♱ many of my works contain dark content which is appropriately tagged. it is your responsibility to read responsibly and with your personal triggers and mental health in mind.
♱ my works cover a wide variety of topics and themes, many of which are ‘taboo.’ you are welcome to scroll or block me.
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requests open. taglist closed. asks & hard thoughts open.
i’ve put a few fics on there! same username, i’ve posted in full bloom, club roxe and hunted. i’ll slowly be adding some of my other works too, and i may occasionally post some things on there that i felt were a bit much for here :) but nothing quite yet
Lowkey scared for iconography reader. I don’t want her to go with Yunho. I don’t know if it was supposed to come off that way but he’s kind of scary😬
it was!! i think he’s just as dangerous and maybe evil as isaiah, just in a different way. they both view her as property; for isaiah it’s profit, business, but for yunho it’s… her i guess. if she does go with him, it might just be going from one hell to another. yunho cares for her at least but with a guy like him that might make her situation even worse. you have to wonder how far he’d go ‘for’ her
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! dark, heavy content. heavily implied if not explicit sex trafficking/forced prostitution. non-consensual sexual activity—no physical force used, but you are unable to consent or refuse. yunho is not a good man. alcohol. fingering. leather. physical violence. yunho has sadistic tendencies. spanking. thigh riding. burning with a cigarette. mentions of child abuse & trafficking (not by yunho). there’s a glimmer of hope towards the end, but this is bleak.
final warning. this is dark and triggering. this does not reflect yunho or my perception of him; he is simply the inspiration for my own characters.
words: 4.8k
He doesn’t tell you anything about him. For a moment, he doesn’t even speak.
It’s not unusual. They’re always like this at first. Closed off, guarded, stiff. It’s the shame; the nerves. The knowledge of what they’re doing, how wrong it is; the fear that they’re being set up that doesn’t really settle until they’ve buried themselves inside you.
Yunho—you know his name, at least—doesn’t have any of that. None of the nerves; none of the shame. He seems at peace, at ease; that’s the first thought you have when you see him. He’s in the armchair, facing the door when you enter, a glass of whiskey held in one hand, the other lying on the armrest. He’s not like the men you’ve had before.
Most of them have something off about them, about their appearance; some of them are dirty, unkept, their clothes worn and their beards patchy and uneven. Some of them look so well-kept it feels like an act. A performance. Whether it’s meant for you, or for themselves, or perhaps a wife waiting for them at home, you don’t know. But there’s always something—and it’s never anything you haven’t seen before.
But Yunho looks normal. Tidy. His black shirt, a turtleneck, is ironed, no wrinkles or creases,his black slacks well-fitted. His jacket, dark leather, is draped nearly over the back of his chair. Even the messier things, like his hair that looks a little out of place and the glasses sitting a little down the bridge of his nose, feels like he’s done it on purpose. He’s wearing gloves, too, black leather, tight around his fingers and palm, and his face is expressionless. He doesn’t look like the sort of men you usually find in these rooms.
The only thing that sticks out to you is his eyes. The darkness to them; the small, slight glimmer that keeps them from outright emptiness. When they rake over you for the first time, looking you up and down, taking you in, like an auctioneer appraising their stock, he looks completely impassive.
You don’t know if you’ve ever had that before. You’ve seen a lot of different emotions in people’s eyes, lots of different secrets—shame, nerves, wives, children, careers an exchange like this would burn to the ground. You’ve seen predation, danger; the expression of a butcher all too eager to cut into the flesh. You’ve gotten good at reading them. But you’ve never seen this; you don’t know what it is. Almost nothing—almost hollow—but not quite.
You lock the door behind you, putting the keycard down on the table; he’s already slipped his own into the socket to turn on the lights. Your fingers hover on it for the moment, lingering on the plastic then trailing across the wood. It feels cheap, worn, as plasticky as the card, but it doesn’t matter. Yunho clears his throat, his hand moving in a familiar gesture. You slip off your coat and let it fall to the floor.
“You’re pretty,” he says. His voice is deep, masculine but not throaty; not rough. He sounds assured; even from those two words you can imagine him in a position of authority. You can imagine him commanding a room without much effort. “You dressed up for me,” he notes.
You nod. It was an odd request; you’re used to weird ones, typical ones, like school uniforms and office wear with the skirt too short and even those tacky nurse outfits you find in Halloween stores. Latex is another common one; nylon too. But Yunho—Yunho had asked for leather. High quality, tailored leather.
“You look lovely,” he says. “Such a pretty girl.
Underwear?”
“The c-string you got me, sir.” You feel it every time you move; it’s uncomfortable, a stick-on one with lace on the outside and adhesive on the inside, attaching itself to your pubic bone then thinning out, softer, more gentle cotton against your cunt, then a more rigid section, boned like a corset, held in place by your ass cheeks.
“Very good,” Yunho says. “Mind if I inspect it?”
“I’d like to please you, sir.”
A rehearsed response; he doesn’t seem to enjoy it, as they often don’t. It’s always been a hit or a miss; some fall for it, for the blind obedience and desperation to please, whether for ignorance or for their ego’s sake, thrilled at the thought of a woman who wants nothing more than to satisfy them; others see through it. Understand it to be nothing more than the fruits of another man’s labour; training, not instinct. Of those, some of them enjoy it; others view it as a wall, a barrier for them to break. They want to be the one to see you for who you are. None of them ever will be. Not within Isaiah’s reach.
Yunho doesn’t comment on it. He beckons you closer with two fingers and takes another sip from the glass, eyes never leaving you for a second. You’re slow to approach him, feet shuffling against the floor; you don’t feel confident in these heels, the platforms too high up and the stiletto too thin, but Yunho had asked you to wear them and you’d obliged. His gaze never quite makes it down there, though, or at least never lingers long enough for you to notice.
You stop in front of him, a few centimetres between your legs and his; the hand resting on the armchair snakes around your hip, a large gloved hand coming to sit on your lower back. The bottom of his hand, his ring and pinkie fingers and a small sliver of his palm, rest against the top of your ass. You can’t feel much through the two layers of leather, but in the heaviness of his touch you feel the strength, the steadiness, the sense of authority and possession that makes itself obvious in the energy surrounding him.
He’s certain of himself. He knows everything that happens here is on his terms.
“How old are you?” He asks.
“How old would you like me to be?”
He smiles softly, briefly, almost gently, and shakes his head. “The truth please, little girl. Not fantasy. We’ve plenty of time for that.”
You tell him your age; quietly, lowly, like it’s a shameful secret. Yunho nods. If he feels any type of way about it, he doesn’t let it show.
“You’re young.”
“Not really,” you reply. You’ve seen a lot younger. You know Isaiah’s brought girls younger than you here; so have the other men in the other hotels across town. You’ve seen them in the clubs, back when Isaiah used to have you dance.
“I don’t do that sort of thing,” Yunho says.
“What do you do?”
“Nothing I’m proud of. But nothing illegal, either.”
“All of this is illegal.”
“You know what I mean.”
You do. You nod, swallowing; Yunho’s gaze moves downwards, finally settling for a moment on the shoes then returning to your face. “Do you know why I chose those for you?” He asks.
“No, sir.”
“Because it takes a lot of effort to wear,” he says. “They’re uncomfortable. They hurt. They make you feel unsure of yourself, of your ability to keep yourself upright. But you wore them anyway.”
“Are you a sadist, sir?” It comes out before you can stop it. “I’m sorry,” you say, ducking your head. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“You can say what you like,” he replies. He seems amused. “I have thick skin. I wouldn’t say I’m a sadist. I don’t enjoy pain for its own sake. But subjecting yourself to discomfort—willingly—for me—that touches me. They’re difficult to walk in, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Isaiah says you’re a dancer.”
He knows Isaiah, you think, a little surprised; they usually don’t. The men find you on their own; Isaiah often has little to do with it. But Yunho knows him. Has spoken to him, at least.
“I was,” you answer. “At a club.”
“Did you wear shoes like these?”
“Not so high.”
His hand travels downwards, across your ass, the sound of leather against leather soft over the silence; it comes to rest against the top of your thigh, cold against your skin, just below the hem of your dress. From the contact, you can tell the leather is expensive; soft but firm, thick but not heavy. The tips of his fingers curl around the edge of your thigh, following the curve, stopping just before your other thigh begins. After a moment, his hand moves, slowly, rising upwards, the bottom of your dress coming with it. It comes to rest around your waist, bunched up, your lower half now exposed save for the underwear.
He squeezes your cheek, just slightly, then hums in satisfaction. “Soft cheeks,” he murmurs. “Malleable.”
His hand winds back then returns; a loud, sharp smack then a shooting, stinging pain. You gasp, jolting forwards slightly; his hand returns to where it had landed and rubs at the skin soothingly. “You can take a hit,” he says. “A little sting, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” you say.
“Your daddy hit you as a kid.”
You open your mouth to respond but find yourself hesitating for a moment, taken aback; Yunho shushes you, shaking his head slightly. “Just say yes,” he whispers.
“Yes,” you say. “He did.”
“With a belt, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Poor thing,” he coos. “Do you miss him? I think you do.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I miss him.”
Yunho hums. He pushes the tips of his fingers in between your thighs, brushing against your covered cunt. Another sip of his whiskey, a longer one this time; the glass, empty now, dangles from his hand in a loose grip; assured, like he knows no matter what he does it won’t fall. His fingers still press against your pussy. “Troubled little thing he made of you,” he says. He puts the glass down on the side table and pulls his other hand away, letting it rest on his thigh. “Dance for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
You start as you usually do, swinging your hips from side to side, slowly, your legs parted slightly. He watches you intently, expression blank but with something sparking in his eyes. Interest, maybe, or perhaps something more complicated.
Still watching you, he takes the decanter and pours himself another glass. “Turn around,” he orders. “Show me your ass.”
He stops you before you can turn fully; “That’s enough,” he says, when you’re turned about halfway. “Just like that. So I can see your face, too.”
For the next few minutes, it’s silent; he watches you, taking small sips from the glass without ever moving his gaze. And you—you dance. You close your eyes, exhaling; you feel like you’re in a daze, your hips, your body moving of its own accord now, like the movements have awoken something that allowed you to slip into muscle memory. Into instinct; into training so deep rooted you fall into it unconsciously.
“You move beautifully,” he tells you. “You could have been a dancer.”
You nod. You could have been a lot of things. Your legs are starting to get tired.
Yunho seems to notice. Or maybe—probably—he’s just bored of this. Ready for something more exciting. “Enough of that,” he says, then pats his thigh. “Come.”
You perch yourself there, his thigh surprisingly firm, strong enough that you’d have no qualms lifting your feet from the ground if you felt inclined to. You don’t know why you’re surprised, really, Yunho is clearly a strong man. It’s evident in the size of him, the weight of his touch, the faint pulsing of pain on your backside. You suppose it’s that he doesn’t look particularly built; he’s not overly muscular, not like some of the men you’ve seen.
His hand curls around your waist and rests in your lap. The other grips your jaw and tilts your head towards him. The glass of whiskey lies half-finished on the table. “Do you smoke?” He asks. You shake your head. “Try.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then a lighter. “Open up a little.” He pushes a cigarette between your lips, a little way into your mouth. “Hold it between your teeth. Don’t bite.” Once you’ve obeyed, once he knows you’re holding the cigarette steady, he lights it up.
The first inhale makes you gasp, splutter; it’s a weird feeling, almost suffocating, like standing in smog or sucking on a tailpipe. It makes your throat close up and your eyes water; you cough, a chesty sound, and Yunho pats your back. “Easy,” he murmurs. He’s holding the cigarette now; he caught it between his thumb and forefinger when you let it fall from your mouth. “It’s rough, huh?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re still wheezing slightly, your voice strained.
“I’m surprised you don’t smoke,” he says. “They usually do.”
“It never appealed to me.”
“What does?”
You shrug. You dare to think Yunho looks a little sad for you. He takes a long drag of the cigarette, eyes closing for a moment, sighing, then puts it down on the table, still lit. Ash spills and settles atop the wood. His hand returns to your jaw. “I want you to keep your eyes on me,” he says. “Do you want me to touch you?”
“Please, sir.”
“Your hands stay in your lap. Your eyes on me. I like obedience. Try to impress me.”
“Yes, sir.”
First, his hand curls around your thigh. The leather feels impersonal. Cold in every sense. Then it moves, peeling the adhesive of the c-string away from your crotch and pulling it free. Your cunt is bare now; fully exposed. For a moment he just looks at it. “You shave,” he says. “Your preference, or someone else’s?”
“Both.”
“It’s my preference too.” He presses two fingers to your clit, pushing at it, then pulls away. “You have a beautiful cunt. So ripe.”
“It’s all for you, sir.”
He hums. He’s still staring at it. “Tonight, at least.”
His fingers move down, sinking between your folds and spreading them apart. He pulls at them a bit, upwards; you follow the movement, lifting your hips and pointing them outwards slightly to get a better look. He glances up at you, brow tilted, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Smart girl,” he says. “Intuitive. Do you like it when I touch you here?”
“Yes sir.”
“It feels different with the gloves, doesn’t it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Clinical.”
“Yes sir.”
“But you’re still wet.”
You nod. The tips of his fingers push into the opening of your cunt, just a little, like testing the waters. “Tight,” he says. “Clenching around me. Oh, she loves me, doesn’t she?”
“She does.”
“She wants to be stretched.”
“Yes sir.”
“If I take the glove off, you’ll make it worth my while, won’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
He pulls out, then pulls the glove off, putting it down on the table. His hand is large, fingers long and slender. There’s a ring around his index finger, gold and expensive looking. His other hand, still gloved, sits on your hip as he eases two fingers inside you again. You shudder, exhaling; he clicks his tongue. “So warm,” he hums, almost crooning. “Soft, too. Does that feel nice?”
You nod, swallowing; with the thick leather of the glove you felt full, stretched, but the feeling of his skin is something entirely different. Still, it hardly feels intimate; just coldness of a different kind.
His fingers push deeper, sinking in further until they’re pressing against your g-spot. You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet; Yunho shakes his head, pulling his fingers out some then pushing them back in, hard and deep. You choke, whining, and he breathes out a laugh, squeezing your hip. “I want to hear you,” he says, staring to thrust his fingers. “I want all of you. No hiding.”
“Yes sir,” you whisper.
Yunho is clearly good at this, his movements precise, but he doesn’t seem particularly focused, particularly bothered. You get the sense that he’s simply working you open. Taking stock of you, too, perhaps; seeing how you respond to him. Testing you.
It’s not unusual. There’s no reason for them to care for your pleasure, of course; they’re the ones paying after all. You’re just the product for sale.
“How many men have been in here?” He asks, voice low, even. He doesn’t seem bothered, really; just curious. Maybe he’s trying to embarrass you; to remind you of what you are. How dirty; how tainted. He’s curling his fingers as he speaks, stroking your g-spot in small circles. “You probably don’t even know, do you?”
“No sir.” You couldn’t even estimate. You prefer not to try.
“Poor little thing,” he replies. “You shouldn’t be here. Pretty thing like you, you should be someone’s house pet. Not a whore.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’d be a good house pet, I think,” he says. “Obedient. Quiet. Seen and not heard, that’s what I like. You’d be good at that, wouldn’t you?”
“I would be.”
It’s already your mantra. It’s easier, safer that way. Isaiah prefers you that way, too, always has; he doesn’t like the sound of your voice, says you’re prettier in silence.
“Would you do as I tell you to do?” Yunho asks. His fingers move back and forth now, stroking at you gently, slowly, but firmly. “I’d never have to punish you, would I? I reckon Isaiah’s trained you well.”
“He has.”
Yunho hums. “But I think you’re naturally well behaved, too. Pliant. Accepting pain for the sake of it, just to please me. I could put you over my knee and you’d just lie there and take it. You ever been whipped?”
“Belted.”
“Oh yes.” He nods, smiling. “Good girl. You know what I want to hear. Would you let me belt you? Just like your daddy did?”
“If you wanted to.”
“I’m not in the mood for it now,” he says. “If you were mine, though, I would. Make you cry. Make it hard to sit. Just for my own amusement.”
“If I were yours, you could do as you like to me.”
“That’s right.” He sounds approving. His fingers pull out some then thrust in deeper, firmer, like a reward. “I’d do it whenever you needed it. Or whenever I wanted to. In front of people, too. I have some friends who’d like to see it.”
“Would you let them belt me too?”
His brows lift, a faint sort of surprise on his face. Pleasant surprise, it seems. “That’s a good idea, doll. Maybe I would. And they’d fuck you, too. I’d show you off. Show how well I’ve trained you, how I keep you disciplined.”
“I’d take it.”
“I know you would. And you’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
His fingers pull out, coated in wetness. He wipes them down on his pants, a faint sheen glistening against the black fabric. His hands come to rest on your hips. His voice comes low, soft, almost gentle, his gaze soft as he meets your eyes. “You know I’m going to hurt you, doll.” There’s a solemnity to it, like he’s breaking bad news to you, informing you of a fate he has no control over. He almost sounds regretful; like this is simply the tragic but certain reality. A sentence he has no choice but to carry out.
You nod. “How badly?”
“Nothing you’ll feel for too long.”
“Thank you.”
He pats your hip. “Straddle me,” he says. “Let’s put some colour in those cheeks.”
He moves you himself; one leg on each side, then his hands on your hips lowering you until you’re straddling his thigh. “Stick your ass out,” he says. “Arch your back.”
His hand comes to rest on your ass cheek, grabbing a handful of it and squeezing. “I’m going to spank you,” he says. “And you’ll get off on it.”
“Yes sir.”
His hand pulls away, winding back, then lands. The sound hits you before the pain—it’s loud, like a gunshot, knocking the wind out of your chest before you even feel the sting. When it does come, though, it’s intense; heavy, sharp, burning, blooming across the expanse of your cheek. His other hand, still gloved, resting on your thigh, tightens its grip, the tips of his fingers pressing into the skin. Another hit, on the same cheek, then on the other. You make a noise of pain, falling forwards; the hand on your thigh moves to wrap around your waist and tugs you back into position. “Easy,” he murmurs. Another hit. “It’s not so bad. And it feels good, doesn’t it?”
This time, when he hits you, the arm around your waist moves too, pushing you forwards a little. It presses your cunt into his thigh, rubbing against the material of his slacks as it’s forced forward. Your breath hitches, eyes squeezing shut, and Yunho chuckles. “Yeah, it feels good,” he says. He presses his fingers into your cheek, the blunts of his nails digging into the pained flesh hard enough to make your eyes water. When you open them again, he’s staring at you, at your face, and smiling softly. Knowingly. Satisfied. He loves this.
“Sir,” you breathe.
Another hit. “Say it again.” Another.
“Sir.” It comes out as a whine, your lip wobbling, composure threatening to break as the hits speed up.
He picks up the lighter and the pack of cigarettes he’d put on the side table next to the whiskey and lights one up, clasping it between his teeth. “Start moving,” he says. “Grinding. Get off on the pain.”
He keeps hitting you, over and over. Sometimes he takes a drag of the cigarette as he does so. Sometimes he clutches it between two fingers, a loose grip, the same way he was holding the glass earlier, while his other hand lands on your ass over and over. It’s casual, almost, the movements, the way he’s holding himself. He’s lounging in the chair, leaned back, legs spread; like this is nothing more than passive entertainment for him. Something typical.
There’s an intensity to it, too, though. To him. In his eyes, you think it is; a dim, dull glint but a glint nonetheless. An interest and a desire he doesn’t let onto. Something deep rooted and bordering on primal.
Your entire backside is stinging now, and your cunt is sensitive, both from the stimulation and the feeling of the material of his pants rubbing harshly against it. You don’t know how red you are now, don’t dare to look, but Yunho hits hard. Like he’s had practice—lots of it.
You wonder where from. Often with these men, it’s from other girls like you, who absorb the violence and perversions they can’t let show to their wives, their girlfriends; women they respect. Sometimes it’s from their own children. For some men, you’ve learned, the violence is indiscriminate.
Yunho seems too controlled for that. Too calm. He’s hurting you because he wants to, not because he needs to. Not because he’s lost his cool.
“You take it so well,” he says, almost cooing. “So brave. You’re well conditioned, aren’t you?”
Another. Another. He pauses for a moment, grabbing the bottom of your dress and lifting it up, over your stomach, over your tits until they’re exposed. He whistles lowly, grabbing a handful of your breast and squeezing. When he pulls away his nails have left indents in your skin. He lands a heavy handed smack on each of them then returns to your ass. It’s gone past stinging now, more of a burn, a scorching pain, the skin surely swollen. It’s so heavy and intense you’re hardly conscious of your pussy, of the fact that you’ve been grinding back and forth on his thigh the whole time. You look down; the fabric is glistening. Your face burns. Letting him do this is one thing; following his orders another. But you’re getting off on it. Leaking, dripping over it. This is the inescapable proof.
“I’d hit you just like this if you were mine,” he says. “Every time you ride me. Every time you’re in my lap. You’d always be red and sore in my house. S’what pretty little things like you deserve, isn’t it?”
You nod, still grinding, quickly getting too overwhelmed to speak. Yunho grins. “Whore,” he spits. “You love this, sick little thing.”
“S— sir,” you gasp, squirming, as another hit lands. You wonder if his hand hurts, but if it is he’s keeping it to himself. “Please.”
“Please what?” He asks.
You shake your head. You don’t even know what you’re crying for. He knows it.
“You’ve gone dumb, haven’t you?” He says. “Humping me while I hurt you, it’s gone to your head.”
“Please,” you repeat. “Yunho. Sir.”
“You don’t know what you want,” he says. “You don’t need to. You shouldn’t know what you want. Knowing what you want, saying what you want, that’s the sort of thing I’d have to beat out of you.”
“Told you you’re a smart girl, huh? Take another puff. Open your mouth.”
He pushes the cigarette in; this time he holds it there, firm, until you breathe it in. You don’t splutter as much this time. He watches you impassively, but the corners of his lips quirk. “Feels good, huh?” He murmurs, taking the cigarette back and taking another puff. “Easy to get addicted to.”
“Are you? Addicted?”
“I wonder the same,” he says. “But I’ll die young anyway.”
The hits have stopped now, but you’re still moving, too well-trained to do anything but. Yunho digs his fingers into your ass, the pained sensitive skin there, then wraps his arm around your waist. His grip is firm, like he’s holding you in place. There’s more force to it than there was before.
He takes one last, long puff, then pushes the butt into your chest. You jolt, crying out, thrashing slightly but his grip only tightens. His gaze is fixed on your chest, on the cigarette pressed against your skin; only once you’ve stopped struggling, cries fading into quiet whimpers, does he pull it away. He puts it down on the table, next to the first, then takes another sip of the whiskey. You’re surprised he’s not tipsy now, knowing how strong it is, but if anything he looks more steady and in control than he did when you got here.
“You sound pretty when you’re hurting,” he says. “Melodic. Like you’re singing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Both of his hands are on your hips now. For a moment he just looks at you. You fight the instinct to squirm or shrink under his gaze.
When he speaks, his voice is as soft as it’s ever been. Almost sincere. “I could get you out of here,” he says. “I’d pay for you. Handsomely.”
He’s not the first to offer, but Isaiah wouldn’t allow it. He doesn’t look surprised to hear it. “I can be persuasive,” Yunho says. “You don’t belong here.”
“I—”
“Don’t say no,” he cuts you off. “Think about it. We have time. Isaiah will tire of you.”
“I know.”
“Next time I see you, wear something innocent,” he says. “Something white. Linen. Like a church girl. Same shoes.”
His hands pull away, and he stands up. You realise now just how large he is, how he dwarfs you, how easily he could overpower you—could overpower Isaiah.
“Are you leaving?” You ask, surprised. “You haven’t even fucked me.”
“The first time I fuck you, you’ll belong to me. Today I just wanted to hurt you a bit.”
“Didn’t you pay a lot of money?”
“I have plenty,” he says. “I didn’t pay to fuck you. I paid to see if I might want to, and I do.”
“Is this what you always do? When you see girls like me? Appraise them?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “Usually I hurt them worse. I like to leave a mark. But you’re fragile. You’re soft. I know you can take it, you proved yourself to me, but when I really hurt you, I want to do it in the right way.”
“What way is that?”
“In my house,” he replies. “Under my care. At my feet.”
You don’t know what to say; he doesn’t seem to expect you to. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and cupping your cunt. His hand is warm, hot even, perhaps from having impacted your ass over and over again. “Be a good girl,” he whispers. “I’ll be back for you.”
He shrugs on his jacket and walks out without another glance at you. Your panties are in his pocket.
Pulling off the heels, you take your phone out of your coat. Isaiah is asking how it went. He won’t be happy to hear Yunho hadn’t fucked you. He likes it when you keep them there, when you keep their interest, convincing them to drop extra cash for additional services. You don’t think you could have convinced Yunho.
I’ll be back for you, he’d said. You don’t think you believe him.
this is very spur of the moment and rushed; i really, really wanted to write something with yunho and this song. there’s remnants of this i’ve drawn from experience. if any of it feels familiar, consider the sort of situation you’re in and reach out for help. exploitation is rarely as overt as it is in the movies. love🖤🖤🖤
I started following you a few months ago after coming across your Wooyoung nose riding fic (super hot by the way). I’d never heard of such a kink and was so intrigued. I’ve also never read a cannibal fic before but I really enjoyed little cannibal. I think your mind is so interesting and fascinating. Can I ask what other kinks you like to write about or would like to em write about? I hope this makes sense. Thank you!
oh man where to begin. i think my main thing that i like to explore in fics is power dynamics. i find them so fascinating and exciting and there’s just so much to explore there. both in terms of sexual power dynamics and more constant ones. i find it very fun and challenging at times playing around with them, seeing how they can develop, how they have developed, what it does etc. i enjoy the psychological aspect of fics a lot. it’s something im trying to work on; being able to better articulate these deep rooted feelings and sensations im trying to get across.
in terms of actual kinks, mostly things that fit into the power dynamics sort of area. so bdsm, control, discipline, that sort of thing. i particularly enjoy writing impact play, there’s just a lot you can do with it and i enjoy how many different functions it can take. titles are another thing, petplay, bondage etc
i am generally open to writing most kinks. there’s very little i’d be totally against doing. currently i’ve been enjoying exploring the ddlg sort of thing through a more psychological lens, if not explicitly ‘daddy’ etc then just the caretaking aspect, how it intersects with control and stuff, exploring this dynamic in relationships, but that’s definitely not for everyone
thank you for sending me this!!! it really made me think
Not really into these type of stories but I saw little cannibal reblogged from a couple of my moots and decided to give it a read and wow it did not disappoint👏🏻👏🏻
THANK YOUUU im so happy you gave me a try!! its good to give weird little things a try sometimes
Hey liebe really love your newest post. Hw did you come up with the plot?
thank you so much it was sickness and perversion to be honest
seriously
i wanted to write something really dark and disturbing and gross. i’ve had people tell me my fics have made them feel a lot of different things, but the stories that have always stayed with me are the ones that left me feeling unsettled. i wanted to achieve that, and i really wanted to try and write something that makes you feel sick when you read it. and it blossomed from there
Your 21??? Lolll fml. Your writing is so good I thought your older. Do you study writing or something?
i honed my craft writing gay exo angst on ao3
in all seriousness no i don’t, i’ve just been writing fics since i was 11. it took years and like 10 different fandoms for it to be readable. you just have to keep going
In your new fic I can’t help but get norman bates vibes from this yunho. Why is he just so normal about murder and cannibalism. He can’t be a mentally stable person right?
i don’t know if unstable would be the word. but there’s definitely something wrong with him. not quite psychopathy but something? normal people don’t do this obviously. i feel like it comes from his obsession with/need for you rather than any kind of leaning(? idk what the word is) towards violence but at the end of the day he is choosing to do it. but yeah something is seriously wrong with him, something def went wrong in the womb that would have him willing to kill god knows how many fucking people For Love like. every week????? it’s gotta be hundreds i feel like? lock him up
synopsis: when a ballerina finds herself becoming the muse of a man who’s lips candy coat his twisted desires and masks them as dreams, does she take the bait and fall prey to a gang of wolves, or does she run away like prey?
warnings: obsession, stalking, various mental illnesses, psychological thriller, graphic descriptions of death, violence, gangs, strong language, ddlg relationships, reverse harem, smut, mxm, threesomes and more, mature themes, and many others tba
ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ author’s note: this book is solely based on my love for ateez iomt era. their roles are a crossover between janggi & chess! it will be a little diff from my usual writing as this one has much of a darker theme & will carry a lot of poetry, etc. heavily inspired by the neighbourhood & joe goldberg. so get your snacks, a warm blanket, and hold on tight bc this is gonna be a wild ride.
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‘you never know what they might do if they catch you too early.’
already so obsessed with this series. literally feels like it was made in a lab for me with everything i could possibly want. love love LOVE the characterisation, the tension, the tightness of the scenes, the dread present from the first word even before it has obvious reason to be, the writing style. it feels like prose poetry in a way? i’m hooked. so excited for what’s next. everybody needs to get on this immediately!!!!!!
