Synopsis: Jongho has had a crush on you for the longest time. the only problem? you don’t feel the same way. he thinks he can live with the burden of that. until one night, he decides that not having you is something he will never be able to accept.
tw: non-con/extremely dubious consent, somnophilia, degradation, dacryphilia, Jongho is mean, cream pie, jealousy, rough sex, possessive behavior. If you don’t like, don’t bother reading or commenting. thank ya!!!
Jongho thinks he’s had a crush on you from the very first time he laid eyes on you. You both were very young back then. Of course, he had no idea why his heart would beat so fast and his palms became so sweaty whenever he was around you, but a few more years down the line, he slowly started to put the pieces together.
Jongho had the biggest, most sickly and disgusting, raging crush on you.
But you didn’t feel the same way.
It was pretty clear that you had no interest in him. You were too busy gushing to Jongho’s older sister about boys from your university, none of them being anything remotely similar to Jongho. You liked boys who were older, much older, and stronger and bigger than you too.
You liked them smart and outgoing. Jongho didn’t see himself as any of those things.
When he first realized he was crushing hard on you back in his freshman year of high school, Jongho was still small and meek, a lanky boy with big eyes and a heart that beat for the prettiest girl in school. He still vividly remembers the first time he popped a boner because of you. He was truly a lost cause from the beginning.
But he was never brave enough to act upon any of his feelings. He thought that just getting to be your friend for now was good enough. everyone wanted to be friends with you anyway. Jongho guesses that having his sister be your best friend came to his advantage in a way.
But as the years passed, and things started to change, the one thing that remained unmoving was how you made Jongho feel. What used to be an innocent little crush that would make him swoon became something that started to intoxicate him.
Jongho’s mind had long since strayed from innocent thoughts of getting to hold your hand and ask you out on cute dates where he’d kiss you on the cheek and tell you how beautiful you are.
Jongho was not a little boy anymore. His high school days are over. He’s grown a good few inches since then. His body is strong, with broad shoulders and thick thighs that would make any girl swoon.
His cheeks have lost their softness, jaw chiseled and more defined now instead. His speech is no longer quiet and slurred. His voice is deep and his words are much more calculated.
His thoughts changed drastically too. He looks at you with hunger behind his eyes.
The hands he had once dreamed of intertwining his fingers with were now the ones he imagined trapping in his grasp, pinned above your head. The waist he had once longed to wrap his arms around and hold close was now one he imagined digging his fingertips into, leaving deep purple bruises in their wake.
The lips he thought of gently kissing he now pictures red and puffy from his teeth biting into them.
Everything about Jongho changed. He now desires you in a much more carnal way than ever before. but despite all that, you still won’t look at him.
It’s started to make Jongho beyond frustrated. having to see you come over and talk to his sister about every boy you’ve been seeing or hooking up with, when he’s the one that’s been pining after you for so long. it’s simply unfair and it makes Jongho want to pull his hair out.
He hates having to see you dressed in skimpy little outfits, prancing around their house and getting ready, only to go out to clubs with his sister where other men would get to have their eyes and disgusting hands all over your body.
Everyone else but Jongho got to have a taste of you and he was slowly starting to despise you for that. Having to see you so often became too overbearing when he realized you would never return his feelings. You would never look at Jongho the way he looks at you; with lust.
All that you see him as is your best friend’s little brother. That’s all he’ll ever be in your eyes.
Jongho fucking hates that thought with a fiery passion.
It’s not uncommon for you to sleep over at their house most days. Jongho knows you prefer being here rather than with your own parents, since they’ve never really been good to you. Every time his sister and you go out clubbing, you’re guaranteed to come back to their place and sleep over.
Lately, it’s become a much more frequent occurrence for you to come back by yourself, after Jongho’s sister ends up ditching you at whatever party you were at, for any guy she decided to leave with that night. Which left you to come back to the house alone.
Where the only one waiting was Jongho.
Most nights he’d sleep through the sound of the front door slamming and shuffling inside the house. But something made him startle awake this time around. Jongho is by no means a light sleeper, but today the sound of kitchen cabinets opening and closing rouse him from slumber, and the constant hiccups and loud steps padding through the living room wouldn’t let him go back to sleep.
It’s like that for a good ten minutes. The commotion keeps him awake, staring at the ceiling of his room with a scowl etched between his brows, until it stops. The house falls silent again, almost as if it’s just him and no one else. But Jongho knows he’s not the only one in the house anymore, and since he didn’t hear his sister’s bedroom door opening, he knows she must not be the other person inside the house either.
After another five minutes or so of silently staring into the darkness, he finally decides to kick the blankets off his body and get out of bed. The floor creaks as he walks and the tiles in the hallway are cold beneath his feet.
He wishes he had put some socks on.
Coming to a stop behind the living room couch he glances over at the tv that’s playing some sort of horror movie on mute that he knows he didn’t leave it on before going to bed. With a sigh, he walks closer and peers over the back of the couch.
Of course, lying pretty, with hair splayed over the cushions and lips pouted outwards, is none other than you. Dressed in nothing but a tiny top and a skirt that rides halfway up your thighs, your shoes not even off your feet.
“Sweet,” Jongho comments dryly, pursing his lips before walking around the couch to crouch before you. Shamelessly, he lets his eyes rake over your body, lingering on your exposed thighs, making his brows pinch together in sudden unreasonable frustration.
Of course you had to come in here, looking like a beautiful disaster, smelling of sweet perfume and cigarette smoke, with glitter clinging to your lids and cheeks, most likely drunk off your ass.
“You’re a mess,” Jongho scoffs. He doesn’t know why, but he reaches for your ankles, untying the laces that he can tell you must have struggled with, only to give up on. He slips the shoes off and starts to grow more frustrated by the second.
“Had fun, Y/N?” he smiles bitterly with no genuine joy behind it. He doesn’t even look at you as he speaks. “I’m guessing not since you came back all by yourself.”
You stir in your sleep, mumbling something incoherently before you quiet back down. Your hands are clutched into tiny fists by your head and your knees are bent up, curling into yourself. You look annoyingly adorable and Jongho can’t understand why he’s so angered by the image.
“Probably let yourself be groped up at the party, didn’t you?” He spits with malice. “Let everyone just use you right then and there, didn’t even wait for someone to take you home.” You don’t make a single sound, only breathing evenly as you keep on sleeping peacefully.
“Pathetic.”
Jongho knows he has no right to do this. To say these words to you. To see you as a slut even though you’ve given him no reason to perceive you as such. But it’s the fact that you want everyone out there.
Everyone else but him.
He doesn’t even think twice before his eyes zero in on where your skirt has lifted enough to offer him a perfect view of your underwear. The light coming from the tv is also doing a good enough job of letting him get a better look.
He shouldn’t. He’s disgusting. He’s cruel. He should feel ashamed.
He flips your skirt up.
The sight of pink lace makes his hands squeeze into fists and his mouth water involuntarily. Pretty, soft, delicate skin. Unmarked. Unclaimed. Right before his eyes.
Jongho is going to either gouge his eyes out or get his hands all over your unconscious body in front of him.
He opts for the latter.
It’s with a cautious move that he lets his palm run down the swell of your ass. Your skin dips ever so slightly underneath the pressure of his touch. The fat springs back into place when his fingertips dig in and out. Jongho bites his bottom lip until he draws blood.
Of course every part of you just has to be pretty and irresistible.
Jongho is positively seething at this point.
“No one deserves you YN,” he mutters lowly, letting his hand trail down to the back of your thigh, digging his fingertips into the plumpness of it firmly enough to make you whine in your sleep and flip over onto your stomach, offering him easy access.
“But i do.”
Jongho hooks his index underneath soft lace. His eyes drift briefly over to your face, before he focuses right back. The anger is still present. It’s finally time, he decides. Time to take what is rightfully his.
He’s waited long enough.
“I deserve this.”
Of course you’re still infinitely pretty everywhere. Even where Jongho’s never seen you before. He stares intently at your pussy that’s completely bare and smooth and inviting enough for him to part and expose your hole with two fingers.
You’re all soft and pink, glistening beautifully before his eyes. He wants to slap his palm right on top of your cunt just so he can punish you for being so perfect even where you’re not supposed to be.
He circles a tentative finger around the tight opening instead.
It’s clear as day why anyone would want to get a taste of you. You’re far better than any of Jongho’s wet dreams. Every time he’s imagined himself with his head buried between your thighs, it didn’t even come close to how good you looked in real life.
“Look at that,” he whispers, scooting closer and using his other hand to keep your panties pushed to the side. “How many cocks got to sink into this sloppy cunt, hm?” he tugs so hard that he thinks he can hear the lace slowly starting to rip in his hold.
“Who did you whore around for before finally getting to me, Y/N?”
Of course you didn’t “get” to him willingly. If you hadn’t passed out drunk on the couch and if Jongho wasn’t such a disgusting pervert, this would’ve probably never happened.
But alas, it did.
And there’s no going back now.
The feeling of moisture against his fingertips takes Jongho aback and it makes his jaw clench. Of course you’re wet from the faintest of touches. Pretty and responsive. Could things get any better?
Jongho’s hand is shoved inside his sweatpants before he even gets to blink twice. He’s uselessly fisting at his cock that is now undeniably hard, knowing that what he needs in order to alleviate the ache is to sink it right into the cunt he’s been ogling at.
Rising up to his feet, he tugs his pants low enough for his dick to spring free and bob into the open air, hot and hard to the touch. His eyes are locked onto your face, watching as you still sleep soundlessly, without a single clue about what’s about to occur next.
His knee props up on the couch cushion right next to your head. With one hand he takes a hold of himself and with the other he smooths your hair off your face, tilting your chin back.
“Pretty girl,” he sighs, circling the tip of his dick around your puckered lips. “All mine. just like you were meant to be.” His head prods at your mouth until it finally opens, lips suckling as if it was a pacifier. Jongho grits his teeth and tries his hardest not to slip his entire length down your throat. He lets you suck gently on the tip and drink up all the precum that’s being offered to you.
“Fucking cock slut. Look at you.” Jongho’s thumb pushes at the corner of your mouth, encouraging you to open it further. “So eager to have something in your mouth even when you sleep.” You whimper weakly, eyelids starting to twitch. Jongho pays it no mind, guiding his dick little by little inside your mouth, engulfing himself in warmth and wetness, making his balls constrict.
The sight of you sleeping so blissfully unaware with your pussy out in the open and your mouth stuffed with cock makes him almost shoot his load right then and there. Before he realizes it, Jongho has slid far enough inside your mouth to make you gurgle. Your eyes flutter open in confusion.
Strings of spit still cling from your lips and onto Jongho’s shaft, the sight utterly obscene. You cough, hand reaching forward to weakly paw at Jongho’s thigh, fingers grasping at the material of his sweatpants.
“What the fuck-“
It takes you a little while to be able to focus enough on the sight in front of you. You blink up weakly. “Jongho?” Your eyes need a few long seconds to adjust to the darkness, but when they do, they look as if they might pop out of their sockets when you take notice of Jongho sitting before you with his dick out in the open, hard and wet with your spit. “W-what’s going on?”
“Go back to sleep, Y/n,” Jongho’s tone was gruff and unwavering. A slight threat.
Your face falls. Your eyes take in the scene in front you much more clearly, face becoming overtaken by fear.
“What are you d-doing?” you ask, trying to scramble back. Jongho is quicker, though. His fingers wrap around your chin in a bruising grip before you can get too far. You stare up at him in pure horror.
“For once, just let me have this,” Jongho grits, watching as your mouth parts, but seemingly not knowing how you should reply.
“Don’t speak.”
“Jongho,” you whisper, squirming uncomfortably and still trying to scoot back when you see him grab a hold of his dripping cock, “Y-you can’t do this.”
“Why not?” Jongho scoffs, leaning in until he’s speaking right in your face. “This is all your fault, you know?” he spits, watching your eyes grow bigger. “You made me like this. Had me running after you like some sick puppy, only to kick me away like a stray every single time. You left me no choice.”
Your bottom lip starts to tremble, a yelp escaping from the back of your throat when Jongho grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you closer until your foreheads press together. “Why don’t you ever look at me?” Jongho asks, hurt evident in his voice. “Why don’t you like me?”
“I-I do like you!” You cry out, trying to pry his hand away with your weaker ones, but it’s to no use.
“Not the way I want you to.” He shakes his head, as though what he’s about to do has been decided long before this moment. The certainty in his expression makes your heart pound with fear. He releases your hair, only to seize the nape of your neck instead, his grip firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.
“Not the way I like you.”
“This is wrong Jongho, please!” You desperately plead, trying to kick your feet, but to no use. It doesn’t deter Jongho in the slightest.
“It is,” Jongho nods his head. He knows it’s wrong. He knows he should stop. But you owe him this. “I’m sorry.”
Before you have the chance to scream, the breath is knocked out of your lungs as Jongho manhandles you, flipping you onto your front. Your skirt is still flipped up, underwear hanging crookedly over your hips. It’s relatively easy for Jongho to reach between your thighs and cup you right on top of where you’re warmest.
“No, stop!” You struggle uselessly, cries getting more frightened by the second as Jongho continues on unbothered. “Jongho, get off, seriously!”
Jongho can tell you’re still drunk. Your movements are sluggish, your speech slightly slurred. You kick your legs weakly and try to scoot away, but you’re far too slow for someone who supposedly doesn’t want this. He uses that as an advantage.
A sharp slap lands against your cunt, making you squeak as your body stills instantly. “Let me have this,” Jongho grits out, anger roughening every word. As though this is somehow your fault. As though you’ve done something to wrong him.“Stop refusing me.”
“Please, please, please…let me go,” You hiccup weakly, trying to shift your hips away, but it’s no use. Jongho is already dragging your underwear down your thighs with one hand, the other holding your hands tightly behind your back.
“Why does everyone get to have you but me?” Jongho asks bitterly, like he can’t make sense of why you insist on denying him. “Look at this,” he scoffs incredulously, running a tentative finger through your folds. “How many people got to have a taste of this cunt before me?”
You gasp wetly, falling stiff as a board, as if all your fight or flight instincts have suddenly left. You can do nothing but breathe heavily as Jongho’s fingers start to run up and down through your parted folds. The first press to your clit has you yelping and trembling, as if a button had been pushed inside of you. Your body reacts against your own will, hole slicking in an instant. When Jongho’s fingertips come back sticky he chuckles darkly.
“Of course you’re wet,” He presses down even more punishingly on your clit, making your legs flail, mouth falling open. “You don’t even want me, yet your little cunny is gushing at the slightest touch.”
A shudder of humiliation goes through you. You think you should definitely be fighting a lot harder than are. Your high pitched mewls are not doing much to help you in your current predicament.
“W-wait, stop,” You gasps at the first hint of a finger near your opening. “Please!” Your pleas fall upon deaf ears as Jongho easily sinks two fingers down to the knuckle. He grunts. You feel snug and warm—like you’re trying to suck him right in.
Jonghos wondered for so long how you would feel inside. He can’t believe the day in which his questions are being answered has finally come. “Fucking tight,” he grunts, fingers scissoring inside your cunt mercilessly, adding another alongside the first two.
It’s a tight fit, but your gushing hole accepts it greedily. “Love your slutty body.” Your hands try weakly to slide out of Jongho’s grip. So weakly it can’t even be considered an actual attempt. Jongho wants to laugh at the futile attempt but he focuses on thrusting his fingers harder instead.
"Could probably break you right in half.” It’s not a lie. You looks so small and fragile underneath him right now. The words, although they don't sound like a genuine threat, are far from false. "Fuck you so hard that you'd ache for days on end."
You sob pitifully, face splotchy with tears and mouth overfilling with spit that dribbles down the corners of your mouth. This already feels like too much and Jongho hasn’t even gotten his dick inside of you yet. “You’d like it too,” Jongho continues to speak. He curls his fingers causing you to release a choked sound. “I know you would.” You try to shake your head no, but your neck aches too much in your position.
“Filthy little slut.”
A whine escapes you when the fingers inside of you suddenly pull out without warning, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing, still wet and throbbing in the chilly air of the room. You take that as a chance and desperately struggle to push yourself up when your arms get released. Jongho is on you in an instant, having climbed up on the couch behind you, hands forcefully holding your hips down. You sob softly as you grip onto the couch arm uselessly, blunt fingernails digging into the velvety material.
The breath gets knocked out of your lungs when you feel something prodding at your entrance. “I’m going to fuck you,” Jongho says without a hint of doubt. No hint of hesitation. Jongho wholeheartedly means what he says and you know that. Which is exactly why you’re absolutely terrified, heart now stuck in your throat.
“N-no, Jongho, please! I’ll do anything! Y-you can take me out—we’ll go on a date, and we can do whatever you want. Please!”You desperately try to reason with him.
On any other day, Jongho might have considered your proposal. He wishes it didn’t have to come to this for you to finally entertain the idea of going on a date with him. Jongho lets out a heavy sigh. “You’d do anything?”
You nod frantically. “Anything!”
Jongho pretends to think it over. He ponders with a hand holding his dick and the other pressing down on the small of your back, keeping you in place.
“Then sit still,” He finally grunts followed by a sharp thrust of his hips. A painful wheeze rips straight out of your lungs when he shoves himself inside your outstretched cunt, bottoming out in one go. Fat tears instantly roll down your already sticky cheeks, your frail body getting jostled forward from the powerful thrust.
“Shit,” Jongho grunts at the same time as you whisper another “please” that goes unanswered. “Always knew you’d have the tightest pussy.”
Your stomach stirs as Jongho begins to pull out, the drag feeling searing against your walls, only to push right back in twice as powerful. You think you see white for a solid moment.
“Oh God,” you moan, gripping tightly onto the couch as you get mercilessly plowed into. The worst part of it all is when it starts to feel good. You can’t deny how deliciously heavy Jongho feels inside of you. How well he’s pounding you right into the couch, making you feel small and helpless underneath him, completely overpowered.
You gush around his cock so much you’re sure you made a puddle underneath yourself. “Mine,” Jongho growls, lowering down enough so he can nip on the back of your neck. “All of you belongs to me, Y/n. This pretty little body of yours,” You cry out when your front gets lifted enough for Jongho to sneak his hands underneath your chest and cup your breasts over your top, “These fat tits,” you positively sob when your bra is pushed down and your perky nipples get exposed to the air of the room, twisted by skillful fingers, “This tight little cunt.” the statement is accompanied by a powerful thrust that you feel all the way in your tummy. “Mine, Mine, Mine. You’re all mine.”
You can do nothing but keep on moaning as you get fucked within an inch of your life, filthy words being continuously grunted in your ear as you unwillingly hurl towards an orgasm, screaming as you cum and let go all around Jongho’s cock.
“God, you really are just the perfect whore,” Jongho’s hips piston into you, making your ass jiggle with every powerful thrust, painfully overstimulating your sensitive hole as he pounds you with purpose. Before you can try to recover, and get a grasp on reality, Jongho is cumming hotly inside of you, making you keen high in your throat as you feel how deep he shoots his load.
You’re unable to do anything else but slump down with a defeated whimper.
“Good, so good. Did so well,” Jongho practically purrs, pressing kisses over your shoulder blades, still holding you down. “I knew you’d like it.”
You want to scream. To tell him that you didn’t like it. That it was wrong. But that would clearly be a lie. The only thing you can do is whine.
“Shh, don’t worry,” Jongho leans forward so he can reach your face, kissing your cheek tenderly. “I’m not done with you yet.”
You lost the power to protest long ago.
Jongho sits behind the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cornflakes when his sister walks into the house at the crack of dawn. She seems surprised to find him awake so early in the morning. Quickly scanning the room, she realizes it’s just the two of them.
“Where’s Y/n?” she asks, furrowing her brows as she tosses her purse onto the couch.
Jongho shrugs. “Dunno.”
She yawns loudly as she clumsily slips off her shoes. “Whatever. I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up.”
Jongho rolls his eyes, but a slight smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. He wouldn’t even dream of it. When the door to his sister’s bedroom shuts loudly, he deems it safe to get up and places his bowl in the sink before retreating to his own room.
The sun has just started to rise, and his room is engulfed in a weak yellow glow.
Jongho thinks there is nothing more beautiful in the world than the sight of you lying in his bed in the warm glow of the sunrise—naked and bruised, completely debauched and cum stained.
“Hi, pretty baby.” He smiles widely as he locks the door behind him. You whine from behind the makeshift gag Jongho tied around your head and shoved inside your mouth. “Guess what?”
You whine weakly as Jongho stalks toward you, carefully climbing onto the bed and hovering above you. When he frees your mouth and lets you catch your breath, he speaks the words you don’t know if you’ve been dreading or somehow excitedly anticipating.
“I get to have you for the whole day.”
You don’t even have time to respond before he’s kissing you again. And again. And then again, until the world around you disappears, until you melt into the mattress and into Jongho’s arms.
Where you belong.
A/N: I’m not happy with this but I couldn’t leave yall hanging. I’ll do better on the next fic I post. Thank you for reading though 🫶🏽
your boyfriends always know what’s wrong. they know how to help you, too. dad bfs!sanhwa x reader.
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! heavy daddy kink & dd/lg dynamics. not ageplay, just extremely parental bfs who treat u like their baby :/ impact play (ass, pussy, thighs), crying, emotional/therapeutic punishment. not rly any smut in this, i’ve just classed it as such bc of the dynamics at play here.
words: 1.6k
based on this drabble.
so!! i thought i had a rq for a fic abt check-ins w sanhwa but it was actually asking for check-ins w someone else :// but i thought id post this anyway since i didn’t even realise i misread it until now when it’s already finished lol. i hope u like it anyway. to the person who sent me the rq, im working on that too!
You’ve been squirmy all day.
They noticed it before you did, as they usually do; at breakfast, on the couch, in their laps, you just couldn’t sit still. Like there was a motor running inside you that you just couldn’t switch off; that kept you moving and fidgeting and would smoke up and overheat when you stayed still for too long.
They dealt with it, at first, as they always do. A simple order, “stop squirming, baby” after confirming nothing was actually wrong with you. Then, when you kept going, a light, painless smack to your thigh, just enough to get your attention. It worked for all of a few minutes before you were fidgeting again.
You don’t know what it is. You’re not uncomfortable, not in any pain, don’t need the bathroom or anything like that.
You’re just unsettled.
San wraps his hand around your wrist just as you try to slip away to your room after dinner. “Nuh uh,” he says, shaking his head. He nods towards Seonghwa, who’s already making his way towards the couch. You see in their faces, the gentle smiles and firm eyes, hints of what's happening now. “Come with us, sweetheart.”
He walks you over to the couch, still clasping your wrist, but he knows—you all know—you’d follow him even without it. The moment San and Seonghwa are in the room, you’re not much more than a lost puppy. Reliant on them and useless and aimless without them.
San sits down and pulls you onto his lap, settling you sideways, facing Seonghwa. He rests a hand on your waist, the other on your thigh, and presses a soft, chaste kiss to the side of your neck.
“We love you, angel,” he says.
Uh oh. A whine slips past your lips before you can stop it; you know what this means. What’s going to happen when he says that, like that, in this position.
You make a noise of protest, weak and see through, and he shakes his head. “I know, baby. It’s not fun for us either. But you know you need it, don’t you?”
“You’re unsettled, sweetheart,” Seonghwa says softly. He grasps your hands in his, stroking the soft skin with his thumbs. “And you haven’t had a check in in a few days. I think it’s time.”
Even if you disagreed, there’s no use arguing.
You don’t make the choices here, with them. You don’t need or want to.
It’s their job, their right to make your choices for you—yours is to obey and listen and trust that they’ll make the right ones. And they always do.
So even though the thought fills you with dread as it always does, you don’t think for a moment that this could be anything less than exactly what you need. You nod, already whimpering a little, and Seonghwa squeezes your hand. “Good girl,” he smiles. “Stand up, honey. You know how we do this.”
You certainly do—bare, always. That’s the rule when you’re with your daddies, when they’re teaching and correcting and disciplining you. You take it bare, because that’s how you learn and it’s what you deserve. Little girls don’t need dignity, they tell you, nor privacy. They just need daddy.
You stand up on shaking legs, pulling your pyjamas off slowly, carefully. San keeps a grip on your waist to steady you until the final item, your little black panties, is placed down on the table and you’re finally as you’re meant to be.
San taps your thigh. “Spread your legs,” he orders. “Let us see that little pussy, hm?”
You shuffle your feet apart, shoulder width, trying to keep your balance. San presses two fingers to your clit, sliding down over your hole, and smiles. “Pretty thing,” he sighs. “Throbbing a little. You excited?”
You whine, shaking your head. Of course you’re not excited—who would be excited to get hit? “N-no, daddy,” you whimper.
He obviously doesn’t believe you; he hums, nodding, then shares a look with Seonghwa. The meaning, though unspoken, is obvious. It’s time.
“Alright, honey.” Seonghwa spreads his legs a little, then taps the thigh closest to San. “You know what to do. Be a good girl now.”
You’re accustomed to it now; you drape yourself over his lap, your butt propped up over his leg and your chest and upper body cradled in San’s lap, just as you always do. You part your legs a little, enough for Seonghwa to cup your pussy gently and run his fingers down your inner thighs.
“We’re gonna do it all over today,” he tells you. “We’re gonna do a nice, thorough job of it so you can be our calm, settled little baby again, okay?”
You nod against San’s lap. He strokes your hair with one hand, the other resting on the back of your neck. “Okay, daddy,” you mumble.
Seonghwa starts on your inner thighs, as he often does. Light, soft smacks, a flick of his wrist, peppering the skin until it’s a light, glowing pink.
A harder smack to the back of your thigh makes you wince, hissing in pain. “Ouch, daddy.”
Seonghwa coos, all sympathy, then hits you harder. “Good girl,” he says. “You know you needed this. Just let it happen, baby.”
He falls into a rhythm; sharp, steady smacks that slowly increase in strength until you’re whimpering with every hit and your skin is hot and tingly beneath his hands. You crane your head around, enough to get a look, and see your thighs are a bright, burning red. Seonghwa’s hand, strong and steady, rests atop one of them, stroking the sensitive skin. The sight of it, the lewdness and the embarrassing childishness of it makes your cunt throb.
You know, too, that he’s not even halfway done. Your check ins are never rushed, never hasty. Thoroughness is the most important thing, and they like to take their time with you.
Seonghwa hums, surveying the marks starting to form on your skin, then speaks softly; a question you’ve heard so many times before. “When does a spanking start, baby?” He asks.
You grunt, squirming, and San tightens his hold on your neck just a little. “When I want it to stop, daddy.”
“And do you?”
“No, daddy.”
“Well then we’d better keep going, hadn’t we?”
”Yeah.”
A quick, sharp slap to your ass, the harshest yet, makes you yelp. Seonghwa squeezes the flesh, a heavy stinging presence to make his displeasure known. “Yeah?” He repeats, mimicking. “Is that how you speak to me, little girl?”
“Yes, daddy,” you correct yourself. “I meant yes daddy, m’sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
“Good girl,” he hums. “Shush, baby, you’re alright. I’m not mad. You’re just a little girl, it’s okay.”
“Give her cunt some attention, Hwa,” San says. “Always settles her down quicker.”
“I will,” Seonghwa replies. “In time. Look at this little butt though, San. No marks at all. We’ve left this too long, haven’t we?”
San clicks his tongue, running his hand across the skin of your ass. “Poor thing.”
“We always start here,” Seonghwa continues. “Always get this nice and red before we move on. So that’s what we’re gonna do.”
San hums, affirmative. “Okay then. Let’s get her settled.”
You love when they talk like that; when they talk like you’re not even there, not part of the conversation, just something they have to do—but still so warm and so cared for, too. So… handled. Nothing more than just a little girl they need to take care of, by whatever means necessary.
You’re not fully conscious of the individual hits as they land; just the sounds of Seonghwa’s hands against your skin and a building, blooming pain.
You don’t know where you are right now, don’t know where your head is at or what you’re really feeling. What you do know is that with every hit, every bite of pain and whispered praise, the weight on your chest is slowly lifting. The tension in your shoulders is easing. With every impact of Seonghwa’s hand on your skin, every mark that forms under his touch, you feel smaller and safer and calmer. You feel theirs.
Then, slowly, the hits slow down then stop. Hands run across your skin, rubbing the pain into your flesh and soothing the bruises where they’re surely forming. You don’t realise you’d started crying until they sit you up, angled slightly to avoid putting pressure on your ass, and San’s thumb swipes across your cheeks, eyes fond. “Look at you,” he coos. “Had a good cry, didn’t you? Such a good girl for us. Did you like that?”
You make a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper. You have nothing to say, nothing you can say except the one little word that, since you met them, has become something of a shelter. “Dad,” you sob.
“Oh honey.” Seonghwa presses a kiss to your forehead, then another, holding you close. “You were so good for us. Such a good little girl. Dad’s got you, sweetheart, let it out.”
“She really needed that,” San says.
“She did,” Seonghwa replies. “I can feel she’s more settled now. Not squirming or fidgeting, just letting me hold her. All she ever needs is a good butt warming and she settles right down, don’t you?”
You don’t reply, head in the clouds, and San laughs. “So small now. Nothing in that head of hers.”
Seonghwa nods, rubbing across your ass soothingly. You sob weakly into his shoulder, and he kisses you again. “Exactly as it should be.”
from the moment you showed up, a last-minute addition to the group just before debut, you were seonghwa’s baby. but you’re not that terrified little fawn anymore—and his feelings for you are far from just protective. by request.
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! this is among the nastiest things i’ve ever written. massive, impossible-to-overstate corruption kink, innocence kink, innocent virgin reader, power imbalance. seonghwa is a creep—implications of non-consensual voyeurism, self-hatred, unhealthy behaviour & attitudes towards you. heavy dubcon—you’re essentially pressured into doing anal. you consent, but you have to be convinced. seonghwa is mean, condescending and manipulative—he uses and abuses the trust you have in him and the care he’s taken of you in order to pressure you into giving him what he wants. please read at your own risk. hate is blocked—i am not your babysitter and you are not a baby. it’s your responsibility to read and consume content that you are comfortable with.
other warnings: unprotected sex, oral sex, deepthroating, anal, dom/sub, mentions of punishment, mean dom hwa, degradation & praise, slight objectification and infantilisation.
words: 8.4k
You were a later addition—practically last minute. Something to make them stand out, they said; something to make people talk.
Ironically enough, talk is one thing you never seemed to do. You seemed to be doing everything you could to make yourself invisible.
For the first few weeks, you hardly said a word. Your eyes were always wide, confused; your lips parted like everything you encountered was new and unfamiliar and terrifying. You kept your hands in fists and the fists in your pockets until someone told you to take them out, and you flinched, even jumped, at the slightest noise.
You were like a little fawn, stumbling around in a big, big world that you weren’t quite sure how to fit into.
But you’re not anymore—and you haven’t been in quite some time. Hell, you’re probably better at this, at the whole fame thing, than he is. You’re a star—his star—and you’ve blossomed so, so beautifully. Sometimes he wishes he was the only one who saw it.
You’re on the couch when he comes home, curled up in a big shirt that hangs off your frame—Mingi’s, he thinks it is—with your legs sticking out the bottom. You’re leaning against Wooyoung, curled into his side and watching intently as he fights his way through the game he’s been playing this week.
“Fuck!” He shouts. He flings himself back a little in frustration, colliding against the couch cushions with a groan and you snort.
“You’re not getting any better at this,” you giggle.
You hum, a little tiredly, then stand up. You stretch your arms out, yawning, and finally catch Seonghwa’s eye; you smile softly, head tilting. “Hi,” you greet, voice soft. “I’m going to bed.”
“So early?” He asks.
“Photoshoot tomorrow,” you reply. “They’re putting me in Elle.”
“Vanity Fair,” Wooyoung corrects. His eyes haven’t moved from the game, still narrowed in focus and you grunt, rolling your eyes.
“Vanity Fair,” you huff. You’re already walking away, your eyes already drooping a little. “I always mix those up. Anyway, night guys.”
“Night,” Wooyoung grunts.
“Goodnight,” Seonghwa says.
He watches as you retreat, down the hall towards your room and disappear through your door.
You’re late to dinner the next day; the photoshoot ran long, you say, but rules are rules which means two extra shots before the drinking games have even started.
That rule was Wooyoung’s idea, of course, and he shoves the little glasses of vodka in your face with glee. “Punishment time,” he grins.
“Seriously,” you huff. “It was work.”
“Drink up.”
“Hongjoong,” you whine.
He raises an eyebrow, faintly amused. “Yeah, baby?” He asks.
“Wooyoung can’t force me to drink,” you say. “Tell him.”
“Wooyoung, you can’t force her to drink.” The sternness in his voice is transparently fake and it makes you snort, rolling your eyes.
“Whatever.” You grab the glasses and down them one by one. Wooyoung whistles. “She’s getting better at drinking.”
“She’s growing up,” Jongho shrugs. He takes a shot of his own before the words can settle.
Seonghwa is silent. Just sits there with his arm around your shoulders, watching you laugh and chat with the others. Tightening his grip a little when Wooyoung gets too close.
He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him lately. He was never like this before—never saw you as anything more than a best friend, a sister.
God, he feels like a pervert for wanting you like this. He practically raised you. You all raised each other, sure, but you were always his baby much more than the others.
“Seonghwa,” Mingi finally says. “What’s up, man? You’re quiet.”
He just shrugs; takes another bite of chicken and washes it down quickly. “Just a quiet day, I guess.”
Hongjoong smiles understandingly at him. It’s much more than he deserves.
You end up back at the house, a little tipsier than you’d intended but still decently sober. The circle you’ve all formed on the floor was accidental, everyone just flopping down on a different spot; it’s no surprise to him, really, given the mood of the group tonight, that a drinking game ensues.
Never have I ever—not their usual one, but certainly interesting. Seonghwa watches quietly, content to observe; he learns a little more about Mingi’s dating history and a lot more than he’d like about Wooyoung’s sexual preferences, but nothing too unusual for them.
Nothing good happens when you drink, Seonghwa’s mother used to say. He goes back and forth on it sometimes.
“Alright, alright.” Jongho is flushed, giggly, but still aware enough to take his turn. “Never have I ever jerked off while another member was in the same room.”
“Like when they didn’t know?” Mingi asks.
“Will that change your answer?”
“It might.”
Jongho rolls his eyes. “Okay. Whether they knew or not.”
Mingi drinks. So does Hongjoong, surprisingly.
Luckily for Seonghwa, he’s not really playing anyway.
You end up in something of a battle with Wooyoung, shooting out questions you already know the answer to just to air each other out; embarrass each other as much as possible.
Right when you think you’ve got him, Wooyoung gets a look on his face like he’s about to say something that can never be taken back.
“Never…” His eyes lock on yours. You raise an eyebrow, challenging. He smiles. “Never have I ever gone down on someone.”
Your smile drops, stumped, and his widens into a grin. Seonghwa curls his shirt tight around his hands.
“Drink up, guys,” Yunho says.
They do.
You don’t.
If Seonghwa clenches his fists any tighter he’s going to break a bone.
“Hm…” It’s San’s turn now; he’s flushed and sweating and completely susceptible to Wooyoung’s whims right now; Seonghwa should have guessed what he was going to say the moment Wooyoung leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Never have I ever…seen a cock? Or a pussy.”
“And it can’t be your own!” Wooyoung adds loudly; San nods, expression serious.
The others drink. You still hold back.
Seonghwa is dizzy. He has to be hallucinating right now. Or you have to be lying.
Yeah, his mother was right. He’ll never doubt her again.
Whatever’s going on in his head must be playing out on his face, too; Hongjoong glances at him concernedly then speaks firmly, with finality. “Alright, guys,” he says. “I think that’s enough. This is getting inappropriate.”
Protests ring out, of course. “Come on,” Wooyoung shouts. “We’re grown. We can talk about sex.”
“That’s not what you were doing,” Seonghwa says sharply, suddenly talkative. His eyes are narrowed in a way that seems to make Wooyoung shrink back a little on instinct. “You were asking questions you knew she couldn’t answer just to make fun of her. You were singling her out, both of you.”
The two have the decency to look a little ashamed, at least, but their eyes still gleam with mischief and something Seonghwa wants positively nothing to do with. He turns to you, curled into Yunho’s side; your eyes are drooping, face flushed and you look a little overwhelmed. Yunho is running his hand up and down your arm the way he’s always done when things are getting too much for you; when you’re starting to drift away from the world and they have to bring you back.
“Come on,” Seonghwa says, just loud enough to get your attention; you look up, lips parted a little and smile softly at him. It takes everything in him not to beam—or to yank you towards him and take you right here. Which he’d never do, of course, but still. “You’re falling asleep, honey, let’s get you to bed.”
You nod. “Yeah,” you mumble. “Sleepy.”
“I’ll take her,” Yunho says quietly.
The sharpness in Seonghwa’s voice takes even him by surprise. “No. Give her to me.”
Yunho’s eyebrow lifts, confused. You roll your eyes and wriggle out of his grip. “Or I can walk,” you suggest.
Jongho giggles from somewhere behind him. Seonghwa blinks. “Right.” Obviously.
“Come with me though,” you say. “In case I…stumble or something.”
Seonghwa takes your hand and walks you out of the room before he can think too much about it.
It’s about halfway up the stairs when he realises you’re sniffling; softly with your head bowed like you’re trying to hide it from him. His heart drops a little; he grabs your chin and tilts it upwards and the second thing he notices are the streaks of tears staining your cheeks.
The first, of course, is your soft, plush lips, pushed out and quivering like a puppy.
His heart stops for a moment—not just because you’re upset, but because you look so, so cute when you cry. So precious.
“Oh baby,” he coos. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I don’t—” You pause, hiccuping, vision bleary. “I just…I feel embarrassed, Hwa, and I made you uncomfortable and—”
“Woah.” He grips your shoulders firmly, unyieldingly. Forcing your eyes on him. “Look at me. You didn’t make me uncomfortable. You didn’t do anything wrong. Stupid game just got out of hand, yeah?”
You blink slowly. Almost dumbly. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Let’s just get you to your room, alright?” He smiles. “You’ll feel better when you’re in your pyjamas.”
He’s right, of course; by the time you’re changed and tucked in the tears have stopped and only your small sniffles and blotchy cheeks give you away.
He knows how you get into your head sometimes; how you take something tiny and feed it until it blooms into something too heavy to hold on your own.
That’s why he’s here. To take it from you and share the weight.
He’d take every burden on earth from you if he could.
“Are you still feeling embarrassed?” He asks. He’d really like to fill the silence right about now.
“Yeah, a little,” you admit. “Wooyoung and San— they’re not…”
“I know,” he nods. “I’m sorry about them, baby. They don’t know how to control themselves. Especially not when they’re drinking.”
“No, it—” you hiccup softly, cutting yourself off halfway through your sentence and you lose your train of thought for a moment; he doesn’t rush you, though—patient as he always is. You clear your throat. “It’s fine, Hwa, I— I shouldn’t have answered.”
“They shouldn’t have asked. That game was stupid and they were being cruel. Don’t worry your little head about it.”
You nod, not really believing him, but on some more logical level you know it’s only because you’ve been drinking that you’re even upset at all, so you try to let it rest for now. When you wake up tomorrow you might not even remember this.
It’s quiet for a moment. Seonghwa’s stare feels heavier, more piercing than before. His voice is quiet, a little stunned. “You’ve really never sucked cock, huh?”
“Um.” You feel the heat flooding your cheeks and you cast your eyes downwards. As though you’re ashamed, for some reason. “Yeah, I haven’t.”
“Never even touched one.” He looks like he can’t believe it, doesn’t know if he should but so desperately wants to; like he’s stunned and relieved and delighted all at once.
What you’re not sure of is why he even cares; why your sexual experience even matters to him.
Or why the way he’s staring at you makes you feel so…small.
“Um.” You have nothing to say, really, but the weight of his gaze, of the silence and the tension he’s let build as he stares you down, was becoming too much to bear. “Is it bad?”
“That you haven’t sucked cock?” He asks. You nod. His smile is a little kinder now; fonder like it’s always been. But not quite. “No, baby,” he says. “It’s good, actually.”
You don’t know why, really—but it doesn’t feel like it’s good. The way he’d asked you so surprised, the way he’d talked about it like it’s something you should have done already—you feel a little stupid. Childish. Like he’s trying not to laugh at you.
“I don’t…”
He watches you closely for a second. You feel scrutinised. The words are tumbling from his mouth before either of you can stop them.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. His voice is quiet; careful. “Do you want to?”
It’s silent for a moment; thick and heavy and stunned—then he gasps, eyes widening, like he’s woken up from a trance.
“Fuck,” he curses. He stands up, sharp and sudden like he’s touched something hot and scalding and is fleeing from the burn.
He stares at you in horror like the burn’s followed him and seared into his skin.
“Baby, I’m sorry. That was so inappropriate. Forget I said that, okay? Just go to sleep.”
“Seonghwa, I—”
“I said go to sleep.” His voice is firm, hardened at the edges and it feels like ice against your skin. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he’s leaving your room so hurriedly it feels like fleeing.
The next day is weird. Seonghwa avoids eye contact all through breakfast; you feel him staring at you, see it from the corner of your eye, but when you try to meet his gaze he quickly looks somewhere else. He eats quicker than usual, washes up quieter than usual, and rushes from the table the moment he’s done.
Mingi watches him flee with raised eyebrows. “What’s going on with him?”
You shrug. Somehow it feels like you’re the last person Seonghwa would ever tell.
It bothers you a little for the rest of the day; not quite on your mind but certainly not off of it. Just lingering somewhere in the middle—the confusion, the worry, the wondering if and how this can be fixed.
That’s not your only problem, either. Another thing you’ve noticed today is that you’re so, so horny. More than you’ve ever been. You can’t stop thinking about what Seonghwa had said; the way he’d looked at you, almost trance-like in the brief moment before he snapped out of it.
You’re never felt so… small. So scrutinised. So electric.
You usually don’t touch yourself very often. Once a week, maybe, but often not even that. You tend to go through phases of it; back and forth between insatiable and practically impotent.
Recently, you’d thought, you’d been more like impotent. Yet by the time you finally manage to break away from the others and sneak up to bed you’re practically buzzing, a vibration under your skin you can’t turn off or satiate. Hell, the moment you open the door and see your bed you all but lunge at it, flinging yourself towards it with frantic, desperate hands in your pants.
You’re so desperate you don’t even think to lock the door behind you.
You settle on your back, hand tucked into your panties, playing with your clit and teasing your hole. You’re not doing much, but when you’re this pent up you don’t need much. Soon enough you’re biting your other hand to keep yourself quiet, a failed attempt to quell the moans and cries that ring out despite your efforts, and you’ve squirmed your shorts and panties halfway down your thighs. Your thin blanket is tangled around your knees and your eyes are closed—head thrown back against the pillow.
You don’t hear the footsteps out in the hall—nor the turning of the handle and the door creeping open.
The first thing you hear is Seonghwa’s voice, low and urgent.
“Sweetheart, are you—fuck.”
Your eyes snap open. Seonghwa is standing in the doorway, hand still curled around the handle, staring open mouthed and stunned at you—at your pussy, wet and exposed and stuffed full of your fingers.
You shriek, diving under the covers and trying desperately to cover yourself but you know it’s too late—you know he’s seen it all. Your pussy, your wetness, your fingers disappearing into the warmth. Your legs shaking and your mouth hanging open with pleasure.
He’s seen all of it. You’ve never felt more mortified.
But when you look up again, finally meeting his eyes, your face burning with shame—he doesn’t look bothered at all. Not embarrassed, not uncomfortable—completely neutral. Unaffected. It somehow makes you feel even more humiliated.
“Hwa,” you groan. “Fuck, why didn’t you—”
“Why didn’t I knock?” His voice is calm and level as he cuts you off and you nod miserably. “Because I’ve never heard you cry out like that, baby. I thought you were getting hurt.”
You pause. “Hurt?”
His lips stretch into a soft smile; it’s warm, gentle, familiar but the tension in the air is thick and unchanging and completely new. Heavier than anything you’ve felt before. “You sounded like you were in pain, sweetheart. I had to make sure you’re alright, didn’t I? Can’t have my little girl getting hurt.”
My little girl. The whimper you let out takes you both by surprise.
It’s not like he’s never called you that; he always has, in fact, since the first days as trainees when he’d fret and worry over your every movement, always paranoid you were going to get hurt somehow. It’s just another expression of his love for you, of the protectiveness and the responsibility he’s always felt for you.
So why, now, does it sound so different?
My little girl. With the way he’s looking at you now, it feels more like a claim than an endearment.
You watch in shameful silence as his gaze moves across your covered body; the thin sheet only barely separating him from your nakedness. He takes another step inside, pulling the door closed behind him. The soft click of the lock might somehow be the loudest sound you’ve heard in your life.
And maybe it’s just because he’s so often next to Yunho and Mingi, or because you already feel so small and ashamed and scrutinised in his presence right now—but Seonghwa has never, in all the time you’ve known him, seemed so imposing. So large and enveloping and dwarfing you completely.
He’s also, somehow, never looked so attractive. His veins are pulsing, jaw clenched and there’s a look in his eyes that sparks something deep within you; something unknown and forbidden and tantalising.
He comes to sit next to you, on the edge of the sheet you’re still clutching to the top of your chest like a shield. Up close now, he looks as gentle as ever, the intensity of before dissipating almost entirely.
Still lingering, though. Just under the surface.
“Move the sheet,” he says softly. “Show me what you were doing.”
You blank; whatever you thought he was going to say, it certainly wasn’t that—certainly not so directly, either. You curl the sheets tighter around your fists, frozen in place and he smiles, all fondness. “You don’t need to hide from me, bunny.”
Fuck. Bunny? “I…”
“Hm?”
You pause, hesitating, then whimper before you can help it. You just feel so small now—so helpless and vulnerable. “Hwa…”
“I just want to help you, baby,” he coos. “I want to make you feel better. Don’t you trust me?”
Of course you do. You trust Seonghwa implicitly—you’d trust him with your life without second thought.
But this? Would you—do you trust him with this?
Only when he starts to move do you realise he wasn’t actually asking for your permission.
“Here, now.” He pulls the sheet down slowly, exposing your skin inch by inch; a careful, gentle pace, like you’re a tiny creature he’s trying not to spook. “Let me have a look, yeah? I can help you make it better.”
“How?”
“I know how the body works,” he says. “I know how pleasure works. How to find it. Have you ever made yourself cum?”
You blink slowly. “No.”
“Of course you haven’t.” He smiles, gaze flickering up to you; by now he’s pulled the blanket back down to where it was, your pussy bare again, but with him talking to you like that you hadn’t even noticed. Huh.
“Do you want me to help you?”
“You really think you can?”
“I know I can,” he says. “I’m grown enough to make a girl feel good. Are you grown enough to take it?”
“Of course,” you nod.
“Take these off, then,” he fingers at the band of your panties, bunched around your thighs. “You don’t need them. It’s easier if you’re bare.”
“Okay.” You slide them down and off, flushing a little. He watches silently as you obey his instruction.
“Good,” he says. “Now spread your legs.”
You do. Already your thighs are sticky, a string of your juices sticking between them when they separate. Seonghwa’s breath hitches.
“Show me how you were doing it,” he says, a little raspy. “How you please yourself.”
You do it like you were doing it before; two fingers stuffed inside, pushing in and out while your thumb rubs at your clit. He watches you for a moment, maybe a few, enough to get a feel for it, then his lips curl.
“Oh sweetheart.” The words are purred; predatory and his tongue pokes against his cheek like he’s trying to restrain himself. “You have no idea, do you?”
“I…”
“Take your fingers out.”
You do. He sighs. “You’re helpless, baby,” he chuckles. “Stuffing your cunt, fucking it back and forth like you’re trying to dilate yourself or something. What are you doing touching yourself like that, hm? So dirty.”
“Dirty?” You repeat.
“That’s not how a good girl fucks herself,” he says. “Here, I’ll teach you.”
You know you’re well past the point of no return by now, but something about those words has your heart dropping like he’s just pulled out a gun and told you to fire. “What?” You squeak. “Teach me?”
“Yes, teach you. Will you let me?”
It takes you an embarrassingly short amount of time to consider it. Not much thinking you can do right now anyway, though, when the only word your brain can string together enough to be decipherable is Seonghwa.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’ll let you.”
You sort of expect him to start finger fucking you outright—instead, before he even touches you there, you find yourself on your knees on your bedroom floor, staring up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.
The first thing you needed to learn, apparently, is how to make him feel good. Good girls earn their pleasure, he says.
“Have you thought about sucking dick before?” He asks. “Read anything about it?”
You shake your head.
“Didn’t think so.” He laughs a little, light. “Okay, you start with the belt.”
“The belt?”
He lifts the bottom of his t-shirt up a little, enough to get a peek of black leather. “Here,” he says quietly. “Put your hands on my belt, baby, that’s it. See the buckle?”
It takes you a moment to realise he’s asking you a question now; he nudges your cheek with his finger, neither tender nor chiding and you stare confusedly at him for a second before your brain finally catches up. “Yes,” you whisper. “I— I see it, Hwa.”
“Good girl. Do you think you can undo it for me?”
”Undo?” Your lips are parted slightly; a tiny ‘o’ shape that would be just big enough for him to slip a finger in between them and you’re a delectable sight if he’s ever seen one.
He has other intentions for you now, though. He’ll have time to savour you later.
“Yes,” he smiles. “Don’t you want my cock, honey?”
Oh. Right. “Yeah.”
“Take it out, then,” he says. “Don’t keep me waiting.” There’s a firmer edge to his voice now, like when you’re acting up at practice or a schedule and he has to bring you to heel. On instinct you almost bow your head like you’re being scolded but you catch yourself before you do—you don’t need to do that. You haven’t been bad; the opposite, actually—you’re being good. Seonghwa is teaching you to be good.
You reach for his belt with shaking hands and your nerves are multiplying by the second as you carefully undo the buckle and pull it open. You look up at him again with wide eyes; a vision of innocence and the sight makes him gulp. He doesn’t know how or why he held back for so long.
But he’s sure as hell not going to do that now.
“Unzip my pants,” he grunts. “Pull my cock out, honey. Don’t run from it.”
You obey; you fumble with the button for a moment, then comes the zip, then his underwear, dark gray and tight and already stained with precum.
His dick is thick and long and heavy, half-hard and leaking from the angry red tip. “Hold it,” he grunts. “Put your hands on it.”
“Okay,” you squeak; nerves are seeping into your voice already but it only seems to make him harder. You wrap your fist around it, holding it tight and still; you’re not sure if you’re meant to move it, or stroke it, but he seems satisfied with this. With the sight of you on your knees, hands on his dick and looking at it like it’s the scariest thing you’ve seen in your life.
His eyes are wide; pupils blown. He looks crazed.
“Oh wow,” he breathes. “Look at my cock in your little hands, baby. Looks so big, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” you whimper. It does. He groans, loud and affected and his dick pulses in your palm.
“Gonna love fitting it in you, baby,” he says. “You’re gonna feel so full. Not yet, though.”
You blink. “Not yet?”
“No,” he smiles. “You haven’t earned it yet, have you?”
Earned it. You have to earn it? You frown, brows creasing and he clicks his tongue. “You really know nothing, do you?” He sighs. He grabs your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your head upwards a little more. “Little girls have to earn their dick, baby. It’s a privilege. You need to show me you can be good for me. Then maybe I’ll see fit to give it to you.”
Oh. That makes sense. Be good for him—you can be good for him. You always are. You nod, a little dazedly. “Okay, Hwa.”
“Such a good girl,” he smiles. “I raised you well. Can you try touching it a little, sweetheart?”
“I am.”
“Not like that,” he laughs. “Move your hand a little, up and down. Squeeze it.”
“Oh,” you say. “I…okay. I can try.”
“Good. You need to get used to playing with cock, baby.”
You move slowly, up and down his shaft with a little bit of pressure. It seems to work; he makes a noise of pleasure, eyes closing for a moment before he gets ahold of himself and they’re back on you; watching you, monitoring you like a teacher and student.
Which you are, in a way. He’s definitely teaching you something.
“That’s it,” he says. ”Get used to touching it. To tasting it, too. Give it a lick, love, right around the tip.”
The nice thing about Seonghwa is that he is, has always been, exceptionally clean. You’ve rarely seen him dirty; even when he’s sweating and exhausted after a concert, he always smells…well. He always smells clean. He smells…Seonghwa.
His cock is no different; the skin is tasteless, just the soft scent of his body wash and the salty precum leaking from the tip. It’s hot on your tongue, not a taste you’ve ever experienced before, but it's not…bad, per se. It just tastes like him. Seonghwa, with a little bit of a bite.
“You like it?” He coos. “Tastes good, baby? It’s just for you.”
“Yeah,” you mumble. “Mmf…”
He laughs, stroking your hair softly; tenderly. God you’re pretty. Such a perfect picture of innocence. “There’s a good girl,” he smiles. “Take it in now. Put your mouth on it properly, that’s it.”
When you reach the base, his tip pressing into your throat enough to sting, he cups the back of your head with just enough strength to hold you there. You choke, eyes welling, and he grunts and pushes deeper. “Take it,” he hisses. “All the fucking way.”
You don’t need to suck him for too long—just the image of you down there, on your knees for him, your mouth stuffed full and struggling to accommodate you as you gag and splutter around his cock is enough to have him on the edge of breaking.
You’re so useless. So helpless. You look so dumb and— and innocent. Like everything he’s spent the last few months trying to convince himself he didn’t desire.
“You look pretty like this,” he murmurs. “You look empty.”
You whine, muffled around him, and he groans. “Shit, I won’t last like this,” he mutters. “Okay, fuck.”
He pulls out quickly, without warning; you stare up at him confused and he laughs, poking at your cheek. “Little baby,” he smiles. “C’mon, on the bed. I’ve got you.”
He helps you up, practically lifting you over to the bed and lying you down on it. He pulls your legs apart, the skin already sticky and glistening, and crawls between them. Your pussy is dripping; trails of your wetness cascading down your thighs. He has to close his eyes and take a long, deep breath to stop himself from cumming just at the sight of it.
He starts with a thumb on your clit. A little pressure, then a little more. You’re wet enough already that he can slip two fingers into your hole outright; your walls are tight around him, almost clinging as he starts to move in and out.
“You do it like this,” he says. “Tease your clit and fuck your cunt at the same time. But…” He pulls his fingers out, again without warning, and shuffles closer, rubbing his tip against your entrance. You gasp, tensing, and he grips your hip with his other hand.
“You don’t need to know how to do it,” he continues. “Not when I’m here. You don't need pleasure from anyone except me.”
He doesn’t wait for your response; just angles his tip with your hole and starts to slowly push in. You cry out, legs tensing, but your pussy is sucking him in so eagerly you’d think you were the one who’d pushed for this.
“I can feel how desperate you are,” he grunts. “Tiny virgin hole and it’s still sucking me in so easily. You’re so easy for me, aren’t you baby?”
You blink. “What?” You ask. “Easy?”
“Yeah,” he coos. “You want this even more than I do. You’ve been begging for this.”
He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to get all the way in; by the time he bottoms out your already small, squeaked responses have devolved into incoherent babble; pretty little noises that feel like honey in his ears.
Seonghwa is very far from a virgin—but this feels like losing himself all over again. And when he starts to move the thrusts are as desperate and uncontrolled and sloppy as if he were completely inexperienced.
You make him feel like it, though; the way you feel around him and the way you’re looking at him as he fucks you open is something he’s never experienced. It makes all the other times he’s sunk himself into a warm, wet cunt feel as exciting as fucking his fist alone in his room like a teenager.
He feels like he’s lost in it, time pausing and hurrying simultaneously—he’s not really aware of anything but the feeling of your cunt and the softness of your skin until you sniffle loudly, whining, your hands tugging at his undone belt and trying to get his attention.
“H-Hwa,” you whimper. He hums in acknowledgment, glancing up at your tear-streaked face and you sniffle again, legs tensing. “It hurts.”
“It hurts?” He repeats. “How, baby?”
“Feels— ah, feels tired now. My— my thing is.” Even as you sob between each word he doesn’t stop fucking you; he hits your spot halfway through the sentence, making you cry out and his breath hitches at the sound. “Feels too…too full.”
“Too full?”
“My hole,” you squeak. “Hole hurts.”
His face softens, pace slowing down. “Oh darling. You should’ve told me, you know Hwa would never hurt his little girl. Why don’t we do something different, hm?”
“Different?”
“Yes, honey. We don’t wanna break that little pussy of yours, do we? You’re still learning, gotta be careful with you.”
“Right,” you mumble. “Don’t wanna break it.”
“Mhm. So why don’t we give it a rest and play with your other hole?”
”My other hole,” you repeat. He nods, raising an eyebrow; you swallow. Nerves flutter in your stomach, creeping up the bottom of your spine. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” He asks. His hand finds your thigh and wraps around it tightly; enough to make you notice without cutting off the blood. “What don’t you know?”
“If I want that.”
“Don’t be silly,” he grins, “of course you want that. You said you wanted me to take care of you; this is how I’m going to do it.”
There’s no give in his voice; no room for discussion in his words. Still he sees the nerves and the hesitation on your face, the flicker of doubt in your eyes, and wants to take it away. He only wants pleasure on your face. Not anxiety, not uncertainty—just ecstasy.
If you can accept it, accept him, he can give you everything.
He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. He feels your body tense beneath him like you’re scared you’ve disappointed him and he resists the urge to smile. “I told you I’d take care of you,” he says. He pushes a strand of sweat-soaked hair out of your face, the touch tender and feather-light compared to the firm, punishing grip his other hand maintains on your thigh. “Haven’t I always done that? You’ve always looked up to me, baby, always trusted me to know what’s best for you.”
It’s true. From the moment you joined the company, alone in a foreign country without your parents, Seonghwa took you under his wing; they all did, really, but it was him in particular that seemed to view it as a personal responsibility. And he’s never led you wrong—so why would he start now?
“C’mon, honey,” he mumbles. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Your voice is barely a whisper but the answer is immediate; instinctual and the proud smile that stretches over his face fills you with warmth. He must see the nerves on yours, the tension in your small frame as he hovers over you because he cups your cheek in his hand; a means of silent reassurance he’s used on you since your trainee days. Never like this, though.
“It’s for your own good, baby,” he says. His voice is soft and gentle now; condescending, almost—like he’s talking to a child or a pet rather than his own fully grown group member. “Little girls need to learn to take it in all their holes. Especially my little girl. You do want to be mine, don’t you?”
You do. You really, really do. But this… Can you do this?
He nudges his head a little closer to yours, enough to feel his breath against your hot, flushed skin and his voice has dropped to barely even a whisper. “C’mon, trust me. I know you can do it.”
He sees the hesitation on your face as clearly as the desire in your eyes. You’re on the edge now, he can feel it; so is he. It’s up to you which of you snaps first.
He sighs, shaking his head like you’ve disappointed him.
“Do you not want to be a good girl?” There’s a stern, almost scolding undertone to his voice now that makes your breath stutter. “A good girl would listen to her elder, no? She’d give him what he wants, what he decides she needs. Are you a good girl or not?”
“I am.” Just the implication makes you whine unconsciously—he’s always called you that, right from the very first time you joined their practice sessions and nailed a dance move on the first go. It sounds so earnest and sweet from his mouth that you’ve come to anticipate and cling to it like a lifeline—and the idea of going without it feels like a condemnation of the worst kind. “I’m a good girl, Hwa, I am.”
“Then you should listen to Hwa, baby. You know he knows what’s best for you, don’t you? He’d never hurt you.”
“I know.” You nod. “I just…”
He hums, noncommittal and his voice softens for a moment. “I gave you a safeword, bunny. So either use it or turn over.”
Your head is a mess of thoughts and wants and anxiety but there’s one thing you know for certain—you don’t want to use your safeword. You want to make Hwa happy, to prove to him you’re a good girl who can follow his directions. And…well, you really, really want him in your ass now, however shameful or uncomfortable it may be. In a couple of minutes the thought of it has blossomed from the strange and wrong and terrifying idea it once was to something thrilling and tantalising. You want him to take and possess you in every way possible; to leave no part of your body untouched and vulnerable to be claimed by someone else. No, it has to be him. His.
He’s quiet for a second, watching the gears in your head spin; the puffing of your wet lips into that little pout of yours that you’ve used on him since you were trainees. “Poor little thing,” he coos. “You’re so repressed you can’t even admit what you want. Have to be forced, huh?”
You can’t even bring yourself to nod but the heat that floods your cheeks says everything. You’re many things, but apparently subtle is not one of them and Seonghwa of all people can read you like an open book. “Mhm,” he smiles. “Don’t worry, honey, you’ll get what you need, I’ll make you take it. Hold still, precious.”
He pulls out suddenly and the loss is unexpected and profound; without the heavy thrusts he’d been delivering you’d honestly forgotten he was still inside you until he wasn’t, and the emptiness makes your eyes well up with desperate tears. He just smiles softly, cooing and hushing you as he turns you over onto your front.
The feeling of his hand running down your back makes you shiver, skin tingling in anticipation and he chuckles deeply, darkly. “Eager, huh?” He whispers. “I knew you wanted it. Let’s see those little holes, yeah?”
He doesn’t wait for your response before pulling your cheeks apart to expose you fully to him and he makes a noise of satisfaction, running his finger gently across the sensitive skin; when it grazes over your hole you jump a little, squeaking in surprise and he hums, sounding pleased. “So sensitive,” he mumbles. “Have you ever played with this hole before?”
“No.”
His breath is sucked in, caught briefly in his chest before he clears his throat and the cool, mocking demeanour returns as he rubs at you lazily. “Course you haven’t,” he purrs. “That’d be dirty, wouldn’t it? You’d never do something so shameful.”
The finger leaves you for a second and you hear a quiet, wet pop sound before it returns, wetter now and easing its way inside. You grimace, squeezing your eyes shut as you adjust to the sensation but he’s gentle enough that it’s strange more than it’s painful. He begins to move his finger slowly, experimentally, noting the small reactions you have to each movement. “I’ll give you another now,” he mumbles. The second finger hurts a little more but it’s still bearable, and his soft voice as he encourages you allows you some distraction.
After the third finger, you feel him reaching over for something, fingers pulled out and then something large and wet and cold is pressing against you. You whine confusedly and he hushes you, patting your butt fondly. “I’m gonna fuck you now, baby,” he whispers. “I was generous and put some lube on my dick so it’s not as hard on your little virgin hole, but you gotta be brave for me, alright? It’s gonna hurt.”
You nod, burying your head in the pillow and curling the soft blanket around your clenched fists; a small outlet for the tension and intrusion filling you as he pushes himself in. “Good,” he says. “Almost there. Good baby.”
“Hwa,” you gasp. You clench your teeth, limbs taut as you try to withstand the painful intrusion. “Hwa, I don’t—”
“You’ve got it, baby,” he coos. “Such a good little girl letting me do this. So brave. Just hold on a little longer, it’ll feel good soon.”
“But—”
“No buts.” His voice is colder now; firm again. “Am I gonna have to pull out and spank you instead?”
You whine, shaking your head; you can do it, and as much as the thought of Seonghwa actually hurting you makes your stomach pulse for some reason, right now you just want to please him. “No, Hwa. I’ll be good.”
“That’s right,” he smiles. “You will. Just how I taught you to.
He goes slowly, pushing into you carefully. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “Deep breaths, nice and slow. I’m almost there.”
You feel the moment he does it; at the last stretch he grabs your waist and tugs you sharply backwards, your hips colliding with him; the sound of skin slapping together, your moaning and his somehow feels dirtier than what you’re actually doing.
“There we go,” he groans. “How does it feel, baby?”
“I…” You trail off, struggling to find the words because honestly you don’t know how it feels. It feels… stretched? It’s harder to take him in here than it ever was to take him in your pussy, and it still borders on painful even before he starts to move. But the pain as he does so is somehow pleasant—the feeling of being held under firm hands as he fucks you open; the satisfaction of knowing you’re doing well and being a good girl for him just like he told you to. He’s spitting filthy praises as his movements quicken and it pushes the pain to the back of your mind. You’re being good for him; taking it like a fucking champ. That’s what matters.
You feel the warmth of his body hovering over yours, wet lips kissing hungrily at the back of your neck and down your spine. He sucks a harsh bruise into your lower back, making you squirm and you feel his lips curling into a smile against your skin before he lifts himself back up to fuck you properly.
“Christ,” he grunts. A slender finger presses against your clit, just firm enough to be noticeable above the haze before both hands reach to spread your cheeks even further. “Look at you, baby,” he whispers. “Pretty little hole is clenching around my cock. You love it, don’t you?”
You try to get the words out but they’re caught in your throat. “I- I–”
His hand crashes down against your cheek before you can finish. “You love it,” he says, and he’s not asking anymore. “Stop lying to me. You love being my whore. Say it.”
“I love being your whore,” you whimper.
He hits you again in the same spot, harder this time and you cry out. “Louder,” he hisses.
You try to raise your voice, forcing the words out around the rawness in your throat that still feels stretched from the memory of his cock forced to the back of it. “I love being your whore,” you sob. “I love it Hwa, please.”
“Fuck,” he grunts. His hips buck, unsteady for a moment and the weight of his hands on your hips grows heavier. “Yeah, shit. My baby whore with my dick in her tight little asshole. You take it so fucking well, don’t you?”
“Have to,” you say. “Have to— have to do it.”
“That’s right,” he coos. “You don’t have a choice. I make the choices here. Say it.”
“You make the choices,” you cry. “Hwa— you choose. I don’t.”
“I’m gonna slut you out, little girl,” he growls. “I’m gonna train you to go dumb on this dick every fucking time. You want that?”
“I— yes— want.”
“Good,” he says. “Cause there’s no going back now. What I’m doing to you—you can’t get that back. Doesn’t matter what you do— you’ll never get it back.”
“Fuck,” you squeal. His hands snake around your waist to cup your tummy and he groans, hips bucking.
“I’m in here, baby,” he croons. “I’m all stuffed in your tummy here. Can’t believe you used to be so pure. Can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner. We could’ve been having so much fun. You could be so well trained by now.”
“I can,” you whine. Your head is a mess now, only sensation, but what little thoughts you do have revolve entirely around pleasing Seonghwa; being good for Seonghwa; Seonghwa.
“I know,” he smiles. “You will, baby. You’re gonna be so good for me, and I’m gonna take care of you. All the care you need.”
“Please.”
Fuck. God. He can’t even see your face right now and yet he knows exactly what it looks like—pictures the glazed, empty eyes, your parted lips, your mouth open a little like you’ve forgotten how to close it. Fucked out, is what you look like. You sound like it, too—those little whimpers turned to gasps and screams then back again as he fucks you open; the desperate noises and slurring, garbled words he scarcely understands.
It’s like he’s fucked your brain right out of your head. Maybe it fell out of your stretched, open asshole. He hopes it did.
Fuck, Seonghwa has never felt more powerful than he does now. Even during shows, he's never felt adrenaline like this. Never felt a rush or a high like this.
It’s a wonder he didn’t cum the moment he pushed himself past your tight rim. If he had even a little less self control his seed would be dripping out of your hole and onto the sheets already by now.
“You know how helpless you look right now?” He asks. “You look so small and weak underneath me. Fuck, you know how many creeps out there would jump at an innocent thing like you? They’d do anything for the chance to sink their claws into you like this.”
Creeps like me, he thinks. Not just shame but arousal, a sick kind of thrill, crawls through him at the realisation that right now, like this, Seonghwa is everything he’s spent years warning you about.
Just the way your asshole is squeezing his dick like you’re trying to suck the life out of him is enough to make it feel worth it. Worth throwing away reason and rationale and morality if it means he can have you like this.
He grunts, pushing deeper and making you squeal. “I should’ve done this a long time ago,” he gruffs. You’ve practically gone limp beneath him, but he can tell from your little noises, and the reactions of your body to each thrust, that you’re still awake. Good—he’s not done with you yet. “It’s not safe for a pretty thing like you to still be so naive. Need to know what men want from you, what they think of you.”
“Ah,” you grunt. Your legs are shaking now, thighs clenching and unclenching like your body is buckling under the weight of pleasure. You look a mess—you look broken. “Seonghw—ngh.”
“I know,” he huffs. “I know it feels good. Feels a lot. I’m just—fuck—I’m just showing you how the world works, baby. M’just doing my job. You’re taking it so well, letting me use you like this. You love it?”
“Love it,” you say. Your voice is muffled now, like you’ve bitten down on the pillow; looking for release, maybe, or an outlet.
“I know you do.”
He speeds up, tightening his grip on you and pushing deeper, making you choke, pressing your head into the pillow. He puts his hand on the back of your head to push you down against it harder.
“You should be thanking me,” he says. “Thank me for fucking your ass, honey. Thank me for doing the right thing and turning you into my whore before someone else can.”
“Thank you.” Your voice is hollow and hoarse; high-pitched, desperate, spent. “Thank you, Hwa, for— for making me your whore. For protecting me.”
Your voice breaks, cracks on the final word.
For a moment, just a moment, Seonghwa swears he exists outside of his body.
His eyes squeeze shut, overwhelmed, and he sees you—behind his eyes, on your knees, staring up at him. Naked, legs spread, a leather collar tight on your neck atop bruised skin—red, purple marks from beneath your chin to the top of your collarbones.
Marks he put there. He knows that from the way you look at him with a flicker of fear in your eyes. Fear and adoration. Worship and possession—like he’s your saviour and your desecrator all at once.
There’s a loud, sharp cry that sounds like you, but your mouth is closed. You wince, and he watches the bruised skin of your neck pulsing when you swallow.
Fuck. Is he really so high on you he’s having visions of all the fucked up things he wants to do to you?
He’s already close—the idea of having you collared and bruised at his hands is about to send him over the edge.
His body seems to work of its own accord—in a split second he pulls out and turns you over onto your back, so he can look right into your eyes as he grabs your face and tugs it forwards.
He comes undone in all of a second. Ropes of cum land on your face, your chest, in your open mouth. He’s not aiming anywhere in particular—he just wants to see you covered.
To see you defiled.
It feels like the final step in a plan he didn’t know he’d been writing. There’s something almost ritualistic about it.
You’re smiling, grinning, like you’re high on the ecstasy of it and never want to come down.
A single tear rolls down your face. He catches it on his tongue at the bottom of your chin.
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! this contains heavy ddlg. sanhwa act like your dads and treat you like their baby—infantilisation and dumbification are heavy themes. there are sexual elements to this which could be read as ageplay, but i wouldn’t say you specifically act like a child—just very ditzy and innocent and sweet for them. please be warned that it could read that way though! this is more about the ‘dd’ than the ‘lg’—their caring and paternal relationship with you, both the sexual and non-sexual sides. you’re actively infantilised and dumbified while engaged in sexual contact with them. they’re referred to as your dads within the sexual context. also—punishments, rules, light dollification, spanking including on your pussy and asshole, oral fixation, thumb finger & cock sucking, use of pacifier as a gag, mention of a breeding and pregnancy kink, use of ‘little girl, tiny’ etc.
hate is blocked. you are responsible for the content you consume—i’m not your babysitter. please read with caution as this is intense and heavy. this does not represent sanhwa nor my perception of them in any way—it’s an alternate universe and 100% fantasy.
dad bfs!sanhwa are the definition of nurturing. they’re so soft for you—from the moment they saw you (or ‘found you’ as they like to put it—like you were simply lost and wandering by yourself until they stumbled across you) all alone and pretty and perfect, you’ve melted even the harshest, coldest parts of them. they wouldn’t say there were all that many to begin with—still, you’ve softened them in ways they hadn’t thought possible.
san and seonghwa have always liked small, cute things—weak, helpless things; things that would be all too easy to break. not because they want to break them, but because they want to make sure no one ever does. they just like the idea of protecting someone. caring for them. shouldering responsibility for someone who just isn’t strong enough to shoulder it themselves.
truth be told, they do like to break you on occasion; just a little, enough to make your eyes water and lips tremble and your body shake and squirm helplessly in their grips. and only because you’re so soft and sweet and perfect when they put you back together again.
for them, the pleasure of breaking you is just as much in the rebuild.
ask either of them for their idea of heaven, and they’d say the same thing—with you curled up between them, your head cradled against san’s chest and your legs curled up in seonghwa’s laps. lips puffy and pouty, faint tear tracks still on your face, your lashes still damp with tears. whimpering in your sleep when something brushes against the sensitive skin of your ass and thighs.
dad bfs!sanhwa rarely have to punish you—thought they’d be the first to admit they’d probably end up being a little too soft on you to do it even if you did start misbehaving. you’ve mastered the puppy eyes and they’ve done nothing but coo and praise and encourage you. not their fault you’re so cute. they don’t think it matters all that much though, really—not when you’re such a good girl anyway. you love listening and obeying and being told how good you are for it—so when they do hurt you, it’s usually not as a punishment.
they call it ‘check-ins.’ once or twice a week—whenever they say—you’ll take off all your clothes, show them your holes and your curves and let them choose which one they’re going to beat today. then you’ll stay still and sweet and sorry while they smack you until you’re sobbing. it’s usually the soft, plump cheeks of your ass and thighs. often it’s your pussy. it’s very rarely, only once or twice you think, been your asshole.
it’s to maintain your good behaviour, they say, and discourage the bad. ‘maintenance’ is another word—of your obedience, your mindset, your role. little girls need a lot of discipline and structure—that’s what they tell you every time before they tip you over their knees. little girls need a strong, firm hand to keep them in check.
they need it even when they haven’t actually done anything wrong. it’s what keeps you from doing anything wrong in the first place, apparently.
dad bf!seonghwa is probably stricter, though not by much. he’s a firm believer in rules and discipline and, as the eldest, is used to keeping order. he’s mastered the stern look and warning tone and the quick, sharp smack to your ass when you’re acting up in public to warn you to pull yourself together. “i won’t have my little girl embarrassing me,” he’ll whisper in your ear, one hand on the back of your neck. “start behaving or we’re going home.”
you know he’s not lying—they’ve both had to take you home to punish you a few times, usually when you’re getting too excited to control yourself. they don’t mind—even the best girls mess up sometimes—and it’s not something they’re afraid to do. dad bf!seonghwa is also stricter after you’ve been punished—where dad bf!san will have you curled up in his arms straight away, rocking you back and forth and stroking your marks and cooing about what a good baby you are, dad bf!seonghwa has been known on occasion to send you to the corner to reflect until he knows you’ve learnt your lesson.
it’s also usually him who does your ‘check-ins’ too. san will help, of course, and he does deliver them himself sometimes, but he prefers to cradle your head in his lap (and rub your face against his crotch if he’s in that sort of mood) while seonghwa sets you straight.
dad bfs!sanhwa love to dress you up. choosing your outfits, doing your hair—you’re like a little doll to them. they love making you up like their perfect princess and cooing about how pretty you are—then taking you apart so methodically and thoroughly that every tiny detail of your ensemble has been defiled.
but it’s not just sexual—even when you go out with them, or when you’re having a lazier day at home, they choose your clothes and do your hair. “that’s what daddies do,” they say. “they take care of their babies.”
dad bf!san always makes sure to clip a bow into your hair, always matching it with your outfit.
dad bfs!sanhwa love how much of an oral fixation you have. from the start of your relationship with them it’s been clear you love, even need to have something in your mouth. their fingers, your thumb, their cocks—you’re never truly settled unless you’ve something to suckle at. a little while into the relationship, when you finally started to embrace your smaller side and let them care for you the way they’d always known you needed, they bought you some pacifiers. not just any pacifiers—the ones they bought you are attached to a little pink strap that loops around the back of your head and keeps the pacifier in your mouth.
a gag, really. but if you call it anything other than your paci you’ll end up with a bruised ass and the paci strapped into your mouth for the rest of the day.
that’s one thing they can be quite strict about—keeping you small, is how they put it. you’re their baby, after all, so you’re expected to act like it. no using grown up words or trying to do too much with yourself. you wanna do something? ask for permission. that’s what good girls do.
dad bfs!sanhwa love having you sandwiched between them—so small and helpless to the whims of your big, strong dads. powerless to stop them from playing with you as they please, exactly as you like it. you love not having control. they love taking it from you. you see it more as them taking a burden from you, than you giving up anything. you can’t give up something you never wanted to have—it’s a gift from them to you, if anything.
“is baby going to cum tonight?” san coos, stroking your hair.
“dunno, dad,” you murmur.
“course you don’t,” seonghwa chuckles. he’s pressed up against you from behind, dick hard and leaning against your bare ass. “baby doesn’t decide that, does she? who decides?”
“daddy decides.”
“good little girl,” san gruffs. “come here, tiny, spread your legs.”
you part your thighs a little, enough for san to slide his hands into the gap and pull them further apart. he hooks one up around his waist, holding you open, and tugs your panties to the side of your pussy.
“oh, that’s it,” san says. “so wet for us already, pretty baby.”
“sweet little pussy.”
seonghwa nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin while san slides two fingers into your cunt.
“there we go,” seonghwa murmurs. “open up for daddy, baby. so wet and soppy.”
dad bfs!sanhwa love to fill you up, and you love it too. to be full of their cum, leaking from all your holes; dripping from your pussy and assholes and running down your thighs.
their little breeding baby, they call you. cum-filled bitch, when they’re feeling a little meaner. leaking like a fucked out whore.
they’re balls deep in you now, san in your cunt and seonghwa in your asshole with his hand clasped around your neck. “you want our cum?” he asks. “nice and deep? ask us for it, little girl. ask your dads to get you pregnant, huh?”
“daddy please,” you squeak. “put a baby in me, please daddy. need it.”
dad bfs!sanhwa are always there for you. when you’re feeling a little smaller, or you’re too stressed and overly emotional—you become a little bit of a crybaby, honestly. but they love that about you; your teary eyes. the wobble in your voice as you try to keep your composure. it’s so sweet, when you try and hold yourself together. sometimes you need them, their encouragement, to fully come undone. and when you do they’ll be there—they’re always there.
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.
whiny!mingi - drapes himself dramatically across your lap the second you sit down, making sure at least half his body is uncomfortable so you have to pay attention to him
whiny!mingi - wakes you up in the middle of the night by rutting his hard length between your thighs, voice cracking as he repeats "i can't sleep baby."
whiny!mingi - says “babe” forty times in a row with increasing urgency until you look up from your phone
whiny!mingi - sobs “suck harder, i need your throat, ungh,” bucking his hips up to fuck your mouth, drool dripping down his chin as he rambles about how perfect your lips feel wrapped around his shaft.
whiny!mingi - will follow you room to room complaining that he’s bored, but the moment you suggest something to do he says “no not that.” he won’t say what he really wants (wink wink)
whiny!mingi - pouts and whines “baby, please, my cock hurts so bad”when you ignore his throbbing bulge in his pants during movie night, humping your thigh desperately until you finally stroke him off.
whiny!mingi - whines that you never kiss him first and then gets flustered the second you actually do
whiny!mingi - who’s version of “I miss you” is showing up wherever you are and sighing loudly until you acknowledge him
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! corruption kink, soft virgin & innocent reader. typical ‘just the tip’ fic—nerves about having sex etc. mg is horny and desperate and so are you. he talks down/patronises you a bit but it’s all loving. unprotected sex, size kink, riding, breeding kink etc. you’re described as small by him.
You’re both pent up, you know that. It’s palpable—in the hot, heavy air, in the weight of his hands on your skin and the tension between you on the couch. The fervour of his every movement; every gasp for breath between hot, messy, desperate kisses across your skin. Eyes hooded. Breathing heavy. Jaw twitching like he’s trying not to crack.
Your skin is flushed, sweaty; his hands move across your chest and neck and thighs with a hurriedness, like he’s trying to drink you in, every inch of you, before you slip away and he never has the chance to.
You’ve never been wanted—needed—like this. It scares you just as much as it excites you. Maybe more.
Because Mingi is a man of passion—that was clear to you very early on—in everything he is and everything he does. And being the object of that passion is no small thing; it’s a fire that spreads without restraint and scorches everything in its path. Including you. Including him.
His hands reach under your ass to pull you up and onto his lap, straddling him with your legs on either side. You feel him under you—hard, throbbing, straining against his pants—and your body reacts to it instinctively; your gut twists and your cunt clenches around nothing; your hips buck, slowly at first, then faster and more desperate until your clothed pussy is grinding shamelessly against his bulge.
You’re not in control now; that much is clear. Desperation has boiled over until your head couldn’t contain it anymore and it’s seeped down into your cunt.
“Fuck,” Mingi groans into your mouth. “Baby, fuck.”
”Min,” you whine. “Min. Feels so—”
He pulls back fully, all of a sudden, holding your face in his hands and forcing your gaze on him. His eyes are blazing, pupils blown like he’s already lost control. His hands are practically shaking with need, but at the same time you feel the steadiness, the strength in his hold on you. The safety. “I can make you feel better,” he gruffs. “Better than this. Better than anyone.”
You know he can. He already has made you feel better than anyone, just from the way he’s touched you over your clothes and talked and praised you through each tiny movement. But you know what he’s getting at—what he actually wants. And you want it too—fuck do you want it too—you just…
You chew at your lip, hesitant; nervous. His gaze fixes on it briefly, eyes narrowing some. “But I’ve never— you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” His words are soft now, murmured; careful, but his eyes flash with something you don’t understand. A small smile pulls at his lips, all softness and fondness. “My sweet girl, aren’t you? So innocent. Unused. Never done anything.”
“Min,” you whine, flushing a little at the condescension in his tone—patronising without mocking, but still enough to make you squirm.
“Baby,” he coos. “You know I’ll go slow, right? You know I’d never hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I’ll ease you into it, too. Open you up for me, nice and slow. Nice and easy. Just the tip, ‘til you’re ready for the rest. You trust me, right?”
“I do.” Of course you do. At this point Mingi could put a knife to your throat and you’d lean into the blade if he told you it was safe to.
He kisses you again; harder, more forceful, verging on painful but still firmly on the side of pleasure. “Keep grinding, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Babe, fuck. Pull that little skirt up for me, I wanna see you.”
He folds the hem of it between his fingers; the little miniskirt you wore for your date today. The skirt that had made his face harden, darken momentarily until he got ahold of himself again. The skirt he couldn’t take his eyes off of until he got you home.
But even now, he waits. Doesn’t push it up himself—waits for you to oblige or to refuse.
You oblige, of course. You know from the way his pupils dilate even further when you do that your panties must be soaked. His voice comes out strangled, like there’s a lump sitting unyielding and pulsing in his throat. “Fucking hell,” he grits. “Little panties all wet n’ soiled. Is that for me, baby? That all from grinding against my dick like an unspayed puppy?”
“Yes,” you whimper, nodding dumbly. “Mingi, please.”
“I got you,” he says. “Can I touch it, baby? Feel how wet you are for me?”
His voice is hoarse, clearly affected. You nod eagerly; he huffs out a low, shuddered breath and slowly moves one hand to cup your heat. It sends a pulse through your body like an electric current. “Perfect,” he breathes. “You feel that? Your pussy is throbbing on my hand, baby.”
“I feel it,” you nod. Fuck, it feels good. Mingi is so big and strong and warm and as much as it scares you, you think you’d let him do anything right now. “Min…”
“M’here,” he mumbles. “Holding your little pussy for you, just like you need. You don’t know what to do with it, do you?”
You whine; his eyes flicker up to meet your gaze and his lips curl in a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re just helpless, aren’t you? Need me to show you how to feel good. Will you let me?”
“I just— it’s a little scary, Min.”
“That’s okay, honey,” he says softly. “I won’t go in yet, yeah? Just gonna rub my dick up and down the outside, see? You’re already gushing for me there, you’ll hardly feel it.”
His finger slips into your panties, hooking around the crotch and pulling it to the side. Your pussy, now bare and exposed to him, throbs a little harder. “Min…” You gasp. The air hits your cunt like a shiver down your spine; Mingi’s eyes fixed firmly on it like it’s the sweetest and most aggravating sight he’s ever seen feels even more biting. Just the feeling of him, holding you in his lap and staring at your cunt like he wants to take it apart and is struggling to hold himself back, is unlike anything you’ve imagined.
From your very first day with him, Mingi’s been your protector. Your safety—and he still is.
Yet now, like his, he somehow feels a little like a predator too.
And you, for some reason, are desperate for him to strike.
“You’re pulsing,” he breathes, barely above a whisper. “Fuck, baby, I can see you throbbing for me.”
“I need you,” you whimper. The words are coming now of their own accord.
“Pull my dick out,” he says. You falter a little and he smiles softly, shifting you on his lap. “C’mon, tiny. Nothing to be scared of. It’s not gonna hurt you.”
“It might,” you mumble. “You’re big.”
You swear Mingi’s eyes flash; his hand on your waist feels a little heavier now, like there’s suddenly more hunger, more possessiveness behind it. More intention.
“I’m big?” He chuckles. You nod. “I’m big, yeah. Or maybe you’re just tiny. I won’t hurt you though, honey. I told you we’ll take it slow, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.”
“Take it out then,” he says. “Be good for me, bunny.”
Your hands are shaking as you pull his dick out from his sweats; you’ve seen it before, of course, felt the hard outline of it when he’s pressed up behind you in bed—but this is different. This is going inside you.
It’s long and thick; rock hard and already leaking from the tip. “Fuck,” you breathe. “Min…”
“You like it?” He grins. You nod. “Good,” he says. “It’s yours. You can fuck yourself on it whenever you like, sweetheart. A big thick toy for my pretty little girl.”
“Please,” you mewl.
“You’re fine, baby,” he says. “Can you lift your hips for me, love?”
You obey, lifting yourself so you’re kneeling over him.
He grips the base of his dick, pumping it once, twice, three times, before his other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you down so your ass is resting on him and your pussy is pressed against the side of his shaft. You groan, the feeling of sending a spark of electricity through your body, and his cock twitches. “Fuck,” he gruffs. “Stay still, baby. Not gonna go in yet, just gonna fuck the outside, yeah? Where you’re all nice and slippery for me. Nice n’ wet already.”
“Okay,” you breathe.
It feels… strange. Good, definitely, but strange. Like you’re being teased. Every time his tip brushes against your clit you feel it through your entire body, to the tips of your toes and in the deepest crevices; your reaction to everything Mingi does, at this point, feels primal.
The way he groans, head thrown back in pleasure, feels primal too.
“Shit,” he grunts. “I gotta—fuck. This little cunt is so sweet, baby, so needy for me, I gotta fuck her. Need to.”
His dick is throbbing almost violently, pulsing against your clit and making you needier and needier. You want it—him—so bad you can’t even speak any more. You just whine, squirming, chasing the sensation and the pressure against your clit.
“C’mon,” Mingi says. “Let me in, baby. You want me inside, I can feel it.”
You nod. “Yeah,” you gasp.
“Tell me I can, then,” he grits out. “Tell me I can put it in. Just the tip, baby, please.”
“Okay,” you whisper. “The— just the tip, Min. Put it in.”
Mingi shudders; you feel it rippling through him, his grip tightening. He groans, adjusting himself, then slowly pushes in. “Thank you, baby. Just the tip, I promise. You’re being so brave, honey.”
Even from the tip you can feel the size difference between you; can tell taking him in his entirety will be no small task. The thought alone is dizzying; you’re squirming, trying and failing to stay still as he goes in deeper.
And deeper.
You hiss, muscles clenching, clawing at the material of his shirt. “Mingi,” you squeak. “It’s— what are you doing?”
He stops, freezing inside you, seeming to realise what he’s doing and getting a hold of himself again. But he doesn’t pull out—doesn’t back away. His eyes flicker up to your face, searching for something—a reaction, maybe, or a desperation you won’t admit. “Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry, baby, fuck, I just— you’re so warm, honey, so tight and wet, I’m losing my head a little. You make me crazy, you know that?”
You shake your head. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut, jaw clenching like he’s clinging to his composure. “You make it so hard to be gentle,” he says. “To hold back. I can’t think of anything but taking you apart right now. Filling you up. Fuck, baby.”
Fuck. Now neither can you. You whine, eyes squeezed shut, trying to think of anything else—anything but being ruined and claimed and bred by him.
But the image of him all the way inside, of you falling apart around him, of his cum dripping out of your stretched cunt—it’s too much. It’s too good.
You know you’re thinking with your pussy and not your head right now, and you don’t even care. You can’t care.
“Please,” you say. “Do it, Mingi. Fill me up.”
You feel him twitch inside you. His eyes soften, caring, a little concerned, but still the desperation and the excitement is overarching. “Are you sure?” He asks.
“I’m sure.”
He exhales, the breath slow and shaking, and nods. Then he starts again.
Slowly. Surely. But still dizzying.
You love how large Mingi is; how small and safe you feel with him. Now, though, you wonder if it’s possible to be too big.
“Shit,” you hiss.
“I know, I know, baby. Just open up for me, you can do it. That’s a good girl.”
He pushes his thumb past your lips, pressing it down on your tongue. “Make it wet,” he says. “That’s it.” Once he’s satisfied he pulls it out, smiling fondly at the whine that slips out of your mouth at the loss, and presses it against your clit. He rubs it slowly, firmly, the way he knows you like it.
Of course he knows. He’s the one who taught you how to touch yourself properly, after all.
You clench around him, pulsing, shifting yourself to chase the pressure on your clit and inadvertently pushing yourself down further on his cock. His voice is low, crooning, like he’s coaxing you open for him. “I’ll never hurt you, baby. Just wanna feel what s’like inside you. Doing so well f’me, that’s it.”
“Fuck,” you grunt. “Min, hurts—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just for a little longer, okay? You’re gonna feel so full n’ fuzzy in a minute. Try and sit down for me, baby, try sit yourself down on my cock.”
It feels impossible, pushing yourself down any further than you already are; taking him any deeper than you already are. But Mingi is so gentle—stroking your skin, mumbling praises you can barely decipher—and he, both of you, wants it so fucking bad that all you can do is obey.
“That’s it,” he grumbles. “Good girl. C’mon now.”
By the time you get all the way to the bottom, your bodies pressed together, he’s almost crying. He looks like he’s trying not to shatter.
“Mingi,” you say. “Fuck me.”
“You’re ready? Really?”
“Really.”
You’re on your back, flipped over, legs around his waist while he hovers above you, before you can process it. Mingi’s eyes are dark, pupils blown and glinting with a desperation so hot it feels like it scorches your skin beneath it.
“Hold onto me,” he grunts. “You’re not getting it gentle.”
You squeeze your legs around him, pulling him closer, curling his shirt around your fists. Holding him like a lifeline; like he’s the only thing stopping you from shattering entirely.
At the same time, though, he’s the only thing that can make you shatter so completely and so thoroughly. He fucks you like he has nothing to lose, nothing to prove; like he’s entirely sure of himself and sure of his control. Like he can just take, take, take, and you’ll do nothing but stare up at him with wide, empty, loving eyes and give him everything he wants.
He’s right. Even when he finishes, when he falls over the edge with a shout and warmth blooms in your tummy, he keeps thrusting, keeps the same heavy grip on your waist like every inch of your skin belongs to him.
And when he pulls out and cum slowly starts to drip from your hole, he gathers it on his finger and pushes it back in.
“Keep it there,” he murmurs, smiling softly, tiredly at you. “You look so pretty full of me.”
He’s just big. Too big. Broad shoulders that feel like walls—mountains you cling to when you’re on top, desperate for leverage, desperate for him. His arms flex when he pulls you closer, biceps straining against your body, wrapping you up like you’re something small, something fragile. His hands cover too much at once, palms so wide they could swallow your waist whole, fingers digging into your skin until you feel branded.
When you ride him, it’s those shoulders you hang on to, nails clawing into the solid curve of them, your cries muffled against his neck. He doesn’t mind. He never does. He just groans, low and wrecked, holding you steady as your hips stutter. “I know,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and warmth, “I know, baby. I know that dick is big.”
Effortlessly. He picks you up like you weigh nothing, your legs still trembling around his waist, and sets you on the bed without breaking rhythm. His frame eclipses yours, back broad enough to cover you entirely, blocking out the world until all you can see is him, feel is him.
The mirror on the ceiling doesn’t lie. It shows how small you are beneath him, his body spilling over yours, swallowing you whole. Every thrust shakes through you, every roll of his hips forcing you deeper into the mattress. He doesn’t just fuck you. He drowns you—blankets you with his size until you’re gasping his name, pulling him closer, begging for more.
Thick hot ropes of cum fill up your sore pussy, He pushes himself deeper into you, which makes you claw his back with your nails, moaning in pure ecstasy. “You're gonna cum for me again, right, my slutty girl?”
And he gives it, again and again, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.
summary: every girl has had that exhilarating little crush on their teacher, it’s not unheard of by any means. it almost always amounts to nothing, a small little motivation that keeps you awake in class. most girls don’t get hired by their professors to be a babysitter, and most girls don’t end up entwined in a situation so wrong that it eats them alive at night. not the guilt, or the shame. but the hunger, and the need. and most professors certainly don’t play into those little infatuations, and find themselves chasing that chance to absolutely ruin them. so why are you trying to play house and take on a role that wasn’t meant for you?
warnings: age gap(reader is in her 20’s, mingi is in his 40’s), this is nasty, DILF!mingi, lowkey salt & pepper!mingi, tension, power dynamics, emotional turmoil, girl dad mingi, manipulation, corruption, teasing, condescending!mdom, pet names(sweetheart, pretty baby, darling, slut etc), size kink, voice kink, praise, mating press, oral(f!receiving), countdown, biting, fingering, lowkey breeding kink, choking, overstimulation, dirty talk, eye contact, messy sex, mouth covering, hold the moan, creampie
wc: 18.1k (I am SO sorry)
notes: hiii… my dear @linearities, it’s me your secret admirer! you put down dilf Mingi and I was SAT. and then you mentioned prof!teez, so I just thought why not combine the two? you don’t understand how much I got into this while I was writing it’s kind of insane, god I hope you like it. all the love in the world… thank you @everyonewooeverywhere for hosting such a fun event
- your secret admirer <3
tracklist: million dollar man, strange candy, baby one more time
You weren’t stupid. You weren’t dumb, quite the opposite. You were intelligent, cunning. A smart woman who sometimes made foolish decisions. This would be one of them, one of the stupidest you've ever made.
And you would still do it again if ever given a second chance.
It nearly frightened you, the effect he had on you; it was embarrassing enough. It felt like an unattainable crush, a fleeting little infatuation that was bound to pass with time.
But it was so hard to get over it when you saw him nearly every day of the week. And even so, it was still not enough, and far too much all at once.
If it had to be described as anything, the word would be taboo. When he was introducing himself to his class of the year, he started with something that made your stomach do a flip.
“Y’know I have tattoos older than most of you in here, so if you ever question my teaching methods, think long and hard about how much longer I’ve been on earth than you.”
You thought long and hard, alright, and it certainly didn't help your little girly infatuation with your professor.
Professor Song Mingi, a literary instructor at your college. Students clamored during open season to squeeze into his class, which always filled up so quickly during enrollment. His teaching was sound and effective, and it didn’t hurt that he was way too easy on the eyes.
A low, flowing voice that was easy to grip onto and follow, gentle handwriting, and a pristine way with words. Dark tresses that framed his soft yet angular face, pink, puffy lips that wrapped around his syllables like a glove. His pretty, sharp nose beckoned for a rider. His meaty arms that always seemed to be struggling beneath his rolled-up white blazers, the buttons on the cuffs mere seconds from popping off.
His class was always dimly lit, a comfortable aura that made it easy to ease into learning. You could write a 20-page essay on why you enjoyed his class.
He was never dismissive, always listened to his students attentively, and truly valued their thoughts and opinions. He enjoyed shaping young folks' minds and helping them through their way, assisting them in growing and becoming respective, creative individuals.
You never struggled in his class, never had to ask for tutoring sessions. And to be honest, you probably wouldn’t be able to handle a one-on-one with him either way. He was too intimidating, too suffocating.
Whenever he asked the class a question, and you were able to gather your bearings to answer, you could hardly keep yourself from tripping over your words with how intense his gaze was.
Like he was clinging onto every word like a lifeline, his eyebrows raising now and then when your response flowed from your lips, his tongue would poke out the corner of his mouth, nodding along as he listened.
He’d always smile when you finally stumbled through your response, pointing his pen in your direction with a sly grin.
“Smart girl.” That stupid voice that made your brain dissolve into a useless puddle.
It was never good for your nerves.
But recently, you felt like his material has been getting more difficult. Maybe it was because finals for the semester were approaching, and the work started to get more grueling? Or maybe you were just tired, but his lectures started to blend into watercolor, and the readings he assigned the class started to sound like pig Latin.
Luckily, you weren’t the only one confused, when a girl who sat next to you leaned over while he was talking and whispered to you.
“Is he speaking English right now?”
Today was no different; the stress started to weigh on you as more finals began to close in. Recently, you’d been a bit tight on money, trying your best to save up from the barista job you’d been managing for the past year, but it was starting to fall short.
You had set up a job portfolio the night before in a fit of desperation in hopes of snagging a gig on the side in childcare, just to push you through the last few months of the year.
The winter chill nipped at your bones, and you always felt demotivated in the cold. The class dragged on, and you could barely keep your thoughts in a straight line as Professor Song droned on. You tried to cling to every word, retain every piece of information, but it all just seemed to slip away like you had butter fingers.
Your notes became sloppy, and your doodles in the margins became more frequent. Everyone in your immediate vicinity seemed just as hopeless, and this must have caught your professors' attention.
He turned from the board, and his face fell from concentrated to a soft sort of concern. He sighed softly and set his pen on the desk, a quiet clatter on the wood surface. This caught your attention, and you raised your head slowly.
Your eyes locked with his immediately, almost as if he was already trained on you before you raised your gaze. Your eyes dance with one another for a fleeting moment, and something flashes across his face, subtle yet electrifying. Then he’s clearing his throat, ripping his eyes from yours, and swimming over the rest of the lecture room.
He moves away from the board, lifting himself to sit on his desk, crossing his legs, and clasping his hands on his lap.
“Alright, guys, I get it.” The class directs its scattered attention to its professor sitting on his desk, his foot shaking back and forth softly. “It's the end of the semester, we’re all tired. Believe me, I’m in the same boat.”
He turns his head to a framed picture on his desk, a candid photo of him and his young daughter celebrating her birthday at the aquarium. “My daughter keeps whining at me about how hard her coloring sheets are. She can’t for the life of her understand the difference between indigo and violet.”
This pulls a warm laugh out of everyone, and you can’t help but join in. Professor Song never stops talking about his daughter; he loves her with all his heart. He has her many scribbled arts around his lecture room, photos of her on his desk, and her pipe cleaner flowers displayed proudly in the far right corner.
You tap your pen against your notebook rhythmically, and you don’t catch the way his eyes sweep over your face while the laughter dies down. “Everyone’s running on fumes, and I’m sure you’ve heard it a thousand times, but this is important. We’ll pull through this last month, and we’ll have a few weeks off to laze away, and it’ll be well earned. Right?”
The class nods in agreement, and Professor Song smiles in acknowledgment. “So, do me a beautiful favor, and stay with me a little longer while we get through this, okay? You all have been doing phenomenal this year, let's keep it up til the end, yeah?”
Everyone perks up at the encouraging words, and you find your energy slowly creeping its way back into your blood. Just enough to get through the day, but not enough to prepare for the shitshow that was to come.
Two thousand weekly.
You rubbed your eyes, blinking a few times and drinking some water to be sure you weren’t hallucinating the mail in your inbox.
You had arrived back home after dragging yourself through the last bits of Professor Song’s class, leaving with mostly full note pages and a renewed vigor to pull through this last semester.
The portfolio you had set up on the nanny website already had a response, and quite an unexpected one. A generous offer for pay, a part-time position as a babysitter for a young girl, age 6. Two thousand per week for 6 months, free meals provided, flexible schedule. It was almost too good to be true. The email didn’t go into too much detail, only offering further information if you shot back a response expressing your interest.
It was everything you needed and more, but one thing was making you hesitant. One small, coincidental detail.
Regards, M. Song.
Signed at the bottom of the email, like colorful barbed wire.
It had to be a coincidence. There was no way it was him.
Song is a common last name; you were sure it had to be somebody else. No matter, it was too good to pass up, and you found yourself drafting your email before you gave it any more rational thought. If it were him, it would be dangerous. You’d be deep in enemy territory.
You sent the email expressing enthusiastic interest in the position, and slammed your laptop shut so hard you thought you heard a key fly off. You buried your face in your hands and groaned aloud into the darkness of your bedroom, trying to shake the weird feeling blossoming in your chest.
It had to be a coincidence. There’s no way your literary professor saw the hundreds of capable babysitting portfolios to choose from and decided to pick yours. There’s no way you posted it yesterday, and he just so happens upon a day later and immediately makes his decision.
There was no way he was offering so much money for something as simple as babysitting.
There was no way you’d be able to go through this and maintain a professional, normal attitude.
Not even 10 minutes later, your phone chimes, the blinding light illuminating your dark room, therefore sealing your fate. You hadn’t even clicked the notification, skimming over the email banner before mentally checking out.
Dear Miss L/N,
Thank you for expressing your interest in the position. I would be delighted-
And that was it. You eventually gathered enough courage to open the email. It gave you all the information you needed, a scheduled time to meet at his home to set up the payroll, and introduced you to his daughter. Work out kinks and settle into the position.
Mr. Song doesn’t return home until after dark, well after 9 pm. Your shifts start at 3 pm every day for the next six months. Sundays are guaranteed days off, and he shall keep you posted on future days off if available. You had mentioned in your email that you were a student, so availability might fluctuate depending on school.
His response?
“You mentioned you were a student; I am well aware of this fact. Do not worry, I will ensure that your studies will remain unaffected.”
An insane thing to say, by the way.
It was definitely him. Regardless, you would find out in due time when you finally meet him at his home, and solidify what was to come, which can only be described as unmentionable.
-
His big warm hand encased yours, swallowing it whole so effortlessly. Calloused fingertips brush against the pulse that bounces in your wrist, and you barely keep your breath from hitching. His thumb runs over your knuckles, and you swallow a weird noise.
“Thank you for taking the position, darling. You’re saving me a hell of a lot of time.” That's stupid, grin, toothy, and wide. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the crows' feet making their grand appearance. The streaks of silver that flow through his dark hair like a wave you’ve never noticed until now, so close it was hard to miss.
“Of course… Mr. Song, thank you for considering me.” You weren’t sure whether you should call him professor or a different honorific outside of the lecture room, but he did not correct you, so you assumed it was the right choice.
You caught yourself that Saturday morning paying extra attention to your hair, curling your lashes a little higher, reapplying layers of lip gloss until it looked like you’d been making out with honeycomb.
Throwing together a cute outfit to make a good “first impression.” You couldn’t believe yourself, but once you were out the door and in your car, it was too late to worry about it now.
Your nerves were alight as you made your way to his address. You nearly saw him every goddamn day, but of course, this was different.
His residence was a rustic western style house, furnished with well-kept gardens in the front yards and a freshly painted porch and patio. A cute, homey place that somehow just made him all the more attractive.
You pulled into his driveway, taking your keys out of the ignition and giving your body a moment to relax. A few deep breaths and one life saver mint later, and you were stepping out with your purse in your clutches and your anxiety written all over your poor face.
You hadn’t even noticed until you raised your gaze from your feet, but there he stood. On his front porch, that white blazer with his rolled-up sleeves, no tie today. Black slacks and his glasses low on the bridge of his nose. His eyes are leering at you.
You stopped in place when you saw him, and his expression never changed. A sort of scrutiny on his brow as he watched you step out of your car, dare you say borderline predatory, but you certainly wouldn’t want to set anything into motion by manifestation. Surely not.
You lift your hand and give a curt, polite wave. Then his brows are falling, his lips are curling, and he’s offering a warm, gentle smile.
“(Name.) Good to see you, I’m glad you could make it.” Mingi’s own voice booms over his front yard to your ears, and you force your feet to unstick from the driveway pavement and continue to walk to his home.
You walk up the steps with only slightly shaky legs, face-to-face with him. “Of course, sorry if I’m a bit early.”
He smiles wider, yet softer. “It’s perfectly fine, I’d prefer you be early rather than late. I admire your punctuality; you’ve always been like that.”
You’ve always been like that.
You try not to let the praise get to your head, and you barely miss the way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip as he catches the way your shoulders hunch slightly at his words, and your fingers squeeze the straps of your purse just a little tighter.
“Well, let’s not just stand around. She’s excited to meet you.” Mr. Song turns and pushes open his front door, standing in front of it to hold it open. “After you.”
You smile nervously and slowly walk inside. He watches every step you take as you brush past him, your shoulder just barely grazing his lower chest, there not quite being enough room between him and the door frame to give you a spacious entry. His cologne hits your nose as you walk by, and you stop yourself from inhaling deeply as you plant your feet on his foyer floor, listening as he shuts the door and clicks the lock.
You were in enemy territory, and you had never felt more vulnerable in your life.
Immediately, you were tripping over toys, and you nearly fell backwards as a little girl came running up you, picking up one of the dolls you nearly busted your ass on and handed it to you.
“Okay and scene!” You can’t help the smile that breaks on your face, the confusion of being suddenly thrown into a scene, evident.
“Wait, what’s happening-“
The little girl is carrying another doll, and she shakes it back and forth as she begins to speak. “Where have you been? You’re late again!” She pouts furiously as she points to the doll in your hand, and you know that's your time to shine.
“I’m not late,” you speak through the doll in your grasp, kneeling to sit at eye level with the girl. “In fact, I’m right on time!” You motion the doll’s arm to point at an invisible watch on her plastic wrist, and you practically see the girl light up over you playing along with her.
You pay no attention to Mingi, who stands behind you, watching you interact with his daughter, a small smile on his face. You play along happily, and he can see how much his daughter has already taken a liking to you. But before she can drag you into another scene, Mingi is clearing his throat.
He crouches down and with his strong arms he scoops her up, and little giggles flow from her as he lifts her into his hold. “You little monster!” He grumbles playfully, the sweetest smile on his lips as litters her face in fleeting kisses, an exaggerated ‘mwah’ punctuating each one he landed.
He swings her back and forth like she was on a carnival ride and he laughs morph into joyous squeals, the smile on Mingi’s face nothing short of beautiful.
You watch in awe and admiration, how sweet he is with her and it makes something in your heart twist.
When she reaches her little hand out and pulls on some of his hair, his smile drops a little and hers only widens.
“Ouch- okay, no hair pulling sweetpea we know this.” He gently sets her down, not without the theatrics akin to a landing airplane.
Once her feet touch the ground she mumbles out an adorable sorry, and you swear you see Mingi’s heart melt.
“Alright, lovebug, you can give her more acting lessons later. Daddy needs to talk to her for a second, okay?”
The little girl frowns as you sheepishly hand her back her doll. “Don’t worry, we can play a lot more once I’m all settled in. I promise.” You smile, and she returns it, taking her doll back and bounding away to the couch in the living room, resuming her little roleplay on her own.
You stand up slowly and watch her skip away, somewhat avoiding turning around to see Mr. Song. When you finally turn, his back is to you as he’s begun walking to the kitchen. You follow, nearly tripping over toy cars and plush animals again.
He stops in front of the kitchen island, pouring you and himself a small glass of water out of a filter. He sets the cup on the countertop with a clink, sliding towards you as you stand a few feet away from him, trying to keep as much distance as is deemed appropriate.
When the silence stretches for much too long, you pick up your cup and take a big sip, hoping the cool water will calm your nerves. You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.
“She likes you a lot already.” He states, raising his eyes over and glancing at the back of the couch.
A shy smile graces your face as you take another sip. “You could tell that from such a small interaction, Professor?” You glance up at him over the rim of your glass, and you don’t miss the way his eyebrows raise, and his face shows nothing short of amusement.
“Well, she is my kid after all, and I know her pretty well.” He takes a sip from his own glass, tapping his metal-clad fingers against the checkered walls of the cup. “And I don’t see why she wouldn’t like you.”
Of course, you were going to ask, what the hell does he mean by that? You smile, more confident now, setting your glass on the countertop and crossing your arms over your chest.
“Do tell, what's there to like?” Something about the entire conversation just felt… informal. You’ve never spoken to him outside of the lines of education or questions about exams. This type of talk was far beyond your teacher-student boundaries, even if it can be considered as fleeting small talk.
This makes him laugh, and you feel your lips twitch at the melodic sound. You try not to smile any harder than you already are.
“Asking for lip service now, are we (Name)?” His playful tone of voice carried a much lighter cadence than the authoritative tone he held in the classroom. You tried not to notice that tattoo that was peeking through his sheer white dress shirt.
“No, Mingi.” You reply just as playfully, and you find yourself rubbing your lips together, grounding yourself with the feeling of the layer of lip gloss on your lips.
His eyes linger on your mouth for just a fraction of a second, hardly noticeable. They trail up the side of your face, and his gaze stops on your eyes. Something in his eyes changes, a kind of shift that makes your heart stop for a moment. His jaw flexes and fingers twitch as he moves to cross his own arms.
“That’s Mr. Song, or 'sir' to you, young lady.” His eyebrows set hard, and you feel your stomach drop at the sudden change in attitude. He looks down at you like you’re small, like you don’t deserve his respect. As much as you’d like to push it, he controls your grades and ultimately your future. And passing up on such a gratuitous opportunity with this job simply to act a little too familiar with your professor would be borderline idiotic.
His eyebrows raise, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, urging your confirmation of his command. “Understand?”
You swallow and nod your head politely. “Yes, sir.” You quickly grab your glass again and down the rest of the water, taking a moment to gather yourself, because as depraved as it was. That entire interaction made you god-awful wet.
“We may not be in class, but I’m still your elder.” He turns around and walks past you, a trail of his cologne passing beneath your nose and fogging your brain. You have to crane your neck to watch the back of his head as he walks away, the sheer size of him dizzying.
“If you don’t mind me asking.” You force from your throat, keeping your eyes on the floor as you speak. “Was there any reason you chose me specifically?”
He snorts, endearingly so. “Do I need a reason?” Like it was a dumb question, even though there are no such things in his words. “I just decided to hire you. Nothing more and nothing less.”
“Well, there were plenty of people who were just as capable, if not more so-“
He interrupts you with a whistle and a loud snap of his fingers. “What did I say?” He leans his head backward like he was annoyed, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips as he speaks under a low breath. “God, always so inquisitive.”
You stop from letting your mouth drop open in surprise. “If you have any implications swimming around that pretty brain of yours, forget it. You’re a capable girl, aren’t you?” He lowers his gaze to you, waiting expectantly for you to reply.
You nod and pick a piece of dust off your shirt. “Of course.” You reply in a small voice, but Mingi clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
“Say it out loud. C’mon.” You take a small breath and sigh quietly.
“I am capable.”
Mingi smiles and turns away from you once more. “Beautiful. Save the rest of the questions after we set up your payroll.”
He finishes, and he raises his hand and brings up his middle and ring finger, motioning to you in a “come hither” motion, a movement so slow that it seemed dizzyingly suggestive.
“Come now, while we’re still young.” You force your feet to move and follow him further into the house, passing his daughter as she plays on her own world on the couch, completely oblivious to the strange tension that lingered between her father and her new babysitter.
Mingi was intense, authoritative. He knew how he wanted things to be and made sure everyone else stayed in their lane. And you had a weird lingering feeling that nothing good was to come out of stepping that home privacy boundary.
But hey, two thousand was two thousand. And maybe you were being greedy, but something much more than money was keeping you from using your fucking brain and getting out of dodge.
He was not good for you, and god he knew it. You both knew it. But if the heat you felt in your lower belly and the racing of your heart were anything to go by, the gut instinct that told you not to walk into the wolf’s den was for sure one that was meant to be ignored.
After a smooth process of connecting your bank account, printing you a house key, and an extensive tour of the home, he sent you home with a thank-you bonus of a few hundred dollars and your schedule for the following week. Monday through Friday, at 3 pm, you would arrive at the Song residence. You would see Mingi off for his night classes and tend to his daughter until he arrived home at 10 pm.
He never mentioned a wife, or any kind of spouse. You had assumed they had most likely divorced, you never saw any picture of a woman around the house, and his daughter never mentioned a mother.
You had considered asking him about it, but something inside of you said that would be overstepping a grand boundary that should not be touched.
While you had Mingi’s morning class, he would only be on campus for those two hours before returning home to spend the rest of his day with his daughter, before the evening whisked him away to work once again. So, of course, you would still see him in class.
And it is so much worse now.
And you couldn’t help but feel that he found the whole thing amusing.
Teaching the class like normal, writing down key points on the board, reading through articles and poems, and helping everyone pick the words apart. You never called him sir in class; it was always Mr. Song or Professor. He asked you to call him sir, no, demanded that you refer to him as such when you visited his home.
So with a slow raise of your hand, to ask a question that truly meant nothing. He paused his writing to look at you, and he moved back around to continue his writing once you had been acknowledged. “Yes, ma’am?” He asks, while he finishes the cursive curl of his letter y.
“You say that symbolism in poetry is entirely up to the reader’s perception, and that we can choose to decipher it any way we see fit. Is that maybe a little too loose in terms of freedom, considering some people might extend their reach of understanding too far to be deemed within the author’s original intentions?”
It was an innocent question, a good one, maybe perhaps a little random. Mingi turns away from the board, ending the sentence he wrote with a heavy period, a loud thunk against the whiteboard. The edges of the blue ink splatter around the punctuation.
“It's as I said,” he begins, eyebrows relaxed as he finds you easily at your desk, rolling your pencil eraser over your bottom lip, a curious glaze of intrigue shadowing your eyes. “While it is entirely up to the reader, most people are smart enough to gather what the poet is trying to convey. Readers can come up with similar conclusions, but maybe with different rounded edges. There will be similarities, but there can also be differences, all because we perceive everything differently as humans.” He quietly adjusts the knot of his tie, the veins in his hand flushing as he moves.
You find your eyes falling to watch his arm move, his biceps struggling under his sleeves. You smile and nod, bringing your pencil down to your chin and tapping it lightly. “Thank you, sir.”
Nobody else catches it; it was so subtle that it wouldn’t have mattered to anyone even if they did. But his hand froze around his necktie, and his fingers twitched. His nose scrunched only slightly, and a sharp, quiet inhale made your skin prickle.
He nods quietly and turns back to the board to continue teaching. “Always with the smart questions.” He murmurs under his breath, and you both clearly knew that the question was about much more than just poetry.
The first day went surprisingly smooth. You arrived at his home early, of course, using your new key to unlock the door and welcome yourself in. His daughter was the first to greet you, running to you and enveloping your legs in a tight hug, her little nails digging into your skin with how hard she held you.
You said hi, all warm smiles and soft tones, only raising your eyes when you feel another pair on you. Standing at the end of the hallway was Mingi, leaning against a doorframe with relaxed ease, his tie loosened and his hair astray. He leaned his head against the white frame, his eyes low as he paid no attention to anything but you. You couldn’t read the expression on his face, and all you could feel was pinned. Like he was holding your body down with just his gaze, and it makes your heart kick up.
Then he smirked, a ghost of one if anything. A knowing, small smile that would be easy to ignore if it simply wasn’t him. Before you could say or do anything else, the little girl, whose name you learned was Ami, was dragging you away from the foyer, spewing phrases about new toys and complimenting your punctuality.
Mingi watches you walk away with his daughter, clasping your hand tight, and your sweet little warm smile returns as you respond to her words with enthusiastic earnestness.
She leads you to the couch, grabs the remote, and asks you to switch on a movie for her.
“Can I borrow your new friend for a second, sweetheart?” Mingi appears behind the back of the couch, his sudden presence nearly startling you out of your skin. He looks down at his daughter with nothing short of pure love, his gaze soft and his tone low and sweet. Ami pouts dramatically and crosses her arms.
Mingi pouts in turn, giving her playful puppy eyes. Then you feel his fingers gently brush the nape of your neck, a slow, gentle caress that was so light it could have been mistaken for a breeze. But it was too warm, too calloused.
“Please?” he whines with a smile, and his daughter rolls her eyes, setting down the remote with a clatter.
“Okay, Daddy, but bring her back.” Her little voice warms your heart, happy that she's taking a great liking to you. You swallow as you feel his fingers slip away from your nape, and you're standing on wobbly legs to follow him as he begins to walk away.
“I promise I will,” he says, blowing her a little kiss, to which she returns with a bright smile. Mingi is leading you away from the living room, and you follow behind with a sort of muted apprehension, and it feels like you are in school again. Like you were being led away by your teacher to talk about poor behavior.
Once you’re back in the foyer, he turns to you, and his soft, parental smile has fallen into something unrecognizable.
He pulls a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and hands it to you. “This is your list of things that should be maintained and done while watching her. Keeping the place clean, making sure she eats well. Everything we’ve already discussed.” You take the list and give it a swift once-over, mentally noting the most important things.
You slip it into your own pocket, raising your head to look at him once more, and for just a split second, you swear you caught his gaze lingering on your neck. “If you have any questions, my number is also on that piece of paper. Do not call me, but you can message me.”
You nod silently, and he sighs. “Can we work on your verbal confirmation? Use your words, please.” You can’t help the almost sour look that flashes across your face, and you quickly gather yourself before exaggeratedly dropping into a flashy curtsy.
“Yes, boss, I understand.” You say in a dramatic prim accent, but before you could stand back up straight, you feel his warm, large hand slip beneath your chin, gripping your lower jaw firmly.
He’s lifting you back up, leaning his head down so close that you feel his breath on your neck, his nose just shy of brushing against your ear. Your breath catches, and his sweet scent clouds your senses, and you could feel your knees start to buckle beneath you. Mingi’s hand keeps its firm hold on your chin as he lowers his voice to a heavy, throaty whisper that makes the skin on your temple tingle.
“Try again, and lose the attitude, gorgeous. You know better.” His breath fans over your ear, and you could physically feel the skin of the back of your neck flare warmly. He squeezes the pads of his fingers against the soft flesh of your cheek a little harder, and the heat blooms across your lower jaw at his tense hold, and you nearly melt into his hand. Your own voice drops to a nervous, shaky whisper, and you exhale slowly out of your nose. It was so quiet you could hear the wristwatch on his hand ticking by your ear.
“Yes… Sir.” You correct yourself quietly, and his hand still doesn’t move. Instead, his thumb gently runs over your cheek, a repeated soothing path like he’s trying to lull you to sleep with his caresses. He leans away from your ear, coming face to face with you once more, his nose mere inches from brushing with yours. So close you can see every strand of silver in his hair, every wrinkle at the corners of his eyes, every freckle, and the remaining five o'clock shadow from where he shaved earlier that morning. He smelled of faded cologne and wintergreen mints, and you could hardly stop your eyelids from fluttering.
His thumb moves over your bottom lip, gently pressing down on it like he was admiring how soft you were, taking a mental note of how easy you melt under him. How all he needed to do to get you to act right was to pet you like you were some kind of puppy.
It felt like an eternal standstill by the time he slipped his hand away from your face, and you could still feel the heat of it across your face. It felt so wrong. And god did you want to feel it again.
He turns and fixes his loose tie, slipping his blazer on and adjusting his watch. He walks away, leaving you standing like a dumb fawn, grinning as he opens the front door, his keys jingling in his hand. “Do behave yourself, while rewards and punishments are not handed out in class, my home is an entirely different story.”
And with that final note, the door shuts behind him with a click, and you are left in Mingi’s foyer with your heart in your throat and warmth in your stomach, and your entire body thrumming with what can only be described as anticipation.
-
You and Ami got along well, playing with toys and watching television. There was a small spat when you tried to get her to eat her veggies, but after some bribery with a promise of a packet of gummies, she offered up no more fight.
Putting her to bed was no easy feat either, her only surrendering at the promise of a bedtime story. You sent her off to go pick a book, and she came into her bedroom, trotting proudly with the first installment of the Narnia series.
When you dared to question her lengthy decision, she responded with, “Daddy has been reading this to me every night, we’re on chapter 6, he said you could continue reading it to me.”
You quietly roll your eyes, mumbling to yourself as she begins to tuck herself into bed. “Did he now?”
You didn’t complain, and you did find yourself easing into the storytelling, reading with a soft, slow tone to help lull her off to sleep, which didn’t take long, especially after a long day of play.
When her breathing evened, and her head went lazy on her neck, you switched off her lamp and set her stuffed zebra next to her arms and left her room, making sure her rainbow night light in the outlet was on.
You shut her door with a quiet click and sighed to yourself. First night done, now all that was left to do was wait for Mingi to arrive home. You pulled your phone out of your back pocket to check the time.
9:03
He was sure to be home anytime soon, so you decided to take the book you were reading with you downstairs. It had pulled you in enough just by that one chapter alone, and you found yourself wanting to read it from the beginning.
Your bare feet padded against the tile floors of the kitchen, the house asleep and silent as you picked a small mandarin out of the fridge. You sat at the kitchen island, gently peeling the citrus fruit as you held the book open with one hand, and began to read.
You found your fingers nimbly peeling the white veins of the orange and dropping them onto the napkin. Engrossed in the book, you slipped slice after slice of mandarin past your lips as you continued to read.
The quiet of his home was so different in comparison to your own. Tucked further towards the countryside, absent from the honking of horns and the screeches of tires. Just the tranquil sound of whistling trees and the occasional creak of the house settling. It was nice, something you could see yourself getting used to.
You weren’t sure how long you had been reading for, and it wasn’t until you heard the front door shut that you were ripped from your own little world. You hadn’t even noticed the jingle of keys in the lock. Your orange was long gone; only the shredded peel remained as he walked past the foyer, straight into the kitchen to see you.
He paused for a moment, taking in your peaceful little moment, then smiling to himself as he began to shed his coat and drape it over the kitchen table chair. “You look comfy.” He murmurs, loosening his tie.
You swallow a dry patch in your throat, the whole moment reeking of something inappropriately domestic. The low, warm lighting of the overhead oven light. Mingi quietly gets unready after a long day of work, your eyes catching on the way his muscles flex with every movement he makes.
Unclipping his watch and dropping it into the small wooden bowl on the edge of the counter, uncuffing his dress shirt and rolling his sleeves up once again, the hints of a tattoo you’ve never had the pleasure of fully seeing peeking underneath the white linen.
Running a large hand through his silver streaked hair, the strands falling around his face in an organized mess as he sighs, a deep and heavy sound that makes your thighs clench underneath the island.
You close the book absentmindedly, dropping your gaze to the counter just as he raises his eyes to look at you, and you clear your throat as you move to stand.
“I see you’re reading Narnia. Ami asked you to read it to her?” His voice was so quiet, so lofty, it made your brain fizz.
You nod. “She ate dinner well, told me she had fun playing with me today. She asked me to read to her, and she was out like a light by the fourth page. It intrigued me, so I decided to give it a gander.”
You raise your head again, gathering your orange peels in your hand and crossing over to the trash can in the corner. Once dropped in the waste, you turned to hand the book back to him. Your arm outstretched, to which he only stood and stared back at you, his eyes dropping over your body in a less than subtle once over.
He finally reaches out and takes the book from you, not without letting his long fingers brush against your knuckles. His two middle fingers slip between the pages, bookmarking the place that you had stopped at. You swallow as he puppy dog ears the page with one hand, before closing the book and setting it on the island.
The muted glow of the oven light shadowed his face in a soft yellow, the rest of him swallowed in the darkness of the home. He was so tall, his body big enough to stand in front of you and effectively block you from being seen by anyone.
“Well, I should be going.” You mutter, nervously wrinkling the corner of your shirt over and over again. “Thank you again.” You nod your head respectfully, and yet neither one of you makes any move.
Mingi doesn’t move; instead, he lifts his head, lowering his eyes to a half-lidded kind of gaze that makes you feel like you were being preyed on. He sees the tension in your shoulders, the unevenness of your breath, the uncertainty in your eyes, the curiosity in the way your fingers twitch at your side.
The unconscious way your tongue wets your bottom lip, the little vein in your neck that only he could notice.
Then he’s stepping forward, slowly, just enough to have you closer. Smell you, smell him. Not too inappropriate, but maybe not professional.
“I should be thanking you, darling.” His hand reaches out, oh so slowly, just enough to give you time to back away if you want. You don’t. His index finger finds a curl at the front of your head, gently twirling it around the tip of his finger, his eyes on yours.
A gaze so warm, so mistakenly hungry, you swore you were hallucinating. He watched you visibly melt, your lip forming into a parted pout, a beckon. A silent ask.
His finger moves away from the curl of your hair, dances along the side of your neck, brushes down with featherlight gentleness against the side of your throat, a tickling sensation that has your body shivering.
His eyebrows knotted together like he was conflicted, like he was battling an inner ache, one that he was holding himself back from showing.
You couldn’t take it. You simply couldn’t.
Your brain hadn’t caught up to your body, but before you could second-guess yourself, your hands shot out and gripped the collar of his dress shirt, dragging his head down and crashing your lips into his.
No words, no gasp, just a wanton moan that slips past your lips and against his.
Mingi growls from the back of his throat, a sound of sheer surprise, nearly losing his footing underneath him. He rips his head back, his eyes wide and his breathing coming labored.
You freeze, your hands holding nothing but air as he pulls himself away from you. Your heart dropped to your stomach. A look of pure fear on your face as you realized he didn’t reciprocate.
Fuck. Fuck.
A conflicted look flashes across your professor’s face, and he looked like he was about to give you what for. You screwed up.
You immediately open your mouth, ready to spew pathetic attempts at apologies and pleas for forgiveness. But he beats you to it.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” His gravely voice comes out strained and low, and a painful silence begins to stretch between you two.
Then, he bites his inner cheek, his hand lifts and slips his glasses off his face, all but letting them fall onto the counter, groaning low and sonorous, and he’s on you before you could breathe.
His hands slip around and grip either side of your waist, a tight, possessive hold as he slots his lips with yours, melting against your mouth like you tasted like a heaven he’d never get into.
His hands roam up and down your waist, his mouth opening and closing against yours, sliding his tongue over yours, and running it over your teeth. Moaning, sighing into your mouth, his eyebrows knit together in nothing short of pure bliss.
Your hands find his shoulders, your neck beginning to hurt from having to crane your head up to kiss him. All heat behind your tongues, warmth and wetness against each other as you feel a thin trail of drool slipping down the corner of your mouth.
Then he’s lifting you, picking you up off the ground, and dropping you on your ass on the kitchen island. Merely eye level with him, he kisses you deeper, shoving his tongue further down your throat, tilting his head to the side to completely devour you.
Your hands drag down the front of him, your palms flat against his chest, whimpering against his lips in tandem with his starved movements. A quiet “baby” is murmured around your tongue, and your entire body erupts into consuming flames.
His hands slip down and find either of your thighs, spreading them pretty and wide as he slots his lower body between them, pushing his body closer to your between your legs.
His hand moves back up and cups the back of your head, the other trailing up the front of your body and finding a grounding home at the base of your neck, pulling your head further into him as he takes like the greedy man he was.
Kissing the college girl on the counter as she tasted like bourbon, squeezing your flesh like it was keeping him sane, melting at the soft, needy moans that flowed down his throat from your reactions to his touch.
It was a breathless, taboo kind of lust that only people sick in the head can get a kick out of. And if this makes Mingi a sick man, then so fucking be it. He finds himself lost in the sweetness of your lips, the arch in your back. His hand trails down the side of your waist, warm and big as he finds the flesh of your thigh again, squeezing and pressing the softness, moaning at how smooth your skin feels in comparison to his rough hands.
His hand slips up the leg of your shorts, and warmth blooms on your skin, your body shivers as you lean further into him, your kisses turning needy, dangerously feral.
It’s your whiny, low moan that nearly undoes him. And the way your hands slide up to help further loosen his tie. But while he may not be a good man, he’s not a bad one either. With a type of restraint only a soldier could have, Mingi pulls away from your shiny, swollen lips, a thin trail of saliva between you both snapping silently.
Your heavy breaths mingle together, and he rests his forehead against yours, the hand on your neck slowly sliding away, and his other hand moving from your bare thigh to firmly place them flat on either side of your spread thighs, loosely caging your body against the island.
You say nothing, only fighting to catch your breath as your dizzy brain struggles to catch up. He looks down at the floor, the bulge in his pants loud and proud and fucking painful.
With a deep sigh, he turns away, wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand as he mutters a deep “fuck” beneath his breath.
You slowly crawl off the counter, realizing that you need to go. Now.
“I-I’ll see you tomorrow, Min- uh... Professor Song. Sir-“You stutter over your words, a foggy layer of need clouding your mind after having been kissed like he was trying to eat you alive.
Mingi seethes, inhaling sharply as he raises a hand to get you to keep quiet.
“Stop- goddamnit. Sweetheart, don’t call me ‘sir’ right now unless- unless you want me to fuck you against that wall.” You swallow, and it takes everything in your power not to get on your knees and beg for just that.
He could practically smell your hesitation, and it nearly made his entire body erupt into a muted shiver. You nibble on your bottom lip, he could see the way you nervously shake, and you open your mouth to respond, but he just knew what you were going to say, and he did not need to hear it right now.
“Oh, babygirl, you shouldn’t want that.” He ignores your pretty little glazed-over eyes and your frizzy hair that he messed up with his own two hands.
The addicting way you held onto him with your smaller hands, arching your back into him and keening into his touch, crying out as it hurt for every second he let you breathe.
“And neither should I.” He mumbles like he was trying to convince himself too.
Mingi massages his upper jaw, exhaling heavily out of his nose before he turns away from you again, truly believing that if he looked at you one more time, he wouldn’t be able to compose himself. Forty-something years old, and one of his students is making him feel things he hasn’t felt since high school.
“Go home.” He commands, his bassy, breathless voice sending a shockwave straight between your legs. When you don’t immediately move, Mingi clenches his jaw and slightly turns his neck, giving you a glimpse of the turmoil on his face.
“Now.” He bites out, and before you could form another thought, your body was moving.
You grab your things off the living room coffee table and slip out of the house, speeding off to your car and pulling off into the cricket-filled night, confused, turned on, and conflicted.
It was only the first day, and the walls were already crumbling.
-
The following week was torture. Dragging yourself out of bed after being kept up all night with ludicrous dreams, dreams of what could’ve happened if you two didn’t stop. Panties sticky and eyes heavy, you crawl out of bed and dread having to face him every day.
It went the same every day; you arrived, maybe a little later than usual. You avoided every look he shot your way, and you never asked any questions. Just listened and took notes, silently. And when it was time to watch his daughter, he’d be out the front door by the time your car pulled into the driveway, walking past you in silence as you effectively traded places.
You both knew it was for your own good, to keep whatever had been brewing between you two at bay, even if it was never explicitly stated. You had hardly said a word to your professor since that first day. But your eyes said everything.
His, too, god if you both couldn’t be subtle. He’d sit at his desk, watching you click away at your laptop, your leg bouncing beneath the table as you nibbled on your nail. He imagined things about you, things that made him have to adjust his pants before he stood to continue teaching.
And when he arrived home early? Fuck it was even worse. He’d quietly sneak in the front door and catch you and Ami on the couch, her head lying on her lap with her blanket tight in her grasp.
You read to her in a soothing, quiet voice, and gently, your hand stroked the top of her head, playfully brushing your fingers over her face like you were trying to convince her to close her eyes, all with a beautiful smile on your face.
Your pretty pout, your mothering voice, your frizzy hair, and your soft body. God, it makes him so hard it hurts. That night, he announced himself and offered to take Ami off to bed himself, and by the time he made it downstairs, you were already in your car and pulling out of the driveway. It was better this way anyway, Mingi would tell himself. But better for whom? And for what?
Why was this so wrong?
His morale was beginning to chip away, and with each passing hour, each passing day, it was getting harder and harder to keep his hands off of you. And he could tell you felt the same. Your lingering looks and the way your thighs would clench when your gazes met in the lecture room.
Saturday night. You did not go to class that day; therefore, you did not see him. But you would have to later. He always travels to campus on Saturday night to get any extra work done. A workaholic, you called him once. And it was true.
So when you arrived at his front door once again, you tried with every bone in your body to act normal. Unlocking the entrance, you walked inside the now familiar home and stopped in your tracks when you noticed him. Standing in the hallway entrance, like he was waiting for you.
His eyes are low, and his body seems tense. Wearing a form-fitting black dress shirt today, the top two buttons undone. Something more casual for the weekend. A small silver necklace with a dog tag pendant disappeared beneath the collar, and you could see the print of the tag through his shirt. His hair was messier, and his glasses were clasped loosely in his hand.
You breathe quietly, then he's walking towards you. Just as you think he’s going to stop, he walks right past you and reaches for his watch in the little brown bowl. “Ami is down for a nap; if she’s not up by five, go ahead and rouse her.”
He slips on the timepiece, then slides his glasses onto his face, letting them sit low on the bridge of his nose. You nod in acknowledgment, and he's already made his way to the front door, his car keys jingling on his fingers.
Just as you think he’s going to leave, he pauses, his hand hovering above the knob.
“And keep your hands out of my liquor cabinet, young lady.” Now that makes your heart stop. You may have indulged one night after you put Ami to bed, just a couple shots, nothing too concerning. But he had noticed, of course, he had.
When you don't reply, he turns back to you and raises his eyebrows in a scrutinizing question. “Next time, have enough manners to ask. That stuff is not cheap, sweetheart.” The pet name had a bite to it, and you can’t help but want to bite back.
He turns, opens the door, and takes one step outside.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll ask politely next time.” You speak the words with a ghost of a moan enveloping them, and you could see the way his shoulders tense and his hands squeeze the doorknob harder.
Mingi inhales sharply and keeps his head forward. The silence stretches so long and thin you think time might have frozen. And when he speaks next, it sends electricity through your blood, and you can't deny the way you feel your skin tingle.
He laughs, a slow, soft chuckle. “Keep that shit up, (Name),” he challenges, adjusting the straps of his watch in one swift movement. “I can be a bad man if you need me to.” Then the door is shutting behind him, a loud click that rivals the pounding of your heart in your ears.
The house is silent once again, and you are left alone with your racing thoughts and a really, really stupid fantasy in your mind that makes you feel like the nastiest bitch on earth.
-
The bottoms of your feet felt like they were burning, and the floors of his house were frigid. The heat of your body rivaled the still quiet of the house, Ami put to bed, leaving you as the only soul awake inside.
Mingi would be home any minute. And it was at this moment that you needed to make a decision. You weren’t sure what you were going to do, or rather, you weren’t sure what he was going to do.
Or what he wanted to do.
You felt trapped in a home with no lock, like there was no escape. The windows were unbreakable, and the walls were too thick. You were a trapped animal who did not want to leave in the first place.
You could argue that you were a dumb, naive little girl who didn’t know her way in the world, who couldn’t pick up on the signs that her professor wanted to fold her in half and show her what it felt like to be ruined by a real man.
You’d be such a liar, because that’s the one thing that you wanted. You were stupid for wanting this. And Mingi wholeheartedly believed that.
He believed that your wanting him was complete ignorance of consequences, turning a blind eye to plenty of boys who were perfect for a sweet girl such as yourself.
Choosing a man, one that would not care how much you cried those pretty tears, a man that would fuck you until you weren’t able to tell where you ended and he began.
And it was taking everything in his power as he climbed into his car after work that night to not drive himself off the bridge as he drove. Because that would be the sole and only way to stop himself from pouncing on you as soon as he stepped through the front door.
You lie on his bed. In his room. Invading his space without a care in the world as you took in his abode. Neat, clean-smelling, suffocating. Being in there felt like you couldn’t move a muscle without the walls closing in on you.
He strictly told you his room was off limits, that you had no business in there. He would come home, and he would find you in there, the doe on the wrong edge of the forest. And he would hunt you then and there, because you stepped into his territory, and the rules were painted in red on his sheets.
When Mingi first stepped foot into the house that night, he was surprised to find you missing from your usual place at the kitchen island. Reading a book, having a snack. Waiting for him so politely.
You weren’t in the living room, you weren’t in Ami’s room. The guest room, either. Were you hiding from him? He sighed and set his briefcase on the kitchen table, loosening his tie with a groan and setting his watch in the wooden bowl.
You could hear him from upstairs, the familiar sounds of him getting unready. You shifted in his sheets and sat up straight, straining your ears to listen for him.
Footsteps, the clack of the metal plates beneath his shoes, resonated throughout the house like gunfire. The sounds of them ascending the stairs, before the silence of his footfalls as he hit the carpet. He was upstairs.
Immediately, you began to second-guess your decision to be in here. Your choice to take this job. Hell, your choice to take his class to begin with. It was all too risky, too grey.
Silence again, and you could only feel your heart beating in your ears.
“I sure hope you’re not in there, doll.” His voice was so much closer that you could see his shadow through the crack beneath the door. His voice penetrated the walls of his room like a dark kind of fire, and it rattled your bones.
He could hear you. Hear you shift your weight on his sheets after he addressed you. He could hear you stand, hear you walk to the door, and stop in front of it like you were scared to walk any further.
“You’re not supposed to be in my room, you know better.” His tone was tinged with a disappointed, disciplinary note. Mingi teases you by lightly shaking the doorknob, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Why were you so nervous? You had no idea.
You know better. One of his favorite things to say to you. It was true after all. You do know better, but it doesn’t mean you acted like it.
Mingi wouldn’t admit it. Not to you, not to himself either. But he was having so much fun with you. You awakened this dangerous excitement in him that made him want to make all the wrong choices.
He wanted to bend you over his knee and punish you for affecting him the way you did. He wanted to bury his fingers deep in your hair and pull like he was trying to steer you about at his discretion while he worked you inside and out.
Mingi wanted to lay your body out and make you cum so many times you’d have to drop out of his class because every time you laid eyes on him, you would still feel him in your belly.
You made him feel alive, and at his age, that was a dangerous thing.
When you didn’t respond to him, he lowered his voice to a small, gentle coax, like he was trying to convince you he was no threat. “Listen, sweetheart, you’re not in trouble.” It was like he was using his dad voice on you, and you hated that it made you freeze and your heart flutter.
“I just want to talk to you. So are you going to come out of my room? Or am I going to have to come get you myself?”
Your hand hovered over the knob, and just as you dropped it to twist it open, you stopped. Your brain reeled in your skull, and you backed away from the door with small, quiet steps.
When Mingi realized you wouldn’t be opening the door, he couldn’t help but smile. So typical of someone so young and fresh-blooded like you.
You wanted to be found, you wanted to be desired, you wanted to be chased. You wanted Mingi to open that door and make you regret your decision not to listen to him.
You didn’t use your manners and ask with your big girl words, but don’t worry, he’d come in there and set you straight.
Just as you were starting to second-guess yourself, the knob twists, and the door makes no sound. No creak, no squeal on the hinges. Just a silent, slow invitation. The warm light of the stairwell flooded the floor of the dark bedroom, like a spill of orange oil. He stepped in, reached back, and shut the door closed once more with a muted click, and darkness shrouded the room again.
The silence stretched as he stalked towards you; with every step he took, you took one back.
With every step he removed something. His shoes came first, then he reached up and slipped his glasses off his nose, setting them on the dresser he passed by.
His tie was next, his big veiny hands untying it gracefully and wrapping it around the palm of his hand like a leash, teasingly, before he let it hit the floor.
One by one until you were backed against the wall by his headboard. His smell surrounded you like mustard gas, his body shadowed over you like a monster, and his eyes pierced through the dark like a hunter. You barely contained your trembling once he was close enough to touch, close enough to melt into.
His big, rough hands find your wrists, gently gripping them and sliding his palms up your inner arms, over your shoulders, to the back of your neck. He cupped your nape like he was trying to cradle your head from injury, so gentle and so loving.
He squeezed softly, stepping further into you, pressing his body against yours, molding your front with his. His head craned down, and he maneuvered your neck to train your eyes on him. In the dark, everything felt more intense. His touch on your neck burned, the way his thumbs stroked along the edges of your jaw, and his blunt fingernails scraped against your nape.
He inhaled deeply, like he was trying to calm himself.
“Asking for permission really isn’t your style is it?” He spits out the words like a reprimand, and he could feel you shiver under his touch when he said it. You had tears in your eyes, you looked like you had just dropped your lollipop, and you wanted to cry. You were so pretty.
You felt him everywhere, in your ribcage and in your head; he smelled so good. The silver in his hair glimmered from the lamp in the far corner. You heard a roll of thunder in the distance that sounded like Mingi’s moans. The onpour of rain that hit the roof like a broken television.
He looked so beautiful in the dark.
“We can fix that.”
While one hand remained on your neck, the other slid away, along your jaw, up the front of your throat, until you felt his fingers prod against your pouted lips. You opened with zero hesitation, and he slid his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, laying them flat on your tongue.
Oh, so slowly, he glides his fingers in and out of your pretty little mouth, pushing just far enough against the back of your tongue to make the tears in your eyes finally fall. “Such a nasty, pretty baby.” His eyes fell like he was entranced by you, your compliance, and the way you shook like a deer. His eyebrows knit together like he was trying to memorize you, everything about you.
He presses his fingers up, and your canines gently sink into the flesh, and it makes his skin tingle. Back down across your tongue, breaching the back of your mouth, gagging around him with a sad little choke.
He slips his fingers out of your mouth, and you hardly notice the saliva that connected to him, with how you could not pull your eyes away from his face. With a patience that drives you both mad, he trails his hand down the front of your body, over the swell of your breasts beneath your shirt, down to the waistband of your shorts.
He presses his hand at the back of your neck harder, forcing your forehead to collide with his. Nowhere to run as he slips his hand into your shorts.
“You wanna be nasty?” he whispers against your lips, and you catch yourself nodding. You didn’t even mean to, but he finds it so amusing.
Your entire body jerks when you feel his wet fingertips slide beneath your panties and brush over your lips, lifting the slightest bit, finding your clit with such quick ease you could hardly believe it.
Your hands shoot up and fist the front of his shirt, and your eyelids widen then flutter as he presses against that sensitive bundle of nerves, a gentle press and prod as he circles against your clit with teasing intent.
When Mingi watched you practically melt at the simplest of his touches, he felt the confessions start to rear at the backs of his teeth. The urge to tell you everything you may or may not want to hear.
His breath ghosts over your parted lips, his fingers making mind-numbing work of your clit, rotating movement and pressurized strokes that made your thighs shake around his wrist. With a deep breath, he pressed his lips to yours, slipping his thick tongue into your mouth and groaning down your throat.
His fingers claw at the back of your neck, tracing intimate patterns into your mouth, as his fingers dance away from your clit, and gently he prods at your dripping entrance. He coats his fingers in your arousal, and he presses his thigh between your legs to spread you further for him.
“You’re such a pretty little thing.” He whispers into your mouth, and you gasp against him when he slowly fills your soaked cunt with one thick finger, and you feel your eyes roll when he presses so deep and curls up just right. He circles the pad of his finger against that spongy spot, and he purrs into your mouth when your hands on his shirt tighten even more.
“I drive myself crazy thinking about you at night.” Slow, deep come-hither motions inside of you that had your breath coming in broken shudders. “I’d think about kissing you silly, holding you down, playing with you, having that smart mouth of yours moaning for me instead of giving me lip.”
You shiver as he slips a second finger inside of you, a slight stretch that had your knees buckling, but he kept you up by the back of your neck, fully pushing his body against yours and holding you still against his bedroom wall. You moan whiny and pathetic as he slips his thumb up and gently circles it against your clit, all the while his fingers keep curling nice and deep inside you.
“Would you like that?” He murmurs, pulling away from your lips and gently kissing below your ear, breathing lowly against the side of your neck. Your skin shivers as his voice brushes over your ear, and you can hardly control the way your body responds to him so effortlessly, like he has an invisible leash on you.
You nod, muttering out a pathetic ‘yes.’ Mingi pressed the tip of his nose against your neck and pressed his lips against your skin so you could feel them move when he talked. “Words, sweet girl. Haven’t I already told you this?”
It was hard to form words while he was fingerfucking you so well, so deep it was making your stomach cave in, but the need for more outweighed everything else. “Y-yes, sir.” You whimpered, and you felt your chest flutter when he groaned lowly against your ear, a guttural, primal sound that had you clenching around his fingers.
He leans away from your neck with a fleeting kiss, moving his hand from the back of your neck around to the front. Squeezing at the base of your throat, his fingers pressing on those sensitive, soft spots on the side that started making your eyes darken at the corners. His fingers pressed harder, deeper, coaxing inside of you with purpose that was making you go insane with bliss.
Your hands frantically grasped at anything you could, his wrist, his shirt, his belt, anything you could to ground yourself as he pushed you towards that orgasm. He held your throat nice and tight, and you were choking on moans as he fucked you with his thick fingers, and he breathed heavily against your lips. The grip on your neck kept your head in place for him, and as your eyes began to roll to the back of your head, he pressed against those soft spots a little harder.
“Eyes, darling, eyes,” he commands in a breathless moan, and you tear your eyes from the back of your head to look at him, and it nearly undoes you. His fingers are relentlessly curling deep in your pussy, his big warm hand squeezing your throat just tight enough to make your body feel all fuzzy. His dark, begging eyes make your stomach clench, his guiding, baritone voice making your whimpers slip out involuntarily.
“You wanna cum?” He whines against your lips, just lightly loosening his grip on your neck to allow you to respond. “Ask me nicely.”
“Yes, fuck- please…” You moan hoarsely, and Mingi takes his bottom lip between his teeth.
“So you do have manners.” He teases, his thumb brushing upwards against your clit as the grip on your throat tightens once more. “Cum then, baby. Let it go, make a mess for me.” The corners of your vision bleed into something dark, and he lowers his mouth to take your lips with his again, moaning softly into your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Come on, come on….” he barely whispers into the kiss, and you cannot deny him even if you tried. His fingers never cease, only slowing as he does his very best to prolong your orgasm like some kind of torture method. His fingers curl and prod, rolling inside of you as your orgasm rocks your body, a feeling so intense you feel like you are shattering from the inside out.
“Thats it, that's it. Don’t stop.” He keeps kissing you, fucking your cunt with his fingers, squeezing your throat just hard enough you feel like you might have been on the brink of passing out.
Mingi rides you through it, the restraint in his movements starting to slip away the more he sees of you. His hand on your throat moves away and slips beneath your shirt, up and over your smooth stomach, around to the warm skin of your waist. Up until his hand slips beneath your bra and cups the swell of your breast. So soft beneath his calloused palms, he finds that he can’t stop his fingers inside of you, massaging your chest and continuing to fingerfuck you through the overstimulation.
“Wait-” you whine out, interrupted by your own moans. Mingi reaches behind your back and finds the clasp of your bra with more surprising ease. It falls loose beneath your shirt, and he maneuvers your shirt over your head. He catches your surprise, and it only makes his cock twitch at your sweet expression.
“I’m a grown man, (Name).” He speaks against your cheek, slipping the straps of your bra down your arms until it falls onto his floor. “None of this is new to me, baby.” Finally, he slips his fingers out of your cunt, and the slick sound it made was embarrassing. He gives you no time to quell on it as he slides his fingers into his mouth and cleans your mess off him with a hungry moan.
His other hand makes quick work of the buttons of his shirt. One by one, unclipping the silver buttons until it's completely open. As he reaches for his belt, the clank of the metal makes your thighs clench. He cocks his head to the side, running his tongue over his bottom lip.
“Lie down,” he instructs, as he undoes his belt. The dark of the room shrouds his face, and a loud rumble of thunder rolls, much closer this time. You can hardly move at first, your eyes trailing down his body. Toned, the grey and black happy trail that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants is tantalizing.
You swallow and slowly sit on the edge of the bed, but Mingi doesn’t give you the chance to lie back on your own. Once he loosens his belt, he’s leaning over you and caging you in. His hands find your waist as he inches you further up the bed and pushes you onto your back. You stare at the dog tag on his necklace that swings back and forth as he sets you up how he wants.
His thighs, thick and strong, cage either side of your legs as he leans down, his hands massaging up your sides like he was trying to soothe you to sleep. He kisses between the valley of your breasts, down your chest, and along your stomach, all the while his hands make their way further down to the waistband of your shorts, teasing you with his fingers slipping beneath them as he worships your body.
“So soft.” He mumbles between kisses as he slips your shorts down your legs and off onto his floor. “So pretty, so sweet.”
When his fingers hook on your panties, he moans and nibbles on the flesh of your stomach, and your entire body tenses as he slips off the final piece of clothing.
Down your legs, off your feet, and onto the floor. He’s quick to sink to his knees at the edge of the bed, hooking his big, strong arms around your lower waist and pulling you to the edge of the bed, just enough to where your ass nearly hangs off.
He signals you with his hands, making a grabbing motion. You watch and slowly give your hands to him, and he laces his fingers with yours and holds your hands down against your abdomen.
Your thighs hang over his broad shoulders, his face inches away from your dripping cunt, and Mingi’s eyes bore into yours as he places a soft, gentle kiss against your mound.
You whimper in anticipation, and his hands squeeze yours harder, your limbs twitching at his pinning gaze.
“You want my mouth, honey?” He teases, blowing a stream of cold air against you, your thighs twitching around his head.
“Fuck… please?” You beg lowly, and he gently lets his tongue loll out of his mouth, splitting your lips with a low laugh. When you jerk at the feel of his warm tongue, he tugs your hands harder against your stomach and trails his tongue up to circle your clit.
“Stop squirming, and take it for me.” He opens his mouth and takes your sensitive nub into his mouth, running his tongue over it and sucking it like he’s been deprived for months. Which technically wasn’t a lie. He had dreams of your taste, dreamed of the reactions he could drag out of you with his mouth.
Your moans come out high-pitched and cracked, his warm mouth working your poor pussy out like his favorite meal. Obscene, sloppy noises as he fucks you open with his mouth. Detaching from your clit and burying himself between your thighs even further. His nose nudges the nerves while his tongue slips inside of you. Tasting you, drinking you, making you cry like a baby while he ruins you.
“F-fuck… too much-!” You were so sensitive after his fingers fucking you stupid just mere minutes before, and now his thick tongue is filling you like no other, his pretty big nose pressing up against your clit so perfectly it was insane.
He lets go of your hands, just to take both your wrists in one hand while the other flattens against your stomach, trailing down along your inner thigh, before gently sliding between your slick pussy lips.
“Fuck, you taste incredible, such a wet mess.” He wraps his lips around your clit and slides his coated fingers inside of you once again, and your voice shatters when she curls them perfectly. The stimulation of his mouth and the feel of his fingers pressing and kneading, your wrists twist and turn in his grasp, but he makes no move to let you go. He only squeezes tighter. He groans around your clit, and your mouth falls open as the vibrations of his voice send sparks flying in your brain.
Moaning like he could feel it himself, slow, coaxing motions of his fingers against your walls that had your eyes rolling, the tip of his tongue circling your clit just enough to have you tethering that edge.
“Good girl… good girl…” he coos, his voice muffled as he focuses on getting you to cum again. “Feel me, focus on me, pretty baby. God…”
He was getting off on your frantic movements, your endless amounts of arousal that seemed to gush from you. The way you clenched around his fingers when his voice vibrated around your clit.
“You’re right there.” He encourages, shaking his head back and forth against your cunt, your arousal slipping down his chin and coating his lips, the wet slurping sounds so nasty and vile.
“Keep working for me, you're so close.” Mingi talks you through it, pulling away from your clit and littering wet kisses against your tummy. “Rock your hips, tell me what feels good, let me hear you.”
You choke out a broken cry, and he’s tempted to let up just so you can quiet down, but he’s addicted to you, and he couldn’t stop even if he tried.
“U-up..” you stutter out, and he wastes no time. Gently, he moves his fingers inside of you, nudging them upwards a little more. He feels it, your body tense and your cunt clench, and you let out a low groan.
“There… right there…” You exhale, and he presses up against that spot, circling the tip of his fingers against it repeatedly, instead of thrusting them. A constant, mind-numbing pressure that feels so good it hurts.
“Yeah, there we go.” He grits out, bringing his tongue down and flicking it up against your clit in soft kitten licks, a slow light, warm pressure that makes your hips jerk to chase it more.
You try to cry out, beg for more, but the harder his fingers pressed, the less you could remember English. Your breaths were whiny, and your voice kept cracking, and you were so close to cumming again.
“I'm going to count you down, darling.” His low voice pulls a low wail from your chest, and you try to move your hands to grab his head to push him further against you, just to remember he had you restrained.
“You can cum your brains out when I get to one, okay? Can you do that for me?”
You nod your head frantically, your hips bucking against his tongue that oh so gently teases your clit. Mingi smiles and nibbles your sensitive nerves playfully, and then he starts to increase the pressure of his fingertips against your G-spot.
“10.” You cry out when he runs his tongue along your inner thigh, up and down, a teasing motion against the sensitive skin that makes your entire body flare with heat. “9… 8… 7…”
With every number he bites you. Sinking his teeth into your thigh, your stomach, your clit, anything his mouth could reach between your legs. And all the while, his fingers never stop curling.
“6… 5… uh uh. C’mon, baby, get a hold of yourself, not yet.” He feels you clench hard, your moans getting breathy. He knows you’re so close, he can hear it in your tears. But he gave you a command, and he expects you to follow it.
“You can do it… 4.” He wraps his lips around your clit one more time, and this time he lets out long, drawn-out groans that come from deep in his chest, the quiver of his voice stimulating your clit so perfectly you thought you wouldn’t make it.
“3…2… c'mon baby, make it good. Cum yourself stupid for me, okay? For me… please?”
God, when he whines. It hurts your head. You force yourself to breathe, the knot in your stomach tighter than ever. He lets go of your wrists, and immediately, your hands fly and bury themselves in his soft hair. His now free hand snakes underneath your thigh and hikes it further up his shoulder, prying you open as your legs begin to close around his skull.
His tough fingers sink into the soft flesh, and he drags his tongue over your clit in repeated, pressured waves.
“1… go ahead, baby, cum for me. Don’t hold back, give it to me. Let me have you.” You shatter, instantaneously. It hurt, it felt amazing. Your entire body locks up, his hand on your thigh, squeezing so hard it was sure to bruise, his fingers coax and prod, dragging you through it.
He moans around your clit, and you feel like you’ve been shocked with volts of electricity. Your fingers grip his hair at his scalp, the intensity of your orgasm nearly knocking you out.
He laps at your pussy, drinking up the slick that spills from you, and you find yourself limp beneath him, regaining your breath as he cleans you up greedily during the aftershocks. Purely for his own enjoyment, it seems. He could watch you do that all day. He finds himself wondering if you’ve ever squirted before.
He rests back on his haunches, taking in your body below him. Squirming and soaked, begging for his hands and for his mouth.
“You’re so fucking bad for me.” Mingi breathes out in barely controlled disbelief, like your very being was something unhealthy while he was on a diet.
He’s leaning back over you and letting one hand slip around your body, pressing against your lower back to arch you a bit, his other hand unbuttoning his pants with hurried precision.
His lips swallow yours in a hungry moan, tilting his head and kissing you long and deep and frantic, your heavy breaths brushing against each other, his warm tongue running over yours in a cannibalistic kind of hunger.
“You’re making me such a bad, bad man, baby.” Mingi coos into the kiss, and while he’s kissing you into a fever, you feel something warm and heavy press against your stomach. Slowly, he grinds his hips against you, humping his cock against your belly.
You can tell two things immediately. Number one. Mingi was feral. The kiss was all teeth and drool, not giving you one second to breathe. The hand on your back is moving back up and gripping the back of your neck to help maneuver your head in the best way to kiss you as deep as possible.
And two. He felt so fucking huge.
Not to mention the mere size of him as he is, his broad shoulders shielding you from even being able to see the ceiling of his bedroom itself. But you can feel his cock twitch against your flesh. Long, so much so it reaches past your belly button, thick, hot. He was gonna split you in half, there was no doubt about it.
When he finally gives you a moment to breathe, he’s taking his other hand and grabbing the underside of your thigh, lifting it and maneuvering your leg over his shoulder, your ankle resting next to his head.
Spreading you nice and pretty, he reaches back down and grabs the base of his cock, setting it between your drooling lips, twitching against your clit, and you groan loudly into the space.
He gently moves his hips through your folds, a slow, slick glide as he lubes himself up with your arousal, moaning low and deep as he coats himself with you. His hand drags up your body, grabbing every inch of flesh he can before his hand is cupping over your mouth, pressing down nice and hard.
Your eyes widen as his hips never cease their movement, only gliding even smoother the wetter the length of his cock gets. He leans down to press his lips against your ear, and he kisses it lightly, his shaky breath fanning over you.
“Shh…shh.” he coos, and he cock jumps when he feels your moans vibrate beneath his palm. He litters the side of your neck with wet kisses, and your entire body shivers as you realize that no matter what you do, you cannot move.
He has you pinned against his mattress with the strength of his own body, holding you down with his weight. He feels you shake, and he swears he feels your cunt get even wetter, and he’s barely holding back the primal urge to pound you into his bed until you cry for him to stop.
“Not gonna use a condom with you, baby, I’m going to give it to you raw, maybe fuck some manners into your head while I’m at it.” Mingi groans nice and low against your ear, and then he’s finally sinking his cock into you, nice and slow. Stretching your pretty little pussy out as torturously as he can manage.
When you squeal beneath his hand, he shakes his head and leans back, his eyes lock with your watery ones as he clicks his tongue.
“No baby no….” He purrs, but he doesn’t stop sinking into you, pressing his hand further against your drooling mouth. “You have to be quiet, okay? Please?” He begs in a low, whiny tone. You can feel every vein of him graze against your pulsing walls, your tears spill down your cheeks and flow over his knuckles, and he whispers sweet nothings to you as he seems to sink into you endlessly.
“Such a pretty crier, darling.”
“Almost there, just a little more, beautiful slutty girl, taking me so well.”
His fingers are wet with your tears, and he can’t quite bottom out yet; he has to fuck himself deeper into you.
“Alright, I need you to be a good girl for me and keep that pretty mouth shut, I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” You whine with a broken cry, and he’s pulling his hips back, sliding the length of him out of you, and then sliding right back in with a moan you can feel in your chest. Your legs shake as he pushes himself just a little deeper this time, and your belly feels full of him.
“Yeah, you've been wanting me to mess this pussy up, huh, baby?” Mingi’s free hand finds the base of your throat once more, helping keep you quiet by limiting your airflow. And you tighten around him so much that he has to pause because he physically cannot move any further.
He laughs lowly, and he peeps the way your eyelids flutter, and you seem to have drunk haze over your eyes. One hand over your mouth, so large he practically has your entire jaw in his grip. The other with a grounding hold on your throat, just tight enough to make you a little dumb. His entire body presses down against yours, pinned beneath him, so helpless.
His cock thick, heavy, and deep in your guts, slow, mean strokes that make your drool pool in the back of your throat.
He grins, and then he’s pressing himself deeper into your cunt, and you moan gutturally against his palm.
“Nasty little girl. You like not being able to breathe when I fuck you? Huh?” You don’t answer, of course, just moan and whine as he fucks his cock into you, deep and slow.
Your muscles start to tense from the pressure, your leg straightening over Mingi’s shoulder as the pleasure absolutely sweeps you away beneath his warm body.
“Your legs are locking up, baby.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply. “C’mon, relax, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” He teases you, even while drilling his cock into you like he was insatiable.
Then he’s slipping his hand underneath your knee, bending your leg forward, and pressing it against your chest. You cry out, and suddenly he’s sinking in ever deeper, and you feel so incredibly full. His hand slips away from your mouth for just a moment to hook beneath your other knee, and pushes it up to your chest as well, folded underneath your professor like some kind of doll.
You choke out an overstimulated sob, and once he’s able to hold both your legs down against your body with his chest, his hand is back on your mouth to keep your noises down.
He stops moving his hips and shivers, the new angle having you so much tighter around his cock, and with your knees up to your shoulders, making you look so small, he’s seconds away from losing it.
“S-Sir…” you whine beneath his palm, your cries muffled and your breath hot against his skin. Mingi’s cock jumps inside of you when he feels your voice against his hand, and he drops his head by your neck with a shaky, low moan.
“I’m sorry, pretty baby.” He murmurs in your ear, and then he starts to move again. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
This time, he’s kissing spots so deep you feel him in your ribcage. His tip scraping that perfect spot that makes your muscles cramp, and your throat catches.
“Am I too big for you?” He smiles against the flared skin of your throat, pulling his hips all the way back, tantalizingly slow enough to force you to feel every thick inch of him stroke in and out of your walls.
He leans away from your neck and looks at you, your eyes fluttering and your nose flaring as he slowly eases into a meaner pace, nearly pounding your cunt like he couldn’t control himself.
“Look at me, baby,” Mingi mumbles softly, and when you don’t respond, he squeezes your jaw harder, and your eyes shoot open. “I said, look at me, right here.” His voice is rougher this time, commanding. Like how he talks to the class when he wants their undivided attention, but this time it’s laced with pure primal need.
Your eyes lock with his, and everything starts to crumble. Your whines break into breathless, sad whimpers, your legs shake even when he’s got them pressed to your chest, your pussy gushes around him as he finds a relentless, deep rhythm, drilling his fat cock into you.
“Holy shit, you’re soaked.” He breathes out, pressing his lips against the back of his hand that covers your mouth. His hips smack against yours, a wet slap of skin with every drag of his hips; you could hardly hear yourself think.
“Good slut… fuckkk- my baby is so needy, hm? Such a selfish pussy.” He’s bullying you now, his swollen lips shiny and wet, then finally he’s taking his hand off your mouth and immediately replacing it with his lips.
Kissing you slow and deep, muffling your cries with his own mouth. His tongue fills your mouth, and your moans vibrate against him, and you feel as he starts to fuck up into you faster, the slaps of skin louder and the pleasure scraping up your spine and rendering you cockdrunk.
“Such a crybaby.” He groans down your throat, his warm chest pressed against your own like a heated cage, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
“Mm, just wanna- fuck… just wanna make you feel good.” He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip and almost growls, and you notice he’s starting to get rougher, get meaner. Losing control.
He started to ramble in cracked moans under his breath. “Better than her… p-prettier than her… fuck-! Softer than h-her…”
You hadn’t had half the mind to dwell on his words, but you just knew he must have been talking about his wife. Whether she was in the picture or not, he was still thinking about her. And you hated to admit it, but it sent your ego soaring.
His hands grip the underside of your thighs, pushing your legs harder against your body, then he’s dragging his hips back with a heady growl and pounding you.
Hard, deep thrusts that have you sliding up the mattress, he’s careful enough not to send the headboard flying against the wall, but it’s still enough that it sends your poor little brain into a frenzy.
“Shouldn’t be letting me do this to you.” He breathes through gritted teeth, his messy salt and pepper hair falling over his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak again, but interrupted himself with a broken moan. You felt so fucking good around him, he couldn’t believe it.
A wet, blissful mess under him. Such a smart girl who risked everything she had just to be ruined by a man old enough to be her father. There was no redeeming himself now. And he wasn’t sure that he’d want to.
“Does it feel good? Does my baby feel good here?” His hand gently presses against your lower stomach, where he’s buried inside of you, teasing you with heated questions he knows you don’t have the capacity to answer. You shake and shiver every time his tip kisses that sweet spot.
You’re doing so well, keeping your voice down, struggling to breathe as you try to keep your noises to yourself. And in all honesty, all he wants to do is hear you. He wants to hear you squeal and cry for him, but not while his daughter is home.
“P-please…!” You weep, your hands scrambling to grab something, anything. He doesn’t let you, grabbing both your wrists in his huge hand and lifting your hands above your head.
“Wrap your legs around me.” He bites out, sliding his hand from under your thigh and covering your mouth once again. Your muffled whines flow through his hand as you follow his command, wrapping your shaky legs around his waist as he adjusts the position of his hips so he can put as much force as he can behind his thrusts.
With your wrists pinned above you and your mouth beneath his palm, his gaze burns through your skull, and his eyebrows knit together like he’s focusing. “Shh. Be still, be quiet.”
You whine loudly, and he presses his hand harder against your mouth, shaking his head like he was disappointed.
“No ma’am, you know better.” He groans, sinking his teeth into your shoulder to muffle his own noises as he starts to fuck you so hard it’s like he is trying to force your cunt to mold to his shape.
Resolute, deep, cruel, Mingi uses your body like he is burning from the inside out. Angling his hips upward with every thrust to perfectly graze against your G-spot in a way that had you spiraling forward to your orgasm in record time. Your neck involuntarily cranes backward, and his hand follows your movements, keeping a tight grip on your jaw to muffle you.
Your wrists wiggle in his grasp, your hands shaking and spasming as all you feel is white-hot bliss. Like your entire being was pleasure embodied, and Mingi was working you out so perfectly.
The wet slaps were impossible to mask, the creak of the bed rivaling Mingi’s only thought that swam around his brain.
Break her. Break her. Break her.
You sobbed quietly, and you couldn’t believe this was happening. It all felt too good, and Mingi was way too good at this. It would be easy to get addicted, and it would ultimately be the downfall for you both. But you were too lost in it to care; all you wanted was to cum, and Mingi was getting you there no problem.
“I know baby, I know.” He growls under his breath, and your stomach lurches.
Mingi whines out broken and low curses, dropping his forehead against yours, his body jerking when he feels you tighten around him.
He lifts his eyes to your fucked out ones and kisses the tip of your nose, such a soft gesture, all the while he pounds your pussy to death.
“You cumming beautiful?” He exhales, and you nod frantically beneath his hand. There’s a conflict in his eyes, then he’s leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“I’m gonna move my hand, but you have to be quiet, darling. I want this to be good for you, but you have to breathe through it.”
You weren’t really listening, too focused on your orgasm, the more it coiled in your lower stomach. You nodded, anything to let you cum. Mingi wasn’t buying your eagerness, and he shook his head.
“Look me in the eyes and say you understand.” You force your eyes to lock with his, his hips slowing to a deep grind, your shuddering breaths warming his hand.
Your pleading gaze has him crumbling, and slowly he slips his hand away and grips the front of your throat loose enough you can breathe, but enough to assert control.
“I u-understand!” You cry, your voice a low whimper. “Please, Mingi, I’ll b-be good! I promise…”
Your sweet voice, it makes his cock twitch inside of you, and he grinds so deep into you that your lungs shake.
“Beg.” He snarls, forming his lips into a mocking pout. “Say, ‘Please let me cum, please fuck me through it, please.’ Make it pretty, use your manners.”
Your nose flares, and your cheeks are wet with tears make Mingi’s heart pound.
“Please… let me c-cum.” You whimper, your bottom lip wobbling, every word a drunken slur. “Please, wan’ it so bad… please.”
He smiles greedily, your pleas trailing off into quiet, mindless babbles, while he slips his hand between your melded bodies and finds your clit.
You feel his fingertips press up against it, and a gasp tears from your lungs, your legs tightening around him enough to force his hips to sink his cock deeper into you. Mingi tucks his bottom lip between his teeth drunkenly, circling your clit and grinding his hips into you each time he bottoms out with every powerful thrust.
“Yes. Yes…” You weep pathetically, and with every clench of your cunt, every sweet noise from your mouth, Mingi finds it very hard to push the thought of fucking a baby into you to the back of his mind.
His body craves it, his soul screams at him to fill you up, his cock twitches from the sensitivity of holding himself back. He knows that it would be bad for both of you. Once he lets go like that, he’s going to want to fill you up again, again, again. Until the results are satisfactory and you are round with his child.
He doesn’t want that. He’s sure you don’t want that. His body craves it, his instincts pick up on your young, palpable fertility like he was some kind of animal.
Your legs lock up around him, and your back arches off the bed, so close to that blinding edge. Your hands reach around his claw at his broad back, your nails scratching him up, dragging a wince from his lips.
“M-Mingi-! Oh my god… right there- right there…”
The authoritative honorific long abandoned, your brain clouds over as your orgasm creeps up your neck.
“You got it, sweetheart…” he praises, never stopping the repetitive strokes of his fingers, the filthy grind of his hips. “Cum for me, all over me, please baby…”
He kisses the front of your throat, sucking dark marks into your soft skin and running his tongue flat over them. Repeated begs for you to fall apart on his cock, begging for you to let go.
Your entire body tenses, and then it washes over you in waves; they seem to never stop. He doesn’t stop moving his hips; he starts to fuck you faster. Dragging your orgasm out and taking advantage of how tight you’ve gotten, you cry out and shake violently. Mingi gives you no room to breathe, every slick sound of his cock slipping in and out of you so smoothly, only seeming to help you cum harder.
“That’s it… yeah… c’mon babygirl. Don’t stop. Cum until it hurts.” He smashes his lips with yours and moans loudly down your throat, his tongue invading your mouth with a greedy hunger, fucking you with renewed vigor. His hands slide up and cup your jaw, holding your head still as he kisses you stupid.
Then, your legs tighten around him, you tilt your head, and kiss him deeper. You force his hips against yours, and he sinks deeper into you.
“Inside.” You moan around his tongue, and you could feel his low, gravelly whine against your teeth. “Please.”
“Fuck…” he growls, and the hands on your jaw slip up and splay against either side of your face, holding you like you might try and run from him. “Don’t say that.”
But you double down. “Please, sir. Need you to fuck me full of you… get me all messy.”
Mingi gives you a warning look, his thumb slipping down and pushing against your chin, opening your mouth for him. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, and you watch as a string of spit falls down the tip of his tongue and into your mouth, and your entire body erupts into an uncontrollable shiver.
“You want it?”He grunts, molding his lips with yours and kissing you so nastily, so dirty, you swear you were cumming again. You whisper pleading ‘yes’s’ and whimpering begs for him to fill you up, and you could practically feel the resolve crack in hips. “Gonna make this pussy a fucking mess.”
How could he resist? Mingi’s hips stutter, and his mouth opens against yours, breathing heavily, exhales broken with whines and groans. His pretty eyes half lidded, and his eyebrows pulled together as he shoves himself deep in your cunt one last time before he’s cumming, rolling his hips into you as he shakily moans against your lips, filling your pussy up with him.
Warmth spreads throughout your body, and Mingi’s entire body presses down heavily against yours, his hips grinding against you in slow, repeated motions, making sure not a single drop of him slips out of you.
Your heavy breaths fill the quiet of his room that has fallen, and realization begins to set in. There was no coming back from this.
You weren’t going to drop his class. You weren’t going to quit the babysitting job. You needed both, and Mingi could do without you, no matter what you decide to do.
He could find a new babysitter. It would be one less paper to grade.
But he doesn’t think he would be able to go one day without craving you like some kind of drug.
Slowly, he crawls off of you, his heart still racing. You sit up on your elbows, and immediately you move to gather your clothes, but his hand on your wrist stops you.
“Whoa, whoa, wait. What are you doing?” His gentle, kind voice has returned, and your eyes widen as you freeze in place.
“I’m- I’m getting my stuff…?” You’re confused, and he shakes his head like he was disappointed. He stands up and guides you to stand with him. He towers over you, and his hands, which were so rough with you earlier, caress the sides of your arms.
Up your shoulders and along the marks he littered along your neck. He presses his lips to the top of your head and kisses you softly, inhaling the smell of your shampoo. “Let me take care of you.” He murmurs into your hair, and you exhale shakily.
“Why?” You answer, and he rolls his eyes and scoffs.
“What a stupid question.” He laughs, massaging your shoulders and maneuvering you to walk towards his bathroom.
“I thought you said there was no such thing.” You tease, and he opens the bathroom door before picking you up and setting you on the counter.
“I can be wrong sometimes.” He shrugs, turning around and opening the sliding glass door of the shower. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
While he’s adjusting the temperature of the water, you turn and look at yourself in the mirror. You were an awful wreck. Frizzy hair, sweaty skin, dark marks on every inch of your body. He really did a number on you.
“I am still a gentleman after all.” He smiles and turns to fetch you once again, scooping you up and setting you inside the tub.
“You weren’t acting like one earlier.” You mumble, and he scoops some water in his hand and splashes it on your face. Your mouth falls open in shock, and he raises a warning eyebrow at you.
“Manners, young lady.”
Mingi cleans you up with a soft rag, gently washing you clean with a soap that smells like him. You nearly fall asleep in his arms, strong and grounding as held your body up.
He’s careful with you, like you’re made of glass. Attentive to your sensitive spots. He dries you off like a baby duck, avoiding your hair to not mess it up any further.
Once he’s got you cleaned up, he ushers you downstairs and urges you to eat something while he takes a shower of his own. He ever generously cuts you up a bowl of fruit, wearing nothing but a loose towel around his waist.
That strange domesticity from the first night he had hired you returned tenfold. And you couldn’t pull your eyes away from him while he worked. His damp hair clinging to his skin, his skin shiny and freckled. The tattoos on his body faded and turned green from the years of existence.
He lay you on the couch, gently massaging your ankles while you ate the fruit, a comfortable quiet settling over both.
“You can sleep here, if you want.” He whispers, massaging your calves. His glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, and he glances at you over them. You avoid his gaze, very interested in the pieces of kiwi sprinkled about your bowl.
“I shouldn’t.” You mumble, and you could feel his grip on your calf loosen. You turn and lock eyes with him, and he thinks he would do anything for those pretty eyes you give him.
“We shouldn’t.” You finish, and you move to stand, but he follows you. His hands cup your elbows and pull you close, flush to his chest. His fingers caress the fragile bone in your arms, and he leans his head down to kiss your forehead.
“Just for tonight, you shouldn’t be driving. You can hardly keep your eyes open.”
He kisses your eyelid, trailing chaste smooches down the side of your face until he melts against your lips, breathing deeply as you lean into him.
His hands slide down from your elbows to gently envelop either side of your waist, tilting his head to greedily kiss you deeper.
You sigh into his mouth, and he could feel you relax in his arms. Your hands reach up and wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him further against you.
“Okay.” You whisper, pulling away from his lips. He smiles, the smile lines making your heart flutter in your chest. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then he’s leading you away once again, the half-empty bowl of fruit abandoned on the side table. “Just this once.”
Of course, once would turn into twice. And before you know it, you have a routine with him.
Moments that were spent together in the privacy of his own home gradually transitioned into fleeting touches in the campus library, pushing you up against secluded bookshelves and eating you out to high heaven.
Dragging you to his office after class and bending you over his desk and having you then and there like some kind of animal.
You even went so far as to have him over at your home, riding on the hope that your parents wouldn’t decide to come home early from their date nights.
If the board found out, he’d be terminated effective immediately. If your parents found out? God knows how they would feel.
So you agreed to keep this little secret between you two. His daughter was none the wiser, and she never questioned whenever you chose to stay the night, it only made her happier.
You and Mingi had something. Something good? Something bad? You weren’t sure just yet.
For now, you were having fun. Something someone your age should prioritize. You act like strangers in class, only fleeting looks that were silent promises for what was to come later in the privacy of his home.
These kinds of things were always bound to end in a disaster, and god you prayed it wouldn’t. Just this one time.
You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t his wife. You were a placeholder of sorts, a ghost to fill the empty shadow left in the home. You had no place there, but the longer you stayed the more you began to burn your imprint into the floorboards.
The wolf can keep that fawn as a pet for a little while, but its instinct to consume will always outshine later down the road.
And the fawn’s instinct to flee will always be there; it never disappears. However long it chooses to ignore it, will only prolong the pain that will destroy it when it is finally devoured.
ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ author’s note: boldened italics are internal thoughts.
˙ . ꒷ ♜ ♞ ♝ ♛ ♚ ♝ ♞ ♜. 𖦹˙
soft pink silk, tight ribboned bows, and blinding white lights.
when did it end?
was it once the drawn out ballads of piano and violin slowed it a stop, or was it when rouge variants of rose petals kissed the shine of the wooden planks upon the stage?
or perhaps it was when the biting, reverberant claps of the unanimous crowd standing in ovation.
when heels finally hit the floor in the form of a révérence, you allow yourself a moment to sigh, shoulders slacking whilst your eyelids rest for just a moment, because you've been taught that it's not over until it's over. dancers should be in character until nestled between the large walls of the offstage rooms.
and when the heavy red curtain fall from above, the scene is cut, the facade of swan lake's 'black swan' drops, and you become one with yourself, not the role of the character you've portrayed countless times over.
when you walk from your position on stage, you find yourself welcomed by a swarm of photographers, family friends, audience members, and those within your troupe of whom you've danced alongside for many moons. more clapping and praise is thrown your way, making you suddenly become all too hyperaware of the aches and pains that encompass your body at once.
and the rehearsed smile reappears, bowing to those you pass, thanking them for dedicating their time to watch the performance, and showing gratitude when bouquets of delicate roses and peonies with fragrant aromas are shoved into your hands.
you're overwhelmed, breathing labored, pupils blown wide with the flashes of stark white camera lights meeting your eye at rapid speeds that blind you intermittently.
it only stops when you push and pull, bob and weave your way through the crowd and into the long hall that illuminates an ambient hue of a warm glow. statues of greek goddesses and portraits of the renaissance era stare back at the lone ballerina with streaks of black tilting and pouring from her eyes.
your back slides down the pillar that once served as stability for you, crumpling to the floor with more flowering that you could ever imagine laid prettily within your grasp, red petals falling onto the black feathered skirt of your lap.
so wrapped up in the rampant haziness of your mind, you fail to notice the looming figure casting a shadow upon your form, obsidian heeled boots omitting a clack! with each step taken closer.
"such a pretty little thing, aren't you," the voice calls, a honeyed lilt to hit voice akin to a bow dipping onto the strings of a violin.
you don't bother looking up, line of vision still set to the floor adjacent to your figure, the opposite of where they stand.
a chuckle breaks the ice, the sound of rustling cloth following shortly after, and you confirm it's a male, folding in over yourself as if trying to become as small as possible.
"the black swan, both on and offstage," the man speaks again and only this time, you look up, tears still pooling your eyes with visual restrictions following suit, but you're still able to make out the large book clutched in a large hand.
how pretty you are when you cry.
your neck cranes to accommodate the sheer height of the man, met with silky black hair, contrasting beautifully against porcelain skin, attire matching his hair with a monochromatic gloom.
beautiful, he says in his head, snapping a picture of the sight with the power of his mind and tucks it away into his memories for safe keeping's. "odile, so close to paradise yet stollen when the end reached near."
you bring a pretty finger up to wipe just under your eyes, using the skin in hopes of soaking up the liquid to stop it from ruining your makeup. "sorry, sir, i'm not quite in the right place for small talk-"
"then don't speak," he interrupts, the sparkle of his ringed, left fourth finger glistening under the light as he flips through numerous pages of canvas sketchbook paper before stopping at his most recent. "you inspire me."
you arouse such a passion within me.
the sketchbook is then turned to face you, met with the sight of a detailed portrait of you on stage, posed in arabesque position amidst a sea of flowers.
"it's beautiful," you say, nude pink painted lips parted in awe at the alluring picture he's seemed to capture with elegance. "can i,” you ask to grab ahold of the book, pink and pouty lips parted.
of course. anything, dove.
he nods, smoothing his hair back as he watches, looking down the length of his nose at you whilst you flip back the pages, stunned to see that the subject of each of his pieces sharing one similarity: you.
some are the early stages of sketches, some shaded with immense attention to detail, and others are fully colored, various hues of muted green, pink, white, and grey, but stay within that color theory, never straying far away.
"this is," you swallow down the knot forming in your throat prematurely before continuing. "these are stunning."
but nothing beats the real thing sitting at my feet.
"what is it for," you ask, looking up into his eyes and only then do you finally get a good glimpse at him.
for my eyes only.
he stands at somewhere close to six feet, could be a little under, prominent dark brows complimenting his close to black eyes, that are lined with black liner and inner corners dabbed with iridescent glitter. somehow, he looks both masculine and feminine, features harboring both a softness and sharpness to them.
"i've been dabbling into the arts and let's say i've caught the eye of an investor of…sorts," he explains, not going into specifics about what the hesitation of his words entail. "they want these pieces upscaled, put on canvases the size of those upon museums."
you shake your head, still taking in the nameless man's figure with intrigue. "i don't understand what you're asking of me."
"to be my muse," he says, as if it were the most obvious thing known to man. "such a beauty belongs amongst the greatest. hung in the louvre for all to see for the eternity."
you're caught off guard, stopped in a moment of vulnerability to have someone so devoted to the beguiling portrayal of your beloved art of dancing. you're flattered, to say the least. "i don't know what to say."
say yes.
he stops you there, straightening the deep colored fabric of his suit jacket, paired with a long, straight skirt that seems to lengthen his figure.
“say yes, darling, and all your worries will disappear," he says, voice a tune that seems to please your mind, body, and soul, tugging a string you didn't know existed in you.
"this is great, really. it is."
he feels that his efforts will be rejected, looking down at his watch that displays the time of eight forty seven p.m.
"you're very, very talented. i mean that," you trail off.
and he fills the silence, presence compelling, demanding full attention. you can't seem to tear your eyes away from him. "so what is holding you back?"
why won’t you let me in, dove?
"tonight's show was my last," you say, eyes seeming to gloss over even further and the tell-tale shakiness of the lip returns. "my love for dancing has died out, becoming no more than an obligation instead of a passion. i've become prisoner to it." your expression turns sour, as if biting into a fresh lemon. "so i fear i won't be of any help to you, sir."
"except you won't have to do a thing but what you do best, just as you are now," he kneels, one knee finding itself pressed onto the floor, and you are able to see the freshly polished patent leather that shines in the low lighting. "sit and be the pretty thing you are."
because pretty girls have no room for worries.
"i've been watching you for months," he continues, words smooth, calm-carefully measured, as if speaking to a frightened bunny he'd stumbled across in the forest. "not in a way that would be... inappropriate," he adds quickly, "but as an artist who has found something, someone, he cannot ignore."
can it be both?
"let me capture you in a way you've never been seen before," he say softly, "let me show you your own beauty, as i see it. and perhaps, in return, i'll show you what it means to lose yourself in something greater than you can understand."
there's a nervousness that trickles up your neck, the hairs at the back of it standing, begging for you to think with your mind instead of your heart. and you ask, meekly, "can i have your name?"
you aren’t ready for that yet, dove. not until you give me what i want.
he grins, white teeth peeking out from beneath plump pink lips. "if you tell me what i want to hear then you can have that and some." he presses a gloved hand beneath your chin, wanting to look in your eyes, try to decipher what is yet to come. "anything your little heart desires will be dancing at your fingertips."
the man watches your mouth when you speak, waiting for you to seal the deal. take the bait.
"yes, i'll be your muse."
good girl.
you don't realize that he's akin to lucifer, the nature of his beauty a veil, a shining mask that hides the raging storm inside.
in his eyes, you may see promise, those of which his sugar coated words may convey, but the truth was buried deep beneath the surface. and by the time you notice you're already too far deep down the rabbit hole.
♡ 𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: Dirty Masseur Yunho х reader
♡ 𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: A simple recommendation leads you to a private spa and into the hands of Yunho — a therapist whose presence is as captivating as his massage technique. Under his skilled and attentive touch, you find yourself melting in ways you never expected. What starts as a much-needed escape from stress slowly becomes something deeper, hotter and much more pleasant than a simple massage session.
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♡ ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI
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♡ 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Dom Yunho/ sub reader, hands and fingers kink, erotic massage, groping. finger sucking, fingering, pet names, dirty talk, orgasm delay, pussy slapping, spit kink, overstimulation, praise kink, squirt, wet and dirty, explicit sexual content, explicit language, and more.
♡ net: @cultofdionysusnet @k-vanity
♡ 𝔄|𝔑: This idea has been on my mind for quite some time, and now I've finally managed to put it into something more or less enjoyable. Although, for this, I have to thank my wonderful bunnies, who steered me in the right direction. Either way, you're in for the best massage of your life, bunnies, especially under Yunho's warm and skillful touch, which will give you a truly happy ending. Oh, and by the way, in our beautiful bunny kingdom there are already 7k (actually 7.3k, but I always skip pretty numbers) baby bunnies, so consider this your little gift ✨
♡ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 at the end of the post.
♡ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔶 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 - check for more
𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖗𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖉 - Your love makes all this possible
Last week at the office had been nothing short of hell, and at some point it had even seemed to you that it would never end. The amount of paperwork you had to deal with kept growing, piling up on your desk like dirty dishes in a sink, while deadlines loomed closer with every passing day. And as if that weren’t enough, the new intern had managed to ruin a couple of important documents, forcing you to spend extra hours writing explanatory letters and trying to salvage what could still be saved. All of this required more effort and patience than you had to give, liters of coffee, and what felt like almost a year’s supply of your nerve cells, which decided to leave the chat without explanation. On top of it all, the quarterly report hung over your head like an ominous storm cloud, refusing to be ignored no matter how many times you tried to shove it to the back of your mind.
Your working days gradually bled into long, tiring evenings spent staring at the cold glow of your computer screen in a dark, empty office. At the same time your body was desperately resisting such a tough schedule, answering with a dull, persistent ache that had settled deep into your muscles and refused to ease, while your lower back had grown so stiff from hours of sitting motionless that even the simple act of straightening up felt like a small, hard-won victory.
By the time you finally made it home, you felt completely exhausted, moving through the apartment on autopilot — keys dropped onto the counter, shoes kicked off without care, the dull stiffness in your lower back flaring sharply with every step toward the bedroom. You barely had the energy to undress properly before slipping under the duvet, hoping that sleep would come quickly and mercifully.
Yet even as your body began to loosen, sinking into the softness of the mattress, something else stirred beneath the fatigue. A restless, low-burning awareness of the long drought you had pushed aside for days had begun to make itself known again, rising slowly through your body as an unsatisfied heat that lingered low in your belly, warm and insistent. The quick, hardly enjoyable release you allowed yourself all this time did almost nothing to quiet the restless heat of arousal, leaving you more frustrated than before.
You woke each morning even more drained than the day before, still carrying both the bone-deep fatigue and that low, nagging ache that refused to leave you in peace no matter how you tried to push them down.
As the most frantic period finally begins to ease, your schedule gradually returns to something closer to normal. However, the damage had already been done. The deep fatigue and that low, nagging ache had settled into your body like something permanent, following you into every moment until you could no longer remember what it felt like to wake up without it.
It was during lunch one day, when the accumulated strain had finally caught up with you and the stiffness in your body had become impossible to ignore, that you told your close colleague how exhausted the last week had left you and how much your back was killing you.
Gayoung listened to you intently, nodding her head quietly in sympathy when you mentioned your aching lower back and how your bum had literally gone numb from sitting for so long.
"You know, I think you should try a massage. Something deep and gentle that'll definitely help you relax," she said, leaning in a little closer. "There's this place I go to regularly when the pressure gets too much. It's nothing special, in fact, you've probably never even heard of it, but the therapists there are amazing." A small, meaningful smile played on her lips, as she added. “Ask for Yunho. He’s very good with his hands.”
Jeong Yunho was not at all what you expected when you arrived for your scheduled massage at the spa Gayoung had recommended. He met you at the entrance — tall and broad-shouldered, with a head of tousled black hair that gleamed with quiet richness beneath the soft golden lighting of the lobby, looking more like a model than a mere masseur.
The moment he turned toward you, his face lit up with a bright, boyish smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He radiated a warmth and light disarming charm that immediately put you at ease; yet beneath it all lay something else — a quiet but palpable air of dominance that made it unmistakably clear you were in the presence of a mature, self-assured man, not a boy. His dark eyes slowly glided over your body, lingering with quiet intent as though he could already see every taut muscle and hidden knot of tension crying out for relaxation. His assessment of you was neither hurried nor rushed, but rather calm and deliberate, sending a small, involuntary shiver through you even before he had spoken a single word.
His attentive gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he dipped his head in a small, polite bow. “Hi.” He said, voice warm and pleasantly soft, yet carrying an unexpected depth that felt almost seductive. “I’m Yunho, your therapist for today. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
You managed only a mumbled reply, still slightly dazed by the unexpected beauty of his features. He noticed your reaction but didn’t comment, long accustomed to such things, though the corner of his lips lifted in a faint, knowing smirk.
“This way.” Yunho stepped aside and with a small, graceful gesture, motioned down the softly lit corridor.
He noticed right away, slowed down without saying anything and looked back at you. When Yunho saw your condition, his expression softened into something quietly understanding.
“Long week?” His voice was soft and warm as he inquired.
"You have no idea." You murmured, your voice was quiet and laced with weariness. 'It was relentless, to put it mildly."
Yunho’s gaze stayed on you a moment longer, his eyes tracing the clear marks of severe fatigue and exhaustion on your face. He found himself thinking how out of place such weariness looked on someone as lovely as you. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, wrapping around you with a calm steadiness that felt almost intimate in the dim light of the empty corridor.
“Don’t worry.” With a gentle pressure, Yunho guided you forward, his large palm resting warmly against your lower back. With every step, his hand shifted slightly, the steady warmth of his palm sending a faint trail of goosebumps rising along your spine. The touch was innocent enough on the surface, yet impossible to ignore.“I’ll look after you tonight. Just relax and let me take care of everything.”
The private suite was peaceful and golden. Warm muted light that spilled from recessed coves along the ceiling and the upper edges of the textured walls bathed everything in a soft, honeyed glow that made the room feel smaller and far more intimate than a typical spa suite which you’ve been to before.
A large ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, its quiet blades stirring the air just enough to carry the rich scent of melting wax mingled with something darker and sweeter like sandalwood and amber.
.
On the low wooden side tables stood clusters of thick candles and smouldering incense, their flickering flames reflected in the glossy, dark surface of the heated massage table. Crystal bottles filled with fragrant oils and creams were arranged neatly beside them, their presence somehow making the space feel less clinical and more sensual. The linens on the table were deep charcoal, heavy and soft, the kind of fabric that seemed more fitting for tangled sheets and passionate caresses than for a simple massage.
All in all, the entire space exuded a sense of quiet luxury — peaceful yet charged — as though it had been designed for deep, absolute relaxation in more ways than one.
“You can leave your things behind the screen,” Yunho said, offering you a small, gentle smile. “Then lie face down on the table and make yourself comfortable. I’ll return once you’re ready.” With a polite bow, he stepped out and quietly closed the door behind him, leaving you alone in the softly lit suite.
You undressed slowly, neatly folding each piece of clothing with care before placing it behind the screen and returning to the table. The heated surface of the table pleasantly warmed your bare skin as you settled onto your stomach, just as Yunho had instructed. Lying face down and completely naked beneath the sheet, you remained still for a moment, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you felt.
The intimate atmosphere of the room only deepened the sensation. The soft weight of the linen against your bare skin, the faint scent of oil and melting wax lingering in the air, and the quiet knowledge that Yunho would soon return — all of it made you feel more exposed, more aware of your own nakedness beneath the thin sheet.
The thought of his large hands moving over your body with nothing between you stirred something deeper, a slow, insistent warmth beginning to gather low in your stomach that had nothing to do with simple relaxation.
A few moments later, the soft click of the door opening reached your ears, followed by Yunho’s low voice.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.” You answered, your voice slightly muffled against the table. “You can come in.”
“Perfect.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with quiet care.
You couldn’t see him, but you could hear the soft sounds of movement — the faint clink of glass bottles, the rustle of fabric, and the subtle shift of his presence as he prepared what he needed. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice calm and reassuring as he rested one warm hand lightly on your shoulder.
“I’ll begin now. Try to relax as much as you can. If anything feels uncomfortable or painful at any point, just tell me, alright? I want you to feel completely at ease while I’m working on you.”
“Yes,” you murmured. “I will.”
The soft click of the oil bottle was followed by the slow, viscous sound of warmed liquid being poured. A faint shiver ran through you as the first hot drops landed on your skin, before a thin, steady stream began to spill across your back and trail down the length of your spine. It gathered briefly in the small hollows of your lower back before continuing its slow descent, leaving a warm, glistening path in its wake. The rich, herbal scent of the oil rose to meet the deeper, earthier notes of sandalwood already lingering in the air, wrapping around you in a heady, sensual haze.
The sensation felt strangely intimate. The heated oil slid over your bare skin in a slow, deliberate caress, heightening every small sensation until every inch of you felt more sensitive, more responsive. It was as though the oil itself was coaxing you open — easing not only the tightness in your muscles, but the deeper, heavier tension you had been carrying for far too long.
Then his hands touched you. They were large and strong, the palms broad and the fingers long and slender, with prominent knuckles and veins that stood out beneath his pale skin. You couldn’t stop the thought from rising — how those same long, graceful fingers might feel if they moved lower, slipping between your legs and sinking deep inside you exactly where you needed them most. You tried to push the image away almost as quickly as it had appeared, reminding yourself that this was neither the time nor the place for such thoughts. Still, the idea lingered stubbornly at the edge of your mind, refusing to disappear completely.
Yunho’s hands moved over your back in slow, confident strokes, spreading the warmed oil across your skin until it glistened beneath his palms. The oil made everything slick and smooth, allowing him to glide effortlessly over your bare skin as he worked the liquid deep into your flesh with firm, steady pressure. He began at your shoulders, his thumbs sinking into the tight knots with deliberate care, and despite yourself, a soft, broken sound slipped from your parted lips as the sensation melted through you.
He paused for a moment, his hands coming to rest on your softly oiled skin.
“Is this too much?” Yunho asked in a low, gentle voice. 'I heard you make a sound just now...I want to make sure you're comfortable.”
“No, it’s fine.” You murmured, shook your head slightly against the table. “Everything’s alright, really. It’s just… I knew my muscles were tense, but I didn’t realise it was this bad.”
'Mmm...' A quiet, understanding hum escaped him. “That happens more often than you’d think.” Yunho pointed out. “A lot of people don’t notice how tightly they’re holding themselves until someone else touches them.”
Although his words sounded innocent enough, there was a quiet ambiguity beneath them, as though he wasn’t only speaking about the massage, but about another kind of touch entirely — one far more sexual. You turned a little red at the thought and quickly buried your face in the headrest again, trying not to dwell on it as Yunho returned to his work.
His hands began to move again, and this time they felt even hotter against your skin than before. Instead of the focused, targeted pressure from before, Yunho switched to long, sweeping strokes, using the full weight of his palms as they glided in slow, rhythmic waves from the base of your neck down to the middle of your back. The motion was deeper and more encompassing, as though he were trying to soothe your entire body at once rather than chasing individual knots. Every glide was made effortless by the oil, with his skin sliding over yours in a way that felt almost hypnotic.
The relief came quickly, sinking deep into your muscles. You felt the week’s tension begin to dissolve beneath his magical touch, knots you hadn’t even realised were there slowly unravelling with each careful pass of his fingers. Every time Yunho found a particularly stubborn spot and pressed into it, your body gave a little more, surrendering another layer of stiffness you hadn’t known you were carrying.
The pleasant warmth of the heated table beneath you, the soft golden light filling the room, and the low, steady crackle of the candles all seemed to work in harmony with the slow motion of his elegant hands and his soothing presence, gently pulling you deeper into a state of heavy, luxurious relaxation. Your breathing slowed, your body growing heavier against the linen as the last remnants of tension melted away beneath his caressing touches.
Yunho continued working in silence for a while, letting the steady rhythm of his hands speak for him. At some point, his soft voice joined the quiet atmosphere of the room, pleasantly breaking the silence that had settled between you. He casually asked about your week, and when you offered a tired reply, he responded with a soft remark about how demanding office work could be — how it often left people carrying tension in places they didn’t even realise. The comment was light, but it carried the necessary understanding that made you feel seen. Whilst you were chatting, his long, strong fingers never ceased their movement, continuing their careful exploration as they traced the ridges of tension along your spine and the tight bands across your shoulder blades with focus.
Nevertheless, all the while, behind that professional and charming exterior, Yunho’s thoughts were far from innocent.
He was enjoying this almost as much as you were — if not more. He couldn’t deny that, to him, you looked incredibly tempting like that, completely relaxed and defenceless beneath his touch. Your body was so soft and pliant in all the right places, warm and lightly glistening from the oil he had worked so thoroughly into your skin, and every quiet, sweet little moan that slipped from your lips whenever his fingers found a stubborn knot only deepened the heat simmering low in his stomach.
Yunho knew he easily could draw even sweeter sounds from you, especially if his thick cock was buried deep inside that tight, plump pussy of yours. A pussy he suspected had been unfairly neglected, judging by the way you unconsciously clenched your thighs every time his hands slid lower, dangerously nearing to the edge of the sheet.
After a while, a low, almost unconscious hum began to rise from Yunho’s chest, a quiet sound of deep satisfaction that matched the unhurried rhythm of his strokes. The viscous consistency of the essential oil made everything slick and slippery; you could hear the wet, softly sloppy sound of his large palms gliding over your heated skin with every movement, the noise almost indecent in the soothing stillness of the room.
The more he touched you, the more aware Yunho became of your body's response to him: the subtle shifts of your hips, your heavier breathing and your faint moans, which grew louder as you sank deeper into the haze of pleasure and the tension finally left you. It was becoming harder for him to keep his thoughts purely professional, and the low hum in his chest deepened slightly as his hands continued their slow, deliberate work.
As his hands travelled lower, smoothing the oil along your lower back, he eventually reached the edge of the sheet covering your buttocks and paused.
“I’d like to work a little lower.” Yunho’s voice remained gentle and polite when he spoke, though there was a subtle shift in its tone — a barely perceptible hoarseness that hadn’t been there before. “Is it alright if I move the sheet down just a bit?” The tips of his long fingers resting lightly at the edge of the fabric.
You made a small, drowsy sound of agreement, too relaxed to form proper words and too far gone in pleasure to fully grasp the weight of what you were allowing. You didn't think twice about what it might mean to let him see more of your body, because you simply wanted to let these magnificent, talented hands continue to touch you.
He slowly folded the sheet down, as if to give you time to change your mind, before exposing the plump upper curve of your buttocks to the warm air and his dark, hungry gaze. A fresh, generous stream of essential oil was poured over your skin, thick and glistening as it spilled across the roundness of your ass. His large hands followed at once, smearing the warm, viscous liquid over your flesh before sinking his fingers into the soft, supple curves with a pressure that was just a little firmer than necessary.
You hardly noticed the shift in intensity. The relief moved through you in slow, luxurious waves as he kneaded the firm muscle with focused dedication, his palms gliding and pressing in deep, rhythmic motions. Your body felt heavier now, more pliant, the last remnants of rigid tension melting away beneath Yunho’s touch as if by magic, leaving you soft and yielding under his hands.
As Yunho’s hands travelled lower, the conversation between you began to shift as well. His questions grew more personal, each one well-thought-out and laced with a certain undercurrent that made them feel heavier and intimate than before. You answered them almost without thinking, offering him whatever he seemed to want while your mind remained soft and hazy, lulled by the steady rhythm of his touch and the slow, pleasant warmth spreading through your body.
When his fingers pressed especially deep into a particularly sensitive spot on your lower back, a low, helpless moan of pure pleasure slipped from your lips before you could stop it. A rush of unexpected heat bloomed through your body, and you felt a slow trickle of mucus spill from your little hole as your pussy clenched around nothing. It was so embarrassing, your body was betraying you in the most undeniable way, and there was little you could do with it. Instinctively, you tried to press your thighs together in a futile attempt to ease the growing tension between your legs, but the movement only made the slickness between them more noticeable.
Yunho noticed the changes in your condition right away. He repeated the movement with the same deliberate pressure, his thumbs sinking firmly into the small of your back just above the swell of your ass.
“Does it hurt here?” His voice was low and smooth as warm honey as he spoke, the sound wrapping around you while his oil-slick fingers parted slightly as they glided with unhurried precision over the soft, full curve of one cheek and then the next. “Or here?”
“No…” Your reply came as a soft, awkward murmur, as you slightly shifted beneath his hands. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just… a little more sensitive there, I think.” Your voice betrayed you by coming out softer and more uncertain than you had meant.
He didn’t respond right away. The corner of his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile as he continued his unhurried kneading, his touch never faltering. He knew exactly what kind of sensitivity he was coaxing from your body, but for now, he allowed you the fragile excuse, his large hands moving over your skin with the same steady, patient care.
Yunho’s gentle hands continued their unhurried descent, his large, warm palms gliding over the backs of your thighs in slow, deliberate strokes. Without asking, he eased them apart a little wider so he could reach the tight muscles of your inner thigh, the movement quiet yet unmistakably intentional, as though he were testing the limits of what you would allow.
A faint flicker of self-consciousness stirred within you as your body was opened beneath his hands with such ease, and though you tried to remain still, your muscles tensed involuntarily at the sudden vulnerability of the position.
Yunho noticed this subtle shift in you, but he didn’t stop. His touch lighter for a moment, giving you time to settle and get used to it, before he poured another generous amount of warm oil and continued.
At some point the sheet had slipped away without you noticing, leaving you completely bare beneath his hands. Yunho’s gaze unabashedly lingered openly now, taking in the sight of your naked body and the soft, seductive curves of your figure. From where he stood, he could see the faint, glistening hint of your swollen pussy, already slick and shining with your arousal.
He poured more fragrant oil directly between your legs this time, letting the warm liquid spill thickly over your pretty pussy and coat your plump labia and delicate folds in a glistening layer. The sight of it made his jaw tighten and though he tried to keep his breathing even, you could hear a barely audible, raspy groan as his cock twitched visibly against the front of his trousers.
His hands continued their slow ascent along the backs of your thighs, each stroke gliding higher than the last. The oil made his touch impossibly smooth, and with every upward pass, you became more aware of your own body — of how deeply the relaxation had settled into you, leaving you sensitive in a way that felt almost unbearable. A deep, insistent warmth had begun to gather low in your belly, and with each brush of his fingers, your skin seemed to flush hotter, sensitive.
Between your legs, a slick, liquid heat was steadily gathering, growing more insistent the closer his hands came. When his fingertips finally brushed the delicate fold where your inner thigh met the edge of your pussy — just the lightest, most deliberate graze through the warm oil — a soft, broken sound slipped from your throat before you could stop it.
One of Yunho’s hands came to rest on the back of your thigh, his long fingers tracing the same path once more, slower this time, as though deliberately testing the limits of your restraint. He could feel the way your body twitched beneath his touch, the heat radiating between your legs growing more pronounced with every passing second. Though his voice remained soft, still wrapped in that warm, boyish tone, something darker had begun to stir beneath it — a low, velvet hunger that made the air between you feel heavier, more charged.
“You’re holding so much tension here too.” He whispered, the calloused pad of his finger resting lightly against that sensitive place. “Right here.” His thumb stroked once, slow and deliberate, over the slick, swollen flesh between your legs. “Would you like me to go deeper?”
A part of you wondered, fleetingly, what the consequences of this moment might be — whether crossing this line would change something between you. But the thought was fleeting, pale in comparison to the raw, aching need that had been building inside you for far too long. Your pussy was so eager, so desperately empty after weeks without being properly filled, that any lingering doubts dissolved beneath the heat of your own desire.
When you didn’t pull away — when your only response was a shaky exhale and the helpless clench of your thighs — something in Yunho settled. The boyish smile faded into something darker, hungrier. His free hand came to rest between your shoulder blades, broad and heavy, pinning you gently but firmly to the table as though he had no intention of letting you escape what was coming.
“I know techniques that reach places most people never touch.” He said, his voice lower now, darker. “Inside. Where you’re really aching.” His thumb brushed over you again, slower this time, the pressure just firm enough to make your breath catch. “No pressure. But I think you need it tonight. I think you need someone to take care of this properly.”
Your hesitant, breathless “yes” was the only answer he needed.
The moment the word left your lips, something in Yunho shifted. The last traces of politeness and professionalism fell away like silk slipping from skin.
His hand pressed more firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you. With his other hand, Yunho poured a fresh, generous stream of warm, fragrant oil directly onto the curvaceous curve of your ass, letting the thick, glistening liquid spill slowly between your cheeks and over your cunt.
It flowed in warm rivulets, coating your already slick folds and clinging to the peachy, soft halves of your cunt before dripping in slow, heavy drops onto the heated table beneath you. The sound was wet and completely shameless in the stillness of the room.
“Stay just like this for me, pretty.” He said, his voice lower now, rougher, the dominance no longer hidden. His large hand moved over your skin in slow, possessive strokes, spreading the oil as his fingers parted you without hesitation. “Let me take care of you the way you need.”
The sheet had long since been discarded on the floor, and you lay face-down on the heated table, completely naked, your legs parted just enough for Yunho to see everything. He stood behind you, tall and broad, devastatingly handsome in the golden light, his gaze dark with unrestrained hunger as he took in the sight now fully bared before him. Your body lay open and glistening, your delicate folds parted and slick with oil and arousal, the soft, flushed flesh of your pussy on full display in the most lewd and inviting way.
“You’re shaking already, princess.” Yunho dragging two long fingers slowly through your slick labia. “And I haven’t even started the real massage yet.”
His hand — large enough to cover your entire cunt— slid between your thighs from behind and pressing it possessively right against your soft little mound.. He didn’t move at first. Yunho simply held you there, his palm cupping your swollen pussy while his long fingers curled over your plump, soft labia, all smooth and slippery with oil, feeling how hot and wet you already were.
Then he began to grope you in earnest. He squeezed gently at first, rolling your puffy outer lips between his elegant fingers, massaging them slowly, almost thoughtfully, as though he were learning the shape of your cunt. His palm ground in lazy circles against your clit while his fingers spread and squeezed your labia, tugging them lightly, feeling how soft and slick they were. Every so often he would deliver a light, wet slap to your crotch, the sound filthy and sharp, making your flesh jiggle and sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you.
The sight of your glistening folds, now even more swollen and slick from his touch, seemed to stir something rough in him. Yunho’s breathing grew heavier as he spread your ass cheeks apart with both hands, opening you completely for his gaze.
“Look at these pretty little holes.” A low, appreciative sound rumbled in his chest. “So tiny and tight… it’s almost a shame they’ve been left empty for so long. But don’t worry, baby. I’m going to take such good care of both of them.” He spat directly onto your pussy, purring contentedly, seeing the warm saliva mixing with the oil and your own wetness, making everything even messier.
His fingers returned at once, spreading the mess over your folds. You gasped, your back arching as he pressed them against your clit and stroking it with devastating precision.
“That’s it, good girl.” He praised, his voice low and filthy. “Spread those pretty legs a little more for me. Let me feel how badly this sweet little pussy needed to be fucked.”
You moaned helplessly, your hips twitching as you gave in to his touch, your body melting under the overwhelming sensation of being so thoroughly handled.
“Fuck… this is exactly the kind of pussy I like.” Yunho groaned, his voice thick and low with unrestrained arousal. “So plump and swollen already… so fucking slippery. Look at how it’s dripping down my hand, baby. You’re making such a mess for me.” He kept you pinned beneath his hand, completely at his mercy, while his fingers worked over your cunt with slow, deliberate greed.
Yunho squeezed and massaged your soft, puffy lips between his long fingers for some time longer, before spreading them open only to watch your empty hole flutter and clench around nothing.
You couldn’t help but give in. A soft, broken moan slipped from your lips as your thighs parted a little wider of their own accord, your body surrendering to the filthy pleasure of his touch. Yunho noticed immediately. A dark, satisfied smile curved his lips as he slipped his hand beneath your hips and lifted them slightly, angling you higher, presenting your dripping cunt to him like a sweet offering.
The very next moment, two long, slender fingers pushed between your folds and sank deep into you in one smooth, merciless thrust. Yunho groaned at the way your walls gripped him so tightly, immediately curling his fingers hard against that sensitive spot inside you while his palm ground down against your swollen clit.
He fucked you with expert precision — deep, steady thrusts that dragged along every sensitive inch of your walls, mixed with slow, grinding circles that made your breath hitch. Every time he pulled back, he spread his fingers just enough to stretch you open before sinking back in.
“You’re so fucking dirty for me already.” He rasped, his voice rough with lust. “Dripping all over my hand like a desperate little slut… and I like it even dirtier, baby. I want this pretty cunt messy and loud for me.”
He pulled his fingers out just long enough to spit directly onto your pretty, slutty pussy again, before he shoved three fingers back inside you. This time he fucked you harder, faster, his wrist twisting with every thrust so his knuckles dragged deliciously against your velvety walls. His thumb rubbed merciless, tight circles over your throbbing clit, and with his other hand he pressed firmly against your lower stomach, making sure you felt every deep, filthy stroke inside you.
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, your hips rolling back shamelessly to meet every thrust of his hand. The heat in your belly coiled tighter and tighter, your thighs beginning to tremble as your orgasm built with dizzying speed.
Just as you were about to fall over the edge, Yunho suddenly pulled his fingers out of you.
“Oh, no… please…” You were weeping loudly at the sudden emptiness, but Yunho gave you no time to protest. His hands were already moving, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. Before you could catch your breath, he caught your legs and pushed them up toward your chest, folding you nearly in half and spreading you wide open for him.
“There we go.” He breathed, his eyes dark and hungry as they dragged over your glistening, oiled pussy. “Now I can really see what I’m working with.” His fingers returned to you at once, sliding slowly over your fluttering folds, teasingly parting your labia with the tips of his fingers.
“This is much better, isn’t it?” The touch was lighter now, almost lazy, but no less devastating in its precision. “Now I can reach so much deeper… and I can be far more thorough with you.” His voice low and rough with arousal as he looked down at you, with obvious pleasure watching as thick, sticky strands of your mucus, mixed with his saliva and essential oil, stretch from his fingers to your plump snatch as he pulls it away from you.
He proved it immediately.
His skilful fingers pushed back inside you, and from this new position — with your legs folded up and spread wide — the angle was devastatingly different.
He curled them hard against your front thin wall from the very first thrust, dragging over that sensitive spot with deliberate, merciless precision. His palm stayed pressed firmly against your swollen clit, grinding in slow, heavy circles while his fingers fucked into you deep and steady.
The new angle made everything feel unbearably intense, overwhelming in the most exquisite way. He could reach places he hadn’t been able to before, and he took full advantage of it — alternating between deep, punishing thrusts and slower, grinding movements that made your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your moans grew louder, more broken, your body trembling in his hold.
Sometimes he would pull his fingers almost all the way out, caressing the soft, stretched rim of your tiny hole with his calloused fingertips, only to push them back in with a sharp, wet, slurping sound that made your face burn with shame and arousal all at once.
‘I'm close...’ You could feel your orgasm building again, faster this time, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.
Your thighs began to tremble in his grip, your walls fluttering desperately around his fingers as you teetered on the edge.
This time, Yunho didn’t stop.
The orgasm crashed over you hard, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred at the edges as wave after wave of pleasure tore through you like an avalanche, your body seizing and shaking beneath him.
You barely registered the broken, sobbing moans spilling from your lips, too lost in the overwhelming rush. He fucked you straight through it — fingers pounding into you at a relentless pace, his thumb rubbing your clit in tight, merciless circles, dragging every last tremor of pleasure from your overstimulated body.
But even after your trembling began to subside, his fingers didn’t leave you.
“It’s too much…” You whined, overstimulated and trembling, instinctively trying to squirm away from his hand. “Yunho, I...I can’t…” You gasped, your voice soft and shaky.
Yunho only pressed his large, hot palm more firmly against your lower stomach, pinning you down with effortless strength, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“Still not.” Yunho growled, his voice dark and thick with hunger as he drove his fingers back into you at a wild, punishing pace.
You cried out, the pleasure bordering on unbearable, your body jerking helplessly beneath him.
Another orgasm rose far too quickly, your walls clenching desperately around his fingers as the heat inside you coiled tighter and tighter. This time it hit differently — deeper, more violent. Your back arched sharply as you came again, and this time you squirted hard, a powerful rush of wetness spilling out around his fingers, soaking his hand and the table beneath you in a hot, shameless flood.
Yunho let out a guttural, drawn-out moan at the sight, the sound low and primal, as though it had been torn from deep within his chest.
“Here we go, baby. ” He rasped, pulling his fingers out only to rub them rapidly over your pulsing clit and sand overly sensitive folds, splashing liquid everywhere as you kept squirting. “Fuck, that’s it… look at you, making such a pretty mess for me.”
When your body finally stopped trembling, he slowly removed his fingers, glistening with your release. His dark eyes dragged over your wrecked form as he brought those same fingers up to your parted lips, brushing them teasingly across your mouth before sliding them inside, letting you taste yourself on his skin.
“We still have forty minutes left before the end of the session, darling.” His cock, rock-hard and straining against his trousers, pressed heavily against your cheek as he rocked his hips forward. “So… what do you want next?”
He pulled his fingers from your mouth, letting them trail down your throat before sliding them back between your legs, lazily pushing it inside your used cunt.
“Should we keep going right here?” He asked casually, fucking you with slow, shallow thrusts. “Or maybe… here?” Yunho withdrew his fingers again and pressed the slick tips against your delicate, unspoilt asshole instead, rubbing slow, deliberate circles around the tight ring of muscle. “I can be so gentle…” he murmured, voice dropping lower, “or I can finger this tight little ass so deep you’ll feel it for days.”
He brought his dripping fingers back up to your lips once more, pushing them into your mouth so you could clear up the mess you made, while at the same time rocking his hips forward, letting you feel the full, heavy length of his huge cock pressed against your cheek.
“Or maybe...” He continued, voice low and filthy/ “I should massage that pretty throat after all that moaning… help you relax it from the inside with something hot, thick, and much bigger than my fingers.”
You moaned around his fingers, overwhelmed and desperate, your thighs twitching as you instinctively tried to press them closer together. But there was only one answer that truly made your body ache.
“In my pussy.” You breathed when he pulled his fingers from your mouth, your voice hoarse and needy. “I want you in my pussy.”
“That’s a good girl.” Yunho praised, his voice low and rough with approval.
Yunho climbed onto the table with effortless grace, settling between your spread thighs. His hands moved to his waistband, and he pushed his pants down just far enough to free his hard cock and the sight of it made your breath catch in your throat.
He was thick, far thicker than you had expected — with a heavy, flushed shaft that curved slightly upward in a way that promised ruin. The broad head was flushed a deep, angry red, already glistening with precum that slowly gathered at the tip before dripping down the thick length. Prominent veins pulsed along his cock, standing out starkly against the flushed skin, and below hung a pair of full, heavy balls, drawn up tight with arousal. The sheer size of him made your stomach tighten with a dizzying mix of nerves and desperate, aching want.
Yunho wrapped one large hand around his cock and began stroking himself slowly, deliberately, spreading the precum along his length until it shone wetly in the golden light. His eyes stayed locked on your exposed pussy, dark with hunger, as though he was already imagining how perfectly it would stretch around him.
He leaned in closer and dragged the thick head of his cock through your slick folds — once, twice, then again and again. Each heavy slap against your plump flesh sent wet, filthy sounds echoing through the room. He teased you mercilessly, letting the fat head catch against your swollen and still extremely sensitive clit before slapping it down again, watching with dark satisfaction as your body jerked with every impact.
“Look at you.” His soft voice was thick with lust now. “Twitching like a desperate little thing every time I slap this pretty pussy with my big cock. You want it that badly already, princess? Do you want to see how far I’ll stretch this tiny, tight fuckhole until it swallows me whole?”
He slid the head between your labia once more, this time holding it there, rocking it slowly against your clit without pushing inside. With his other hand, he used two fingers to squeeze your outer lips together, making them plumper so they licked the thick head lewdly with every movement. The sensation was obscene — your soft, slippery folds clinging to him with every slow, torturous drag, increasing stimulation.
Yunho kept teasing you like that, alternating between heavy slaps of his cock against your pussy and long, torturous strokes that never quite gave you what you needed. Your hips began to move on their own, chasing him, silently begging. You could feel how wet you were, how desperately your empty cunt fluttered around nothing, aching to be filled.
"Please... I need this so much... I want your dick so bad..." A soft, broken moan slipped from your lips as you spread your legs a little wider, giving in to the need that had been burning inside you for far too long. "I'll be a good girl, I promise... You can use me however you want, just fuck me. Please..."
Only when your soft, desperate whimpers turned into broken pleas did Yunho finally give in.
He pressed the broad head of his cock against your entrance and began to push inside. Even after everything his fingers had done, the stretch was intense. A sharp sting accompanied the thick intrusion as your walls were forced to open around him, but the burn was quickly drowned beneath the overwhelming feeling of being filled.
Yunho didn’t rush. He sank into you inch by inch, groaning low in his throat as your tight heat swallowed more of him. When he was finally buried to the hilt, he stayed there for a moment, letting you feel every thick, pulsing inch of him deep inside you. Its length was so huge, so thick, that the distinct outline of his massive cock was visible against your lower belly.
Then he started to fuck you.
One of his large hands pressed firmly against your lower abdomen, holding you in place and pressing on the obvious bulge that appeared every time he entered you, while the other kneaded and squeezed your breast, fingers tugging at your sensitive nipple.
He began with deep, rolling thrusts — long, deliberate strokes that made you feel every ridge and vein dragging along your walls. Gradually, he picked up the pace, his hips snapping forward harder, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room as he fucked you with growing intensity.
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, your walls fluttering around his thick cock as another orgasm began to build fast. Just as you were about to tip over the edge, Yunho’s voice cut through the haze, low and commanding.
“Not yet.” He ordered, voice strained but firm. “Hold it. Don't you fucking dare cum without me.”
Yunho kept fucking you through the agonizing edge, slowing his thrusts just enough to keep you trembling on the brink without letting you fall. His movements grew deeper, more punishing, his hand pressing firmly against your lower stomach so he could feel every thick inch of himself moving inside you.
Only when your whole body was shaking and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes did he finally slide his hand down from your breast to your clit, rubbing you with merciless precision.
You came with a broken cry, your entire body seizing up as the orgasm crashed over you in violent, overwhelming waves. Your back arched sharply, your walls clamping down around him in rhythmic, desperate spasms as pleasure tore through you with almost brutal intensity.
Yunho groaned deeply, the sound low and guttural, raw with pleasure as your cunt milked him through your climax. He kept thrusting, fucking you straight through it, and only moments later he followed — burying himself to the hilt with a low, drawn-out moan as he spilled inside you in thick, heavy pulses.
You could feel every hot spurt of his cum flooding your insides, so much that it began to leak out around his cock even before he was finished.
When he finally pulled out with a totally obscene, loud slurping, you were left trembling and boneless, your body still twitching from the force of your release. A thick, creamy load of his cum slowly spilled from your used, fluttering hole, trickling down between your cheeks in warm, glistening rivulets.
Yunho watched the sight for a moment, dark eyes heavy with satisfaction, before dragging two fingers through the sticky, viscous mess. He gathered the mixture of your release and his own before bringing them to his mouth, licking them clean with a low, pleased hum.
'Now that...' He said in a husky voice thick with lingering pleasure '...is what I call a really good massage.'
At the reception desk, Yunho casually leaned against the counter with that same warm, boyish smile he had greeted you with earlier, though now there was a darker, more satisfied glint in his eyes as he looked at you.
“So…” He began, tilting his head slightly, causing a few silky strands falling onto his face, giving him a more hot look. “...was everything to your liking? Do you feel better now?”
You paused for a moment, taking stock of your body. To your surprise, there was no trace of the aching stiffness or tension that had plagued you for days. Instead, there was only a deep, pleasant soreness — the kind that lingered after being thoroughly and expertly used.
“More than.” A shy little laugh escaped you as you reached out and lightly swatted his arm.
Yunho’s grin widened, turning more confident, more knowing.
“I’m glad.” He said, his voice dropping just a fraction. “You know, we have other ways to help you unwind too, if you’re ever interested. The sauna is particularly good after a massage… very relaxing.” He gestured casually toward the rest of the spa. “Next time...”
But before he could finish, the door to one of the other private rooms opened. Another therapist stepped out, followed by his client, and your gaze drifted toward him almost instinctively — and lingered.
He was absolutely stunning.
Where Yunho carried a bright, approachable charm, this man radiated something sharper, more dark and magnetic. His dark hair fell slightly over his face, framing sharp, expressive features and intense, alluring eyes that held a devilish mischief even in stillness. His build was lean but powerful, and the easy confidence in the way he moved made it impossible not to look. There was something almost feline about him — graceful and sensual, yet laced with an underlying dominance that made your stomach flutter.
Yunho followed your gaze and let out a low, amused chuckle. He tapped the counter lightly with his fingers, drawing your attention back to him. When you looked at him again, he was wearing a knowing smirk, the tip of his tongue briefly brushing over his lower lip.
“So then…” He said, his voice dropped several octaves, sounding more sultry and seductive. “...next time, we can try a different kind of massage. One I usually do together with San."
Heat rushed to your face so quickly you were sure it was visible. Still, despite the blush, you found yourself nodding.
“I’d like that.” You said, quieter now. “Can you… sign me up for another session?”
“Of course.” Yunho replied, his smirk softening into something warmer, though the dark glint in his eyes remained hinting at something a bit more naughty . “I’ll make sure to set something up for you.”
You left the spa a short while later, your body feeling lighter than it had in weeks or perhaps even months. There was still that deep, satisfying ache between your legs and in your muscles, but it no longer felt like exhaustion. It felt like a promise.
And as you stepped out into the evening air, you were already thinking about when you’d be coming back for the next session.
1.9k, Naga!Seonghwa, witches, magic, mentions of death, imprisonment, chains, abuse, physical abuse, verbal abuse, fire, implied slaughter, implied age gap (@stellasays45)
“Well, aren’t you marvelous.”
You were curled up in the corner of a dark and cold cell when you heard a voice. You looked up to see a hooded figure standing on the other side of the bars. You had no idea who they were, or when they got in here, but if they were allowed in they must be someone important.
“Come here.”
You had a feeling that you shouldn’t disobey, so you carefully approached, sitting on your knees before this individual. The stranger knelt down and reached across the bars, their hand ghosting over bits of your body. You knew what they were staring at. Scales decorated your skin sporadically, making you look like some kind of reptile.
“Look at me.”
That you really didn’t want to do, but once again you felt like there wasn’t a choice. You slowly looked up, revealing the matching monstrous eyes, one red and the other white.
“Truly beautiful.”
“…”
“You must be cold.”
The stranger took their coat off, and you saw the man beneath. He got the coat through the bars and wrapped it around you tightly.
“The cold won’t kill you, but it can be unbearable.”
Without another word the man left, and you weren’t sure what to make of that whole encounter. The coat was nice though, as it was rather cold down here, but it would be a temporary comfort. Still, you returned to your corner and made yourself as small as possible. Guilt still weighed heavily on you because of what had happened. Yesterday was supposed to be a joyous occasion, yet it was the exact opposite. You were the daughter of the coven leader, and your family had always been extraordinary. The women in your lineage were witches, but they were born without any magic of their own. It wasn’t necessarily something shameful, but created a beautiful tradition. There was magic in your family, but it was something that was passed down between mother and daughter. With every generation the magic would grow stronger and stronger, which is how your family came to lead the coven.
It was your turn to take on the title, and inherit your power, once you were of age. The whole coven gathered for the ceremony. Transferring magic was never easy, but that day things went so wrong so fast. When you felt the magic flow into your veins it burned, and you screamed in agony. You could have believed this was meant to happen, but you weren’t told beforehand. Not to mention the rest of the coven was confused. You collapsed to the ground, screaming and thrashing around. Then black smoke began to emanate from certain parts of your body, as if your skin was burning away and revealing the scales underneath. Your eyes even changed color, becoming so inhuman. Since no one knew what happened you were merely locked up and left alone. Your body had settled down after a while, but you were quite cold.
There was no one around, so you were just left to wonder why everything had gone so poorly. Your mother had told you of the ritual, as had your grandmother. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way, yet it did. You had scales on your body now, your eyes were monstrous, this had to be some kind of curse. Although you didn’t understand why it had fallen upon you. Your coven was not a bad one, your family were not bad people, but you were being punished nonetheless. Of course your mother had tried to take the magic back, but she couldn’t. This power could only be given and not taken. This led to the rest of the coven growing fearful of you, saying you were a bad omen. They wanted you dead, but the magic would be lost if that happened, so something else had to be done.
Your magic would be extracted from you, and that would certainly be painful. From there your mother would try again with another child. It hurt knowing you were going to be discarded so easily and then replaced. At the same time though, you didn’t really want to live like this. So when the day arrived you went quietly with those sent to collect you. They chained you up and took you to the center of town. You kept your head down the whole time, too ashamed to see anyone. This wouldn’t be easy to watch, and it wouldn’t be easy to endure, but once over your end would be quick. You wanted to apologize for the failure you were, but such words were meaningless. The best you could do now to atone was to give back the magic and die. So you closed your eyes and waited for the end, except it never came. Instead you heard gasps and murmurs in the crowd.
“You cannot take what does not belong to you, not anymore, and not ever again.”
You opened your eyes and looked to the crowd, seeing a rather familiar face. The man from before, your only visitor, was present. It was clear this person was a stranger to the coven, and as they slowly approached others stepped aside. They had a cocky grin on their face, seeming to hold a secret no one else did.
“Who are you?” The coven head asked. “How dare you show up uninvited and interrupt-”
The man chuckled. “If you don’t know who I am, then you’ve been left incredibly unprepared.”
“Pardon?”
“Shall I enlighten you?”
“I do not care for your story.”
“Oh it is not mine, but yours. A long, long, long, long time ago one of your ancestors was unable to bear a child. Yet magic could always provide solutions. The only problem there was that they were not powerful enough. So that little witch had to look elsewhere. Of course instead of seeking out help and making a fair deal they sought to take what they needed. Along their journey the witch stumbled upon a young naga, imprisoning the poor creature and taking every last drop of its power. Once having bled them dry the naga was discarded, left to rot and die in nature. Now the witch had enough power, and could have a child as they always dreamed.”
“You are speaking nonsense!”
“Am I? Does this not sound familiar at all? You see, despite everything that witch only ever had one child, a daughter. A witch born without magic of her own, a consequence of birthing a child that was not meant to be. Alas, magic can provide solutions. The witch could give her magic to her daughter, so that she may grow up to be a proper witch of her own. Thus a little tradition began. In this lineage, only one child would be born per generation, always a girl, always without magic, so power had to be transferred from mother to daughter. A little sad, but it did have such a wonderful side effect. With each generation the magic would grow stronger and stronger, allowing the witches from this bloodline to be incredibly powerful from such a young age. What a wonderful gift, don’t you think? Except that’s not really the case, it never was.”
“You are no one to speak on my family! I know my history, and you speak lies!”
“I don’t know what lie you were told, but I promise you my words are the truth. You see, that little naga did not die that day, nor did it forget. It had to grow and cultivate its own power from scratch once more, yet it remained incomplete. As if something was missing, a part of their very essence strangely absent. Then it all made sense. It was the power of the naga that allowed a child to be born, and that power was passed on from one generation to the next. The magic that was growing stronger with each generation was not the power of a witch, but a naga.”
“What are you talking about!?”
“You all know as well as I do that magic has rules, and balance needs to be maintained. To steal power from another, such actions have consequences, severe ones. That witch took what did not belong to them and created something that was not supposed to exist. Such a debt is to be repaid tenfold, don’t you agree? That’s why the girl you hold in chains is not a witch, but a naga herself. Born from stolen power, and the method of repayment.” The man laughed darkly. “Despite that wretched witch’s efforts and desires, in the end her lineage will cease to exist, and I get back what was stolen from me.”
“Liar! All you’ve said are lies! You know nothing about my family!”
“It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. This coven of yours will burn.”
An explosion suddenly rocked the town, a ball of fire appearing in the distance, then another and another. A coven was protected by the magic of its people, yet the stranger was able to cause destruction so easily. That meant they were powerful, and incredibly dangerous. The coven immediately scattered to protect their home, but it wouldn’t be that easy. Giant serpents engulfed in flames appeared from the raging fire, attacking their surroundings and causing further destruction. Then one of those flaming serpents attacked the coven head. In the chaos you collapsed to the ground, still chained up and not knowing what to do. Despite the fires burning all around, you still felt cold, and you tried to make yourself small.
“You won’t be cold anymore.”
When you heard a calm voice speak you slowly looked up to see the stranger standing before you. He knelt down, reaching over to caress your face. His touch was oddly warm.
“Who… who are you…?”
“Your master, your maker, your other half, or more accurately, yours, as you are mine.”
As he spoke a black mist suddenly circled around the stranger, revealing a snake skin suit, and different eyes, similar to yours.
“What a wonderful gift for us.”
The chains on you suddenly broke and fell away as you were pulled in closer by the stranger. Before you knew it their lips were pressed against yours. What began as a soft kiss grew deeper as you leaned into it. There was something about him that was pulling you in. An odd sense of familiarity, this feeling of comfort and peace. He felt like home, and you just didn’t know it until now. You wanted more and more of him, feeling this warmth growing inside you, flowing into you from him. You didn’t want to stop but he was the one who pulled away, although you were the only one breathless.
“You’re not cold anymore, are you?”
You shook your head, realizing he was right, you weren’t cold anymore. He offered you a smile, helping you to your feet.
“I’m Seonghwa. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“I… I’m y/n…”
“Beautiful.”
“… I… I don’t fully understand what’s going on… you… and I…”
“Sh, sh, sh, it’s okay. Today is merely your birthday, a cause for celebration. In time everything else will make sense.”
“So… what happens now?”
“Well, you are mine, and I will take good care of you.” Seonghwa offered you his hand. “Shall we?”
There was no hesitation as you reached for Seonghwa’s hand. He smiled and pulled you close, the two of you walking together, intending to leave this burning place behind. It seemed so foreign to you now, and with each step you felt like you were shedding a piece of the old life you had. You weren’t who you thought you were, but now that you were with Seonghwa you could discover who you were truly meant to be. That was quite a gift in itself, perhaps the best one for a birthday.
Pairing: OT8 X Reader (Member X Member & Member X Reader)
SERIES WARNINGS: suggestive material, allusions to sexual encounters, allusions and depictions of polyamorous relationships, a/b/o dynamics, stereotyping, racism, homophobia, heterosexism, angst, fluff [More to be added later] READ THE CHAPTER WARNINGS
