── ۶ৎ ever since you started dating Mingi, Yunho has been there too. He's supportive, he listens, he makes you laugh, and he knows you love his best friend... and yet. There is something bothering Yunho, and he won't shy away from getting in his best friends head about it, not until he selfishly gets what he wants
wc: 8k
content: + 18 MINORS DON'T INTERACT; manipulative behaviour, dub non con (not really, but still), corrupting kink, vouyerism, rough sex, not quite cheating, fingering, p in v, sweet!Mingi, toxic!Yunho
warning: this is the toxic yunho you all wanted, this is all your fault. do not ask me what the dynamic is here, I honest to god don't know what I did
MASTERLIST ┆tag list
Mingi lets out a dry chuckle. Yunho’s question still hangs in the air of his messy dorm room, now a bit charged. He can hear San and Seonghwa fighting in the living room, feeling so far away despite being right on the other side of the wall.
“No way, she’d never do that”
That’s what he says, but the ways his brows sunk ever so slightly over his confused eyes lets Yunho know he’s got him right where he wants him. He had known it’d be easy. He knows Mingi. Probably more than anyone has or ever will. But truth to be told, he’s shocked it’s being this easy. He worries him sometimes.
“I mean... that’s what they all think”
“Who?” asks Mingi “San?”
Yunho stifles a laugh just as he’s about to take a sip from his glass. His mouth opens in a genuine, silent chuckle.
“Just men in general, Mingi" he explains, then pretends to think about it “Well, maybe San too. You are right”
“But, she--” Mingi stops himself. Even he can tell that he might not be entirely sure, given how defensive he’s gotten. He wants to be, but the idea also unsettles him. The idea that he could not only be failing you in any way, but also oblivious to it makes his mouth run dry “How can you know?”
Yunho hides the satisfied smirk on his lips behind the rim of his glass.
“Little things” he says nonchalantly. Mingi wonders how many times he’s had this conversation with someone else. It makes him sound like an expert, and thankfully to him, or so he thinks, helpful “Volume, muscles... hands”
“Hands?” Mingi is embarrassed to admit that he has no idea what that means. Maybe he really knows nothing.
Yunho can tell right away that Mingi’s ego is bruised, and the way his eyes fall to his own hands resting on his lap is his cue.
“It’s okay” he says with fake reassurance before he throws the finishing blow “You know what an actual orgasm feels like, right?”
The questions sounds like banter, a joke to lighten up the conversation and stop Mingi from spiraling. In reality Yunho’s eyes are hard, slightly cold and too eager in the way he sees his friend's face drain from any color left. The poison in his question goes unnoticed by Mingi, who’d never in a million years would think is best friend is doing anything else than having a casual conversation with him.
“Yeah...”
He does know. But does he? Does he know what Yunho means? What if he doesn’t? The image of you on the bed, unsatisfied while he rests on top of you catching his breath and waiting for him to leave flashes through his mind.
“You can’t fake that right?” he asks abruptly, raspy voice a bit shaky.
“Fake what?”
“The, uhm...” a blush creeps up Mingi’s face. He opens and closes his hand twice, and for a moment the coyness of his friend makes Yunho feel bad.
He chuckles.
“They can, actually” Mingi’s face drops “Is just muscle contraction”
Mingi’s eyes get lost somewhere for a second.
“How can I know?”
“I usually can tell by the sound. I can tell you our neighbour isn’t as gifted as his girlfriend is making him believe”
He’s joking, but Mingi is dead serious when he asks:
“So, could you tell?”
Bingo.
The exciting rush of victory flows through him and he has to hold himself back from grinning.
“Could I... tell?” Yunho feigns innocence. It looks so natural on his soft, boyish features.
Mingi bites his lip, unsure
“No?”
The conversation that follows is one that Mingi swears to take to his grave, the things said between these four walls some that should never be repeated.
The next time you are over at Mingi’s dorm he greets you at the door with his usual wide, bright smile before it stiffens in a way you can’t quite understand. Nevertheless, his arms reach forward and pull you into a tight hug. He feels your muscles loosen up once your head rests against his chest with a happy sigh. You can’t say the same about him, though. His body is uncharacteristically stiff but you say nothing, aware of the stress he’s been under for the last couple weeks. After placing a kiss on the top of your head he lets you inside.
You are still unfamiliar with the apartment, to be honest. You haven’t been here more than once before, when Seonghwa and San happened to be out. You assumed this was the reason why Mingi asked you to come over. That is until you see Yunho standing in the living room. There’s a small, strange pause before you both smile at each other and bow politely as his face cracks into a beaming smile. You are used to it by now, yet the it hits you like the very first time. Every time.
You met Yunho maybe a few weeks into dating Mingi, and you could tell right away why it had taken so little time. He needed him to like you. For Mingi, the most important thing is that Yunho approves. You had come to find out that appearances can be deceiving. While Mingi’s cold looks hide a very soft and naive heart, Yunho’s boyish and cheerful demeanor serves as a mask for his very sharp and perceptive nature. You could see it in his eyes right away the moment they settled on you for the first time, and you can feel it now standing in the entrance of your boyfriend’s dorm. He has accepted you, that much you know. So why? Why does he keep staring at you like--
“Ah” Mingi pops up behind you “Yunho came over for a second but he’s leaving now”
“Yeah, just wanted to talk about some work things”
“Why don’t you wait in my room?”
There is a strange tension in the air that while aware of, you can’t quite place. You look between the two of them and with a small smile you simply walk towards Mingi’s room, closing the door behind you. You take a look around Mingi’s room. There’s not much that you remember from the last time you were here, but the messiness of it seems about the same. You allow yourself to sit down on the bed and look around. Your hands grab a hoodie that rests in a pile on the bed and bring it to your nose, the faint, oxidized smell of Mingi’s cologne still holding onto it. You hear the front door open and close, and a few seconds later Mingi comes through the door.
“Sorry about the mess” he apologizes sheepishly.
He hadn't had time to clean, his mind preoccupied with more... pressing matters. He takes notice of the hoodie in your hands and his heart softens. You pat the space next to him and he obeys like a puppy. The bed sinks under his weight when he sits next to you, making you fall into his arms. You look up at him: his beady eyes, a little shaky while dragging along your face. It worries you a bit, the way he’s holding his breath.
“What’s wrong baby?” you ask, placing a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He exhales deeply when he feels your thumb tracing small circles over his cheek.
“Nothing” he stutters “Just tired”
You coo at him, and it makes him lean into your touch.
“How dare they make you so tired?”
You place a chaste kiss on his lips and they curve into a smile.
“How dare they” he repeats, his shoulders easing slightly when both your hands cup his face.
You bring his face closer and he lets you, a deep exhale fans at your face when your lips meet in a long, close-lipped kiss. Mingi feels himself melt into you, his fingertips dragging over the fabric of your jeans. You can feel the heat of his big hand resting against your thigh, daring enough to settle there but too shy to move without a little nudge. Mingi’s sweet, so sweet. You smile against his lips and he parts from you.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“You are cute”
“I am?”
You nod, and he bares his teeth in a wide smile before you are sealing his lips again. You lie on the bed, hands dragging him along with you. You can feel the hesitation in the way he gets on top of you. He cages you below his wide shoulders, the bed protests under the full weight of him above you. His hair dangles above you, its touch tickles where it caresses at the skin of your cheeks.
“Do you love me?”
Your heart comes to a halt, your expression frozen. You can see the realization of what he has just asked hit him while the words are still hanging in the air.
“I do”
His face lits up and for a moment he looks like the Mingi you are used to, whatever worry he had completely gone for a split second.
“Do you only fuck missionary?”
The bluntness of the question startles Mingi just enough for Yunho to regret not sugarcoating it. He doesn’t know if it’s the frustration of watching from the sidelines, or the way his hands shake with an aching need to do something, but the crude words escape him before he can stop himself. And now Mingi looks embarrassed, timid in a way he hasn’t been in front of Yunho since they were younger.
“We like it” he answers, insecure in his answer.
Yunho hurries to ease his friend's worries. But not too much. He needs the edge. That sad glint in Mingi’s eyes.
“It didn’t sound fake, but...”
“What”
“Don’t get mad, okay? Listen to me” Yunho props himself on the edge of the couch and places his open palms towards Mingi, trying to soothe the blow “She didn’t fake it, but” he enjoys the way Mingi holds his breath “I think she was a bit bored”
Relief washes over Mingi’s features before they twist in confusion.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think she was getting it all out of her. She sounds very... contained”
“She’s loud sometimes” Mingi says, a bit defensive “But she does moan a lot, you heard it. And you said they are not fake”
Yunho’s sweet smile stiffens at the memory of him standing by Mingi’s bedroom door, listening to the way you sounded while getting fucked by his best friend.
“They are not” his lips press into a thin line, Mingi waits “But I think she could be louder”
“What do I do?”
Yunho rubs the palms of his hands. They are sweaty, a giveaway of how close he is getting to the turning point of the slow burn of his plan. He needs Mingi to make the choice.
He needs to pretend he doesn’t want him to.
“Maybe be a bit rougher?”
“I don’t think she’d like that” Yunho expects that answer, because you are sweet. Because you always grab onto Mingi's hand when he’s anxious without him asking. He thinks about the size difference between Mingi’s hand and yours. He thinks about how his are the same size, and he tries to imagine how it must feel to feel yours, so small around them. How he could easily grab your wrists with one single hand and-- “And I don’t do that”
Yunho blinks rapidly, actually surprised.
“Never?”
“It doesn’t feel like...” Mingi’s hands open and close at his sides where he stands in the middle of the living room “I don’t want to hurt her”
Of course. No matter how sweet you are, Mingi’s sweeter. He’ll always be.
“What if she likes that?”
“No” Mingi shuts down the idea, and Yunho’s jaw muscle pops for a second. Mingi doesn’t notice it “I don’t think so”
Yunho doesn’t bring the topic up again, letting Mingi room to breathe and spiral on his own. He knows he’ll be thinking about it when he’s alone in his room. When he’s with you. Every time you take longer than usual to answer his texts he’ll think that maybe you are bored of him. Every time you laugh a beat slower to his silly comments he’ll wonder if you are faking it just to not hurt his ego. Every time you moan in his ear and scratch his back he wonders if you are putting on a performance. It only takes a week for him to knock on Yunho’s room door.
“How close are we?” he asks, hands tugging at the hem of his oversized t-shirt.
Yunho bites back a smile “As close as we can get” he gives a small shrug as he turns back his attention to his computer screen, the soft glow of it masking the darkness in his expression “As close as you need”
Mingi asks right away, almost like he’s worried he might back down if he takes a second longer.
“Would you do something for me?”
“Where’s this coming from?”
The soft fabric rests over your hands, it folds pleasantly between your fingers while you think about what Mingi is proposing. You can feel the heaviness of his stare, sitting right in front of you on the bed, eyes full of worry but also hope. It’s hard to deny him when he looks at you like this, like he’d get on his knees and beg. But you are owed an explanation.
“I thought we could try something new” he swallows, hard “If you want”
No one can blame you for thinking his nervousness is due to the nature of his proposal, after all, how could you assume Yunho has been hiding in the other room? He’s been listening, his body tense from the moment Mingi opened the door and he heard your soft footsteps on their dorm floor. He wondered what clothes you’d been wearing. A skirt, a dress? The one you wore for Mingi’s birthday on a particularly windy day?
You had been so flustered, hands quickly grabbing at the hem of it to stop it from raising too high. But you’d been too slow. You had known that when your eyes met Yunho’s, who had been walking slightly behind you. The way embarrassment seemed to gleam in your eyes and the slight blush spreading fast across your face made his cock throb, and it took him a second longer than usual to give you a casual smile. An expression that had said “What is it~?” that had let you feel touched at how he was pretending to not have seen anything. You had felt silently grateful when he started walking behind you, shielding you from the merciless wind while Mingi and the others played around, unaware. However, Yunho’s intentions hadn’t been as kind as you would have thought. You had actually been suspicious, and you had felt awful about it. Yunho was always kind, charming and gentle. Not only with you, but everyone, especially Mingi. And yet, there was that pressing, suffocating feeling towering over you: close, strong, closing in.
“That’s okay with me” you tell Mingi “Am I putting it on?” Mingi is pretty shocked at your willingness, but it just furthers the idea that Yunho was right. There are things you are okay with. Things you want but won’t ask for. Things he couldn’t see. Things he’s incapable to bring himself to do for you. That’s why-- “Is it for you?”
“No, it’s for you”
Mingi’s large hands grab at the blindfold, and he thinks it feels strange between his fingers. The way his shoulders are hunched over with little to no confidence melts your heart, and you lean forward to press a soft kiss on his lips. You expect the tension on his body to ease the way it usually does, but it doesn’t happen. Instead he just blurts out:
“I love you”
The confession surprises you, but it is Mingi after all.
“I love you too”
Yunho has gotten bold enough to stop by the door, not yet peeking in. Not until Mingi gives him the sign. He can sense the heaviness of Mingi’s body over yours, the way he lays you down on the bed by the way the bed creaks. He can hear the rustling of clothing, your soft hums and the sweet sound of your lips parting and reconciling again. That had been something he hadn’t thought about. He had expected Mingi to be so upset and humiliated about the idea of not being able to fulfill your desires that he wouldn’t bring himself to speak about it in detail. But he had, if only to establish one rule: no kissing.
Yunho’s eyebrow had twitched when Mingi had brought it up, a sharp look of discontent flashing across his face that he quickly had to hide with a casual, calculated shrug. Maybe that’s why the sound of it is working on him so quickly, the restraint of his slacks painfully growing more unbearable with every kiss. He knows the way Mingi kisses you: sweet and slow, almost chaste.
He sees Mingi’s t-shirt drop to the floor from where he’s standing, followed by an item of clothing he’s familiar with. A pretty dress, floral, discarded right next to the bed. He wonders if he can catch it without getting caught, before stopping himself. Any other day he’d have done it in a heartbeat, brought it to his face and take in as much of you as he could. He has always had an idea of what you’d smell like when he had you close: the fading lower notes of your perfume and the faintest scent of sweat.
But he doesn’t have to imagine now.
“I’m tying it now, okay?”
You nod, unaware that he's not really saying that to you. Mingi carefully puts the blindfold around your eyes, shaky fingers tying the knot with care and a shame you can never find out about. He takes in the sight of you. Eyes hidden from him, your parted pink lips, the bridge of your nose. You look so pretty like this, and it reminds him of why he’s doing this. He could never be anything but gentle with you. The idea of leaving a single bruise on your skin horrifies him. And that’s why.
He carefully takes your panties off, dragging them along your legs until they get discarded next to the pile of clothes at the bottom of the bed. Yunho can’t help himself and peeks through the door, the floorboards cracking and making Mingi’s broad shoulders stiffen. He adjusts his stance, blocking Yunho’s view of your exposed body. You are still his, until he says so. Maybe t’is the sudden spark of possessiveness, but he leans forward and wastes no time getting his tongue all over your core. He can’t help but to hum when his tongue drags down and sinks inside your pussy, wet and warm and always so inviting. His.
Yunho brings his hand down to the bulge of his sweats, embarrassingly strained against his boxers and begging to be touched. His jaw tightens at the airy moans escaping your lips. He wonders-- no, he knows you could be much louder than this. He can tell by how loud your pussy is already, barely eaten and already so disgustingly wet. He sees the muscles of Mingi’s arm work, your legs come into view, extending in pure bliss with the sweetest of moans. He squeezes himself through the fabric of his sweats, and if you were paying close attention you’d been able to hear his strained, low moan in the dead silence of the apartment. He’s losing patience. He needs to touch you, needs you louder. You are too quiet, he can hear how your moans get stuck in your throat, escaping only in the cutest, mildest of whimpers. You can do so much better.
He can do you so much better.
You feel Mingi’s head part from your pussy. There is a strange stillness in the air, you are about to raise your voice in a question when you feel Mingi’s fingers slide inside of you in one swift, brutal motion. You let out a surprised moan. Mingi can feel the way you clench around his fingers, his big eyes going from your mouth to where Yunho is holding onto his wrist, using his hand to finger your pussy. He looks up at his friend with big, confused eyes, like a student who can’t figure out the last question to his pop quiz. Yunho nods at him, then drags Mingi’s hand out before pushing it back, setting a torturous quick pace. God, he wants to bury his whole fist inside you, but he can’t get more than this. He needs Mingi to believe his intentions are selfless. He needs Mingi to think that he doesn’t want to fuck the shit out of his girlfriend in front of him.
Mingi wrist hurts with the strength Yunho is holding it with. He watches his best friend use his fingers to finger you, your pussy squeezing around them and coating them in a thick later of arousal. His fingers slide out of you and there’s a pause followed by the slick sounds of tongue over skin. It's hard for you to imagine Mingi sucking at his fingers to taste you, but it's even harder to think that Mingi is letting his best friend suck on his fingers to do just that.
It’s normal, Mingi thinks, given the circumstances. For a single second that strange, loud silence comes back before all of a sudden, you feel him flush himself against your pussy, tongue flat against your labia and nose poking at your clit. Underneath your own scream, you can feel the way Mingi also seems to let out a muffled, surprised moan. It reverberates deliciously on your core, knees coming together to push him even harder against you.
Yunho’s hand is tangled around Mingi’s unbleached roots, forcefully rubbing his best friend’s face against your pussy with burning impatience. Mingi lets him push his face flat against your cunt, his skin wet with your slick and his saliva every time Yunho forces his tongue to press against your gaping pussy. Yunho’s aching to touch you, yet this is the closest he gets. He lifts Mingi’s head, his big eyes looking up at him only to see the mask practically slipping from his face at this point. Yunho's chest is heaving up and down at the sight of your pussy, puffy and pink and abused. It’s begging for him to fuck you. He nudges Mingi’s head in a silent yet commanding motion, and Mingi simply obeys. Mingi starts eating you out a bit roughly, teeth bare and grazing at your clit from time to time, causing your hips to buckle. It feels strange, hesitant, but you can’t help the delicious way the familiar warmth settles in your lower abdomen with every sharp drag of his nose against your clit.
“Baby, can I ask you a question?” he asks. Yunho watches how a thin thread of your slick stretches between his lips when he speaks. He almost has to hold back the thought of licking it from Mingi’s lips himself “Do you want me to be rough?”
Yunho sees the way Mingi’s hand sweetly caresses your leg absentmindedly as he speaks to you. It makes him sick. He hates the way your voice is just as sweet and sincere when you answer.
“Yeah, a bit” It does fuel his ego, though, the fact the he has been right all along ”I like it that it feels like you are mad at me”
“Why?”
“I-I don’t know” you mutter, suddenly feeling ever more exposed than you already are.
There’s another silence, but you can hear it. Faint, truly almost imperceptible. Then Mingi asks:
“Is there anything I should be mad about?”
You think about the stares. The ones Yunho gives you sometimes. Even when his smile tugs at his lips, it doesn’t reach his eyes. His dark, cold and invasive eyes that seem to burn through you. They send a shiver down your spine, further down, every single time.
“No” you lie.
“Then why?” he bites his lip before hesitantly adding “Is what we do not okay?”
“No!” you blindly throw your hands towards where his voice is coming from. Mingi and Yunho have the same thought. Your hands, they give it away. They search for his, grabbing at the one resting over your thigh. It’s big and warm and always so gentle on you “I love it. I was just worried about what’d you think of me. That you might think I don’t like it when you make love to me. I love it when you make love to me”
You part your legs, silently begging him to fill you up and be the good boy he always is. Gentle, sweet, good. Mingi obliges, he could never deny anything you asked of him. You hear the sound of the condom unwrapping. Mingi can’t make eye contact with Yunho through the whole process, body turned away from him when he frees his hard cock from the restraint of his boxers. He can’t help the heat that spreads through his whole face all the way to the tip of his ears when he thinks about the way he could feel you clenching around his tongue when Yunho was holding his face against your pussy. His scalp still burns where his nails have scratched at it. He rolls the condom down his long dick, and without looking at Yunho he kisses you in the lips before pushing against your entrance.
The way he stretches you is as familiar as it’s agonizing. It always is. Size had been a problem in the beginning, the first few times Mingi had been too timid, too worried about hurting you. Every whimper, every muscle stiffening under his touch seemed to freeze him in place like a scared fawn at the sound of a broken branch. It had taken so long for both of you to work it out. You couldn’t tell him you sort of loved the way it hurt. You know that’d freak him out.
Mingi looks above his shoulder to where Yunho is standing. His blown eyes are fixed on you, they turn stern when they settle on Mingi. He gives him a nod, and Mingi bites down on his plush bottom lip before he obeys. He enters you with one thrust, nothing like the slow pace he’d take any other day to stretch you inch by inch. It feels good, you think: the burn, the painful stretch of his full hard cock inside you, claiming you in such a way. You don’t know what’s gotten into him, even if you have your suspicions.
But Mingi is frozen. The moment the pained moan escapes your lips his body stops. He can’t do it. His body just won’t let him. He hates it, hates himself, even if he can feel the way your cunt spasms around him. He wants to give you what you want, but the sole idea of hurting you shuts down his system, hands freezing and rhythm interrupted. You must know, you must be confused. Maybe annoyed? Bored. That’s what Yunho had said.
Yunho.
Mingi’s eyes go to his friend's. He’s not surprised to see he’s hard. Of course he is, has been for a while. Mingi just hadn’t wanted to look at it. Yunho’s a good friend, but a man nonetheless. He can’t blame him, he thinks, not when he’s got you naked, blindfolded on the bed in his dark, messy room. They lock eyes, Mingi’s fall to Yunho’s hard cock begging to be freed, then back up. There is a question in his eyes, one that he doesn’t need to ask.
Yunho understands when Mingi gets out of you with a lie.
“The condom feels weird. I’m going to change it, okay? Sorry”
Checkmate.
“It’s okay. Thank you, baby” you say.
Mingi gets down from the bed. There’s the familiar rustling of the condom wrapper, and the unfamiliar weight of something else. It’s been here for a while. The bed sinks under his weight. The next time you feel his hands place themselves on your knees they feel cold, reverent. The first thing you notice is that he doesn’t kiss you before he aligns himself at your entrance again. Mingi always kisses you, almost as if asking for permission, or thanking you beforehand. Your suspicions are confirmed when you feel it go in. The loud yelp that comes out of you isn’t just because of the torturous way in which he bottoms out in one thrust. It’s the way it stretches you. Mingi has never felt this way: big, yes, but never this thick.
Never this angry.
He stills when he’s all the way in, and you can feel it throbbing inside you. His hands dig into the flesh of your legs, fingernails leaving crescents as he lifts them together and props them against his broad shoulders. He grabs onto your thighs, legs up in the air as he starts thrusting into you at a brutal pace. The position catches you of guard, and your hands try to grab onto something to stop the embarrassing way your body keeps violently bouncing whenever his cock shoves itself back deep inside your pussy. Your moans resonate in the room, hot and loud and incoherent. But he’s dead silent. If it weren’t for the way his hips fuck into you, you might have thought he wasn’t even interested. But you can tell, his cock so hard it hurts inside, fingertips digging into your flesh like he might crumble if he lets go. It hurts where his hips slap against your ass, too. It all makes you clench pathetically around him.
Yunho can’t help himself. It’s the way your pretty tits bounce with the rhythm of the way he fucks you, the same way he’s imagined a hundred times. The way your hands try to hold onto the sheets, the wall, anywhere. He hates that blindfold. He wants to see your cute, almost scared eyes when he starts breaking you. But he can’t have that. He should just be grateful, thankful to his best friend for trusting him like this. It had been painful to swallow the guttural moan that had risen from deep within his chest the moment he got a taste of how your cunt actually felt around him: tight, wet and inviting. His tongue drags along the side of your foot, and he doesn’t miss the sound you make, the slight flutter of your walls around him. He has to stop himself from not moaning loudly as he drags his tongue around it again, mouth sucking at your toes and cock deep inside your pussy.
Still keeping your legs straight, he lowers them until he has them against your chest. He presses them down, and you protest at the way your hamstrings hurt. Yunho doesn’t care, the crying making his cock twitch inside you. He pounds into you at a slower pace, but the way his cock slides inside of you at this new angle, impossibly deeper, doesn’t really let you rest. You can’t believe how easily it goes in now, and neither does Yunho. He has fantasized about touching you underneath tables with Mingi next to you, only to find out you were already wet and waiting for him to slide his fingers through your pretty lips, puffy and needy. But he could have never thought his cock could slide easily after just a few thrusts with how wet your were, the obscene sound of your abused pussy the only thing that could be heard in the quiet dorm. Oh god, how he wishes Seonghwa or San would come through the door. First they’d hear your babbling cries, followed by the wet sounds of your soaked pussy the closer they got. Then they’d get to Mingi’s room, its owner standing in a corner while he pounds his pretty girlfriend into the mattress in front of him.
Mingi’s voice comes back. It’s close, but somehow feels far away.
“Does it feel good?”
His voice is shy, dry. It also doesn’t match the relentless way he’s fucking you. But you know that.
“Y-yeah”
Yunho presses his mouth to Mingi’s ear, breath jaded and hot with what he wants to ask.
“Do you like it rough?” Mingi repeats, bashful.
“I like it” you babble “Your cock feels so good”
Something inside Yunho snaps.
Maybe is the heat getting to his head but he’s sure that you know. Sure that you’ve figured it out and you are loving the way his cock brutally pounds into you. Sure that you are speaking directly to him.
He pulls out of you and brings your legs down, the sudden feeling of emptiness leaving you cold. Your legs are sore and it takes you a moment to check if you can still feel them, a tingling sensation running through them when Yunho settles them back on the bed. His big hands grab at your hips, the easiness with which he’s twisting your body and turning you around makes your arousal spread further down your thighs. The moment your ass comes into view he slaps it, hard. The sound makes Mingi wince where he stands next to the bed, and his hand rises to stop Yunho from doing it again, but then he hears it. A lewd, shaky moan coming from your pretty mouth. The mouth that says such sweet things to him. The one you use to tell him how much you love him.
Yunho gives him a look, and Mingi steps back.
Yunho’s hands grab at your hips and you let a whimper at the way he drags you across the bed and towards him. He props your ass up, his other hand coming to the back of your head to push your face flush against the mattress. He slaps your ass again, the way it jiggles making him swallow a low grunt in the back of his throat. He kneads at your ass, grabbing the flesh with so much strength it hurts. You can’t wait to see the bruises it leaves behind, even if you feel guilty. But yet again, you are not to blame, are you?
His fingers drag lower and push inside your pussy without warning, not that he could give you one. He starts fingering you at a frantic speed that has you squirming underneath him, delighted words of protest muffled by the sheets by now stained with your spit, they feel damp against your skin. You try to push yourself up, your hands uselessly pressing against the bed. The resistance makes Yunho’s grip on your nape stronger, and any attempt to break from his grip is futile. The way your feet sway in the air accompanied by the muffled sound of your desperate moans is making a cold heat spread through Yunho’s chest, he can feel a strange shiver travel from his spine all the way to the tip of his cock, red and leaking and aching to be inside you again. He leans forward slightly and spits into your swollen pussy, the drool making the disgusting sounds coming out of it louder.
There are so many things he wants to say to you. So many disgusting, borderline cruel things he wants to ask and say to you. One above them all, though. He hates it the moment it pops into his head. Every single time.
His fingers get out of you with a wet sound that makes his cock jerk in protest, desperate to stretch you out like that’s what its meant to do. He carelessly collects your hair in a ponytail, strands of hair left out and falling around your face when he forces you to lift it from where it’s been drooling on the bed. The arch of your back it’s a sight he wants to commit to memory, and so is the feeling of his cock bottoming out once again, fitting perfectly like it’s meant to be. You and him.
And Mingi.
He pulls at your hair, forcing your back to arch uncomfortably while he mercilessly fucks into you. He thinks about taking his time, dragging his dick in and out, savoring the feeling of your pussy sucking him in over and over again. But he can’t help himself. He wants to fuck you. You deserve to be fucked like this.
The sound of skin against skin echoes through the four walls of Mingi’s room while he watches Yunho bury his cock deep inside you, your mouth hanging open in a string of silent moans. Yunho tugs at your hair until your hands rise from where your nails have been desperately digging onto the sheets. He lifts your upper body by the hair, back arching against his chest and hands aimlessly trying to settle anywhere. They find their place at your thighs, nails scratching at your own skin completely lost in the way Yunho ruts into you, his breathing fanning over your neck. You can hear them now, the faintest, repressed groans rumbling against his ribcage. You clench around him, and that earns you to be pushed against the bed once again, one hand pressing at the back of your neck while Yunho brutally fucks into you in a way that makes Mingi want to look away. He doesn’t, though.
Usually this is Yunho’s favorite position. But there’s that thought in the back of his head. Haunting, disgusting.
He thinks back to his mocking question to Mingi.
“Do you only fuck missionary?”
He had been so smug about it at the time. He hates how foolish he feels now. Loathes it.
He flips you with ease until you are on your back again, and he almost feels bad by how dizzy you must be. He wishes he could see your lost eyes, glassy and pleading and fucked-out. He pushes your legs open and when he starts to thrust inside, the thought comes back, so loud he can’t help himself. It’s the way your lips part, bruised and pink with the threads of saliva trailing down your chin and glimmering on the faint light of Mingi’s desk lamp. Your hair sprawled across the sheets, messy and ruined. Your body beneath his, so small in comparison, so fragile and willing for him. You feel so hot underneath his touch.
The thought slips out.
“So pretty” he moans, breathless.
Mingi doesn’t hear it, and neither do you. It’s almost inaudible under the constant tearing of your moans. He doesn’t care, really.
He buries his head on the crook of your neck, his full body pressing against yours as his cock thrusts impossibly deep. The feeling of his full body weight flush against yours is as overwhelming as it’s intoxicating. His hot, hectic breathing fans at your neck, and you can taste the saltiness of his skin where your lips brush against his shoulder. The rhythm is erratic and yet the way his hips rut against your cunt is so controlled, practiced. It’s desperate and careless, yet precise. Yunho doesn’t want to think about Mingi, probably panicking next to the bed. At least one part of him. He saw Mingi’s hard cock when he was mercilessly fucking you, and he can always convince him. That’s the great thing about Mingi: he forgives. Especially him, he’d forgive him a thousand times.
He savors the feeling of your bodies pressed together, it feels hot to an agonizing point, sweat making your skin stick together. He understand Mingi for a moment, the fear of breaking you. It doesn’t scare him though, instead it makes a blinding heat rush to his head.
“I love the way you fuck me” you whisper with your lips pressed against his earlobe, the words pushing through your lips in a broken, desperate cry.
The thin thread holding Yunho's sanity together snaps when he hears the subtlest hint of shame in your words. You are speaking to him. He knows it. These words are for him to hear, not Mingi, standing by the door. No, you don’t want him to hear you. Don’t want to break his huge, gentle heart. God you are so sweet, so twisted, maybe even more than he is. You feel his cock twitching inside you, and Yunho has to stop himself from cumming inside of you. Oh how he wishes he could take off the condom and bury his cock impossibly deep, bulge poking at your abdomen when he cums inside. But he can’t.
He pulls himself out and rips the condom off him, discarding it somewhere in the room. Had this been any other way he’d go right back into fucking you.
Maybe if he had met you sooner. Went to talk to you himself instead of encouraging Mingi to do it himself.
Mingi.
With a gesture of the hand he prompts Mingi to step closer, hurrying him and eyeing his hard cock with an impatient look. Mingi understands quickly, his dazed mind surprisingly sharp under the harshness of Yunho’s gaze. If he cums and you take the blindfold off to a Mingi still hard, the gig would be up. It never was on, really, but he can’t let Mingi know that. It’s supposed to be your little secret, is it not? Yunho strokes himself, doing his best to control his jaded breathing as he brings himself to his climax. Mingi doesn’t need to restrain himself, he whimpers and cries the way you are used to him doing when he starts jerking off alongside his best friend. He sees Yunho’s chest rise up and down, nostrils flaring right before long threads of cum spill from the red tip of his cock and into your stomach. God, what has he done to you? How did all this happen?
But you are happy, aren’t you?
Even when it’s his best friend jerking off and cumming into your skin. His best friend leaving your pussy satisfied and fucked properly. His best friend fucking his lovely girlfriend--
You feel the second thread of cum hit your skin as Ming lets a loud, almost surprised moan. You can feel it slightly to your left towards the foot of the bed, and you have to bite down a smile. Isn’t that so sweet of them?
You can hear their breathing, both of them, heavy and charged despite how quiet Yunho is trying to be. You remain sprawled on the bed, your chest rising and falling between whimpers. Yunho stares down at you with something akin to annoyance, eyes roaming your body with an expression of displeasure. His jaw clenches until the muscle pops up under the skin. He’s not used to this. Not used to leaving someone unsatisfied. He’s disgusted by the fact he came so quickly, when he had had in mind fucking you for so much longer, in so many other ways. Instead he came like a virgin schoolboy, leaving you unsatisfied when this was supposed to be his moment. What exactly did he prove, if he couldn’t make you cum before he even did? How could you do that to him?
God, he hates you.
“Mingi?” you innocently call, your slightly trembling hand reaching in the air for your boyfriend.
Mingi reaches for it immediately, getting on his knees next to the bed and placing a kiss to the back of your hand.
“I’m here”
Yunho observes the scene, mouth twisted in disgust. This is his cue to leave. He picks up his clothes from the floor, not really worried about making noise anymore and leaves the room. He has to stop himself from slamming the door on his way out.
He might be done, but this is not over.
If there’s anything Yunho hates the most in this world, that is to losing.
just came here to say how much i LOVE your fics bruh😻 you dont know how many times I have reread EACH ONE OF THEM.
i want them engraved in to my eyelids so whenever i go to sleep i can skim over the masterpieces fr
CHERRY HELLO??? 😭😭😭
"I want them engraved into my eyelids" is literally the sweetest and most unhinged thing anyone has ever said to me on this app and I take it as the highest honor
The fact that you've reread all of them multiple times is actually blowing my mind. Thank you so much for giving my silly little brainworms a home in yours 🥹
I owe you at least ten more fics now. No pressure. 💀🩷🍒
trigger (a): breaking up with your mafia boyfriend was supposed to be the end, but seonghwa isn't the type to let things go quietly.
yunho:
cameraman!yunho x pornstar!reader (m): the quiet camera guy on set catches your eye.
crushed (m,a): yunho thinks hiding under your bed for a prank will be harmless fun, but then you bring a guest home and he ends up trapped in a chaotically humiliating nightmare he can't escape.
san:
billionaire!san x waitress!reader (m): a young billionaire comes to the restaurant where you work and makes you an offer you simply can't refuse...
hongjoong:
sugardaddy!hongjoong x sugarbaby!reader (m,f): being hongjoong's sugar baby isn't just a lifestyle—it's a full blown experience.
mingi:
gentleman hunters club (m): The hunt is a game of wits, of patience, of understanding the mind of another creature.
he doesn’t know where you came from. he’s not even certain you’re human. but he’d do anything for you—anything to keep you happy. that includes indulging—and feeding—your peculiar appetite in any way necessary.
words: 5.2k
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! dark content, extremely unequal power dynamics, you’re pretty much his ‘pet’. cannibalism and murder, though the murder is not shown explicitly. yunho lets you take a chunk out of him at one point. self-mutilation, gore. reader is depicted as extremely childlike and innocent due to how she grew up and yunho is depicted as getting off on that fact (he does feel guilty though), unspecified childhood trauma, mentions of punishments such as spanking/belting/cold baths. reader is unaware of basic concepts such as parents, gender etc. blowjobs, throatfucking. it is explicitly stated that reader views yunho as a father. yunho sort of gets off on that. yunho is not a good guy. reader probably doesn’t have the mental capacity to be good or bad. you’re not allowed to leave the apartment.
note: this was intended to be longer, but i don’t have much else to do to it. it may be expanded on at some point. i’m honestly not super happy with it but i wanted to get it out. heed the warnings, this is gross.
The TV is blaring when he wakes up. It’s loud, obnoxiously so, hurting his head a little; the familiar rattle of the local news channel’s morning jingle and the laughter of the presenters.
He’s sure he remembers turning it off last night; a couple beers in, the tail end of an action movie he’s seen a hundred times droning on. He turned it off a little after it ended and trudged down the hall to bed, he’s certain; he remembers stumbling over the wires a little when he went to turn it off at the wall, slightly disoriented by the late night and the alcohol. You were asleep then, quiet and content on his bedroom floor.
You must have turned it back on after he went to bed; you have a habit of wandering around the apartment at night, fiddling with buttons and flicking switches until you get bored or tired and fall asleep where you’re stood. He doesn't love it, but the apartment is secure and you know not to do it in the bedroom when he’s sleeping, so it’s not a huge problem.
You certainly have more destructive habits than that, anyway.
He finds you under the table, when he finally gets up and trudges through to the kitchen; you’re crouching, partially concealed by the tablecloth, toes curled under your feet against the tiled floor.
He doesn’t know what you’re doing. He rarely does. But as long as you’re safe, and obeying him, that’s what matters.
“Get out from there,” he says. The words come out grumbled, his voice still rough, thick with sleep.
You crawl out slowly, begrudgingly, then stand up. He can tell you’re not happy about it, but you’re obeying nonetheless, and that’s enough for him.
Your shirt—his, actually—hangs loose around your body, a little grime seeping into the fabric.
Or it looks like grime, at least. When he looks a little closer he realises it’s actually blood.
He raises an accusing eyebrow, staring you down, and you shrink into yourself like you’ve been caught in the act. Which you have, pretty much.
“Baby,” he sighs. He reaches to grab a dirtied section of the shirt, holding it up to your eyeline where it’s unavoidable. “What did we talk about yesterday?”
“Change,” you answer quietly. “We have to change clothes when they’re dirty.”
He nods, humming. “That’s right. If you’re going to go around wearing shirts with blood on them then you’ll have to stop wearing clothes when you eat. Is that what you want?”
“No, Yu.”
“Arms up.”
You lift your arms obediently, staying still and silent as he slides the shirt up over your head and puts it down on the table. You’re bare now, only panties to protect your modesty, but that’s not something that really registers to either of you. Not with the states you’ve seen each other in—far, far worse than a little nudity.
“Sit down,” he says. “I’ll bring you breakfast.”
He turns off the TV first; it’s too loud this early in the morning, not to mention a waste of money to keep it running like that.
While he’s there, he slides his hand behind the TV stand and retrieves the key he keeps hidden underneath.
You watch him silently. You know what he’s doing—and you know how to be patient, too.
You’ll get what you need; you always do. Yunho has never once allowed you to go without.
The pantry is hidden behind a bookshelf you’ve never cared to browse—you have little use for books anyway. You watch as Yunho hauls it out of the way then slots the key into the lock.
It opens with a quiet click that makes your mouth water instinctively. You hear the fridge open then close, then a drawer, then he emerges again with a white tupperware in his hands.
Fuck. You can already smell it. The minute or so it takes for him to lock up and put everything back into place nearly has you jumping out of your seat.
“We’re running a little low,” Yunho tells you as he puts the box down on the table. “I’ll go out tonight. Stock up a little.”
The lid cracks open. The smell is the first thing to hit—it’s distinct, pungent, unmistakable once you know what it is. It still makes him a little queasy even now. You’re all but heart-eyed like he’s just offered you a gourmet dinner.
“Eat up,” he says. “Before it goes bad.”
You eat with your hands—despite his best efforts, you were never able to get the hang of cutlery, and you barely understood the logic of using it no matter how many times he explained it to you. It was just one of those times where he had to pick his battles, he’d realised; you eat well anyway, never leaving a drop, and that’s what matters.
“How is it?” He asks.
“Good,” you answer. “What is it?”
“Thigh.”
You nod, approving, and he bites back a laugh. “Good girl,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. You’re far too engrossed to hear it; if you do, you don’t reply.
You’re a woman of few words—that’s something he understood about you very early on. He doubts you used them at all before meeting him; when would you have? You were all alone out there, wherever you were; in the very few stories you have told him of your early life, you never once mentioned another person.
He supposes it makes sense; tracks with the complete waste of time it had been trying to find any record of you at all.
To the rest of the world, it seems, you just… don’t exist.
He intends to keep it that way.
“Done,” you announce. You push the box back to him, then push each of your fingers into your mouth, one by one, until they’re licked clean. There’s still some blood around your mouth and trailing down your chin; he sighs, lamenting silently to himself, knowing what he’s going to have to do.
“You’re dirty, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “You’re going to need a wash.”
Your head snaps up, eyes suddenly sharp, your lips set in a firm line. “No,” you growl. “No wash, Yunho.”
He tries to keep his voice level, but the defiance in your voice, in your eyes, has his hand twitching by his side. “You have to, baby, you’re filthy. I don’t like filthy girls, do I?”
It’s true—if it weren’t such an issue it’d almost be funny that someone like him, used to keeping things clean and tidy and very much set in his ways, would be so irrevocably bonded with someone who scarcely even understands why it’s necessary to wash in the first place.
He doesn’t blame you, of course; with the life you’ve had he knows he can’t expect any different. But it does cause problems sometimes.
“Baby,” he repeats. “Do I like filthy girls?”
You shake your head, deflating a little. One way he’s found to make you understand why it’s necessary to do or not do certain things is to frame them around him—Yunho doesn’t like that. Yunho likes this. You have to do it this way, because it makes Yunho happy.
Whatever works, he supposes, and he can’t deny he enjoys the way you’re almost religiously in need of his praise and approval. It’s a level of power he doesn’t quite know what to do with; he certainly wants to maintain it, though.
Other people would just abuse it, anyway.
“Let’s go wash up,” he says. “Then you’ll be nice and clean and I’ll be happy.”
“And reward?” You ask, hope evident in your voice.
He bites back a grin that’s a little more predatory than he can admit of himself. “Yeah, love,” he says. “Then reward.”
It’s as much as a reward for him—more, probably, if you were to ask anyone but you. But you’re not going to ask anyone else, so it doesn’t really matter.
He sets the bath running—it’s easier than trying to put you in the shower, he’s found—at the temperature you seem to hate the least. Not too warm, but not too cold. He doesn’t set it cold unless you’re being really, really bad. You stand hovering behind him while he prepares it; when he’s awake you tend to follow him around the house, not really certain what else to do with yourself. Even facing away from you, he feels the way you tense up when he sets the water running; you relax a little when you see him set it warm, though not entirely, and he bites down a laugh.
“Relax, bunny,” he murmurs. “You’ve been good. S’gonna be just how you like it.”
“Don’t like any of it,” you grumble. He rolls his eyes.
“Okay,” he says, turning off the taps. “In we get. Let’s get you nice and clean, wash this filth off you.”
You don’t fight him when he lifts you up and puts you into the tub; you only do it very occasionally these days, when you’re particularly agitated or bratty, but for the most part he’s weeded that particular instinct out of you. You know, now, not to fight Yunho; not while he’s the one who protects you from the world. Especially not while he can hit that hard.
You stay still, docile, silent as he cleans you up. He rewards you with your favourite fluffy towel, warmed on the radiator, wrapped around you once he dries you off. “All done,” he says. “I’ll get you a clean shirt.”
He slips another old, loose shirt over your head; it falls to your mid-thigh, and the fabric is soft and worn, the colour starting to fade. Then he puts you on your knees by the foot of the bed; grips your jaw between his fingers and yanks it upwards to meet his eyes. “I’m gonna give you your reward,” he says. “Tell me the rule.”
“No teeth,” you recite it, as you always do. “No biting. Only tongue.”
“And if you break that rule, what’ll happen?”
“Belt.”
He hums. He doesn’t particularly enjoy beating you; you don’t put up a fight, at least, not anymore, but your pained whimpers do very little for him. It’s purely a disciplinary measure, one of the few ways to keep you in line that actually deters you. He doesn’t do it often—usually you’re just over his knee and he’s using his hand, or a small brush sometimes—only when it’s something serious. And given your predilection for meat, he definitely views keeping your teeth off his dick as something serious.
“Open your mouth,” he orders, pulling his dick out from his sweats. It slides in easily past your lips and into the warmth. You make a face, wincing slightly, but he knows it’s not the intrusion that’s bothering you; rather the soap he forced into your mouth as he always does before he goes anywhere near it.
He knows exactly the sort of things that have been in that mouth, and it’s nothing he wants on his fingers or his lips or his heavy leaking cock.
You suckle at it eagerly, swirling your tongue around the tip in just the way he taught you; you’re whimpering slightly, the size overwhelming you, staring up at him with those wide, innocent eyes like you don’t even understand what's happening to you, a stray tear playing on your waterline.
Fuck, he shouldn’t be getting off on that. He shouldn’t fucking be doing any of this; you’re so naive, so inexperienced; you have no knowledge of the world beyond his apartment. You can barely string a sentence together; barely understand what he’s saying to you unless he dumbs it down.
You’re like a child. For all intents and purposes, you are one. The guilt and the shame sits heavy in his stomach as he pushes himself down into your throat.
“That’s it,” he groans. “You enjoy it, baby. Do I taste good?”
You make a humming noise, affirmative, tightening your lips around his shaft and he groans. “Shit.” You’re so fucking good at this when you can keep your damn teeth off of him. “Alright,” he says. “I’m gonna cum down your throat. Remember your manners and swallow it.”
It doesn’t take him long; he grabs the back of your head and pulls it towards him then starts to thrust, in and out, faster and harder until he’s fucking your throat and you’re gagging and spluttering around his shaft. Your sweet little hands are fisting at his shirt, curling the fabric around your fists like you’re holding on for dear life. He cums suddenly, quickly, directly into your throat. You probably couldn’t spit it up if you tried with how deep he is; still, though, he pats your head and praises you for swallowing it so sweetly. It’s a point of pride for him, honestly, how well he’s trained you up.
“Alright,” he says, tucking himself back into his sweats. “How you feeling?”
“Fine,” you mumble. You’re still staring up at him with those wide puppy eyes, the way that always gets him though he doubts you’re aware of that; you don’t seem to have any kind of pattern recognition, any understanding of cause and effect. He picks you up with his hands hooked under your arms and sits you down on the edge of the bed, then he crouches down to meet your eyes.
“You sleepy, baby?” He asks. You nod. “Alright, pet. You can sleep in my arms while I watch TV.”
He carries you through, your head tucked into the crook of his neck; by the time he puts you down you’re already snoring. He laughs slightly as he adjusts you so you’re cradled sideways in his lap, your face pressed tightly enough against his chest that your cheeks are squished. You look so cute when you sleep; so harmless.
Really, you look harmless all the time, unless you’re eating. But he’s hardly one to judge, he thinks, not anymore. He’s as inhuman as you are now.
He likes to get your food a few days in advance. He can’t stock up in bulk, unfortunately, because if the meat’s more than a week old it’ll make you sick, so he likes to go out every Friday for it.
It’s all procedural; clinical. He finds it, he brings it back, he cuts it and freezes and stores it. It’s as simple as that.
He gets no thrill from it; no pleasure. That fact is the sole thing that keeps him steady most days.
At just after eleven on Friday, he puts you to bed as he always does. On the nights he goes out, you sleep in your cage; it’s not a punishment, never has been, just a way to ensure you’re safe and contained while he’s gone. He’s tried to make it homely for you, with pillows and blankets and a couple of toys for you to play with; the little stuffed bear you like to pretend to pounce on and the toy car you push around and watch with wonder as the wheels spin against the floor. He’s never gone for too long, and by the time he comes back you’re almost always asleep.
Today’s kill is in two bags, as usual; they’re large, cooled, like the ones his mother would pack his picnics into when he was a child. He’s not particularly fond of cutting people up where they fall, but he knows he’d never be able to pull a body up the stairs without being caught; that’s why he tends to go for dark alleyways, empty buildings, wooded areas and the like—less people to stumble across him while he’s doing what he needs to do.
The gun is in his pocket, safety on, the silencer still wrapped around the barrel. He puts it away first, locked up in the safe, then puts the meat into the freezer and locks the door.
He’s pretty tired tonight. He’ll get the meat ready in the morning. He has to do it when he’s awake and alert and in the right frame of mind or the sight and the smell and the sound of the knife sinking into the muscle will make him retch.
You’re curled up and knocked out in the cage when he returns to the bedroom, your face tucked between your knees and your arms wrapped around your shins. He picks you up, careful not to wake you; you make a soft, quiet noise when he lifts you, somewhere between a whimper and a breath, but you don’t stir.
You sleep pressed against his chest, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in. He savours the nights like this, when you sleep together; your sleep schedule is so irregular that he rarely gets the opportunity to have you like this.
The last thing he’s conscious of is the sound of you murmuring his name against his chest, talking in your sleep.
The next few weeks pass normally enough. You eat well, as you usually do, and you listen to him when he gives you an instruction. He only has to spank you once, for making a fuss when he has to leave, and even that is just a few minutes with his bare hand, comparatively mild; he doesn’t even pull your panties down for it—just lifts up your shirt and slams his hand down until your skin is glowing red.
When he’s done, there’s a little wet patch on the crotch of your panties that he decides not to mention. He definitely notes it, though.
It’s on a Friday morning that things start to go downhill.
He wakes up to a missed call from his father—a bad start. He hardly talks to the man; hasn’t since he left for college, really. The only reason he still engages with him is that his mother is sick in the hospital and his dad is the only person who keeps him updated on it.
He presses the call button begrudgingly. The sound of his father’s voice makes him wince. “Yunho, hello.”
“Hi, dad,” Yunho says. He peers through the crack in his bedroom door, into the small expanse of hallway it reveals. He thought he’d heard you walking around when he was waking up, but when he got out of the shower you’d gone silent. He supposes you’ve fallen asleep somewhere. “What’s up?”
“Your mother is doing better,” his father says. “She’s walking again. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh, that’s good. Yeah. Thanks. Anything else?”
“Are you going to come to visit her?”
Yunho sighs, closing his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I told you,” he says. “I can’t right now.” He can’t leave you here—and he certainly can’t take you with him. God knows how you’d react, what you’d do; he’s not even certain you fully grasp the concept of anyone else existing but you and him.
“Why not?”
“I have a… I’m having issues with work. And I’m taking care of my friend’s kid.” A lie for several reasons. Yunho doesn’t have any friends.
“Well, bring the kid.”
“I can’t,” he says. “My friend is in the hospital, too. We need to be in the area if something happens.”
His dad doesn’t respond; just scoffs. The sound of the tone when he hangs up makes Yunho flinch, drawing his phone away from his ear. For fuck’s sake.
You’re on the couch, it turns out, only half asleep; Yunho wakes you with a hand on your shoulder and sits you up. “Come on,” he says. “Breakfast.”
“You were talking,” you say, following him through to the kitchen. “Why?”
“My dad called me,” he answers. “First time in months. I was talking to him.”
“Oh,” you nod, sitting yourself down, but there’s a measure of confusion on your face still like something’s not quite computing with you. “Are you my dad?”
You ask it so earnestly and innocently that it makes him sick. Not the question—the way his dick twitches in his pants in response to it. “What?” He shakes his head quickly, his face burning. “No. No, I’m not. Your dad is… your dad is the man that made you and helps you grow up.”
“You help me grow up.”
“Not when you were a child,” he says. “And I didn’t make you. I just look after you.”
“I don’t think I have a dad.”
“Do you have a mom?” He asks. “Like a dad, but a woman.”
You don’t reply; you just stare at him like you’re waiting for him to finish his sentence. He sighs. “A woman. You know what that means?”
“Me?” You ask uncertainly.
“That’s right,” he nods. “A woman has a hole, like you. A man has a dick, like me.”
“I didn’t have a mom,” you respond after a moment. “I had me.”
Yunho hums, processing what you’ve said; this is the most you’ve ever spoken about your life before he found you. There’s so much he wants to know about it; at the same time, though, he thinks he may be better off ignorant. He still doesn’t know what you are, really, why it is you need to eat what you eat, why other foods, other meats make you so sick and weak and grey. He can’t imagine any explanation for that that he wouldn’t regret finding out.
“Well, you have me now,” he says. “And I take care of you.”
“Dad.”
“No, not dad. Yunho.”
“Dad is a man that takes care of me,” you argue. You point at him. “Dad.”
“Not just takes care of you,” he says. “Dads don’t just take care of you, they make you as well. I didn’t make you.”
You frown, your hand falling; Yunho dares to think you look almost… crestfallen. He bites his lip. “Would you like to have had a dad, baby?”
“You,” you reply. “Have a dad that’s you.”
Oh Christ. He holds back a groan, willing himself to think of anything but his half-hard dick and the way that word sounds so soft and sweet and innocent on your tongue.
Well. Anything for his baby, right?
He tells himself over and over that that’s all it is; something to make you happy. “If you want to see me as your dad,” he says, “if you do see me as your dad. That’s okay.”
“I’d be a good…” You pause, frowning slightly. “If you’re dad, what am I?”
“A daughter, I suppose.”
“I’d be a good daughter.”
Yunho smiles. “I know you would.”
You eat quietly, not too messily; the meat he gives you this morning is mostly dried out, a few days in the freezer, so there’s no blood to drip down onto your shirt. When you’re done, you push the plate towards him with a whispered “thank you.”
He’s just about to head out when it happens. He doesn’t know why you decide to lie there, curled up on the floor in the middle of the hallway—he doesn’t even see you until it’s too late. His head is a mess, adrenaline already pumping as he readies himself for what he has to do; he’s rushing to grab his keys from one kitchen when he feels it. His shin presses up against something, something solid, and he’s falling before he can stop himself.
He hears the snap; feels the pain before he even realises what’s happened. When he looks down at his ankle, the break is obvious.
Fuck.
He groans; he tries to get up but the slightest weight on it has him stumbling back down again, hissing in pain, head spinning.
Okay. Shit. This is fine.
He’s set broken bones before; treated them. He did it all the time in college when he volunteered as a first aider. Nobody breaks bones like drunk college kids with someone to impress.
He hops over to the first aid kit, gathering what he needs, then sits down, his bad ankle resting on the chair in front of him. It doesn’t take too long to fix himself up; by the time he does you’ve woken up, wandering curiously into the kitchen; your eyes widen at the sight of him. “What happened?”
“I hurt my ankle,” he says simply. “I tripped over you. In the hall.”
“Oh.”
“How many times have I told you not to fall asleep where you’re in my way?”
You shrug slightly. You have the decency—the awareness, perhaps—to look a little uneasy.
“Well?” He prompts you.
“A few,” you say. “M’sorry.”
“You need to learn to listen,” he tells you. “I keep telling you things over and over and you don’t learn. You don’t obey.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” he says. “But I won’t be able to go out tonight.”
“What?”
“I can’t put weight on this. I don’t have anything to lean on. I can’t hunt down and kill someone in this state, let alone bring a corpse back to the apartment.”
You blink. “But I need to eat.”
“I can’t do anything for you,” he says. “I can’t get out until this heals a bit. You still have the supplies in the freezer.”
“And then?” You press. “When I finish?”
“We’ll make do,” he says. He pauses briefly, grunting, then gives a low, dry laugh. “You consider this part of your punishment, for never fucking listening to me.”
Only part of it, of course, because you absolutely have a belting in your future once he’s able to stand up again, and by the look on your face he can tell you know that. He could probably do it now, albeit awkwardly, but if he’s going to take the belt to you he’s going to do it with his full strength. Perhaps the wait will do you some good; help the lesson sink in a little deeper.
He tries to ration the food; it lasts you longer than he thought it would, but you have to eat regularly or you start to get sick; grey skin and unsteady on your feet and crying in pain like you’ve been poisoned. He’s learned from experience that, once that sets in, it doesn’t take long for your condition to deteriorate even more.
One week later, he manages to put weight on his ankle again. Not as easily as he’d like, but he manages to jog awkwardly around the apartment.
And a good thing, too, because your food has officially ran out.
He was annoyingly close to making it on time. He has everything ready by the time he’s fit enough to hunt. Just a few hours and he’ll be fully stocked up and the rationing can stop and his baby will have everything she needs again.
It very nearly works. There’s a queasy feeling in his stomach even before he sees you that tells him that it hasn’t.
You’re on the floor when he comes out into the living room. Your skin is greyed, glistening with sweat, and you’re whimpering and clutching your stomach. Fuck. He’s too late.
He curses, rushing over to you, pulling you up and into his arms.
“Baby,” he says. He tries to keep his voice low, steady, even, but panic is setting in and it feels like his stomach is twisting into a tight, tangled knot. “Sweetheart, look at me. Look at me. Stay with me.”
Your eyes are half shut, drooping; he curses under his breath, shaking you, calling your name. Soft at first. Then panicked. Then stern; that’s the one that has you responding.
“Yunho,” you whine. “F-food, please.”
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I can go and get you some.”
“No,” you cry. You’re shaking now, smaller and frailer in his arms than he’s ever seen you, and your skin is ice cold, somehow soaked in sweat and bone dry at the same time. “Need— now. Please. Gonna— gonna…”
“Now?” He repeats.
“Please,” you whisper. “Gonna die.”
He believes you. He looks around the room, searching for something he can use; his eyes land on the kitchen countertop. On the case of knives, locked up.
The realisation sets in like sickness. He knows what he has to do.
“How much do you need?” He asks.
“Not… not that much,” you say. “Just some.”
“Stay here.” He eases you down onto the floor then pushes himself up; the case doesn’t need a key to open, just a simple latch mechanism, even that too advanced for you to crack, so it doesn’t take long to get what he needs. He comes back to kneel by your side, eyes moving between you and the knife and his leg.
Your eyes are closed now, but you’re still awake for the most part, mumbling things he doesn’t understand. You do that sometimes; did it a lot at first before he taught you how to talk. He theorised you’d had your own little language where you were before.
He pulls up his pant leg to around his knee. He goes for the calf, the same leg as his bad ankle; he’s going to take a strip out of it, he decides, down the side, so there’s not too much of him missing and he can go back out and stock up tomorrow, once you’re in the clear. He’ll have to adjust his methods slightly, perhaps, but he’ll get it done. He doesn’t really have a choice.
He inhales, a slow, shaking breath, then lifts the knife to his calf and presses down. He can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut as the blade sinks into his skin.
He bandages it carefully, with the supplies he’s cultivated over years of injuries, usually from people fighting back, that he couldn’t take to a hospital. He admits, though, that this is the worst one yet. Scratches and scrapes and bites and, once, a chain of keys stabbed into his arm, that’s one thing; this is an entire chunk out of his leg. He feels dizzy and sick and the pain makes his eyes water, every movement sore, but there was no alternative. He couldn’t just let you starve. Couldn’t let you die.
A small section of it, just a piece, forced past your cold grey lips and into your mouth, was enough to have you conscious and aware again. He carries you to the table and sets down a plate for the rest.
You’re slower to eat it than you normally are, as if you’re savouring it, savouring the taste of him on your tongue; you stare at it in what looks like wonder when he puts it down onto your plate, poking at it with your finger; pressing down on it so the blood seeps out from where it had been held by the meat.
“Yunho,” you murmur, then smile. “My Yunho.”
“How do I taste?” He asks. His voice is quiet, weak, his head still spinning a little, but you hear it nonetheless.
“Good,” you say. “Thank you. Hurt?”
“Me?” He asks. You nod. “Yeah, it does. It’ll heal, though, it’ll just leave a nasty scar I think.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” he says. “You needed to eat.”
You swallow the last piece with a smile; blood drips down your chin and lands on your chest, on his shirt, seeping into the fabric. He helps you take the shirt off as he always does; lowers you carefully into the tub to clean you up.
Usually, he throws the shirts into the washing machine and cleans them before they can stain.
Brace yourself, Liebe. I read this at 2am, half tipsy half delirious so I have a lot of incoherent feelings and questions and word spewings about this.
First of all, I’m genuinely dizzy over how much I love this. I am in no way shape or form a cannibalism girly, but I’ll read anything a writer I like puts out, so I gave this a shot, and wow, I’m SO glad I did 😮💨
One thing I really love is how upfront the story is without being gory or overly explicit. You give just enough detail to let the reader settle in and get comfortable, and then quietly remind us how deeply unsettling everything actually is.
Like the hidden pantry, the immediate salivation at the tupperware opening, that moment where she asks what it is (I thought she was asking what kind of meat it was) and he says “thigh,” and you just know he doesn’t mean chicken thigh…ohhhhh that had me queasy.
And their dynamic??? It’s written so tenderly that I caught myself at some points feeling understanding, or affectionate even towards them. Yunho is so gentle, attentive, and caring with her, so I’m like aww, and then he casually brings up belting her, or you hit me with something like, “He bites back a grin that’s a little more predatory than he can admit of himself,” and it’s like oh…right… This is actually predatory. This is not soft or sweet, he’s highkey a creep.
But then it’s a little confusing cuz it’s like who is the actual predator here when she literally???eats??? people??? Like what is the hierarchy of wrong here 😭 (it’s still Yunho, but like… still??)
And the blowjob scene, very, very, very hot. This line right here was a thigh clencher😮💨
“I’m gonna cum down your throat. Remember your manners and swallow it.”
But the scene itself was also deeply unsettling in a wat that left me with so many questions.
Like how has she come to see this as a reward?? Is it some kind of weird sexual conditioning or is it something more instinctual? Does she find it rewarding because she associate it with the act of consuming, of having flesh in her mouth?
And this line:
“like you don’t even understand what's happening to you” stopped me dead in my horny tracks because does she? Is this also sexually arousing for her?
And also if this is conditioning, or even if it’s not, I can’t stop thinking about the trial and error of it all. The RISK. The sheer amount of trust (or freaked out mental instability) Yunho must have to actually put his dick in a cannibals mouth is crazy but also very on brand with the male species I fear
And then this line: “He knows exactly the sort of things that have been in that mouth, and it’s nothing he wants on his fingers or his lips or his heavy leaking cock.”
So what does that mean for their relationship sexually? Does it even work sexually? Are blowjobs the only thing they do? Because reader seems almost animalistic at times. Would a fully mutual, consensual sexual dynamic even be possible here? Or even safe?
Liebe… I feel unwell. I’m too invested in this. I need answers.
Speaking of answers, this line: “Really, you look harmless all the time, unless you’re eating. But he’s hardly one to judge, he thinks, not anymore. He’s as inhuman as you are now.”
Is Yunho a serial killer? Because logistically, he has to be right? There’s no way this works otherwise. I can’t imagine they’re in a city, but if they’re in a small town, that’s even worse. Even one body a week is four a month. That’s a pattern. That’s an investigation. That’s law enforcement getting involved very quickly.
So what is he doing? Crossing state lines and just hacking bodies in the middle of unknown territories? How is he finding victims?
Also, does he have a job? How is he providing everything else? Who is this guy???
And also, you briefly mentioned it but where did he even find her??? He had to have known she was a cannibal beforehand, right? Like did he catch her in the act and take her after seeing it?? Because the only other alternative is him taking her first and then later discovering she’s a cannibal, which horrifying in a completely different way for multiple reasons.
But like also imagine he kidnaps her, everything is “normal”, then one night he wakes up to her nibbling on him???? Like hello??????
I need a series on this immediately. I must know more about these little weirdos.
Also, the whole dad/daughter exchange was deeply uncomfortable and borderline nauseating, but i admit it was necessary at least for me and my understanding of the fic. That scene couple with the self mutilation scene really reframed everything for me.
At first Yunho read as purely predatory (which he definitely still is) but then they have that conversation, and then he gives her a literal piece of himself to keep her from dying, and you realize he really does care for her even if it’s in this weird, twisted kind of way.
It humanizes him not matter how many times the fic both subtly and overtly tells us he’s a creep. Incredible writing on your part btw.
But still…yikessss. We still know there’s a power imbalance here, so like can any of this even be considered benevolent???
And finally, for some reason, him throwing away the shirt at the end really stuck with me. Like was he scared? Disgusted?
It raised the question of how long this relationship/lifestyle can be sustained. Because, realistically, it can’t last forever. So what happens when it becomes unsustainable. Who’s in real danger then?
Ughhhh, this was a great fic with incredible writing, Liebe. I’m literally going to be thinking about this all day, if not all week.
