Uni Fuckboy Minho

You’ve known Minho since freshman year.

Not personally, at first. Just… in that “everyone knows Minho” kind of way. His name buzzed through campus like a rumor too exciting to ignore. Art major. DJ on weekends. Cocky as hell. His laugh could be heard from down the hall, and he walked like he knew every eye was on him—because they usually were.

But you? You were the exception.

You didn’t fall for the smirks. You rolled your eyes when girls giggled about him in the library. You ignored the lingering looks he sent your way when you passed each other in shared electives.

And that? Drove him crazy.

You were in the same philosophy class last year. Sat two rows apart. He flirted shamelessly every time you made eye contact, mouthing “You’re cute when you’re annoyed,” during lectures while your pen threatened to snap. You never gave him what he wanted—a smile, a number, a chance.

But he remembered.

He always remembered.

Flash forward: it’s the end of your third year, and your friends are dying to drag you to his infamous annual party.

“He’s obsessed with you, you know.” “He only throws this party once a year, and you still live in his head rent-free.” “Come on, at least show up and make him suffer a little.”

You didn’t expect much when you arrived. His penthouse apartment was ridiculous—dim lighting, expensive speakers, neon lights reflecting off ice buckets and crystal glasses. The crowd pulsed like a heartbeat, bodies packed tight, music shaking the floor.

And then you saw him.

Leaning against the balcony doorframe, phone in one hand, drink in the other. Hair slightly curled at the ends, button-down halfway undone, tattoos peeking out. He looked up, saw you—and for a second, everything slowed.

You didn’t expect him to come over so fast. Didn’t expect his hand to slip around your waist like it belonged there.

“I was starting to think you’d never show,” he said, lips brushing too close to your ear. “But you always like to surprise me, don’t you?”

You gave him a look. “Still full of yourself, I see.”

His grin widened. “Only when I know I’m right.”

You tried to fight the spark. The way his voice wrapped around you, the way his eyes held yours like he saw through the attitude. But then he said it—low, barely audible:

“Let me be right just for tonight.”

One kiss and the tension snapped. You were upstairs before you could even think about what you were doing, your back pressed to his door, his mouth hungry on your neck like he’d been waiting three years to do this. His room was dim, warm, chaotic—clothes on the floor, sketchbooks open, phone charger barely hanging on the nightstand.

Then he grabbed his phone.

“Just this once,” he murmured, voice rough. “I wanna remember how you look when you fall apart for me.”

You should’ve stopped him. But then his lips were on you again, and everything else—logic, judgment, even your own name—melted under his touch.

He filmed you on his phone—one hand holding it steady, the other gripping your hip as he whispered your name like a prayer turned sin. The video caught it all: the moans, the desperation, the quiet “fuck, you’re beautiful” he let slip when he thought you weren’t listening.