”

You whimper, legs wrapping around his waist, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“You wanted cock so bad?” he growls, voice breaking as he pushes in, thick head stretching you open inch by inch. “Fucking take it, baby.”

You scream — back arching as he fills you. He’s big. Heavy. And he goes in deep without stopping, until you’re gasping, whimpering, clinging to him like you might lose your mind.

“God, you’re so tight…” he groans, hips snapping once just to feel you spasm around him. “So fucking wet. You like teasing me just to get ruined, huh? You like making me fuck you stupid?”

You nod. Fast. Dumb. Crying. “Yes—yes, please—ruin me—need it so bad, baby—”

He fucks you hard.

Deep, full thrusts that knock the air out of your lungs. His cock kisses your cervix with every push, making your mouth fall open, your brain turn to soup. Your nails scratch down his back. You’re moaning so loud now, wet noises echoing between you both, slick coating your thighs, his cock, the sheets.

“Such a messy little brat,” he pants, staring down at the way your tits bounce with every thrust. “You ride my face, grind on my abs, and then look at me like you’re innocent.”

You cry out again when he angles his hips just right—rubbing your g-spot with every stroke.

“Cum again,” he growls, leaning close, biting your bottom lip. “Squirt all over my cock, baby. Wanna feel you soak me. Be a good girl and fuckin’ let go.”

And just like that — it hits.

You convulse under him, nails clawing his shoulders, legs wrapped tight as you squirt again — all over his cock, your body wracked with trembles as the orgasm rips through you. He moans loud as you gush around him, then fucks you through it, greedy, obsessive.

“Fucking mine,” he breathes. “All mine. Look how dumb you get on my dick. So fucking pretty…”

You barely hear him.

Your body’s limp. Eyes glassy. Brain fuzzy with pleasure.

And Seonghwa just slows his thrusts, cups your face gently, kissing your cheeks as his cock pulses inside you. “Shh… I got you, baby. Gonna cum deep inside this perfect pussy now. You want it, don’t you? Wanna be filled up?”

You nod like you’re drunk on him.

“Good girl,” he whispers, hips rolling one last time as he buries himself, groaning your name like a prayer while he spills inside you.

You don’t even remember how your legs untangle.

One second, you're flat on your back, twitching and crying through your orgasm with his cum dripping out of you—

The next, you're being scooped into warm arms.

Seonghwa presses gentle kisses across your collarbone as he lifts you, bridal-style, ignoring how soaked both your thighs are, how his cock’s still half-hard and messy between you.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs, voice soft, thumb brushing your cheek. “Still with me?”

You nod—barely.

More like a sleepy nuzzle into his chest.

He chuckles quietly, carrying you across the room, carefully laying you on fresh sheets. Then, he disappears for just a moment—

And comes back with a cold bottle of water.

“Drink,” he says, crouching down beside the bed. His fingers guide the rim of the bottle to your lips, slow and careful. “You squirted like a fountain, princess. Gotta refill you.”

You whimper softly, but sip.

The cold water hits your throat like heaven. You gulp it down greedily, and he smiles like he’s proud—like watching you drink is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead between sips. “Such a mess. You’re all sticky, baby… all over me. Look.”

He pulls back slightly and shows you: his abs, still glistening with the trail you left when you grinded on him. His mouth? Still shiny from when you sat on his face. The smirk on his lips? Deadly.

You cover your face with both hands, whining through your fingers.

“Nuh-uh,” he says sweetly, pulling your hands down. “Don’t hide. You’re beautiful like this.”

His voice drops to a tender murmur, and he leans down to kiss your thighs—one, then the other—slow, almost reverent. “You did so well for me. Let me clean you up, okay?”

You nod, still glassy-eyed, still overwhelmed.

He wipes between your thighs with a warm, wet cloth, so gently it almost makes you cry again. Every little touch is patient, delicate — like he’s handling something precious. He kisses your knees, massages your hips, brushes damp hair away from your temples.

“I didn’t mean to fuck you that dumb,” he murmurs, chuckling under his breath. “But you were teasing me so much, baby. What was I supposed to do?”

You let out a hoarse giggle. Barely audible. But your smile is soft, satisfied.

When he finally crawls into bed with you, he pulls the blanket up over your legs, snuggles in behind you, and curls an arm around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers into your ear, “you’re not allowed to walk. I’m carrying you everywhere.”

You hum, sleepy.

He kisses your shoulder.

“…And maybe next time,” he adds with a grin, “you ride my face and my cock in the same session. For science.”

You groan into the pillow.

He laughs.

And pulls you closer like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

[reveriebae]

Epilogue - Life After The Pussy Apocalypse

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<< PREVIOUS CHAPTER | MASTERLIST >>

3 months later — Eden Heights is still standing. Barely.

It’s a miracle your neighbors haven’t moved out.

Because if the walls could talk? They’d cry.

The floor group chat is now a chaotic war zone called:

“Her Eight Boyfriends and a Gatorade”

[Pinned] photo: your tongue out, middle fingers up, cum on your tits. Caption: "Not even sorry."

Hongjoong is somehow more productive now.

Being balls-deep in pussy every other day turned out to be inspiring.

He just produced a track called “Throat Goat” and submitted it to a K-hip-hop label.

Says he sampled your moan.

You didn’t consent.

You don't care.

Seonghwa bought a bookshelf.

It has eight drawers.

Each one is labeled with a nickname he uses for you.

He keeps condoms in the top one.

Lube in the second.

Lavender wipes in the third.

Number four? A vibe. Literally.

Number five has snacks for aftercare.

You asked what’s in number eight.

“Marriage contract,” he smiled.

You haven't opened it. Yet.

Yunho is still talking about marrying you.

But now he does it while choking you, while you’re riding him in reverse, while you’re bent over the sink with your leg up like a ballerina.

He shows you apartments like he’s serious.

You ignore all of them.

Until he sends one with a mirror ceiling and double shower.

Now you’re thinking.

Yeosang has stopped pretending he’s quiet.

The man’s got a praise kink the size of Korea.

One stroke and he’s moaning like a hentai voice actor.

He drew you fully naked on your period once and called it “Goddess in Red.”

Put it on Instagram. Got 40K likes.

Caption: “She bleeds, and I still kneel.”

San made you matching dog tags.

Not rings.

Dog tags.

One says “Sir,” the other says “Mine.”

You wear yours under your robe, just to watch him blush and bark when you bend over.

He still picks you up without warning.

You still moan loud enough to make Mingi throw a pillow at the wall.

Mingi got his own floor in your apartment.

Not a room. Not a drawer.

A whole fucking floor.

He brings you snacks, writes scripts about you, and calls you “boss” when he’s not buried between your thighs.

He pitched a drama to Netflix titled:

“Eight Dicks and a Dream.”

It got declined.

But the script? Fire.

Wooyoung made an OnlyFans for your feet.

It has 300k followers.

You’ve never even posted.

He just takes sneaky pics of your toes while you nap.

You tried to scold him once, but he just said:

“You got eight boyfriends and I’m the only one thinking about your arch? Jail me.”

You didn’t jail him.

You let him suck your toes.

Same thing.

Jongho is no longer the shy one.

He’s quiet, yes. But that man’s got a stamina cheat code.

He can go five rounds and still ask, “You okay, baby?”

You keep calling him “baby bull.”

He doesn’t like it.

“It makes me sound like a cow.”

“But a sexy cow,” you argue.

Now he moos when he cums.

Just to spite you.

And You?

You still sleep in your room, door unlocked.

You rotate between units like it’s a personal tour.

Your panties are still missing.

Your skin glows. Your attitude worse.

And you?

You’re still the undisputed demon of Eden Heights.

No one tried to wife you up again.

Because you made the rules now.

You didn’t choose one.

You chose all.

And the crazy part?

They let you.

[reveriebae]

Chapter 16 - Fine, Then Take Us All

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<< PREVIOUS CHAPTER | EPILOGUE >>

It didn’t happen right away.

For a few days, the boys avoided each other like plague victims.

Group chat? Dead.

Game night? Canceled.

Shared spaces? Tiptoeing around like shy cats in heat.

And you?

You were doing your skincare in silk robes, pussy untouched, walking around Eden Heights like the undefeated villain of a K-drama finale.

But it only took one thing to crack the dam.

It was Yeosang.

Of all people.

You were doing your nightly stretch in the gym’s mirror—shorts, braless tank, legs open like the whore goddess you were—when he walked in. Hoodie, sweatpants, sketchbook under his arm like he came to sketch and not sin.

But he saw your ass arch, your lips part as you exhaled, and just—snapped.

“You win,” he muttered, dropping the sketchbook.

“You fucking win.”

And he crossed the room in three strides, pulling you in like his hands were starved of touch, mouth desperate on yours. He whispered something filthy about needing to paint your thighs, and your moan echoed through the gym walls.

By the time Seonghwa walked in to scold you both—he joined.

Followed by Hongjoong, who looked at the scene and said,

“Fuck it. I give up.”

They didn’t take turns that night.

They shared.

On the floor.

On the bench.

Against the mirror.

They kissed you while the others fucked you.

Held your legs open while you moaned for another cock.

Took photos. Shot videos. Whispered promises.

“Ours. You’re fucking ours now.”

And it didn’t stop there.

Jongho came next.

Saw the video by accident when Wooyoung AirDropped it to everyone like a menace.

And the sweet, subby boy who used to blush when you said pussy?

He showed up at your door.

“Please,” he whispered. “I want to feel what they felt.”

You made him beg.

Let him eat you out on his knees.

Told him to make eye contact when he came, his fingers tight around your throat.

You ruined him. And he thanked you.

Then Yunho.

He didn’t say a word.

He just dragged you from the laundry room, ripped your robe open, and whispered into your skin,

“You wanna be kept or claimed?”

“Because I’m about to do both.”

He fucked you on the dryer, held your legs around his waist like you weighed nothing, and groaned in your ear how he’s still gonna marry you even if the others had their turn.

“You’re mine even if I gotta share you.”

Mingi and Wooyoung were the last to break.

The only difference was—they broke together.

You found them in the rooftop lounge, already tipsy, talking shit about who made you moan louder. You sat between them, legs spread over their laps, and said:

“Why don’t you show me?”

You had four hands on your body, two mouths on your tits, and one camera recording it all.

They made you squirt on the couch, took turns holding your throat, screamed at each other about who made you cum harder.

And you?

You just smiled.

Because finally—they stopped pretending.

Back to now.

They’re all in your apartment.

Naked. Sweaty. Sprawled across your living room like ruined men.

Your body’s still dripping, your legs won’t close, and your throat’s sore from moaning eight names.

You’re laying on Yunho’s chest.

Jongho’s hand is in yours.

Hongjoong is playing with your hair.

Wooyoung’s tracing hickeys on your thigh with a marker.

Yeosang is sketching your tits like they’re sacred.

Seonghwa’s whispering aftercare into your ear.

San’s massaging your back.

Mingi’s feeding you strawberries.

You stretch like a queen with her court, grin wickedly, and say:

“Still think I should’ve picked one?”

Silence.

Then all eight voices at once:

“No, ma’am.”

"Good boys..."

Game over.

[reveriebae]

Chapter 15 - You Want Me To Pick One? Cute

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<< PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER >>

It was way too early on a Sunday for this shit.

But there they were. Again. All eight of them. Crammed in the Eden Heights resident lounge, looking like an ex-boy band forced into therapy.

Hongjoong was sipping coffee with sunglasses on indoors.

Seonghwa had a fucking clipboard.

San was bouncing his knee like he was seconds away from knocking someone out.

Yunho had his arms crossed, biting his tongue.

Wooyoung looked like he hadn’t slept since the group chat war.

Yeosang was zoned out staring at the ceiling.

Jongho was on his phone pretending this wasn’t happening.

Mingi was drinking Gatorade and holding an ice pack like he was fresh out of a full-contact sport.

You?

You walked in like a blessing and a curse, tank top braless, sweats low on your hips, iced coffee in hand, looking like you just woke up in someone’s bed. Because you probably did.

"Good morning, sluts," you said sweetly, flopping onto the couch like you owned it.

The tension in the room could’ve sliced a cucumber.

Seonghwa cleared his throat. “We need to address the rule. It’s not working.”

“Because she won’t pick,” Yunho muttered without looking at you.

You sipped your drink and smirked. “Why should I?”

San leaned forward. “Because we’re all going fucking insane.”

Mingi groaned. “I had a dream I was breastfeeding her last night.”

Wooyoung gagged. “Why the fuck—”

Jongho, still staring at his phone: “This is so unserious.”

Yeosang, eyes still on the ceiling: “My therapist would combust if she knew I was here.”

Hongjoong finally spoke. “Okay. Let's say… hypothetically, you do pick one of us.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “What happens then?”

You blinked slowly. “You really want me to answer that?”

Silence.

Seonghwa nodded. “Yes. For once, please.”

You stood up, stretched your arms over your head just to show off the curve of your waist, and said:

“You want me to pick one?”

“That’s cute.”

“But if y’all want peace that bad… why don’t you just share me?”

Absolute chaos.

Wooyoung: “OH HELL—SHE DIDN’T—”

Yunho: “No. No. No. You’re not a fucking toy.”

San: “Actually...wait, let her finish—”

Jongho: “You’re all feral. She’s literally sitting there like the devil with lip gloss.”

Mingi, barely holding his Gatorade: “I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”

Yeosang: “I mean... I do believe in resource sharing.”

Hongjoong, deadpan: “This is why rules don’t work.”

Seonghwa, exhausted: “We’re not poly. We’re not a commune.”

You walked to the center of the room, slow and deliberate, your voice low and smooth.

“You all said you care, right?”

“Said you want more than sex, right?”

“Then prove it. Stop acting like love is a damn competition. I’m not a trophy.”

“But if you can’t handle me wanting all of you...”

You paused, gaze sweeping over every flushed, horny, confused, broken man in the room.

“...Then maybe none of you deserve me.”

Mic. Fucking. Drop.

San dropped his forehead to the table. Wooyoung stood up to clap before Seonghwa made him sit down. Jongho’s ears were red. Yunho looked like he wanted to marry you and throw you off the balcony at the same time. Hongjoong was grinning. Yeosang looked suspiciously turned on. Mingi spilled his Gatorade on his lap.

And you?

You sat back down. Crossed your legs. And waited.

Let’s see who really wants to play.

[reveriebae]

Chapter 14 - Terms and Conditions May Apply

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

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The morning after the rooftop showdown felt like a collective hangover, even for the ones who didn’t drink. The air in Eden Heights wasn’t just tense—it was humid with leftover lust, guilt, and jealousy. Someone even burned their toast in the communal kitchen. Twice. No one pointed fingers, but everyone knew it was Yeosang. That man hadn’t slept right in three nights.

You? You were fine. Great, even. Towel wrapped around your wet hair, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, you strutted into the kitchen with zero shame and enough confidence to kill. You were glowing. Probably because you were freshly fucked and deeply unbothered. Yunho’s words—“I want to marry you”—still looped in your head, but you weren’t ready to unpack that yet.

You grabbed your coffee. Two guys stood awkwardly in the kitchen with you: Seonghwa pretending to clean a countertop that didn’t need cleaning, and Wooyoung standing in front of the fridge like he forgot what cold air was.

No one said anything.

Until Hwa cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”

That was never a good sentence.

10 Minutes Later

Group Meeting, Communal Lounge, Chaos Central.

Everyone was there. Even Mingi, wrapped in a blanket like a sad little meatball, eyes barely open. Yunho sat with his arms crossed, legs wide, jaw clenched. Hongjoong leaned back on the couch, unreadable as ever. San stared out the window like he was a main character. Jongho sat stiffly, knees together, stealing glances at you. Yeosang wouldn’t make eye contact. Wooyoung kept biting his lip and Mingi was eating cereal out of the box.

Seonghwa clapped his hands once, like a damn preschool teacher. “Okay. So. About Saturday night…”

“You mean the rooftop orgy—” Wooyoung said.

“I said okay,” Seonghwa snapped, then exhaled slowly. “We need rules.”

That got everyone's attention.

Yunho looked up. “Rules?”

“Yes,” Seonghwa replied. “Because clearly, this is spiraling. Fast. So, until everyone gets their feelings sorted out—only one person per week.”

Silence.

Then:

“WHAT THE FUCK—” Wooyoung.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Hongjoong said.

Yeosang looked physically ill. Mingi dropped his cereal. Jongho blinked hard, then blushed. San leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “That’s not gonna work.”

You just sipped your coffee, leaning against the doorframe, completely unfazed.

“Why not?” Seonghwa asked calmly.

San shrugged. “Because some of us don’t like sharing.”

“Oh, now that part works,” you muttered.

Wooyoung turned to you, mouth open. “You’re okay with this?!”

You raised your eyebrows. “I didn’t say that. But I think it’s cute you all suddenly care about rules after cumming on my stomach, chest, thighs, and—”

“OKAY!” Jongho stood up, face red. “We get it!”

Seonghwa looked like he aged five years in that moment. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s to protect us from... imploding.”

“Too late,” Yunho muttered.

Then Hongjoong stood up slowly, licking his lips. “Let’s be honest. This isn’t about protecting anyone. This is about feelings.”

“Oh no,” Mingi whispered.

“And feelings,” Hongjoong continued, walking toward you, “are messy. Especially when the girl you want is... sleeping in the room next to yours.”

You blinked.

“You got something to say, Joong?”

He tilted his head. “Do you?”

You smirked. “I’ll say it when I figure out who I wanna sleep with next week.”

That shut everyone up. Even Wooyoung.

Then Jongho, soft-spoken but firm, said, “Why not just admit you like more than one of us?”

You turned to him, taken off guard. “Because that would mean it’s not just sex,” you said softly.

“Exactly,” Jongho replied. “And that’s the problem.”

For a moment, the room went still.

Until Mingi whispered, “...Can I still be on this week’s schedule?”

Everyone groaned.

It only took four hours before the new rule crumbled like overbaked cookies.

The boys tried to play it cool. Real composed. Mature. Whatever the hell that means.

But once Seonghwa dropped the “one guy per week” bomb, their brains short-circuited.

So what happened?

They started campaigning.

DAY 1 – MONDAY

Wooyoung appeared at your door in a mesh shirt, hair still damp from the shower, holding a tray of literal cupcakes.

“You like chocolate, right?” he winked.

You looked him up and down. “Why do they say ‘Eat Me’ in frosting?”

He grinned. “Because subtlety is for cowards.”

You shut the door in his face—but you took the cupcakes.

DAY 2 – TUESDAY

Yeosang helped you carry groceries without being asked. Then reorganized your spice rack. Then cleaned your mirror. Then fixed your curtain rod. He didn’t say much. Just blushed every time your arm brushed his.

When you offered him water, he said, “I don’t want water. I want you to choose me.”

You choked on your own spit.

DAY 3 – WEDNESDAY

San showed up at the gym wearing a muscle tee and sweatpants low enough to be illegal. “Need a spot?” he asked, voice dark.

You said you weren’t working out. He said, “That’s fine, I’ll just watch you stretch.”

You weren’t stretching either. He stayed anyway.

When you walked past him later, he whispered, “You’re gonna break the rule for me. I know it.”

You did not deny it.

DAY 4 – THURSDAY

Mingi posted a thirst trap with the caption: “If I had her for a week, she wouldn’t walk straight. #JustSaying”

You saw it. Everyone saw it.

So did Jongho, who DM’d him a passive-aggressive comment: “That’s not how we treat someone we claim to care about.”

Mingi replied with a pic of your panties from his nightstand and said: “Oops. My bad.”

Jongho didn’t reply. But he did drop off flowers at your door an hour later with a handwritten poem.

DAY 5 – FRIDAY

Seonghwa invited you to dinner.

Candlelit. Italian. Real silverware. A playlist of soft R&B. He wore a blazer. In the apartment.

Midway through dessert, he leaned forward and said, “I’m not competing. I’m reminding you who always puts you first.”

Your thighs clenched under the table.

DAY 6 – SATURDAY

Hongjoong didn’t do shit.

He just looked at you during the tenant meeting and said, “So…who you choosing this week?”

You shrugged. “Still thinking.”

He smirked. “Tick-tock, baby.”

DAY 7 – SUNDAY NIGHT

You were curled up on your couch in a robe, wine in hand, ready to sleep.

Then…

Yunho texted the group chat: “I’m not playing this game. If she wants to fuck, she can come to my room.”

And immediately, the whole building exploded.

Wooyoung replied: “SHE AIN’T YOUR WIFE YET, HOBBIT.”

San: “You don’t deserve her if you can’t wait your turn.”

Mingi: “I literally got pneumonia last time. I’m next.”

Jongho: “You all need therapy.”

Hongjoong: “You’re all pathetic.”

Yeosang (rare voice message): “I vacuumed her rug and no one thanked me.”

Seonghwa: “I’m turning this Wi-Fi off if you don’t all calm the fuck down.”

You stared at the screen. Then put your wine down.

Walked to your mirror.

Unwrapped your robe.

And said:

“Let’s see who breaks the rule first.”

[reveriebae]

Chapter 13 - We Can't All Fuck Her, Right?

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

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You didn’t plan to start a turf war with your pussy.

But here you were—cross-legged on the shared rooftop lounge, sipping wine like it wasn’t your fault eight grown men were rethinking their entire moral compass just to get a taste of you. The sun was setting, casting golden streaks over Eden Heights, and the group was half-drunk, half-bitter, and fully cooked with tension.

You wore that little black thing. The silk one. No bra, no shame.

Mingi was laying on the beanbag next to your chair, arms behind his head, not even hiding the way his eyes kept dropping to your thighs. Jongho was leaning on the railing, chewing his lip, pretending not to notice the fading hickey you left under his ear the night before. Yunho hadn’t said a word since he got here—just staring, brooding, palms clasped between his spread legs like he was holding back a confession or a crime.

Then there was Wooyoung. Elbow on the table, drink in hand, and the same devil’s grin he wore when he saw your Instagram comment that one time. He was dangerously close to saying something stupid.

“What the fuck is this?” he finally barked, laughing into his cup. “Like—really. We all just gonna sit here while she’s over there acting like she didn’t swallow half the building?”

You tilted your head with a smirk, unbothered. “I didn’t swallow all of you.”

Yeosang snorted into his drink.

San choked on his beer.

“Technically,” you added with a wink, “I’m still taking applications.”

That’s when Yunho stood.

Just stood. Tall and terrifying, shirt straining on his chest, that controlled kind of fury buzzing under his skin.

“You’re not fucking anyone else.”

Everyone fell quiet.

You blinked. “What?”

He walked toward you, slow and heavy. “I said you’re not fucking anyone else. You’re done. That’s it.”

Wooyoung laughed again—but it was tight now, sharp. “Says who?”

Yunho didn’t look at him. He looked at you. “Says the man who’s gonna marry her.”

Silence.

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat. You tried to speak—tried to throw a joke, a jab, anything—but it just sat there. Heavy.

“Oh my God,” Seonghwa muttered from the corner. “Yunho, you can’t just say that out loud.”

“Why not?” Yunho shot back. “We’re all acting like we’re okay with it. Sharing her. Waiting around like fuckin’ backup dancers. We’re not okay.”

Hongjoong finally stood too. “Speak for yourself.”

Yunho turned to him. “You came in her mouth on Friday.”

“Yeah? And you dicked her down in the bathroom like we wouldn’t find out.” Hongjoong stepped closer. “You think throwing ‘marriage’ out there makes you special?”

“Okay, wow—” you stood up fast, wine nearly spilling, “—we are not doing this dick-measuring contest on the roof like we’re in a teen drama—”

“Too late.” San grunted. “This has Riverdale energy now.”

Mingi dragged a hand down his face. “I just wanted peace and pussy.”

Yeosang raised his hand, calm as hell. “She moaned my name last.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.” Four voices.

Then—your phone buzzed. A text.

You looked down.

EDEN HEADS 🍆🌆 (randomly, as if the whole floor don't gather in circle in the fucking rooftop)

Yunho: "i’m serious"

Wooyoung: "i’ll eat her on the altar i’m not scared"

Wooyoung: "you may now tongue the bride"

Yeosang: "she left a lace thong in my laundry again"

Seonghwa: "did you at least wash it this time"

Mingi: "i feel sick again"

Mingi: "like pussy withdrawal sick"

Jongho: "y’all need therapy"

Jongho: "or a priest"

Hongjoong: "no more group scenes"

Hongjoong: "we’re gonna kill each other"

Yunho: "i’m not kidding she’s mine now"

You shut off the screen, eyes wide.

And that was when Seonghwa stood.

“I have advice.”

Everyone groaned.

“I’m serious,” he said, sipping his drink. “We need rules. Or someone’s gonna end up dead. And I don’t have the time to testify in court.”

Jongho nodded. “We’re this close to becoming a true crime podcast.”

“Or,” Seonghwa continued, “we just get real honest. Right now. Who actually wants her for more than just sex?”

Dead silence.

Then…

Hongjoong: “Yeah.”

Yunho: “Of course.”

Jongho: “…I guess I do.”

Mingi: “I think I love her.”

San: “Shit.”

Wooyoung: “Unfortunately.”

Yeosang: “I already told her.”

Seonghwa: “Obviously.”

You blinked.

Blinked again.

“...What the fuck do I do with that?”

[reveriebae]

Chapter 12 - Strong Boys Get Weak Too

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

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The day was quiet. Too quiet for Eden Heights. Most of the boys were either out running errands, still passed out from last night’s rooftop chaos, or hiding in their rooms pretending to be productive.

But not Jongho.

You noticed him earlier, sitting alone on the rooftop, headphones in, scribbling into a thick anatomy textbook with a half-eaten energy bar next to him. His hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow, brows drawn together like he was studying for the fate of mankind.

But you? You were feeling bored. Lazy. And extra soft today in a tight black ribbed tank and cotton shorts that barely covered your ass.

So when you strolled past him, barefoot and yawning, he looked up like a deer in headlights—eyes flicking down your legs too quickly before he yanked them back up and tried to act casual.

“Studying again?” you said, leaning against the rooftop railing like you didn’t already clock him sneaking glances at the curve of your tits through your tank.

“Yeah… kinda. There’s a pharmacology quiz next week,” he mumbled, tucking his pencil behind his ear. “You… doing anything?”

“Mm. Looking for someone to bother.”

His ears turned pink. “Oh.”

You moved closer. Sat beside him, knees touching, and he didn’t move away. That alone told you something was up. Normally he’d give you a polite smile, a tight nod, and pretend to read while avoiding eye contact.

But today?

He stayed there.

And his pen trembled slightly when your fingers brushed his wrist.

“You okay?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. “You’re kinda red.”

“I’m—fine,” he said too quickly, then added, “It’s just hot.”

You hummed. “Yeah? Doesn’t feel that hot to me.”

You leaned over slowly, plucking the pen from his hand and tossing it aside. “You’ve been acting weird.”

“I haven’t,” he murmured. But his voice cracked at the end.

“You sure?” you teased, fingers drifting down his forearm. “You don’t… need anything?”

He swallowed hard. You could feel the tension coiling in him, the heat of a boy desperate not to admit he wants to be touched, ruined, and told what to do.

“I…”

You kissed his cheek. Then his jaw. Then his throat.

“I’ve seen how you look at me, Jongho.”

He froze.

“You always get so quiet around me,” you whispered. “But I bet you think nasty little things when I’m not looking. Don’t you?”

His lips parted like he was going to deny it. But he didn’t.

You slid your hand down his thigh, slowly. “You want me to show you what it’s like, baby boy?”

He nodded.

So soft. So quiet.

And fuck, that was your green light.

Back in your room.

You had him sit on the edge of the bed. Breathing shaky. His hands fisting the hem of his hoodie like he didn’t know where to put them.

You straddled his lap. Grinding slow. Kissing deeper. Tongue pushing into his mouth as he moaned—finally moaned—and grabbed your hips with trembling hands.

"You like this?" you whispered, rocking harder.

“Y-yeah…”

“You gonna let me ride your face this time?”

His eyes widened. “Right now?”

You slid down off his lap, stood up, and pulled your shorts down without breaking eye contact.

“No underwear?” he breathed.

“No patience,” you corrected. “Lay down, puppy.”

He obeyed.

You climbed up slowly, kneeling over him with your thighs framing his face.

“Open up,” you cooed.

And when he did, you sat. Not all the way—not yet—but enough to make him whimper. Enough to hear the way he gasped through his nose and latched his tongue to your clit like a starved man.

“Ohh, fuck—yes, baby,” you panted, rolling your hips gently. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

Jongho groaned under you. Hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, nose nudging your slit as he gave you the sloppiest, most desperate head you’d ever received from someone that shy.

And then… you sat fully.

“Mmmph—!”

“You can take it,” you purred, fingers tangled in his hair. “C’mon, don’t be shy now.”

You rode his face until your thighs trembled. Until your moans got louder and his hips bucked against the air, leaking into his boxers just from the sounds you made above him.

And then you pulled off, breathless, grinning down at his soaked mouth and pink cheeks.

“You good, baby?”

He nodded. Dazed. Drenched. Fucking blissed out.

You smirked. “You’re so cute when you’re shy.”

And he said, low and ruined—

“Please let me fuck you next.”

Your thighs were still twitching as you pulled yourself off his face, slick glistening on his chin, nose, and even his goddamn eyelashes.

And Jongho? He looked wrecked. Chest rising in shallow pants, eyes half-lidded, and his cock—holy fuck—he was rock hard and tenting the hell out of his grey sweats.

You were about to say something smug, maybe tease him again—

But he grabbed you.

"Lie down."

His voice was hoarse. Rough. Commanding.

Your brows shot up. “Oh?”

He already had you flipped onto your back before you could sass again, lips crashing into yours like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or devour you alive.

"You’re gonna act all cocky when you're the one begging to ride my face?" he growled against your mouth. “You like using me, huh? Like teasing me, dressing like that around the apartment—making me walk around with a fucking hard-on while I’m trying to study?”

You were grinning. Dripping.

“Aw, is my baby mad?” you whispered mockingly.

He pulled your tank up, exposing your tits in one swift motion. “Mad? No. I'm gonna fuck you so good you forget everyone else's name.”

Oh.

You tried to keep it cool, but your thighs clenched. He noticed. Smirked.

Then he yanked his sweats down just enough to free his cock, thick and angry red, pre-cum dripping like he’d been edging himself all week.

“Open.”

He tapped the tip of it against your clit. “Since you like being on top so much…”

You straddled him again, no hesitation, guiding his cock into you slowly while holding eye contact. And holy shit. The stretch. The burn.

He filled you up with a hiss between his teeth. “Fuuuck… you’re tight.”

You started rolling your hips, shallow and slow. But Jongho grabbed your waist with both hands and slammed you down.

You gasped. “Fuck—!”

He did it again. And again. Each thrust so deep your vision blurred, one hand fisting the sheets, the other clawing at his shoulder.

“You’re mine,” he grunted, “mine tonight, mine every night you walk around like a goddamn sex dream.”

Your nails dug into his biceps. “Shit—Jongho—fuck, that’s—”

“I know,” he groaned, bucking up into you even harder. “God, you feel so good, I can’t—fuck—”

He reached down and slapped your ass, just once, hard enough to make you squeal. “Ride me, baby. Come on. Fuckin’ use me.”

And you did. You rode him like you were starved—hips snapping, tits bouncing, moaning out his name louder than you probably should.

He was babbling by now, eyes fluttering. “Y-yeah… just like that—yesfuckyes—gimme all of it, please, please—”

Your legs shook. You were so close.

“Cum for me, Jongho,” you breathed, grinding down hard. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

And he did. With a gasp—a deep, whimpery little moan—his whole body jerked, and you felt him spill inside you in thick, pulsing waves.

You came right after, hips jerking erratically as he held you down, burying himself as deep as possible.

Panting. Shaking. Grinning like a mess.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, and he let out a soft, shy chuckle.

“…Still shy, huh?” you whispered, kissing under his jaw.

He rolled you onto your side with him still buried inside, hand stroking your cheek.

“I dunno…” he murmured, flushed and smiling. “I kinda like being ruined by you.”

[reveriebae]

Chapter 11 - Floor 2, Unit Hoe

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

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You just wanted some peace.

It was a calm, early morning in Eden Heights, sky glowing burnt orange, buildings soaking in gold. The rooftop was almost empty—except you, your oversized hoodie, no bra, and a big red lollipop hanging from your mouth. Legs crossed, eyes scrolling through your phone, fully in your ‘don’t talk to me unless you’re dick-first’ mood.

Then he showed up.

Room 201. Black shirt. One earbud in. Tattoo peeking at his arm.

Hongjoong.

The self-declared “voice of reason” in Eden Heights.

The one who never joined the chaos, but always watched it.

Closely. Too closely.

You didn’t look up when he walked over. You felt him. His presence was that heavy.

He leaned against the railing beside you, quietly for a second.

Then—

Pop.

He plucked the lollipop straight out of your mouth.

You blinked. “You serious?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you with a calmness that made your thighs tense.

Then, slow as sin, he dragged his tongue over the candy, swirling it before biting down with a quiet crunch.

“That’s mine.”

His voice was low. Dangerous. Almost amused.

You blinked again. “…Is this some sugar daddy metaphor?”

“Do you want it to be?”

His eyes flicked to your lips. “No gloss today? Shame.”

You smirked. “Sorry. Didn’t know I’d be licked by a menace tonight.”

“Didn’t Yunho say he’s gonna marry you?”

The change in topic was so fast your brain lagged.

You shrugged, playing it cool. “He says a lot of things.”

“You said yes?”

You sucked your teeth, looking away. “I said I’m not monogamous to dick.”

Hongjoong nodded slowly.

Then he stepped into your space, took your jaw gently, and tilted your face toward him.

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

“Good.”

“What?”

“Means I can still do this.”

He kissed you.

No preamble. No warning.

Just lips against yours, confident, steady. Tongue curling over yours like he’d studied your mouth in a lab and perfected the blueprint.

You gasped, grabbing his hoodie, nearly knocking your lollipop to the ground.

And that’s when his hand slid under your hoodie—right under.

No bra. Just skin.

His palm closed around your breast like he’d been waiting for clearance from God himself.

You moaned into his mouth. He didn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he whispered, kissing down your jaw, “you taste like cherry and trouble.”

“You’re trouble,” you gasped. “You’re the one who licked my—”

He cut you off by pushing two fingers into your mouth.

“Shh. You’re always talking.”

You whined. Sucked his fingers out of reflex.

“God,” he growled, “look at you.”

He pushed you against the cold brick wall, your hoodie sliding up, exposing the curve of your waist. No panties. Of course.

He pressed his thigh between your legs and grinded. Slow. Hard.

“This how you act with Yunho?” he muttered. “All soft and wet like this?”

You nodded like a dumb bitch.

“Who’s better?” he asked, licking your neck. “Tell me.”

“You haven’t even fucked me yet—”

He grabbed your hips and pulled you closer. “Yeah? You already this wet for nothing?”

One hand at your throat. The other sliding between your thighs.

“Lollipop’s not the only thing I’m gonna suck dry.”

Hongjoong’s grip stayed locked on your wrist the whole way down.

No one saw you. Or maybe they did. Who cares.

He kicked the door to Room 201 open, dragged you inside like a delinquent boyfriend—then froze.

“...Bro?”

You blinked.

Because right there, sitting cross-legged on his bed, was Seonghwa, sipping white wine like he paid rent there.

And by the window, casually leaning against the wall, flipping through Hongjoong’s photography zine?

Yeosang.

“Hi,” Seonghwa said, not phased in the slightest. “We got bored.”

Hongjoong narrowed his eyes. “You got keys to my room?”

Yeosang looked up, monotone: “You told me you keep weed in here.”

“That was 3 months ago.”

Seonghwa sipped. “And I stayed for the ambiance.”

Your jaw dropped. “What kind of ghetto ass AirBnB vibe is this—?”

But before you could even process the situation, Hongjoong turned to you.

Grinned.

Locked the door behind him.

“Well, shit,” he said lowly, stepping closer. “We got an audience.”

Your pulse jumped.

“Not an audience,” Seonghwa murmured, setting down his glass, “more like… supporting cast.”

Yeosang blinked slowly, eyes trailing your exposed thighs. “You’re not wearing underwear.”

You: 🧍‍♀️

“You came here to fuck her?” Seonghwa asked Hongjoong, now standing next to him like they were in a boardroom about to make a joint decision. “After the lollipop stunt?”

“I was going to,” Hongjoong replied, eyeing you like you were made of sin and syrup, “but now I’m thinking…”

He looked at the other two.

“We all do.”

You: 🫠🫠🫠

No one said anything for a second. Just heavy air. Staring.

Then—

Seonghwa stood up first. Smooth. Calculated. Shirt already half unbuttoned.

Yeosang closed the zine. “Do we take turns or…?”

You: “...Is this a dick draft or a gangbang—?”

“Depends how long you can last,” Hongjoong muttered, already tugging your hoodie up, mouth trailing your neck.

And then it started.

Hands. Tongues. Grabbing. Moaning. Your hoodie raised up. Legs open. Yeosang got on his knees first—quiet but deadly. Seonghwa kissed your mouth while Hongjoong held your throat and whispered the nastiest shit you’ve ever heard.

“You like being watched, don’t you?”

“Such a good fucking toy…”

“We’re gonna ruin you so bad, no one else in this building will dare fuck you again.”

Yeosang: “Speak for yourselves.” (Then he licked your pussy so good your soul flew out the window.)

They took turns. Then didn’t. Then overlapped.

One in your mouth. One in your pussy. One holding your hands above your head telling you how fucking beautiful you look dripping like this.

Seonghwa whispered praise.

Yeosang barely said anything but made you cum twice.

Hongjoong called you ‘mine’ three times before letting you breathe again.

When it was over, you were flat on the bed, knees still shaking, face glossy, lip bitten.

And they were just—

Looking at you.

Like you were a mess they created and were damn proud of.

“Are you okay?” Seonghwa asked, suddenly soft. Brushing hair out of your face.

You nodded, dazed.

“I think I blacked out,” you croaked.

“Same,” Hongjoong chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “You’re never allowed on the rooftop unsupervised again.”

Yeosang casually: “So… next time, can I record?”

"I swear to god everyone in this building wanna record while fucking me"

You were still on your back.

Hair stuck to your forehead, thighs sore, cum drying on your stomach like lotion that never blended.

You didn’t know whose was whose anymore.

Seonghwa? Hongjoong? Yeosang? Probably all of the above. You were a buffet. A shared project. A group effort.

And these three?

Still half-dressed, lounging around the bed like they just filmed a boy group MV and the concept was ruining you on camera.

Seonghwa sat on the edge, scrolling on his phone.

Yeosang leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed, head tilted like he was contemplating life after coochie.

And Hongjoong? Hongjoong was lighting another cigarette.

You were still trying to catch your breath when—

BANG BANG BANG—

Then the door flew open.

“BITCH—”

Wooyoung.

Hands on hips.

Mingi right behind him with a 7/11 coffee in one hand and the look of a man who just walked into a crime scene.

And oh, they were loud.

“OH MY GOD—NOT THREE OF THEM?!”

“ON A SUNDAY?!” Mingi shrieked.

You blinked, dazed. “…Hi.”

Wooyoung’s jaw dropped. “Are you NAKED?!”

Yeosang didn’t open his eyes. “Technically, she’s only bottomless.”

Mingi gasped. “IS THAT CUM ON HER—”

Hongjoong blew smoke. “It’s art. Shut the door.”

Wooyoung stormed in. “YOU’RE A WHORE. A WHORE WITH A CAPITAL W!!”

“She’s our whore,” Seonghwa said calmly, still scrolling.

Wooyoung turned to you, full offense. “You said you were baking cookies this week.”

“I was!” you croaked, pulling the sheets higher. “I just got… distracted.”

“Distracted?!” Mingi’s voice cracked. “This is a bukkake!”

Yeosang finally opened his eyes. “That’s not technically correct. We didn’t—”

“DON’T EXPLAIN IT TO ME!!”

Wooyoung walked over and grabbed your ankle. “Get up, shower, and come to my room. You’re grounded.”

“I’m not your girlfriend,” you mumbled.

“YOU’RE EVERYONE’S GIRLFRIEND AT THIS POINT.”

“Wait,” Mingi narrowed his eyes. “Is that… Hongjoong’s necklace around her neck—”

“OH MY GOD—” Wooyoung shrieked again.

Hongjoong smirked, taking another drag.

“Did you mark her?! You feral little dictator—”

“Go eat breakfast,” Hongjoong said.

“We DID,” Mingi snapped. “We just didn’t expect to be served slut soufflé first thing in the morning!”

You groaned, pulling the pillow over your face. “Can y’all get out?”

“Can we??” Wooyoung scoffed. “Mingi’s traumatized.”

Mingi nodded solemnly, sipping his coffee. “I need therapy. Again.”

“You’ve never had therapy.”

“AND NOW YOU KNOW WHY.”

[reveriebae]

DIDN'T REALIZE THIS SHIT REACHED 1K?? ALREADY??? Y'ALL SUCH A WHORE FOR MINGI😭😭😭😭

Send Nude?

pairing(s) : Mingi x reader

word count : 2332

summary : you were only kidding, he wasn't.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Online flirtation → IRL hookup, Mirror fingering, Vein kink (explicit worship), Cock worship, Dirty talk that will get you pregnant, Ass slapping, Doggy style, Praise + degradation mix, Spit, lube, cum mention, Choking (light), Hair pulling, Marking (handprints, cum inside), Slight overstimulation, After-sex banter & bratty backtalk, Mingi being hot and knowing it. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N : SONG MOTHERFUCKING MINGI, I WANNA SIT ON YOUR FACE TILL YOU CAN'T FUCKING BREATH😤😤

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

It starts with an Instagram story.

Not even a sinful one—well, not explicitly. Just Mingi, shirtless, post-gym, flexing in the mirror like he’s auditioning for an anime reboot of Magic Mike. Traps bulging, abs glistening, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed and into your fantasies.

But it’s the veins. The veins.

His arms look like god personally sculpted them to ruin your life. Thick, pulsing rivers of blood lust crawling from his forearms up to those thick biceps. The kind of veins that scream, "I can hold your legs open and still roll your eyes back with just two fingers."

And the worst part?

You’re mutuals.

You don’t know him, not really. But you’ve exchanged likes. A few meme replies. He once retweeted your selfie with a “👀” and that alone had you contemplating the circumference of his dick.

So when he drops that mirror thirst trap with a casual caption—

“gym got me feelin like a Jojo character today lol”

—you don’t think.

You just type.

"send nude?"

It’s meant to be funny. You’re high on vein kink and zero impulse control. You expect no reply. Maybe a like at most.

Instead...

fixon_n_on has sent you a message.

You blink. Your heart skips. You open it.

@fixon_n_on : you want it from the front or the back?

You almost throw your phone across the room.

You stare at the screen, face hot, mouth dry, thighs not. You're about to reply with something dumb like “LMAO chill I was kidding,” when a photo comes through.

Not a dick pic—he’s smarter than that.

It’s him, again, in the mirror. This time in sweatpants, low enough to show that dangerous V-line. His phone’s in one hand, the other pushing his waistband down just enough to reveal no underwear. His dick’s not out, but you can see the print. And it’s…

Well. Jesus wept.

@fixon_n_on : front. want the other too?

"You’re insane"

"You can’t just do this"

"I’m literally feral now. I hope you’re happy"

@fixon_n_on : send something back then.

I wanna see what I’m working for.

You panic.

But also? You're already halfway to your bedroom, lighting adjusted, camera propped up against your dresser. You pick your best lingerie—black lace, of course—and position yourself kneeling on the bed, arching your back, head turned just enough to show the smirk on your lips.

You send it.

And wait.

It doesn’t take long.

@fixon_n_on : oh you’re a fucking problem, stay like that.

@fixon_n_on : 10 minutes.

"what?"

@fixon_n_on : I’m outside.

Your soul leaves your body. You run to the window like a girl in a teen drama and THERE HE IS. In a hoodie and gray sweats, baseball cap pulled low, looking up at your building.

You open the door in a robe and nothing else.

He doesn’t say anything when you let him in. Just walks straight past you, drops his phone on your counter, and turns to face you like you’re his final exam.

“Thought you were just horny on main,” he mutters, voice low, eyes burning.

You shrug. “You posted that photo. I was just—”

“You were asking for it.”

And then he’s kissing you. Hard, messy, hand gripping the back of your neck while the other pulls at your robe like he owns the rights to it. Tongue sliding past your lips, hips pushing into yours, and God, he’s big. You feel it, even through the layers, pressing into your stomach.

He breaks the kiss only to whisper, “Where’s the bed?”

You nod toward your room, breathless.

He tosses you over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

You barely register the way he throws you on the bed—your robe falls open, lace panties barely covering anything, tits perking up like they know what’s coming. But Mingi’s not in a rush. He kneels behind you, towering in the mirror, eyes roaming every inch of your reflection like you’re his personal slutty art piece.

"Don’t move," he mutters. His voice is deeper now—dangerously low, like sin poured over honey. "Look at yourself. Look how pretty you are when you’re about to get ruined."

You start to turn around, but his palm lands flat on your ass, making your thighs jolt. You gasp.

"Did I stutter?" he growls.

You meet your own eyes in the mirror—wide, flushed, trembling.

Then you see his hand.

Veins. Fucking ropes of them, bulging from his forearm, crawling over the back of his hand like he was engineered in a lab just to wreck lives. He slides his fingers down your back slowly, tracing the curve of your spine, dragging calloused fingertips over your lace waistband and tugging it down with a single curl.

And you swear to God, you moan at the way his forearm flexes doing it.

“S-shit…” you breathe.

He hears that.

“Oh?” Mingi leans down, chest against your back, lips brushing your ear. “You moaning for my veins, baby?”

“Maybe,” you whisper, already breathless.

He smirks. “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Then you feel it—his fingers, thick and skilled, sliding between your legs. He presses two against your slit, slow and teasing, rubbing over your folds like he’s just admiring the texture. You’re already soaked.

"All this," he says, voice hoarse, "from a fucking photo?"

"All this," you gasp, "from a fucking forearm."

He laughs. He actually laughs, low and cocky, before slowly sliding two fingers inside you.

And fuck—he knows what he’s doing.

Long, deep strokes. Curling just enough to make your legs shake. His other hand grips your thigh, and that’s when you see it—those veins again, tensing as he fucks you with his fingers, his eyes locked on your reflection.

"Touch your tits," he growls. "Wanna see how messy you look for me."

You obey.

Your back arches. His fingers go faster. The sound is obscene—wet and needy—and you're whining now, trying to hold it in, but failing.

“Look at you,” he pants, breath hot against your neck. “My needy little internet girl. You gonna cum just from my fucking hand?”

“I-I—”

“Say it.”

"Y-yes! I’m gonna cum—fuck, Mingi, your hands, your f-fucking veins—"

And then he pulls out.

You scream.

He grins like the menace he is, sucking his fingers clean, his fucking tongue dragging between them like he’s savoring the taste of your defeat.

Then?

Then comes the cock reveal.

Mingi pushes his sweats down and you actually gasp. Like, cartoonishly. Hand over your mouth, eyes wide, legs clenched.

It’s—

Baby.

It’s heavy. Thick. Veins trailing down the shaft like they belong in a goddamn museum. The head flushed deep pink, already leaking, curved just slightly upward like it was designed to hit your g-spot and wreck your life.

“No fucking way,” you whisper.

He wraps his hand around it lazily—more veins flexing in his forearm—and strokes once. Just once. And you feel your pussy throb.

"Yeah," he says, watching your jaw drop. "You're drooling."

You blink, dazed, mouth parted. Mingi’s standing behind you now, one hand gripping his cock lazily, the other on your ass, spreading you open so both of you can see how soaked you are in the mirror.

"Look at this shit," he grunts, dragging his tip over your folds. "Dripping like you were waiting for me. You been thinking about this cock all week, huh?"

"Y-yes," you whimper. “Ever since that fucking mirror selfie—”

He presses the head against your entrance but doesn’t push in. Just teases it. Rubbing circles around your clit with the head, using your wetness like lube, slick sounds making your face heat up.

“You got off to it?” he asks low, his lips brushing your ear. “Did you cum to my pic, baby?”

You nod.

"Uh-uh. Say it."

“I fucking came to it, Mingi. I rubbed my pussy to your arms and your stupid fucking veins—fuck—”

He laughs darkly. "Yeah, you’re sick."

Then—finally—he pushes in.

And Jesus fucking Christ.

Your hands slam against the mirror, breath catching, your whole body jerking forward from the stretch. He fills you like he’s trying to mold his shape into your cunt. Thick, hot, just the right curve—and he doesn’t move for a second.

Just breathes.

"Goddamn," he mutters. “You're tighter than I thought. You tryna milk me already?"

You moan, legs trembling.

Mingi grabs your hair, yanks your head up to force your gaze into the mirror again.

“Nah. You watch this. Watch how I wreck this pretty little pussy.”

He starts thrusting—deep, rough strokes. Slow at first, like he’s letting you feel every fucking inch. The mirror fogs up from your panting, from his filthy mouth in your ear.

"You like that? Huh?"

"Yes—yes, Mingi, fuck!"

"This pussy’s made for me. Look how it sucks me in."

He groans when you clench, dragging his hand from your waist to your front, pressing on your lower belly.

"Feel that?" he growls. "That’s me, baby. That’s my cock inside you. Splitting you open like you asked for it."

You’re babbling now—nonsense, cries, desperate yeses. But Mingi’s not done.

“You wanted it so bad, right? Posting your ass online, sending me slutty pics like a little tease—”

“I wanted you,” you whimper.

“Yeah, you do want me. Want me to fuck your brains out. Want me to make you drool on this mirror like the cock-drunk little whore you are.”

Your legs nearly give out. He catches you, one arm banded around your waist as he pistons into you now, rougher, faster—pure filth slapping against your soaked thighs, the sound disgusting in the best way.

"Say it's mine," he growls.

"It’s yours," you gasp.

"Say you're gonna cum all over my cock like a good girl."

"I—fuck, Mingi—I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna fucking cum—"

And you do.

You cum hard, back arched, eyes rolling, your body twitching as he fucks you through it with a satisfied grunt.

“That’s it. Fuckin’ soak me.”

He pulls out just long enough to flip you around, throws you on the bed again, and gets on top. He kisses you hard, messy, fingers in your hair, his cock still throbbing.

“You think I’m done with you?” he breathes against your lips.

You’re still catching your breath, legs shaking, mascara smudged, when Mingi pulls you up by the hips and flips you back over like a ragdoll. He drags you to the edge of the bed, feet barely touching the floor, ass high in the air, pussy still dripping.

“You think I’m done with this ass?” he mutters, palm grazing your cheek, fingers flexing like he’s about to commit a crime. “Nah. Not even close.”

You glance back, dazed, lips parted.

And he just grins.

Then—SMACK.

His palm cracks against your ass, loud and sharp. You jolt forward, a choked moan spilling out.

"Fuck—Mingi!"

"Too much?" he asks, rubbing the sting gently with those big, veiny hands. The contrast between pain and softness makes your eyes roll back.

"Not enough," you gasp.

He laughs. Dark. Delighted.

"Filthy little thing. You like getting spanked, huh?"

"Love it."

Another slap. This time harder. And another. His handprint is going to be there for days.

Then he grips both cheeks, spreading them open. He groans at the sight of you.

“God, this pussy’s begging for me.”

He strokes himself once, then lines up—and thrusts all the way in.

No teasing. No build-up. Just ruthless, deep doggystyle.

You scream into the sheets.

“Oh my fucking God—”

“That’s right,” he growls. “Take it. Let me fuck this tight little hole till I break you.”

His rhythm is brutal. Each thrust slams into you with force, your tits bouncing with every movement. You’re whining, moaning, drooling into the pillows—and he fucking loves it.

"You feel that, baby?" he pants. "Feel my cock stretching you out?"

"Yes—yes, Mingi, fuck—so big—"

He leans over you, chest to your back, one hand choking the headboard, the other sliding under to grip your throat. His lips brush your ear.

"You gonna cum again? From getting fucked like a bitch in heat?"

“Yes—fuck, please, I want it—”

He pulls your hair, forcing your head back. His breath is hot and filthy on your neck.

"Want what?"

"I want your cock—I want you to ruin me, please, please—"

"You want me to fuck you dumb?"

"Yes!"

SMACK.

Another hit to your ass—this one meaner. You fucking sob.

“That’s what I thought,” he snarls. “This pussy belongs to me now.”

And then he grabs your hips again, starts fucking you harder—if that’s even possible. You feel every vein, every ridge, every goddamn inch dragging inside you like he was crafted by the devil for the sole purpose of ending you.

You're gone.

Crying out his name. Screaming.

“Cum for me,” he grits. “Fucking cum on this cock, let me feel you lose it.”

And when you finally do—when your body seizes, your orgasm ripping through you so hard your vision blanks—he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through your orgasm. Keeps pounding, relentless, groaning like a beast.

“Fuck—baby, I’m close—where do you want it?”

"Inside," you gasp. "I want you to fill me, Mingi—please—"

That does it.

He growls, low and feral, and slams into you one final time.

You feel it—hot and deep, his cock twitching inside as he spills everything, his grip bruising your hips. He stays buried there, panting against your back, sweating, hand still on your ass like a trophy.

Silence.

Then—his voice. Hoarse, cocky.

"...My veins really did this to you, huh?"

You’re breathless.

"Fuck your veins, Mingi."

He grins, kisses your back.

"You did."

[reveriebae]

Chapter 10 - These Are Not Study Notes!

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<< PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER >>

It started because Wooyoung’s nosy ass couldn't mind his business.

It was a regular Thursday night. Everyone was doing their own thing: Mingi was half-asleep in front of his laptop, Hongjoong was blasting lo-fi beats while pacing the hallway with a mug that hadn’t had tea in it since 5 PM, and you were out for a late-night shower.

Unfortunately, you left your door slightly open. Again.

"Why she always got it cracked like she’s baitin’ us?" Wooyoung mumbled, leaning against the wall outside your door. He raised his brow, tilted his head, then—like the menace he is—just walked in. Not even stealthily.

On your desk, beneath your scented lotion and a rogue vibrator that was thankfully powered off, was a pink notebook labeled:

"DO NOT OPEN (I'm serious. You'll cry.)"

So naturally… he opened it.

"Bro…" Wooyoung whispered. “BRO.”

Within 3 minutes, Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Yeosang, and Yunho were gathered around, taking turns reading out loud.

"Yunho: fucks like a husband who caught you cheating but still loves you

Wooyoung: talks the most shit, backs it up, broke my back and left me giggling

San: like a damn jungle cat. who taught him that?

Mingi: dick so fat i forgot the wifi password mid-ride

Jongho: strongest stroke game. i almost saw the gates of heaven and my GPA

Hongjoong: thinks he’s quiet but grunts like he’s in a war film

Yeosang: silent demon. literally folded me like a hotel towel

Seonghwa: 80% love, 20% punish. he reads me like a psych major"

And then came the quote that broke Yunho’s spirit.

"i know i say i’m not picking favorites, but yunho might be my husband in a past life. shit, maybe i wanna marry him now. but i also wanna sit on mingi’s face again. am i okay???"

“You…” Yunho muttered, his jaw tight as you came back in, hair still damp, unaware. “You wanna marry me but still wanna sit on someone else’s face?”

You blinked. “W-What?”

“Get. In. My. Room.”

204 — Yunho's Unit

You barely had time to scream when your back hit the door, slammed shut behind you. Yunho didn’t say another word—he just kissed you like he owned you. Like his whole soul was breaking and he had to fuck it back together.

“Say it,” he growled, slipping his hands under your tank top. “Say you’re mine. That I’m the only one.”

“You’re not—!” you moaned when he bit your neck, “—the only one I think about, but you might be the one I love.”

“Then why the fuck are you writing about Mingi’s face like it’s a vacation resort?”

Before you could answer, Seonghwa walked in. Not burst in. Just… calmly strolled.

“I knocked. You didn’t answer. So I’m here now.”

Yunho whipped around. “Hyung, GET OUT.”

Seonghwa sighed, leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Look. She clearly wants you. But you’re not gonna keep her by dragging her around like a sack of potatoes. Communicate.”

“I am communicating. With my dick.”

“…Good start,” Seonghwa nodded, “but you should also try using your words. After you finish blowing her back out, of course.”

And just like that, Seonghwa left.

You stared, blinking. “…Did he just coach us mid-fuck?”

“Yes. Yes, he did.” Yunho groaned and pulled you back down to him. “Now shut up and let me make you see stars, future Mrs. Jung.”

The Next Morning

It was suspiciously quiet.

You were in the laundry room, trying to be productive, throwing a load of bedsheets and underwear into the communal washer, when San walked in with a protein shaker.

He stopped mid-sip.

“…Is that your thong?” he asked, pointing to a small, lacy pair you accidentally dropped.

You nodded slowly. “…Yes?”

He narrowed his eyes, picked it up with two fingers. “Why is it… crusty.”

“I—San. Put it down.”

“Who nutted on this.”

“SAN. PLEASE.”

He held it up like a forensic detective. “Yunho? Mingi? Be honest. I will get fingerprints tested if I have to.”

“You’re insane.”

“I smelled Yunho’s cologne on you last night. You think we didn’t hear those walls cry for help?”

Just then, Jongho entered.

“Is this about the panties again?” he asked calmly, sipping his coffee.

“…AGAIN???”

So there you were—trapped in the laundry room like it was a court hearing.

San was grilling you like a homicide detective. Jongho leaned on the dryer like the fucking judge. And you? You just wanted to do laundry without your cum-stained panties becoming evidence.

“Okay,” you sighed, arms crossed, “yes, I had sex last night. No, I’m not telling you with who. And no, you don’t get to run a fucking DNA test.”

San sniffed the thong again.

“Bro—!” Jongho gagged. “STOP. You’re gonna catch chlamydia through the nose.”

San shrugged. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“You need church.”

You snatched the thong back, tossing it in the wash like it owed you money. “How about you two stop acting like the FBI and get out of my business?”

“Can’t,” Jongho said, straight-faced. “Your business is everyone’s business now. You let Yunho clap your cheeks so hard last night, Mingi thought we were having a thunderstorm.”

You paused. “…He really said that?”

“Yeah. He unplugged his humidifier. Thought it was short-circuiting.”

Before you could even react, Wooyoung popped his head in the doorway. “She’s getting gang-interrogated over nut panties?”

“Yup,” Jongho replied. “Crust report in full effect.”

Wooyoung burst out laughing. “Y’all wanna see the rest of her sex notes? I took pictures.”

“WHAT?!”

“Why are you like this?” Jongho groaned.

Wooyoung pulled out his phone, casually scrolling. “I got a screenshot of where she said Yeosang has ‘perfect dick curvature like he’s been geometry-trained.’”

“Damn,” San muttered. “...He does give ‘straight-A student but freak’ energy.”

Just then, Yunho stormed past the door, shirtless, towel slung over his neck.

He paused. Turned.

“…What are y’all talking about.”

“Her notes,” San said. “And her panties.”

Yunho’s left eye twitched. “The panties that I ripped off with my teeth?”

You covered your face with both hands. “I hate all of you.”

“You loved me last night, though,” Yunho shot back, smirking.

Wooyoung barked. “OH MY GODDDDDD.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, pointing at him. “You’re literally next on my hitlist. Don’t act like I don’t see the way you look at me.”

“Bet,” Wooyoung said, licking his lips. “I’ll leave my door open tonight. Let’s play whose bed creaks louder.”

Jongho dropped his mug. “I’m fucking leaving.”

Later that night...

The group chat was, once again, unhinged.

EDEN HEADS 🍆🌆

Mingi: "what the fuck did i miss"

San: "crime"

Yeosang: "forensic cum investigation"

Hongjoong: "I swear to god if y’all keep leaving cum in shared spaces—"

Wooyoung: "SHE WROTE THAT MY DICK BACKSHOTS MADE HER GIGGLE IRL"

Seonghwa: "be a man and spell ‘laugh’"

Yunho: "She’s mine. I’m gonna wife her. Stop talking about her pussy"

You: "YOU’RE ALL UNWELL"

Jongho: You dropped a war crime into the laundry machine.

You: "BLOCKED"

Mingi: "guys...guys wait...did no one tell her about the camera in the hallway?"

You: 👁️ 👄 👁️

Hongjoong: "Let’s call it a night before we get evicted"

[reveriebae]

Chapter 9 - Mirrors, Moans and Sex Tape

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<< PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER >>

The Next Morning – Communal Kitchen

You tiptoe in, half-hungover on orgasm and shame. Dressed in a hoodie. No makeup. Just praying for peace.

But peace?

Was never on the schedule.

Yunho’s at the counter making coffee. His arms are flexed. His jaw’s tight. He’s unusually quiet.

And Wooyoung? Sitting on the kitchen island, shirt still inside-out, acting like last night wasn’t a sex marathon on max volume.

“Morning, babycakes,” he purrs. “How’s the mirror? Need Windex?”

Yunho freezes mid-pour.

You play it cool. “Oh, it’s spotless. We had to use the reflection to line things up.”

Yunho grips the mug tighter.

You notice him staring at the mirror pic Wooyoung posted on close friends, the one labeled ‘Saving Hex 😵‍💫💦’ like the menace he is.

He sets the mug down. Slowly. Calmly.

Then turns to you. “So you’ll fuck on a mirror for a typo, but when I call you wife you ignore it?”

“Ah hell nah,” Wooyoung barks. “Not this possessive plotline again.”

You smirk, sipping his coffee like it’s yours. “Y’all gonna fight for me or what?”

Yunho tilts his head. “Do you want us to?”

You grin.

“Not today. I’m sore.”

Wooyoung chokes on air. Yunho walks away shaking his head.

The group chat dings.

EDEN HEADS 🍆🌆

Hongjoong: "everyone in unit 203 is banned from mirrors, moaning, or moaning into mirrors."

Jongho: "i got a pop quiz today and all i can hear is “say the line.”"

Yeosang: "if you guys make me draw this for stress relief I’m charging commission."

Seonghwa: "i’m genuinely praying for the strength to not move to another floor."

Mingi: "i healed too fast. i think i need another fever."

Later that day, while you're curled up on the couch pretending to edit your work report but actually stalking your own Instagram story (you look hot, okay), you hear a very specific voice yell across the hallway—

"YO, WHO GOT THE MIRROR SEX TAPE?"

You immediately groan into the cushion.

San.

Of course it's fucking San.

You peek your head out just in time to see San standing in the middle of the hallway with his phone held up like he's announcing a giveaway.

"Come on, don't be shy! Share with the class!" he laughs, looking like a slutty devil in grey sweats and a muscle tee with a hole directly over his left nipple. "Heard there was enough moaning to subtitle it in three languages."

You try to close your door but he catches it.

“Ah ah, don’t do that,” he says, grin widening. “You got the master copy, don’t you? What, scared I’m gonna rate the arch outta ten?”

Before you can even throw a pillow at him—

Mingi steps out of his unit.

Bed hair. Tank top. Socks that don't match. Still looking like he just finished sinning in a fever dream.

“Who said ‘arch outta ten’? Send link.”

You blink.

“...You too?!”

“Baby,” Mingi says, “I moaned for soup last week. You think I’m above jerking off to your sex tape?”

San loses it. Mingi walks down the hall like it’s Sunday brunch, not an Eden Heights Pornhub leak investigation.

You slam the door in both their faces.

That Night – Rooftop

The whole gang’s there.

Blankets. Beers. A Bluetooth speaker playing nostalgic R&B. Someone brought chips, someone else brought cigarettes. It’s chill. Soft. A little chaotic.

And by someone—you mean Wooyoung, who's still in slut-mode and smoking like he just finished ruining another mattress.

Yunho hasn’t spoken to you since that kitchen tease. His jaw has been clenching the entire night. You pretend not to notice but he keeps sipping his vodka like it owes him money.

“Okay,” San says, laying back on a beanbag. “Let’s just address the elephant on the floor.”

You freeze.

“I’m talking about the sex tape.”

Everyone groans.

“Oh my god,” Seonghwa mutters, rubbing his temples.

Yeosang whispers, “I’ve already started sketching. I’m calling it The Mirror Has Thrusts.”

San wheezes.

“I mean, honestly,” San continues, “if that’s what y’all do on a Tuesday? What happens on birthdays? Lunar New Year? Jungkook’s enlistment date?”

Jongho’s face is stone cold. “I was brushing my teeth when the mirror started shaking. I thought I was having a stroke. I called my professor.”

You cackle.

"That's not even the worst part," Jongho adds. "You know how many times I had to listen to 'say the line' before I realized it wasn’t Wooyoung talking?”

Wooyoung shrugs. “What can I say? I’m inspirational.”

Then—like a fucking sitcom—

Hongjoong arrives late, hoodie over his head, bottle of whiskey in hand.

“Alright,” he says, sitting down dramatically, “which one of you degenerate fucks uploaded that shit to the shared Plex folder?”

Everyone gasps.

“YOU HAVE A SHARED PLEX FOLDER?” Mingi yells.

“Don’t act innocent, Mingi. You have a subfolder named ‘Quickies & Crying.’”

Seonghwa throws a chip at him. “We need a priest.”

Yunho finally speaks. “We need duct tape. For that mouth.”

He’s staring at you.

You smile sweetly. “You could’ve had it first.”

Wooyoung spits out his drink.

The entire rooftop erupts.

And as you lean back, watching them throw insults, crack jokes, and threaten to expose each other’s browser histories, you realize—

This building?

This chaotic, sex-crazed, emotionally stunted building?

Is home.

[reveriebae]

Chapter 8 - Can We Save Hex?

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<< PREVIOUS CHAPTER| NEXT CHAPTER >>

It’s one of those days.

No makeup, no plans. Just you, your bed, and a criminally tight bodycon dress that feels more like a second skin than clothing. No bra. No panties. No shame.

Your thighs are bare, your hair’s a mess, and you’ve been scrolling on Instagram like a sloth on NyQuil—half-dead but committed.

And then—

Boom.

There he is.

Wooyoung.

Shirtless.

Sweaty.

Drenched from a workout or a dance session—who cares? All that matters is that his abs look like they were sculpted by petty gods with something to prove.

Caption? “This filter ain’t even needed.”

The fucking audacity.

You blink, zoom in like a creep, then grin like the devil’s favorite whore.

Comment:

"can we save hex?"

A joke, sure. Playful. A little slutty. Harmless, even.

Or so you thought.

Because thirty seconds later, someone bangs on your door like they’re trying to break in.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You jolt up, dress riding higher.

Another knock—no, pound.

“OPEN UP!” Wooyoung’s voice cracks through the hallway. “YOU WANNA SAVE HEX?! LET’S FUCKING SAVE IT THEN—”

You scramble off your bed, hair flying, half-laughing, half-panicking, horny as fuck.

“Wooyoung—!”

“Don’t ‘Wooyoung’ me!” he yells. “I WAS MINDING MY BUSINESS—AND YOU WANNA DROP THAT COMMENT?? IN FRONT OF MY THOUSANDS OF FOLLOWERS?? YOU WANNA GET DICKED DOWN OR WHAT?!”

You sprint to the door.

Fling it open.

And there he is.

Black tank top. Sweaty neck. Hair pushed back. Breathing heavy like he ran from the elevator just to yell at you.

You blink up at him, biting your lip. “Hey.”

His eyes rake you down.

The tight dress. The bare thighs. The braless perfection.

Silence.

Then:

“You’re not wearing shit under that,” he whispers.

You shrug. “Wasn’t planning to leave the house.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “You’re a fucking menace.”

“You knocked.”

“YOU COMMENTED.”

“You could’ve ignored it.”

“You could’ve covered your nipples,” he shoots back.

You smirk. “Wanna come in and talk about it?”

He pushes past you without waiting.

Door slams shut.

The second the door shuts, Wooyoung grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the mirror.

Not the one in your bathroom.

The full-length mirror in your bedroom.

The one you only use when you’re feeling extra slutty. The one angled just right so you can see your curves in HD.

“You wanna talk about saving hex?” he mutters, standing behind you, crowding you, breathing hot against your neck. “Let’s record that shit.”

Your breath hitches. “What?”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the camera—front facing, selfie style. The moment he flips it to video, his gaze drops to your ass.

“No panties,” he mutters, voice dark and fucking dangerous.

You press your thighs together.

“Fucking knew it,” he grunts, setting the phone on your nightstand, perfectly angled at the mirror. It captures everything—your flushed face, your nipples poking through the thin fabric, the sinful curve of your hips under that tight bodycon.

And him.

Towering behind you, shirt yanked off in one motion, his abs flexing with every breath.

“Let’s give the internet a real thirst trap, baby.”

His hands find your waist. Then lower. Lower. Until he’s gripping the bottom of your dress and slowly dragging it up—inch by inch—exposing your bare ass.

You gasp. “Wooyoung—”

“Shh. Just watch, slut.”

You whimper as he sinks to his knees behind you, spreading your thighs. You see it—clear as day in the mirror—his tongue dragging over your folds, through your shorts.

The wet spot grows with each pass.

You’re trembling already. Clutching the edges of the mirror for support.

He yanks your shorts aside, not even bothering to remove them. “You want my mouth or you wanna keep playing with your little comments?”

“Wooyoung, please—”

He spits on your pussy.

You see it—see the glisten, the glint of spit and slick as he dives in.

Your back arches. Moans echo. The mirror fogs.

Then—

SLAP.

His palm lands square on your ass. You yelp.

“Look at yourself,” he growls. “You started this shit. Take it.”

He eats you out like a man starved. Loud. Messy. Filthy. Your thighs shake. Your makeup’s halfway gone. You look fucked up—gorgeous.

He stands suddenly, cock already out, thick and twitching, dragging it against your ass with a groan.

“You wanted ‘hex’ saved, right?” he pants. “Say it. Say the fucking line.”

You barely manage it—high and breathless.

“C-Can we… save hex?”

He pushes in.

One thrust. Deep.

Your mouth drops open. His grip is bruising on your hips. Your moans turn ragged, echoing off the walls, mixing with the slick slap of skin.

“You’re—fucking—viral now,” he growls between each thrust. “Whole floor’s gonna hear how you get dicked down for a damn comment.”

“F-Fuck, Woo—”

“That’s right, bitch. Say it. Moan for your likes.”

You both watch the mirror.

Every expression.

Every bounce.

Every drag of his cock inside you while he whispers filth in your ear.

He grabs your phone too, snapping a pic of your dazed expression, your dress bunched at your waist, your juices running down your thighs.

“For memories,” he says.

You’re shaking when he cums.

He stays in you, panting against your shoulder, then leans in to whisper:

“Post that, and I swear I’ll knock again.”

You’re still catching your breath.

“Hex successfully saved,” you mumble.

You barely have time to clean yourself up.

Dress still halfway twisted around your waist. Wooyoung flopped face-down on your bed like he just ran a marathon. Your mirror's foggy. Your legs are still shaking. The sex tape is still playing on mute.

And then—BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone’s at your door.

You both freeze.

Another round of angry-ass knocking.

Then—

“IT’S A TUESDAY, YOU SICK FUCKS!”

Wooyoung groans. “Oh my god, it’s Joong.”

You start laughing. "He sounds like he’s gonna file a noise complaint.”

“No, no—he sounds like he's about to draft a lawsuit."

You try to walk to the door, but your knees nearly give out. Wooyoung, ever the menace, grabs your ass on the way like he didn’t just cause all this.

You crack the door open.

Hongjoong stands there, hoodie on, glasses askew, hair a mess, arms crossed like the mother of Eden Heights.

“You. Two.” He points at you. Then at Wooyoung behind you, shirtless and smirking. “I don’t care if she commented ‘can we save hex.’ I don’t care if you’re roleplaying OnlyFans. I just want one quiet Tuesday.”

“Technically, it’s Wednesday now,” Wooyoung offers unhelpfully.

You slap his arm.

Hongjoong blinks. “Oh, that’s cute. You’re defending him? Guess that mirror isn’t the only thing foggy.”

You bite your lip. “...You saw?”

“Oh, everyone’s seen. Half the floor’s in the group chat talking about the earthquake in unit 203.”

Then he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“I will ask for a copy though.”

And walks off like nothing happened.

[reveriebae]

Chapter 7 - Bake Me, Baby

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<<PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER>>

It’s a Sunday morning, 11:47AM.

Your period’s over. Your playlist’s on shuffle. The air smells like potential. And you’re feeling unreasonably powerful—like you could either take over the world or burn it down with a crème brûlée torch.

So naturally, you head to the communal kitchen.

In a tank top, silk shorts, a pink apron with “BITE ME” on the front, and a serious glint in your eye.

Baking? Yeah. You’re gonna bake.

Even if you’ve never done it before in your entire damn life.

You dump flour into a mixing bowl like you’re about to win MasterChef. There’s no recipe in sight. Just vibes, delusion, and the urge to prove something to literally no one.

That is…until Wooyoung walks in.

He stops in the doorway. Takes in your outfit. The ingredients. The apron.

“...You never even touch a pan,” he says, blank-faced. “What are you gonna bake? Your setting powder?”

You spin around, offended as hell. “First of all, I do touch pans—when I’m moving them to make space for my skincare fridge.”

He blinks. “That’s not helping your case.”

You squint. “You want beef?”

He grins. “Only if it’s burnt.”

Fifteen minutes later, the whole floor somehow knows you’re baking. Or trying to. And like stray cats hearing the rustle of a food bag, they all show up.

Yunho’s leaning on the fridge with a protein shake. Seonghwa has his arms crossed, judging your egg-to-flour ratio. Hongjoong has a notebook and is taking notes “for creative purposes.”

Even San walks in shirtless, eating a banana like he owns the kitchen.

“Is this a new kink?” he asks. “Apron and chaos?”

“I’ll shove this whisk up your ass,” you deadpan, cracking an egg with one hand.

CRACK. CLEAN. DROP.

The room goes silent.

Yeosang blinks. “...Okay, that was kinda hot.”

Wooyoung looks personally betrayed. “I take it back. That was sexy.”

“Damn right it was,” you say, slapping the dough like it owes you rent.

It goes downhill fast.

Flour ends up everywhere. Yunho sneezes so hard he knocks over the baking powder. Jongho tries to help and ends up accidentally turning the mixer to level 6—flinging batter all over the wall (and your boobs). Mingi taste-tests the raw dough and almost cries from the sugar.

Seonghwa mutters, “This is why I don’t believe in communal kitchens.”

But you? You’re thriving.

Chaos in your hair. Sugar on your cheeks. Determination in your eyes.

“Move, bitches,” you say, shoving the tray into the oven. “I’m about to make these brownies my slut.”

30 minutes later, the smell of victory fills the floor.

You slide the tray out dramatically, flip your hair, and say, “Come get this domestic pussy.”

Everyone scrambles like it’s the Last Supper.

Even Seonghwa’s chewing with raised brows. “...Okay. Okay. This is good.”

Hongjoong nods. “This might change my sexuality.”

San’s mouth is full. “She’s a threat. We let a threat live among us.”

Wooyoung mumbles, “I hate you,” and goes back for a third piece.

You lean against the counter smugly.

“I want a public apology.”

Wooyoung looks at you, face full of fudge.

“You want it in writing or moaned out?”

You blow flour off your fingers. “Surprise me.”

Most of the boys eventually clear out, their mouths full of brownie and their egos bruised. You won. Officially. Domestically destroyed them.

But one person stays behind.

Of course it’s San.

Because of course.

You don’t even hear him at first. You’re busy wiping the counter with one hand and scrolling through TikTok with the other, your hips swaying lazily to the background music from your speaker.

Then you feel it—his presence. His shadow. His goddamn intent.

You look over your shoulder.

He’s just leaning against the sink, licking brownie crumbs off his thumb like that isn’t a crime. His eyes drag down from your messy apron, your sticky thighs, to the bit of batter on the corner of your mouth.

“You missed a spot,” he says.

You frown, wiping your mouth with your wrist.

“No—” he crosses the kitchen, tilting your chin up with two fingers, “—right here.”

He leans in and licks the spot clean.

You blink. “...Are you flirting with me or just really committed to oral hygiene?”

He smirks, eyes locked on yours. “Can’t I be both?”

You exhale slowly. “San.”

“Yes?”

“This is a communal kitchen.”

He hums. “And yet, you’re wearing an apron with no bra and have brownie batter on your neck.”

“Your point?”

“I’m just saying—” he steps in closer, his chest brushing yours, “—if you didn’t want someone to lick you clean, maybe don’t bake like a damn OnlyFans promo.”

Your breath hitches.

Your eyes narrow. “...That’s crazy, cause last I checked, you’re the one who stayed.”

“I wanted more brownie,” he lies.

“Liar.”

“I wanted you.” His voice drops. “In that apron. Covered in sugar. Bent over the counter.”

Your jaw tightens. “You wanna clean me up?”

San nods. “Every inch.”

You smirk. “Start with the counter then.”

And like the fucking menace he is, he actually grabs a dishcloth and starts wiping the batter off the marble, just to flex.

You hop up on the counter behind him.

Legs crossed. Bare thighs on cold stone. San turns, ready to say something cocky—only to get hit with your foot nudging between his knees.

You tug him closer. Between your thighs.

“You gonna fold me in this kitchen or just keep cleaning, housewife?” you ask, tilting your head.

He grins. “Say less.”

There’s no delay.

No hesitance.

He drops the dishcloth, grabs your waist, and kisses you hard—with tongue, with hunger, with the kind of heat that fogs windows.

Your apron falls halfway off one shoulder. His hands push up your shorts, fingers gripping skin like he’s starving for it.

Then he pulls back—just a bit—and looks down at you. Smirking.

“You sure you’re not dessert?”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“Because I’m about to devour you.”

(Still in the communal kitchen. Only now? Your back’s stuck to the counter and sanity left the room ten minutes ago.)

The second San pushes your legs open, it’s game over.

Your apron’s wrinkled and useless—hanging on by a thread, the front stained with cocoa, and now, his hands.

He’s on you like he’s waited weeks for this.

Your back arches the second he grabs your thighs, lifting them onto his shoulders like he’s the last man on earth and your pussy is the only cure to global extinction.

“Don’t run now,” he mutters, dragging your shorts down and off—panties tangled with them like a goddamn white flag waving in surrender.

“I’m not running,” you breathe, eyes wild. “You’re the one on your knees.”

He smirks, presses a kiss just above your clit. “Exactly where I wanna be.”

His tongue hits like a match strike—hot, reckless, and zero patience.

He eats you like you’re his last fucking meal. Sloppy. Noisy. Borderline disrespectful. He groans against you like your taste just ruined him for everyone else.

You try to grip the counter, but your hands slip on spilled brownie mix.

“Fuck—” you gasp, legs tensing on his shoulders.

San doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t blink.

Just flattens his tongue and drags it slow and deep, nose buried in your heat, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs like he wants to leave proof he was here.

“Messy, huh?” he mutters against your cunt. “Thought you liked that.”

“I do,” you pant, “but this is—fuck—this is insane—”

He laughs low, lips shining. “Nah, baby. This is just foreplay.”

You don’t even have time to argue.

He stands, yanks your ass to the edge of the counter, and pulls himself out of his sweats—thick, already leaking, and he doesn’t even wait.

Just rubs himself over your slit, slow and heavy, watching your reaction with devil eyes.

“Look at that,” he coos. “So fucking wet. For me?”

You nod, drunk on it. “For you, Sannie. All for you.”

He slaps his cock against your clit once, twice—then pushes in all at once.

You scream.

The stretch knocks the air out of your lungs. Your apron rides all the way up. He’s balls deep in seconds—no protection, no warning, just San.

“Shit—” he groans, gripping your hips like a lifeline. “This pussy’s fucking heaven.”

He starts fucking you.

Not slow. Not careful. Just filthy.

The counter rattles with each thrust. Dishes clink in the sink. His name’s falling out of your mouth like prayer and profanity at the same time.

The brownie tray’s halfway knocked off the counter. Your speaker’s still playing music, but it’s muffled under the slap of skin and moans.

San leans in, forearms on either side of your head. “Say it again.”

You blink. “What?”

“That it’s mine.”

You grab his jaw. “Make me believe it.”

And oh—he does.

He fucks you so hard your legs shake. So deep you swear you can feel him in your soul.

You cry out when he angles his hips and hits that spot—again, again, again—until your hands fist the useless apron, the cords in your neck tight, your whole body going taut.

And when you cum—legs trembling, mouth open in a silent scream—he doesn’t stop.

Just grits his teeth and fucks you through it, chasing his own high, muttering:

“Fucking tight—so fucking good—fuck, baby—gonna fill you up—”

“Do it,” you moan. “Fucking fill me—give me everything—”

He groans, slams deep once more, and spills inside you with a strangled growl, body shuddering as he buries his face in your neck.

The kitchen smells like sugar, sex, and sweat.

The counter’s sticky. Your thighs are stickier. His cum’s dripping down your leg, and neither of you moves for a good thirty seconds.

Then San chuckles breathlessly. “You sure that wasn’t your setting powder?”

You smack his chest. “Fuck you.”

He grins, pulling back with a pop. “You did.”

[reveriebae]

Chapter 6 - Sky High & Sinful

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<<PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER>>

Eden Heights Rooftop – 11:43PM

The city below hums like a secret. Lights flicker like pulse points. The sky’s a deep shade of black velvet, stars smudged behind clouds. The air is warm—just enough to keep you from needing a jacket, but still cold enough to make your skin pebble under your thin dress.

You’re the last to arrive.

And the way they all look up when you push the rooftop door open? You might as well have stepped on stage.

You stroll across the concrete in a slinky black satin slip, no bra, and those tiny shorts hidden beneath—just in case you forget to cross your legs. You’re barefoot, holding a bottle of cheap wine, face glowy from your skincare and a long hot shower. Hair down. Skin out. Eyes dangerous.

“Late again,” Hongjoong mutters, puffing his cigarette, “but of course, she makes it worth it.”

Yunho's sitting on the edge of the picnic bench, eyes locked on your thighs. Wooyoung lets out a whistle. “Shit. Gotta start charging rent for the way my dick jumps when you walk in.”

Mingi raises a red solo cup. “To miracles in silk.”

You slide into the open spot between San and Yeosang. San’s already buzzed, head thrown back in laughter at whatever Jongho just said. Yeosang offers you a sip of his gin—no words, just eyes trailing the dip of your collarbone as you take it slow, smirking against the rim.

The group is loose.

The air smells like smoke and lime and sandalwood. A Bluetooth speaker plays some lazy R&B, and someone brought a deck of Cards Against Humanity but forgot all the white cards.

Conversations overlap.

“...I’m telling you, that chick at the bar totally winked at me—”

“San, you were high. She blinked. Twice.”

“Still counts.”

Jongho’s eating chips straight from the bag. Wooyoung’s mixing drinks like he works the bar he’s avoiding all weekend. Mingi’s leaning against the railing, smiling at his phone. Yunho is very not-smiling, watching him.

You?

You stretch your legs out, one bare thigh brushing San’s denim-clad knee. You notice. He definitely notices. You don’t move it.

Yeosang leans close. “You look good tonight.”

You look at him sideways. “I always do.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. But tonight you look like trouble.”

You grin. “Then don’t sit next to me, pretty boy.”

Hongjoong tosses his cigarette off the edge and claps his hands. “Alright, degenerates. Let's stir the pot. Truth or drink?”

Wooyoung slams a bottle on the table. “Let’s fucking go.”

Yunho groans. “Every time we do this, someone cries or comes.”

You lick your lips. “I’m okay with both.”

Hongjoong lights another cigarette. “Alright,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke, “let’s do this—truth or drink. Rules are simple: answer the question, or take a shot. And if your answer’s lame, you’re drinking anyway.”

Wooyoung rubs his hands together like a gremlin. “Who’s going first? Not me. My mouth gets me in trouble.”

“Exactly why you’re going first,” Yunho says, grinning.

Wooyoung sighs. “Fine, fine. Ask away, sinners.”

Mingi smirks. “What’s your biggest turn-on that would make everyone here look at you sideways?”

Everyone leans in. You cock a brow. Wooyoung doesn’t flinch.

“I like being called a good boy,” he says, completely straight-faced. “Like, really good. Like ‘don’t stop, just like that, good fucking boy.’”

You inhale your wine. Yunho chokes.

San immediately shouts, “SOMEONE GET A LEASH.”

Jongho throws a chip at him. “You’re so unserious.”

But Wooyoung is proudly sipping his drink like a satisfied pet. “What? You think I moan like a porn star for nothing?”

You look him up and down. “Oh, I knew it was you moaning last game night.”

He points at you. “It was.”

Hongjoong taps the bottle. “Next.”

The bottle spins, landing on you.

Yeosang raises an eyebrow. “Let’s see if she plays or drinks.”

San leans in. “How many of us have you fantasized about?”

The rooftop goes dead silent.

Even the Bluetooth speaker stutters. One of the clouds covers the moon. Somewhere, a cat dies.

You tilt your head. “What, just this week?”

Jongho groans into his hands. “I am not mentally stable enough for this conversation.”

You grin. “Six. Possibly seven if one of you took off that chain during cardio day.”

Hongjoong looks offended. “I don’t even go to the gym.”

You just wink.

And then—Seonghwa clears his throat.

“Alright,” he says, sipping his wine, posture perfect, hair barely tousled. “Let me say something before the next person confesses to sucking toes.”

Everyone turns.

“Here we fucking go,” Mingi mutters.

Seonghwa adjusts his sleeves like a therapist about to deliver an intervention.

“I think it’s important that we’re being honest with ourselves, yes. But it’s also important to remember—sex is not a replacement for emotional intimacy. So while we’re up here comparing orgasm counts and spit kinks, maybe we should also ask: Have you hydrated? Have you healed your abandonment wounds? Do you know your attachment style?”

San stares at him. “Did you just soft launch a TED Talk?”

You nod slowly. “Is this the same man who told me two weeks ago to spit in his mouth?”

Seonghwa doesn’t blink. “You can be emotionally intelligent and into degradation. Duality exists.”

Jongho sips his soda like a church deacon. “Amen.”

Hongjoong just says, “Jesus Christ,” and passes him the bottle.

The group bursts out laughing.

San throws an arm around your shoulder, whispering, “Tell me more about those seven fantasies later.”

You lean into him, legs stretched across Yeosang again. “Only if you survive Seonghwa’s next lecture.”

It’s past 2AM now. The bottle’s half empty. The ashtray is full. And the speaker’s playing that one playlist that only comes on when everyone’s too drunk to change the vibe.

You’ve gone from sitting upright to lounging horizontally between San and Yeosang, with Wooyoung curled up at your feet like a mutt who’d bark at anyone who touched you wrong.

Hongjoong is lying flat on his back beside the bench, arm over his eyes, mumbling about capitalism and the death of art.

Yunho’s shoulder is pressed against yours. Mingi’s head is on his lap. Jongho’s jacket is tossed over everyone like a shared blanket. Seonghwa’s the only one still upright, sipping water and softly scolding everyone to hydrate.

“Drink this or I’ll force-feed it to you,” he says, handing you a bottle. “And stop giggling like that—you sound like Wooyoung when he fake moans.”

You grin, cheeks warm. “I never fake anything.”

Yeosang hums. His fingers graze the inside of your thigh.

It’s so casual—like he didn’t even mean it. Like your skin was just there, and he had no choice but to trace it lazily with the tips of his fingers.

But your breath catches anyway.

You glance down.

Yeosang’s got his head turned away, lips parted slightly, eyes half-closed like he’s not doing shit. But the smirk tugging at his mouth says otherwise.

You shift your hips slightly. His hand follows.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice low, almost inaudible.

You hum. “Define good.”

He chuckles, soft and dark. “Your thighs are soft.”

“Your fingers are bold.”

He glances at you through half-lidded eyes. “Do something about it then.”

Before you can answer, Wooyoung whines and grabs your ankle.

“Stop flirting when I’m literally dying of affection starvation,” he groans. “I need to be held. Spoon me or I’ll cry.”

“I’m gonna cry if you don’t shut the hell up,” Hongjoong groans from the floor.

“I’ll spoon you,” Jongho offers sleepily. “After I dropkick you.”

San’s snoring. Mingi’s giggling. Yunho shifts his weight and sighs when you lean into his chest, letting your hand rest on his thigh like you own it.

It’s a messy, half-asleep pile of warm limbs, drunk thoughts, and tension that hums under every whisper, every accidental graze, every look held for too long.

You don’t even realize when you fall asleep.

The rooftop lights flicker off just after 3AM. Somewhere between drunk confessions and wandering hands, someone finally says:

“Let’s just crash here.”

And no one disagrees.

[reveriebae]

Chapter 5 - Fever Dream & Breakfast Shaming

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<<PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER>>

The morning sun slides through your half-drawn curtains like nothing happened last night. Like your shorts weren’t soaked in someone's drool. Like Jongho didn’t just walk in on you turning Mingi’s face into a sauna seat.

But oh, it happened.

And you are absolutely going to ruin his life about it.

You head down to the communal kitchen—robe on, coffee in hand, no bra, tits bouncing with every smug step.

Because you’re feeling good.

Jongho’s already there.

Hair damp. Black T-shirt. Shorts. Pouring cereal like a stressed-out college kid trying to pretend he hasn’t seen his hyung’s soul get licked out of existence.

“Morning,” you say sweetly, leaning on the counter.

One leg pops behind you—accidentally perfect angle to show a little thigh.

He glances up. Swallows.

“…Morning.”

You watch him struggle to pour milk without spilling it.

“Oh—” you gasp suddenly, fake surprised. “Thanks again for the medicine.”

His hand jerks. Milk splashes on the counter.

“I—yeah. Sure. No problem.”

You sip your coffee. “Mingi said it really helped. He fell asleep right after I got off.”

Jongho chokes on his cereal.

You blink innocently. “I mean, got off him. My bad. English is hard.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wide.

You step closer.

“You saw a lot last night, didn’t you?”

He’s frozen.

You tilt your head, slow and teasing.

“I didn’t even take the shorts off. You want a better view next time, sweetheart?”

Jongho audibly gasps.

You smirk. “You’re so easy to mess with.”

“I—I didn’t see that much!” he defends, flustered. “Just. A little. Thigh. And—some… damp fabric—I MEAN—”

You cackle, throwing your head back. “Relax, doc.”

He glares. “You’re a menace.”

You wink. “And you’re curious.”

Jongho turns away, ears bright red, cereal forgotten. Mentally replaying your thighs like a bootleg highlight reel, when the front door swings open.

“Yo,” Wooyoung calls out, dragging his slippers across the floor. “Smells like trauma in here.”

Behind him, Yunho follows—sweaty from the gym, hoodie unzipped, white tank clinging to every carved ridge of his chest like it owes him money. His hair’s damp, his scent unmistakable: sweat, cologne, and that slight vanilla musk that sticks to your thoughts.

Jongho stiffens.

You’re still standing by the counter in your robe, arms folded under your boobs, looking so relaxed it’s suspicious.

Wooyoung grabs a banana and peels it with his teeth. “Why you look like someone caught you jerking it with Bible verses playing, Jongho?”

“I didn’t—! No one was—! Shut up,” Jongho snaps, red to his ears.

You sip your coffee. “He’s just recovering from what he saw last night.”

Yunho stops dead. “What’d you see?”

Wooyoung perks up. “Ooooh wait. What did he see?”

You smile. “Just a little... fever therapy.”

Jongho buries his face in his hands. “Please stop talking.”

“No,” Wooyoung says, eyes glinting. “Talk louder.”

You lean on the counter again, voice honey-sweet. “I sat on Mingi’s face. With my shorts on.”

Yunho: 😐

Wooyoung: 😲

Jongho: ☠️

“Like—full on?” Wooyoung says, wide-eyed, banana forgotten in his hand.

“Oh yeah. Like suffocation. Mutual healing. Very productive night.”

Yunho suddenly drops his gym bag on the floor with a loud thud. “You let Mingi do that?”

You turn to him slowly, lips curling. “Why, baby? Jealous?”

His jaw clenches.

Jongho mumbles, “He was eating her out like he was dying…”

“JONGHO!” Yunho and Wooyoung yell in unison.

You giggle.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you coo, stepping close to Yunho now. “You mad someone else got a taste?”

His eyes flick down—your bare legs, the knot on your robe, your smug little smirk—and his whole body goes tense.

“You’re mine,” he mutters low, grabbing your wrist.

You raise a brow. “I wasn’t yours last Saturday when you let me walk back alone with cum dripping down my thighs.”

Wooyoung screams. “HELLOOOO??!!!??”

He throws his banana across the room. “CAN EVERYONE RELAX?! I’m trying to eat!”

Jongho’s hiding behind the fridge.

Yunho pulls you closer by the waist.

“Say the word,” he growls in your ear, “and I’ll fuck you on this counter till he hears it from the laundry room.”

You lean in, whisper-soft: “Too bad you weren’t sick last night.”

Just as the kitchen tension hits boiling—

click—creak.

The door to unit 207 swings open across the hallway. Mingi steps out, hoodie zipped halfway, sweatpants dangerously low on his hips, hair a mess, and the most shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

“Oh hey,” he calls, stretching like he just got eight hours of REM sleep and a blowjob in heaven. “What’s all the yelling about?”

You wave casually, still half-pinned by Yunho. “Morning, Mingo.”

Wooyoung narrows his eyes. “Oh hell no. He’s walking different.”

Jongho mutters, “Because she broke his soul.”

Yunho glares. “You got something to say, Mingi?”

Mingi blinks, then smirks. “Only that I’m officially fever-free.”

He walks in like a man who’s been baptized in sin.

“Came back from the dead, actually,” he adds, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge like nothing’s wrong. “Swear to god I saw the light when she sat on my face. It was pink. And soft. And... tight.”

Jongho slaps his forehead.

“Okay can y’all stop,” Wooyoung snaps. “I’m trying to survive breakfast without mentally recreating porn.”

Mingi chuckles, leaning on the counter next to you. He throws you a lazy wink.

“You taste like cherry chapstick, by the way.”

Yunho’s hand tightens on your waist.

You smile like an angel with devil horns. “I wasn’t wearing chapstick.”

Mingi freezes.

“...Oh.”

Wooyoung drops to the floor. “I’m actually gonna pass away.”

You walk out of Yunho’s grip, grab Mingi’s water bottle, and take a slow, drawn-out sip right where his lips had been.

“Good to see you up and glowing,” you purr.

Mingi chuckles, running a hand down his face. “Glowing? Baby, I’m reborn.”

You lean in close to whisper, “Imagine what I could do if I actually took the shorts off.”

BAM.

Yunho punches the fridge.

Wooyoung screams again. “CAN SOMEONE GET A LEASH FOR THIS WOMAN—OR ME, I’M FLEXIBLE.”

[reveriebae]

Chapter 4 - Emergency. Kind of.

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<<PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER>>

Eden Heights was dim and dead silent when you stepped off the elevator.

11:56 PM.

Heels in your hand. Purse slung over your shoulder. Makeup smudged. Tired. Horny. Unapologetically pretty.

Three days since the game night.

Three days since someone railed you in the bathroom.

Three days of unspoken eye contact and obscene group chat energy.

You’re unlocking your door—203, sweet 203—when your phone pings.

EDEN HEADS 🍆🌆

Mingi: "guys i think im sick"

"my body’s hot"

"my throat hurts"

"i might die"

"who do i give my will to"

"also why does my dick feel heavy"

Wooyoung: "That’s not a symptom, slut"

Seonghwa: "Mingi go drink water"

Jongho: "Shut up and go to sleep"

Mingi: "no fr i feel like shit"

"someone come over"

"i need help"

"i need, my angel"

You pause.

Mingi: "angel"

"bring ur meds. and maybe ur tits."

You stare at the screen. Blink.

Mingi: "babe if i nut i’ll be cured fr"

"it’s called testosterone-based homeopathy

let me demonstrate"

"please"

You sigh. Hard.

But… you do grab a thermometer and some paracetamol from the kitchen drawer.

Knock knock.

207. Mingi’s unit.

He opens the door shirtless.

Glasses on. Flushed cheeks. Loose sweatpants. Hair messy. Blanket draped around his shoulders like a depressed wizard.

“Doctor,” he croaks, voice raspy. “Thank god. I was about to make a will and leave all my socks to Yeosang.”

You raise the thermometer. “Tongue out.”

He opens his mouth, grinning.

“Not the first time you’ve said that, huh?”

You shove it in.

“Shut up and sit down.”

He collapses on the couch, groaning. “Babe I swear my dick’s been sore since Tuesday. Like I’m dying from unreleased potential.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not how the immune system works, baby.”

“Oh?” He pulls the thermometer out with a smirk. “Then why does my fever spike whenever I look at your thighs?”

“Do you want this medicine or not?”

“I want a cure,” he says, eyes low and voice soft. “And you have the only healing pussy in the building.”

You SNORT.

He leans in.

“Come on. Just sit on my face for five minutes. I’ll be reborn. Like a phoenix. I’ll go back to work. I’ll pay taxes.”

You narrow your eyes. “You have no job.”

“EXACTLY. I HAVE TIME TO EAT IT RIGHT.”

He’s getting dramatic now—hand to his forehead, tongue peeking out, legs open like he’s expecting CPR through the dick.

You can’t stop laughing.

“Get in bed,” you say. “I’ll tuck you in, give you meds, and—maybe—if you survive the night, I’ll consider the phoenix package.”

He grins, flushed and cocky.

“I’m so gonna survive. I’m about to get the power of god AND coochie inside me.”

His room smells like body heat, clean laundry, and cheap ramen.

Mingi's already flopped across the mattress, legs wide, hoodie pulled over his head like he’s in mourning—but for his dick.

You straddle him slowly, palms on his chest, feeling the heat rising off his skin.

“You’re actually sick,” you mutter, brushing hair off his damp forehead.

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes hazy. “Sick in the head for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

You shift forward, thighs sliding up around his neck—hovering.

You’re still wearing your shorts.

Thin, cotton, sinful. A little damp from the night’s heat. No panties.

His breath hitches.

“…Babe,” he whispers. “You’re evil.”

“Why?”

“Because I can smell it.”

He drags his hands up your thighs, needy, delirious.

“You smell like sex and danger and—antibodies.”

You laugh. “You wanna eat it through the fabric?”

He nods so fast, like a puppy.

“Sit down, please. Just—just fucking sit on my face. I need to die. I’ll die so happy.”

You lower yourself, slow and steady, letting your weight sink onto him—but not fully.

You grind, just a little, feeling his nose press between the fabric.

Mingi moans. Loudly.

“You’re not even inside me,” you giggle. “Calm down.”

“I’m inside your aura,” he groans. “I’m inhaling your soul. I can taste your chakras.”

You fully sit.

His tongue immediately pushes against the soaked fabric, licking you like he’s trying to suck medicine through a juice pouch.

Desperate. Hot. Unhinged.

You grab the headboard, bite your lip, and ride his tongue just enough to make him whimper.

His hands dig into your thighs. He’s panting.

“More,” he gasps between licks. “Please—please take the shorts off—I’ll pay your rent—”

You arch over him, slow grinding, letting the pressure tease him. He can’t see. Can’t breathe. But he won’t stop licking.

“This doesn’t feel very sick to me,” you tease, breathless.

He gasps for air.

“I FEEL GREAT. I’M HEALING. I’M GONNA LIVE FOREVER.”

You throw your head back and laugh, high off the power. “Should I make you cum in your pants or let you cry first?”

Mingi’s eyes roll back.

“I’LL DO BOTH.”

Mingi’s groaning beneath you. Sloppy, uncoordinated licks through your soaked shorts.

You’ve got one hand on the headboard and the other in his hair.

The air is thick with sweat, heat, and delusion.

He’s grabbing your thighs like they’re life support.

You’re smothering him, grinding just enough to make him see heaven—but not enough to let him in.

You giggle. “You okay down there, fever boy?”

“I'm fucking thriving,” he groans, “don’t stop—don’t you dare move—”

KNOCK. KNOCK.

You freeze.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“Hyung?”

That voice—calm. Low. Too innocent for the scene you’re in.

Jongho.

“I brought you meds. You sounded bad earlier.”

Mingi flails under you, eyes wide like a scared cat.

“FUCK. I forgot—” he whispers.

You’re scrambling, hands gripping your waistband, too late.

The door creaks open.

“Hyung, I’m just leaving it on the table—”

Jongho stops.

Eyes lock with yours.

You’re on top of Mingi.

Straddling his face.

Shorts crooked.

Thighs trembling.

His hands still clamped around your ass.

Mingi's head pokes out from between your legs like a man caught drowning in holy water.

Jongho just stares. Expression blank. Holding a little box of paracetamol and a fucking Pocari Sweat.

No one speaks.

A single drop of sweat slides down your back.

“…I’m going to kill myself,” Mingi says, face still in your crotch.

You slowly, slowly, climb off.

Mingi is red. And wet. And breathing like he ran a marathon.

Jongho blinks.

“I see you’re feeling better,” he says, deadpan.

You clear your throat. “He’s still feverish. Just trying a… nontraditional healing method.”

Jongho puts the Pocari on the nightstand.

“I was gonna say keep his body temp down,” he mutters. “But apparently he’s into slow roasting.”

You snort. Mingi groans into a pillow.

Jongho turns to leave.

“Oh, and hyung?” he adds without looking back.

“Yeah?” Mingi mumbles.

“If you die of dehydration, that’s on you. I’m not writing that on a death certificate.”

Door closes.

You and Mingi sit in silence for two full seconds.

Then you burst out laughing.

“I hate you,” Mingi groans.

“You loved it.”

“I did. I do. I’m healed. But also? I can never look that man in the eye again.”

[reveriebae]

Chapter 3 - It's Just Sunday, Right?

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<<PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER>>

Eden Heights was quiet on Sundays—hungover, hibernating, haunted.

Half the guys were still dead asleep. Some were fake-doing chores. The game night haze hadn’t lifted, and the tension was thicker than the walls between apartments.

But your door?

As usual, wide open.

You were on your knees in front of the closet, digging through a mess of lace, silk, and regret.

Hair messy. Robe half-sliding. Bra strap peeking.

Looking like sin in daylight.

Footsteps echoed down the hall—two sets.

And then—

“Should I knock, or are you inviting me in with that ass?”

You didn’t even turn around. “If I said it’s the latter?”

Wooyoung laughed, already stepping in like he owned the place.

White tee clinging to his body, grey sweats riding low, two rings on one hand and a lollipop in his mouth like that could make him less obscene.

(It didn’t.)

“You organizing your closet or setting traps?” he asked, flicking a lacy thong off the floor with his foot. “This is porn set behavior.”

“I’m cleaning,” you said, brushing hair out of your face. “Unlike you, I actually do something with my life on weekends.”

“Yeah. Me too. I come harass the prettiest tenant in Eden Heights.”

He flopped on your bed, arms behind his head, the mattress creaking under him.

“Seriously, though. What kind of freak declutters in lace underwear?”

You threw a pillow at him. “The kind who doesn’t expect company at ten a.m.”

From the hallway, a voice called out—cool, low, cutting.

“Not company. Surveillance.”

Hongjoong.

He was leaning against your doorframe.

Black sweatpants. Tight black tee. Hair slicked back like he hadn't slept.

Coffee in hand. Eyes on you.

Wooyoung groaned. “Hyung, what—are you patrolling?”

“Somebody has to,” he sipped his drink. “This building’s full of idiots and you’re one of them.”

“Oh my god, relax,” you smirked. “He’s just laying there, not humping my leg.”

“Yet,” Wooyoung muttered under his breath.

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow but didn’t move.

“Cute,” he said flatly. “You got seven minutes last night. You want a sequel now?”

You paused, lips twitching.

“Are you jealous, Joong?”

He stepped inside.

Slow. Deliberate.

Set his mug on your desk and leaned on it, crossing his arms.

“No,” he said. “But if one of you wakes up the floor again, I’m gonna write a complaint under a fake name.”

“Like what?” you teased.

He stared at you. Deadpan.

“BitterGuy206.”

Wooyoung burst out laughing so hard he rolled onto his side. “NOT SAN’S ROOM NUMBER—”

You walked over to your desk, brushing past Hongjoong with a smirk. “Fine. You win. No sex. Just spring cleaning.”

He looked you over once, slow and sharp.

Then picked up a discarded perfume bottle from the trash and handed it to you.

“Smells like desperation,” he said. “Toss it again.”

Then he left.

Just like that.

Door still open.

Heart still racing.

Wooyoung still laying on your bed, grinning like a devil.

“Holy fuck,” he said. “Is he okay?”

You shook your head, sliding open another drawer. “No. But I am.”

You’re halfway through folding a pile of tank tops when you hear it—

a voice from the hall, deep, casual, warm as hell—

“Babe, you sorting laundry or should I come fold you instead?”

You freeze.

Wooyoung chokes.

And then Yunho appears in the doorway, fresh from the gym, towel slung over his neck, skin glistening. Grey shorts. Sleeveless top. That damn smirk.

“Good morning, wife,” he adds like it’s nothing.

“WIFE??” Wooyoung sits up like he’s been electrocuted. “WIFE?! WHO TF MARRIED WHO—HELLO???”

You blink, confused, amused, flustered.

“I—Wife?? Since when?”

Yunho just shrugs. “Since last night, sweetheart. After round two, I whispered it in your ear—don't tell me you forgot?”

You cover your face with a groan, face burning.

Wooyoung starts BARKING. Like. Actual barking. Loud. Disrespectful. Like a cartoon dog getting whiplash.

“NAHHHH. You’re kidding. You put a ring on her coochie and didn’t even invite me to the wedding?!”

Yunho grins and casually walks in like your room is a damn café.

“She said yes with her legs behind her head. That counts.”

You hurl a sock at his face.

“Stop making things up!”

Wooyoung glares at him like a jealous ex.

“Bitch, we shared a smoke kiss last night. You think I’d tongue someone’s Marlboro breath if I knew she had a HUSBAND?!”

Yunho flops on your desk chair like he owns it.

“Congrats. You’re her side hoe.”

“Side—BITCH I’M HER FRONT-LINE SOLDIER.”

You sit back on your knees, head spinning, giggling, completely unbothered by the chaos you’re clearly the cause of.

“Both of you get out of my room or I’m closing the door and locking it.”

“Dibs on being locked in,” Yunho says instantly.

Wooyoung stands up like he’s about to square up. “You better get divorced before I start climbing that bed again.”

And before you can threaten them both with a broom or something, someone knocks.

A quiet, gentle knock.

You all turn.

Yeosang, bare-chested, sleepy-eyed, holding a mug of coffee like he’s unsure why he knocked in the first place.

“I… I was wondering if anyone wanted to smoke on the rooftop. But this feels like a threesome about to happen, so—”

“No, no,” you wave him in. “Please. Save me.”

Yunho and Wooyoung groan in unison.

Yeosang just smirks, sips his drink, and glances down at your robe, which is slipping again.

“…Your tits are distracting,” he says bluntly.

You sigh.

“I told you all this was just a Sunday.”