online communities are so strange because people slip away so easily. you can be on here for years, folding people you've never met into the fabric of your daily life, and then they disappear, leaving only ghost posts scattered across tumblr behind. or their blog stays dormant, for weeks, months, years, until you're only still following them because you remember that they love sunflowers or they were kind to you when they didn't have to be or the last thing they posted was sad and raw and you still worry about them sometimes.
and sometimes they come back when you least expect it, years later, even, and there's this sudden rush of relief like there you are, there you are, even though you barely knew each other.
there's a strange kind of love to it. i don't know you and i want to hold your hand across miles and time zones and oceans. i can still see the imprint of you in this community you left. you don't think anyone will notice or care when you're gone, but we notice and we care and we wish you well.
i hope you're all okay out there. i hope the sun is shining on your face and you are breathing deeply. i miss you.
Yunho and Mingi had been dating for quite a long time. It seemed they started loving each other back in middle school, confessed in high school, and began dating. They even enrolled in the same university. Literally everyone knew about their relationship by the time they started college. Everyone knew. And you did too. So what the hell were you doing, falling in love with your best friends?
Your interaction with them started gradually: you’d exchange a few words during shared lectures because you sat next to each other, then sometimes meet during breaks, sometimes in parks, and later at parties. Slowly but surely, you became their best friend. As friends, you really liked them. They were like two puppies who loved to cuddle. You loved cuddling too. The perfect trio, right? You knew about their relationship and fully supported it—they were so sweet together! You even felt a little jealous watching them sometimes; after all, you still hadn’t been in a relationship, despite being fairly popular on campus. Unfortunately, no one really caught your interest. Or so you thought.
You didn’t realize right away when you started developing feelings for them, but a turning point came at one of the parties.
Everyone was drunk as usual, music was playing, people were talking or laughing loudly. You were sitting on a couch chatting with your girlfriends when your gaze landed on Yunho and Mingi in the opposite corner of the living room. They were kissing. You were used to it by then. Hard not to be, when those two seemed to devour each other. But that night, something tugged at your chest. You never figured out what it was.
That strange feeling never left you whenever you saw your best friends. It didn’t matter if they were together or apart. Your heart clenched every time you saw them, and it felt like your insides were twisting into knots. All these emotions weighed on you. What the hell was happening? You were so desperate that you locked yourself in your apartment for a few days to sort yourself out. Your friends texted you almost every hour with messages like: "How are you?", "Did you eat?", "Is everything okay?", "Should we come over and suffer together??" and so on. Each message made you tremble, your heart pounding wildly. You finally understood what was happening. You had fallen in love.
This realization was accompanied by laughter and tears. Damn it, you’d fallen in love not only with your best friends, but with two guys who were dating each other! Just perfect. You cried all through the first day, calmed down (with great difficulty) on the second, and by the third, you’d accepted it. What else could you do? Go and scream about your hopeless love to them? No way. You weren’t ready to humiliate yourself and lose their friendship and trust.
And so began your "survival." You thought it would be easy, but things didn’t go very well.
Every time you saw them, you felt jealous. You were jealous that they only kissed each other, and not you. Jealous because they didn’t look at you the way they looked at each other. And that jealousy burned your heart. Why the hell were you even jealous?! You told yourself you had no right, but the burning envy never left you. However, you found a way to cope with it—alcohol.
You became a regular at parties, whether alone or with Yunho and Mingi. Alcohol clouded your mind enough that for a moment, you could forget about Yunho’s puppy-dog eyes and Mingi’s sweet lips. But the relief alcohol brought faded as quickly as the hangover headaches arrived.
So you started sleeping with almost anyone who even slightly resembled your best friends. Honestly, it made you feel a little loved by them, even if it wasn’t real. Sometimes you had one partner, sometimes two. And every time, you pictured Yunho or Mingi. Or both at once. Of course, out of pride and shame, you never uttered their names—otherwise, you’d have burst into tears at the first sound.
You also started distancing yourself a little from your friends, and they noticed. You began avoiding eye contact, skipping meetups, sometimes even ignoring them. They tried to talk to you, but you’d brush it off every time, blaming your studies. The only problem was, you were never particularly passionate about studying.
Lying to those close to you wasn’t pleasant, but you didn’t have much of a choice. What would they think if they knew the truth? You didn’t even want to imagine. It was much easier not to tell the truth, at least in your opinion.
｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆
You wake up with a terrible headache. A hangover is definitely not how you like to start your mornings.
Last night, you decided to drink—something you hadn’t done in a while—and clearly overdid it. You reach out to find your phone but come up empty.
Sighing, you slowly sit up in bed and, not spotting your phone, get up. Your vision immediately darkens, forcing you to sit back down, rubbing your temples.
Damn, you should’ve just spent the evening miserably sober.
Once the pain subsides, you drag yourself to the kitchen. Several empty bottles on the table testify to where you got drunk.
At the edge of the table, you spot your phone and snatch it up. It’s already 1:24 PM—thank goodness it’s the weekend—but what catches your attention isn’t the time.
34 missed calls from YuYu.
27 missed calls from GiGi.
54 unread messages in the group chat.
What the fuck happened?
You stare at the notifications, but you can’t remember anything from last night. Unlocking your phone, you see that your group chat with Yunho and Mingi is open.
And then you see what you wish you hadn’t. You sent them a damn confession message. Holy shit.
You immediately lock your phone. How humiliating.
Before you can sink further into shame, loud knocking echoes from the front door. Then another. And another.
You start toward the door, but the voice from the other side freezes you in place.
"If you don’t open this door right now, I’ll break it down."
Yunho’s voice, quiet but clear, rings in your ears.
Another voice follows.
"Y/N, please open the door."
Mingi’s pleading, gentle voice also carries through the door.
A shiver runs down your spine.
Fuck, what are you going to do now?
Hehe, and here's a new AU! I dreamed about it day and night, but in my head it looked much better... Still, I'm somewhat satisfied with the result!
And by the way, it's another "in love with best friends" trope!!! Seems like someone has a hyperfixation on this cliché... (let's not point fingers)(▀ Ĺ̯▀ )
Who would you like the next AU to be about? Woosan or Jongang? Or maybe just one member??? Or... do you want a continuation of something?!(⊙_⊙)
when your super sexy hot boyfriend comes home tipsy after not calling you for fourteen hours and you can’t help but be pissed off — wc 4.3k, jyh x fem!reader, smut minors dni, ANGST (hehe), idol au, dom!yunho, degradation, raw (my bad), spanking, dom yunho agenda lives on. mentions of yungi bc im insane! last shottie before kinktober starts 🫡
You haven’t heard a singular word that’s left the TV screen in an hour. Sitting with your knees bent up to your chest, your arms crossed over them, your hair tied up, jaw set in anger, the silly sitcom on the screen couldn’t even pull a huff of amusement from your nose.
He was late. Again. Hours this time.
It seemed to be happening more often than not lately, with a comeback right around the corner he was holed up at the company building every day, dance practice, meetings, last minute promo recordings. You understood, being with him for years now, this isn’t your first comeback with him, nor is it your last.
But for some reason, this one had steam coming out of your ears, your mind betraying you, telling you he was out with his friends for drinks, he was hanging out in the practice room doing overtime, all because he didn’t want to come home to you.
It didn’t have sadness sitting heavy in your gut. It had ice cold rage burning through your veins, sweat nipping at your neck, your fingertips ice cold. How dare he leave you at home by yourself for hours while you waited for him? For him to be out at a bar, with friends? For him to be lingering at the studio without a care in the world that you were home, on the couch, patiently waiting for his arrival?
You were mid-sigh when you heard the keys in the door handle. You stood on socked feet as the door groaned open, the knob bouncing off the wall. You barely reacted, arms so tightly bound over your chest, mind whirling with your starting accusation.
Your six-foot oaf of a fucking boyfriend tumbled through the doorframe, already smiling, pink dusted over his cheeks. Your eyebrows shot to your hairline– You thought him being drunk was a long shot, your mind jumping to conclusions because you couldn’t get a hold on your emotions, but you were fucking right!?
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” your arms uncurl from your chest as you make your way towards him, feet sliding over the hardwood in quick steps.
“Baby!” His grin widens, throwing his bag to the floor, his jacket falling on top, completely missing how your eyebrows were slanted downward, how your lips pursed in a heart at the center of your face. “I missed you, today was so long. Mingi, Wooyoung and I went to the bar across the street and had a few beers to unwind after work, talk about the day.”
You keep your distance, a few feet away, arms curling over your chest again, weight shifting to one leg. You tilted your head, voice coming out in a tone of false amusement, “Have fun?”
He giggles, a soft sound, light and bubbly, your favorite song of his. Not right now.
“Yeah,” he nods, “Wooyoung and Mingi are so fucking funny when they’re together, I swore I was gonna pee my pants at one point.”
You nod slowly, lips pursed atop each other, eyes low and pointed, “That’s great.”
He pauses where he stands, one shoe off, the other halfway on. He furrows his brows, “You’re pissed.”
“No shit I’m pissed.”
His head tips back in a groan, arms falling limp at his sides as he kicks his other shoe off. Your hands start flying. “I don’t understand, Yunho, do you even think of me during the day? No text, no call, no nothing while I sit here and wait for you!”
He starts for the kitchen, long legs quickly carrying him there, you follow on his heel. “Do you even think of maybe letting me know?” He opens the cabinet, grabbing a glass of water. Your eyes follow him. “Tell me, Yunho, am I even a thought in your mind?”
“I think about you all the time, you know that, I’ve told you a thousand times,” his words have a soft, tired bite to them as he places his glass in the fridge, water pouring from the dispenser built into the door.
“Then why don’t you let me know you won’t be home so I don’t make double the dinner I made for myself?” Your voice raises, each word emphasizing the rage slicing through your body, “Or I don’t sit here on the couch like a fucking idiot, waiting for you to walk through the door to watch our show?”
He turns on his heel, droplets of water landing on the hardwood surrounding you. His voice matches yours, loud, strong enough to cut steel, “I just worked,” his tone lowers, punching every single syllable, “Fourteen fucking hours.”
“And I didn’t receive,” you raise up a hand, counting on your fingers, “A call, a voicemail, a text, a fucking Instagram DM. Did you message on Fromm today? Did your fans get a message when I didn’t?”
His eyes widen, lips curling at the corner, a laugh falling from his lips so empty that it hurts like a slap to the face. He walks away, a hand flying in the open space over his head as he heads for the living room, “Oh, you’ve fucking lost it.”
“I’ve lost it!?” You yell, still on his heel, “Excuse me for wanting to hear from my boyfriend of four fucking years while he’s gone for fourteen hours of the day!”
He sits down on the couch, knees spread, drinking from his glass. You stand before him, hands on your hips, rage steaming your skin, the room feeling ten degrees hotter. He chugs the glass, head leaning back into the couch, staring at you through lowered brows. His voice drops, low and steady, the type of anger that makes him calm. You don’t let it phase you.
“You need to stop yelling at me,” he said simply, “You’re being ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is you not giving a fuck about me,” your tone is harsh, and as much as in your soul you know your words aren’t true, you say them like you mean it. “But by all means, go to the bar after work, get some drinks with your friends! Maybe you can even find a woman there to fuck you, or better yet, maybe you should have gone home with Mingi.”
“You’re losing your fucking mind,” he shakes his head with another laugh, “I worked my ass off today, I’m exhausted, I wanted a few beers to decompress so I didn’t come home and put a load on you when you’ve been waiting for me.”
“That’s what I’m fucking here for, Yunho,” your hands find your hair, tugging at your roots, head tipping up to face the beige, popcorned ceiling. “I’m here to help you decompress, I’m here to share your struggles, your hardships. What the fuck am I to you?”
“You’re my girlfriend that has her own struggles and hardships,” he leans forward, his eyebrows in his hairline, his words coming out strained. “You’re not here for me to put all of mine on you! I have coworkers and friends for that, I come home to forget about the bullshit–”
“You come home to get fucked,” you’re seething now, words harsh and low, “You go to work, sing and dance all day, and come home after a few beers looking for a hole to stick your cock in.”
His eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “You did not just say that.”
You point to the floor beneath your feet, “And I meant Every. Fucking. Word.”
Within a blink he’s standing before you, so close you can feel his breath on your skin, pink-tipped, long fingers wrapped around your jaw. He’s staring at you through lowered brows, his eyes heavy and cold, a darkness within the deep chocolate that sends a shiver down your spine, breath catching in your throat.
“You think I’ve been with you four years just for sex?” His voice is quiet, low, terrifying, his torso pressed to yours. Your eyes flare with anger, subtle excitement, socked toes curling into the hardwood, but you don’t answer. His smile is dangerous, it should have you nervous, scared, anything but the rush of adrenaline that floods you. “You think that’s all you’re good for? A hole to stick my cock in?”
“Fuck no,” you hiss, lips squished from his fingers cutting into your skin, “I think that’s all you’re good for.”
He drops your jaw, knees bending to grab you by the thighs, throwing you over his shoulder in one quick motion. Your stomach drops, a high-pitched yell leaving your throat as his legs bring you to the bedroom in long, quick strides, heart rising to your throat when he throws you on the perfectly made bed, his six-foot built towering over you.
You sit up immediately, jaw locked, steam pouring from your nostrils, “Don’t even think about touching me.”
His lips curve in a smile, amusement in his eyes, piercing through the irritation that squares his shoulders. “That’s all I’m fucking good for?” He takes a step closer to the bed, leaning down until his pink-dusted cheeks are centimeters from yours. You don’t move, eyes locked on his and jaw set, heart pounding against your chest. He smiles. “I work every damn day to make money for you, and that’s all I’m good for?”
Your lashes barely touch in a fast blink, ignoring how your stomach drops. That smile, his tone, he’s pissed. Fear licks up your spine, your forehead feeling damp under his gaze. You tilt your chin up, voice losing all its bite, “Yes.”
In a navy hoodie and sweatpants, black hair messily sprawled across his forehead, eyes crazed and wild and maybe half-deranged, the fear that nipped at your spine got confused with the excitement rippling on your skin. His grin spreads wide, and before you know it he’s pushing you back by your shoulders, head bouncing against the mattress. A hand curls under your torso, flipping you onto your stomach, and your eyes squeeze shut. Fuck.
“If that’s all I’m good for,” he starts, thumbs curling into the yoga pants on your waist, pulling them down just enough to expose your ass. “Then maybe I’ll remind you who the fuck I am. Who it is you’re speaking to like that.”
“I know damn well who I’m talking to,” your words come out airy, shuddering as he lifts your hoodie up to mid-back, pulling your pants down just a little more, chuckling when your squished thighs show him a peek of wetness between your legs, no panties to hide it.
“Hmm, I think you like it,” you can hear his smile as his warm palms run over your ass, squeezing the skin, “Being the hole I use when I come home. Being nothing but my fucking cocksleeve.”
You bite your lip to hide your whine, voice strained, “Fuck you, Yunho.”
“Fuck me?” His hands mid-squeeze, grip firm, “I thought you told me not to touch you. Didn’t think you wanted to fuck me.”
Your lips purse, fingers digging into the sheets below you, anticipation biting every inch of skin exposed, “I don’t. I don’t want anything to fucking do with you.”
He laughs and it’s a low, gravelled thing, laced with mischief like he could taste the lies on your tongue. He digs a knee into the bed, leaning down close to your ear, breath hot on your cheek, “You think I have the energy to put you in your place tonight?”
Your thighs clench together, a small whimper escaping your lips. You squeeze your face together, pissed that your body betrayed you, anger and anticipation and arousal mixing together to a cocktail between your legs.
He kneels off the bed, voice steady and sharp, “Count, or I won’t go any farther than this. You won’t get the privilege of being the hole I use tonight.”
Your eyebrows furrow before the first harsh smack lands on your ass. You cry out, head jerking up, bottom lip dragging against the sheets, the word count doesn’t process in your overstimulated mind.
“Oh, I must have misread the situation,” his voice is taunting now, the inflection of his tone rising and falling. “Thought you were just being a brat. You really don’t want to get fucked tonight, huh?”
Your mouth moves before you can think, “I- I do, I do.”
He lands another, right below your ass, the sensitive skin of your thigh. You cry out again, face hot, throat tight.
“Yelling at me on some stupid shit right when I get home, are you really that stupid? Did you forget how to count, too?”
“Two!” You squeal, legs bending at the foot of the bed, your toes just barely gripping the floor to hold you up.
“There you go, baby,” his hands running over where he had just hit you, a stinging heat in his palms now as he attempts to soothe the skin. “Knew you weren’t completely stupid.”
You choke out a quiet moan, body betraying you, temple falling to the mattress again. You have only a moment of recovery before he’s striking you again, harder this time, on the opposite, unmarred cheek, the loud slap ringing through the room.
You whimper, voice quieter, nearly broken, “Three.”
“You can take more,” he’s squeezing the skin again, voice a song of amusement and faux encouragement, “Keep up so you can earn my cock.”
He hits you again, followed by Four. Then again, followed by Five. He gets all the way to Ten before tears are streaming down your cheeks, darkening the comforter beneath your face, sobs shaking your shoulders. It hurts, but it hurts so fucking good you’re left confused and utterly brainless. Pain and pleasure morphing together, you wanted to cum, you wanted to sit in ice-cold water, you wanted him to tell you that you did a good job. You wanted your reward.
Why did you want a reward? Why did you get punished in the first place? You’re the one that’s mad at him.
He’s already tugging you towards him before you can get the words out, shaky and harsh but weakened by the tears streaming down your face, “F-Fuck you, Yunho.”
Pulling you into his lap, his lips bend in a pout as he wipes the tears from your cheeks with two thumbs, “Hm? Still? Thought for sure I would have spanked the brat out of you.”
“You heard me,” your voice is raw, anger returning with how your burning cheeks sting, “Fuck you.”
“Oh,” is all he says as he lays you on your back again, you hiss when the comforter hits your behind. His face reads nothing while he moves you as if you didn’t have any will of your own, pulling the hoodie over your head, ripping the hair-tie from your bun.
“I said don’t fucking touch me,” you bite as your hair falls around your face, “I’m not yours to use.”
He laughs at that, genuine and bright, “That’s exactly what you are, my love, you’re mine. I can do whatever the fuck I want to you.”
“No you can’t,” you move up the bed, wincing as your ass drags across the sheets, “I’m not playing this game with you tonight. All I wanted was a text.”
“Do you not hear yourself when you speak?” He crawls over you, hands sliding your yoga pants down your legs, “Remember when I asked you if you wanted to be fucked and you said yes?”
Your cheeks heat as he slides you down the mattress again, head landing in the pillows. You tip your chin, “It was a moment of weakness.”
“It was you giving in like you always do,” his hands land on your thighs, one sliding down to your pulsing core, “Because at your core you’re nothing but a fucking slut.” His fingers slip into your folds, spreading your wetness, “Ain’t that right?”
Your back arches involuntarily, catching your lip between your teeth to fight a moan. His thumb circles around your clit, tongue poking out to wet his lips, staring at you through lowered brows. He tilts his head when your breath catches in your lungs, “Answer me. Aren’t I right?”
Your hips buck into him, eyes dancing between his hand between your legs and his gaze that was cold and pointed. He smacks his teeth with his lips, pulling his hand away from your core to land a quick slap against your center. You gasp a moan, hips jerking, and his lips curve in a smile, “You answer when I speak to you.”
“Yes, fuck, Yunho, you’re right,” you gasp out, body twitching now, fingers twisting in the sheets below you.
“What am I right about?”
“I’m a slut!” You cry out as his thumb meets your clit again. Your head digs into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut at the pleasure, how his finger moves at the perfect pace with perfect pressure.
He uses his other hand to slip a finger inside you, curling slowly, his lips parting as he watches your body arch, relaxing into the bed, face morphing into sweet pleasure.
“That’s right,” he nods, voice taunting, “You’re a slut, my fucking slut. You don’t talk back to me, you don’t speak to me disrespectfully, do you?”
You shake your head quickly, eyebrows twisted in pleasure, hips bucking against his fingers. The sting in your ass adds to the pleasure at your core, mixing together in a bubble of euphoria, the pit in your stomach tightens. He adds another finger and fucks into you faster, thumb circling with harder pressure, voice still taunting as he asks, “Do you have anything you want to say to me?”
“I’m sorry,” you open your eyes, words coming out in a rushed, strained breath, “I’m sorry, Yunho.”
His grin spreads wide. He slips his fingers out, maneuvering you onto your front again, grabbing a pillow from beside your head to slide under your hips. “You don’t get to be stretched out.”
“Fuck,” you mutter absent-mindedly into the cotton pillows, hands coming up to grip at the plush. The stretch was always so much worse without an orgasm first, his cock was too long, too thick.
“Maybe if you’re good for me I’ll pretend you never said a word, maybe I’ll even let you cum,” his hands curl into your cheeks, spreading you open, ignoring how you hiss at the sting. He leans down, landing a fat glob of spit to drip down your folds before you hear him pull down his sweats, his briefs, no doubt just low enough to get his cock out, scrunched around his thighs.
“Take a deep breath for me baby,” his voice is soft for the first time tonight as he lines himself up, his tip spreading his own spit along your core, slapping his cock against you twice before prodding at your entrance.
You suck a deep breath in as he pushes into you slowly, whimpering at the stretch, at the sting. Always so fucking big, even after four years, you weren’t sure if you’d ever get used to it.
“Hah, fuck,” he drags out the words, low and velvety, his pleasure verbal. “Sucking me in like you always do, piss me off just to get fucked like a slut. I know you.”
You cry out a choked moan as he sheathes himself inside you slowly, letting you feel the curve of his cock, each pulsing vein, the mushroom tip settling deep inside you. You feel his hair on your stinging cheeks, eyes screwed shut, rolled back behind your lids, the pain so hot it sears your skin.
“Not gonna fight back?” He huffs a breath of pleasure and amusement, “Too fucked out to speak already?”
Your knees dig into the mattress, hips pressing back against him, “Move.”
He lands another harsh smack on your ass, your wail is immediate, piercing through the room. His voice is sharp, “Thought we went over how you fuckin’ speak to me. You wanna be used, left here without an orgasm and a cunt pumped full of cum?”
You shake your head, tears stinging your waterline again, “No! No, I’m sorry.”
“Act like it,” he pulls out just to slide back in, harsher this time, “Don’t just fucking say it.”
“I’m sorry,” you wail as he picks up the pace, building a rhythm as your fingertips claw at the pillows beneath you, “I’ll be good– I’ll be good, I swear!”
“I know you will,” his hands run over your hips, watching as your hot-red ass bounces against his cock, “This pussy wants to cum, that’s why you were acting up, right? Just missed me?”
Tears dampen the pillows beneath your cheeks, sobs racking through your chest, shoulders shaking as much as your ass bounced against him, “Y-Yes, Yun, just missed you, miss- missed your cock.”
His fingers tighten around your hips, a low groan tumbling through his lips as he fucks into you harder, “I know, baby, I know.”
Your hips fuck back onto him, accepting every inch of his cock, letting the overwhelming pleasure settle into your core. Tears spill down your cheeks as moan after moan slips from your lips, his cock bruising your cervix, curving so deliciously against the front of your walls.
“Fuck, Yunho,” you whimper, voice muffled by the pillows, “Wanna see you, need to see you.”
“Yeah?” He asks, taunting tone dulled by his pleasure-filled breath, “Gonna be a good girl?”
“Yes,” you cry, choking on the spit in your throat, “Gonna be good, g-gonna be your good girl.”
He pulls out at that, slipping the pillow from beneath you and throwing it off the bed, flipping you for the final time tonight. With one look at your splotchy, tear-stained cheeks he’s leaning down, connecting his lips with yours. It’s messy, hot, wet, teeth colliding and tongues trying to swallow each other whole. Your hands immediately slide under his hoodie, feeling the muscled, chiseled abdomen beneath, beckoning him to take it off.
He pulls it over his head and your arms slide over his shoulders, fingers twisting together at the base of his neck, tugging at the hairs that curl around his ears. He moans into your lips, cock grinding against your slippery folds, tip catching on your entrance.
“Please,” you whisper into his lips, a string of spit connecting your lips, “Inside.”
He reaches down, shimmying his sweats down to his ankles, then uses one hand to line himself up and you both watch as he slowly pushes himself inside, eyebrows twisting together and lips falling open in a silent moan.
“So fucking good,” he groans into you, “Pussy so sweet, missed it, missed you.”
You whine as he reaches the hilt, “So fucking deep, Yunho, fuck.”
“All yours, baby,” he catches your lips again, his skin pressed to yours, pelvis so heavy against yours as he builds a new slow, antagonizing rhythm, “All fucking yours.”
Your thighs wrap around his, hips meeting his thrusts, his cock barely sliding out of you with how close you keep him. So close together you don’t know where he ends and you begin, your moans pour into one melody, breaths hot on each other’s faces. Your nails claw into his skin, cries growing higher in pitch as his cock drags against your walls, massaging that spongy spot just behind your clit.
“Right there,” you breathe, head tipping back, and Yunho dips his head down to press his tongue to the column of your throat. Your toes curl, whining, “Shit, Yunho, fuck, missed you s’much.”
“My good girl,” he mumbles into your skin, picking up his pace, never missing the spot you think he was built to hit. “So fuckin’ bratty when she doesn’t get her way, just needed something to fill this tight lil’ pussy up.”
“Yes,” you’re reeling, gasping, your orgasm building steadily in your gut, “Needed you, needed this.”
“I’m sorry,” he finds your mouth again, kissing you harshly, muffling your moans. “‘M sorry I didn’t call.”
“It’s okay, shit,” you gasp, “I’m gonna cum.”
Your thighs unclasp from his back as he fucks into you harder, cock bullying that spot inside you, and your breath hitches in your throat as the pleasure finally spills, clenching around him, nails clawing into him so hard you’re sure you’ll leave red crescents in his back.
“Fuck,” he hisses, “So good for me baby, so tight, you want me to fill you up?”
You nod against his lips, mouth hanging slack against his, body still clenched tight around him, orgasm still flowing through you. “Yes, yes, need it.”
He chokes out a groan, staggered and broken, hips twitching as he loses his rhythm, fucking into you wildly. You cry out, “Yes, baby, so good– so good, stretching me out, cum inside.”
He moans at that, head dipping into your shoulder as he pounds his cock into you, broken thrusts turning to a nasty, slow grind. He whimpers as he spills into you, “I love you, I love you– so much.”
Your hands slide into his hair, scratching at his scalp as you feel his load fill you up, “I love you too, baby.”
Warm, heavy, full. You both catch your breath for a few, he lays with his head in your neck, your thighs lazily thrown over his, both of you ignoring the stick between you.
“Sorry for flipping out when you got home,” you finally mumble, voice coy.
He smiles into your neck, a warm, close-mouthed grin, “It’s okay, I gave you a valid reason to.”
“You should do it more often,” a smile grows on your own cheeks, “If it means you’ll fuck me like this.”
He laughs into your neck, sweet and light, your favorite song. “I fuck you like this without you being mad at me.”
“It adds to it tho, yanno?” You turn your head, kissing his hair. “Maybe next time you’ll have someone else with you when you walk through the door and I can berate him, too.”
“Like who? Mingi?”
You shrug, a smirk on your lips. He lifts his head, meeting your eye, reading the amusement but seriousness laying behind them. He blinks at you for a second, before his lips curl in a nasty smirk, too.
there are like genuinely eye opening statistics on the prevalence of rape fantasies among women and sa victims, like it's really true even if you don't have trauma you're not alone and you're not broken. wether you like these fantasies or not you're not something bad for having them. they're always just thoughts and common enough to be notably harmless. it doesn't make you a rapist or a rape apologist or even a rape fetishist, yes even if you embrace those fantasies.
basically we literally factually know that these thoughts are not crimes and are common enough to disprove any claim to correlation between thought and action, so i think it's time to stop blaming people with these common fantasies for an act of material violence factually more often perpetrated against them than by them
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