CRUSHED. (M)
Synopsis: Yunho thinks hiding under your bed for a prank will be harmless fun, but then you bring a guest home and he ends up trapped in a chaotically humiliating nightmare he can’t escape.
Genre: crack, dark comedy, smut
Pairings: Yunho X Reader X Mingi
Characters: roommate!yunho, roommate!reader, upperclassman!mingi
Warnings: explicit sexual content, explicit and in depth descriptions of oral sex, non-consensual voyeurism, unintentional voyeurism, humiliation, unrequited crush, jealousy, semi-masturbation, panicked inner monologue, suicidal ideation (non-serious), dramatic death talk, dark humor about dying obsessive and self deprecating thoughts, bodily fluids and detailed descriptions of them, explicit language, dark comedy, self-loathing, extreme embarrassment
Author’s note: this was the most hectic and hilarious thing I’ve ever written. It’s just smut and crack. Smack, if you will. But i loved every second of it. It’s slightly unedited because i literally got nauseous from rereading it so many times, so let me know if you find any mistakes or inconsistencies. I’ll go back through and edit it in a couple days once my palates clean again.
Btw thank you so much for 500 notes on cameraman!yunho!!!! I guess we’re all just down bad for the lanky bastard. In that case, enjoy this smack and lmk what you think❤️
Word Count: 4.2k
In hindsight, it was a catastrophic idea.
But Yunho's smitten with you, and for some reason his brain decided it'd be hilarious—maybe even charming—to wedge his 6'2" ass under your twin bed and leap out like a discount horror movie villain when you got home from class.
So now he's crammed beneath your bed, knees jammed to his chest, spine folded like a poorly built Ikea shelf, and he's choking on dust bunnies the size of actual rabbits. Still, he's grinning like an idiot when he hears the front door click open.
You call out his name. Once. Twice. Then your footsteps creak toward his bedroom.
"Guess he's not here," you announce.
Yunho smothers a laugh as your feet start padding toward your room. His heart is hammering in his chest, but he shuffles forward a little so he'll be in prime position for the big reveal when your door swings open.
Then it does.
He spots your glossy black tabis stepping into the room, and his chest thrums with excitement. He braces himself, about to leap out like the world's dumbest jack-in-the-box—
And then…
Another pair of shoes.
White Air Forces. Huge.
His stomach drops.
Shit.
You? Bringing someone home? The thought had literally never crossed his mind. You’re so introverted he once caught you avoiding eye contact with a poster. A poster, for God’s sake. Like even the printed people were too much.
For one wild moment, he actually considers crawling out, just taking the hit of awkwardness and praying you can find the humor in this slightly creepy situation. But then a voice rolls in:
"Do you know where he went, or when he'll be back?"
It’s deep. Masculine. The kind of voice that belongs to an upperclassman who could (and probably would) kick Yunho's teeth in if he popped out from under your bed.
So he does what any rational person would do: he stops breathing and prays for death.
"Not sure. Probably playing video games with his friends," you reply, dropping your bag with a thud. "He's usually here, though. We don't have class for another couple of hours."
The guy hums, slow, smug, and Yunho’s not sure why it makes his stomach turn until he speaks.
"Good. Then we should probably hurry."
You giggle and Yunho flatlines under the bed.
He's never heard you laugh like that. It's nothing like the polite little chuckles he's earned in the six months of orbiting you like a loyal golden retriever. No, this one's real, bright, and apparently only reserved for sneaker-wearing strangers with deep voices.
He watches in silent horror as your tabis swivel toward the sneakers, then up on tiptoe, and then the wet, unmistakable sound of kissing seals his fate.
There's another smack, a different kind, louder this time, followed by your muffled moan, and his nightmare is confirmed.
He's trapped under your bed watching you (the self proclaimed love of his life) star in the feet version of a softcore porno.
His only options are bleak:
Stay hidden and endure the soul-crushing agony of listening to you get wrecked by big foot, OR, crawl out, get mistaken for a pervert, and risk having his face turned into ground beef by Mr. Air Forces.
Neither sounds great, but Yunho chooses the former and lies there, pinned against the dirty floor, lungs burning with dust and humiliation, and prays for divine intervention.
Maybe the fire alarm. An earthquake. Spontaneous combustion.
Literally ANYTHING.
Anything to drown out the soundtrack of his own personal apocalypse as your room fills with noises that will haunt him longer than his chiropractor bills.
Yunho doesn't breathe. He doesn't blink. He stops existing altogether. He’s now just a pair of eyes staring at the undercarriage of your bed frame, willing it to collapse and put him out of his misery.
But of course, life is not that kind. Instead, both your shoes shuffle towards the bed in tandem, and then the springs groan and sink with your added weights. Yunho’s soul leaves his body.
His mind short-circuits. Should he close his eyes? Cover his ears? He doesn't want to see this. Definitely doesn't want to hear it. His brain screams at him to shut it out, but there's literally no escape. Every squeak of the mattress presses into his spine and ricochets through his bones.
This couldn't possibly get any worse he thinks.
Then your voice comes—low, breathy, and unrecognizable in this register.
"Hold on, let me lock the door."
Yunho clamps a hand over his mouth as you run to the door, trying to hold back the pitiful whimper bubbling in the back of his throat. The lock clicks into place, loud and final, like the clang of a jail cell, and his stomach lurches.
Whatever you’re toeing your way back to do, he’s pretty sure it’s not going to be great for his mental or emotional stability.
You kick your shoes off as you come, and Yunho squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the groan of the bedsprings again.
It never comes.
There's rustling though. Lots of shifting, fabric moving, a zipper dragging down, and the sound of something heavy dropping to the floor. Yunho dares to crack one eye open and immediately regrets it.
You're on your knees...right in front of his face.
Well actually there's a huge pile of Mister Air Forces' fucking pants—still crumpled around his ankles—in front of Yunho's face, but you're right on the other side. Soft, delicate knees pressed into the hardwood flooring between the legs of Yunho's now sworn enemy.
His eyes are stinging, and he feels the first wave of tears forming when Air Forces' sighs, long and deep, then mutters a gut twisting, "Shit..."
They burn for real when the spit slick sounds of you sucking him off curl under the bed and into settle Yunho's skull.
It's slow, rhythmic and obscene—like someone halfheartedly stirring mac and cheese. Then it starts in earnest: the rhythm of your movements, your gags, a wet squelching sound that makes Yunho's wince.
No...no...NO!
God please! No!
He was definitely in hell. He's convinced he died sometime between second period and now, and this was his own personal section of hell. A punishment for all of the times he'd masturbated thinking of you.
"Fuck..." Air Forces gasps. "You think you can take a little more?"
Yunho's eyes nearly bug out of his head.
TAKE MORE???
You hum twice, confirming, mouth still presumably full of dick, and Yunho thinks he's gonna be sick.
"Hold still, okay? Tap my leg if you can't take it."
CAN'T TAKE IT???
No. There's no way he's about to do what Yunho thinks he's about to do. Not to you. Not to the sweetest person he's ever known.
But thats exactly what happens.
Yunho actually lets out a pained whimper this time, but the sound is drowned out as Air Forces braces himself on the balls of his feet and starts fucking your face.
The sound is absurd. He can only imagine what it actually looks like. And it doesn't stop. It just goes on and on, a grotesque symphony of suction and spit. Yunho's temples pound with every glug, glug, glug, each one impossible wetter and louder than the last.
It's not erotic either. It's not even human. It's like listening to someone punching water. And it's so loud. He's loud. God, why is he so loud? Is this what you like?
"Fuck... you're incredible," Air Forces murmurs, voice low and proud. "I've never...mm—never had it like this before."
Yunho wants to laugh, cry, and vomit all at once. His hands curl into fists against the dusty floorboards. This was like some sick fucking joke, and the worst part of it all? His treacherous dick is throbbing like it's in on it.
Fuck. This is so humiliating.
He clenches his jaw, trying to will away his growing erection through sheer will power and self loathing. It doesn't work.
For a moment, he considers jumping out now, tackling the bastard by his ankles, hopefully breaking the stupid little dick he's using to defile your perfect face.
But he can't. One wrong move and he'll be a headline in tomorrow's paper: "College Sophmore Beaten to Death After Cosplaying as a Freaky Dust Bunny."
His obituary will just say PERVERT in all caps.
Yunho's murderous fantasy is cut short by a choked groan, Mister Air Force, and a lewd slurp and pop from above him. You.
"Holy Shit..." he groans, breathless. "You look so innocent. I thought you were lying about not having a gag reflex."
Yunho stares up soullessly at a metal beam running down the center of your bed and wonders how hard he'd have to bang his head into it to kill himself in one go.
You laugh, soft and strained, and Yunho's chest caves in. He's memorized that laugh in so many innocent contexts, and now it's pinned forever to this. To him. To glug, glug, fucking glug.
Yunho's eyes water from sheer mental nausea. He presses the back of his head to the floor, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. But his misery is far from over.
"Now I know what that mouth can do, come here let me see what your other lips feel like."
As you push up to your feet—quick and a little too eager for Yunho's comfort—he doesn't even have the strength to wish for death anymore. All he can do is hope, willing it into the thick, humid air of your room: that Air Forces will nut the second he enters, that he’ll disappoint you, and that maybe… just maybe, this nightmare will finally be over.
He's still thinking it when clothes start raining down like some alternate universe Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs.
Shoes, socks, skirt, shirt, jeans, bra. And then the bed squeaks, and your feet are gone. All Yunho can see now are Air Forces' pasty white toes flexing... FLEXING... and he wonders if he'll ever recover from this.
There's movement above, slow, heavy, and ominous from where he's crammed. Then Air Forces gasps, swearing under his breath. And despite how absurd the whole situation is, Yunho can't stop the curiosity gnawing at him. What were you doing up there? What the hell was he seeing?
"How are you so wet just from sucking me off?"
Yunho's head whips to the side in sheer disbelief—and there they are. Your panties, crumpled a few feet away like the universe's idea of a cruel gag gift. The pale pink fabric is soaked so deep it's turned a darker shade, glaring back at him with all the smugness of, "Yeah, you wish this was for you, huh?"
It stabs him, sweet and cruel, then twists when you say,
"Mingi, are you just gonna stand there and keep drooling over me, or are you actually gonna fuck me?"
His dick jumps. Your voice is so soft, practically begging, and if Yunho were standing—if he could even feel his knees—he'd drop to them like the heartbroken protagonist in a soap opera and shout to the heavens from the gut punch of it all.
How could you say something so filthy in that sweet little voice? How was he ever supposed to look you in the eye again after this, let alone speak to you?
And to make matters worse, you've now gone and put a name to the blunt instrument of his torment.
Mingi.
Fucking Mingi.
What kind of name even is that?
Mingi laughs.
"Someone's impatient..." he says, smug. "I hope you keep the same energy when I'm in it."
You giggle again.
Then there's a pause—the rip of foil—and Yunho nearly passes out.
The bed shifts. Hard. Scooting forward a few inches. Yunho freezes. You squeal. Then the mattress dips.
Yunho closes his eyes, not because of the dust suddenly raining down on him, but because he's trying desperately to disappear into the darkness behind his eyelids for this next part. But it only makes it worse.
You gasp, loud and shocked, then the sound tapers off into a breathless, drawn-out "Oh my god." It echoes in his head like a gunshot.
Then the rhythm starts. Soft at first. Steady. Then it picks up and your moans grow louder. Everything seems to be magnified with his eyes shut. Every smack, every squelch, every blood curdling grunt.
And to make it all worse, his stupid, fucked-up brain is imagining every possible position Mingi might have you in, each squeak of the bed adding another to the list.
"Fuck...that feels so good..." your voice cuts through the air in a shaky, barely coherent whine, and Yunho wants to scream.
"Yeah... say my fucking name." Mingi grits. "Let everyone on the floor know who's fucking you like this."
Yunho silently prays you won’t—please don't. But then you say it, all desperate and euphoric like the girls in the pornos, and he wishes he had some dull pencils or rusty nails to jam into his eardrums.
You choke out his name, over and over, and the bed frame rattles even harder in response. Impossibly harder. Thrashing. Like it’s alive and mocking him.
Yunho grabs himself, holds his erection clenched in a tight, unforgiving grip. He's never been this hard in his entire life. It's actually sickening. It feels like his dick might spring right up and through the fucking bed if he lets go.
And sure, he could probably pull it out and dull the unbearable ache really quick, especially with all the noise you two are making, but this situation is rock bottom enough.
There's no way he could still call himself a human being if he jerked off—UNDER YOUR BED—to the sound of you getting drilled into oblivion, yelling another man's name.
His eyes water for real this time. Not just from the dust, but from the gutting mixture of jealousy, arousal, and abject humiliation.
He's pinned, a silent and unwilling audience; his whole world reduced to the percussion of a mattress, his pulsing dick, and the unbearable truth that this will be carved into his brain forever.
Time stretches. Yunho lies there for god knows how long, joints locked, muscles screaming, chest aching. And then you say something that makes his blood run cold.
"Mingi...I'm gonna come..."
It comes out soft and feeble. And Mingi, the fucknut, grunts something about you squirting all over him. Yunho's mind mercifully blocks that shit out.
The bed rocks a little while longer, then you mewl, and everything stops. He doesn’t mean to bite his lip or grind the heel of his palm against his hard on, but the sound you make as you cum is so fucking sexy that no amount of mortification or rationalization can help him exercise self control.
This was the stuff of his wildest dreams and most perverted fantasies. The whole bed is vibrating. And if Yunho didn’t know what was actually happening, he’d think you were being electrocuted. By the time it ends, you’re practically wheezing, and Yunho’s bitten his lips so hard it’s drawn blood.
He's pants quietly, chest heaving, thumb fidgeting at his zipper, the unthinkable hovering in his mind. He hates himself for even wanting to, for even contemplating it—but it’s you. Outside of this, the closest thing to moaning he’d ever heard from you was a startled little sound you made after tripping on the sidewalk.
And judging by the friendzone fortress you seem to have cornered him in to, he probably wasn’t going to get another chance to hear it ever again. So Yunho pulls the button of his jeans open, swearing to take this low moment of depravity to his grave.
Then Mingi's voice cuts in, gravelly and intrusive, and the spell shatters.
"Uh-uh, turn around. I'm not done with you yet."
Yunho yanks his hand from his fly like he’s been burned, shock and frustration flaring through him. He drags it down his face instead, jaw tight, heart hammering.
For fucks sake…
He watches, temple now throbbing, as Mingi climbs off the bed—great, more feet—but then yours hit the floor too.
You whine as Mingi twists and bends you into position, tapping your ankle with his foot until you pull your legs together. He plants his own wide on either side of yours, and Yunho feels a pang of misery. He doesn’t need his imagination to fill in the blanks.
He knows exactly what position you’re in.
It’s his favorite.
You hiss as Mingi pushes back into you, and without thinking, Yunho bucks his hips, desperate to live vicariously through him.
He knows it’s pathetic.
“Stay just like that,” Mingi instructs.
Then he starts moving.
He doesn’t ease in to it this time. Even from under the bed, Yunho can hear the sticky smacks as Mingi pistons into you like he’s drilling for oil. One of your feet lifts off the floor from the sheer force of it. And for a moment, you’re squeaking. A high pitched, helpless sound perfectly synced to the bed’s violent rhythm.
Yunho can’t believe his ears. He’s seen porn before, but nothing like this. This isn’t sex. It’s a small-scale natural disaster happening on top of a mattress.
Then Mingi’s voice cuts through it all, ragged and mechanical, like the Terminator decided to narrate his own sex tape.
"Stop running." Hey says. Succinct. "You wanted this dick, you gotta take all of it."
You answer with a strained noise that barely sounds human—half breath, half plea—and Yunho’s brain detonates like tiny, self-destructing firework of despair and auditory trauma.
"I'm trying," You whimper. "It's so deep...I-I can feel it...in my stomach."
Yep... he's definitely going to kill himself after this.
The thrusting stops. Mingi pulls out with a slick pop, and the bed squeaks under new weight. You're gasping, practically heaving, and all he says is "come here."
There's a pause, a shuffle, then the rhythm starts again. This time with a sharp, hollow thump echoing through the wall.
Reality slams into Yunho like a bucket of ice water.
Oh God, you're on top.
At first the bed was rocking side to side. Now it's vertical. And that thump? That's definitely the headboard meeting drywall. (Great! First his dignity, now his deposit)
Your moans even sound different. Lighter, breathier. And fucking Mingi. He's grunting like he's auditioning for a livestock competition, and punctuating it with loud slaps Yunho can only assume are on your ass.
"There you go... ride that shit, baby... Fuck, don't stop."
Every word hits Yunho like a sledgehammer, but he can tell you’re loving it. You sound wrecked, voice trembling, breath catching, but your rhythm never falters. The sharp smacks of movement reverberate through the bed frame and into his spine.
Minutes stretch into eternities, and every second is an assault. Every grunt, every gasp, every desperate, broken “fuck” shoots straight to his dick, painting an even filthier picture in his head until he’s sure he’s going to lose it completely.
The room is suddenly way too humid, and the heat is not helping Yunho’s slow descent into horny delirium. He’s drenched, sweat streaming down his face, neck, and sticking his shirt to his back.
He’s half delirious, and can’t stop picturing the way you must look: the flush on your cheeks, the sheen on your skin, the way your body’s probably bouncing in motion.
Mingi mutters something about being close, asks where he can finish. Yunho barely registers it. Then you ask in response, voice soft and dirty, if he wants to finish in your mouth, and it’s like a flip switches in his head.
Every nerve fires off at once—jealousy, desire, shame, awe. They all slam together like a demolition crew in his skull. Sparks fly, circuits short, and his brain catches fire.
Your words hit him like wrecking balls, and as you slide off the bed Yunho’s chest drums with panic. All he can do is listen helplessly and wonder if he’ll ever stop being emotionally obliterated. Or at least get a single minute of dignity.
He wants to cry again when the bed shifts and your knees hit the ground. He almost does when he hears the wet snap of the condom before it hits the floor.
He looks away when the mattress dips again, but there’s no escaping the sound of Mingi’s rough breathing, the slick rhythm of his hand, the guttural noise that follows as he comes down your throat.
From Yunho’s vantage point, the moment feels eternal, every second amplifying his torment, until finally, mercifully, Mingi sighs and it all comes to an end.
You both sink on to the bed, breathless, panting, then it’s still for what feels like the first time in millennia. Mingi mutters something low and satisfied and you both laugh.
Yunho just lies there, pinned, sweaty, and heaving from the sheer violence of what he’s witnessed. He isn’t even sure he exists anymore. He’s just dust, shame, and regret crushed beneath a twin bed that feels more like a coffin. This was the worst sex of his life, and he wasn’t even partaking in it.
It takes forever for you two to leave after the fact. You disappear into the bathroom for a shower, and Mingi stays on your bed, lounging, laughing, and scrolling through TikToks like nothing mattered.
When you return, he watches, itching with an almost painful excitement as you pace around the room getting dressed. Relief hits him like a wave, borderline orgasmic, as you slip your tabis back on, and Mingi those fucking Air Forces Yunho will no doubt see in his nightmares.
When you finally leave, Yunho doesn’t care about the way you hum and giggle when Mingi says he’ll see you later, voice slick with pride and satisfaction. He doesn’t even mind the brief makeout session you stop for at the door before the lock clicks shut.
He waits until he hears the front door close completely, then he lets out a groan so rough and jagged it barely qualifies as human. It tears out of him, lungs protesting from how long he was forced to stay quiet.
For a while, he just lies there. Like a dusty corpse, waiting for the universe to do him a favor and delete what was left of him.
Then it hits him. He’s still under your bed. You’re long gone, and he’s still there. Like a freak. The realization drags him back into his body. He rolls onto his stomach and crawls out, limbs locked and aching, hair full of lint, shirt damp with sweat and maybe a few tears.
His shoulder bumps the frame as he worms his way out like some rejected horror movie extra. His knees tingle like they have pins in them, and his spine cracks when he finally extends it for the first time in nearly an hour.
Yunho’s thinking to himself that he needs a long, scalding shower and a lobotomy when suddenly—
Your door swings open again.
"Shit—!" he hisses, trying to reverse like a panicked Roomba, but it's too late.
You startle when you see him, hand frozen midway to a charger cable dangling off your desk, blinking at the disaster in front of you.
The silence is nuclear.
All Yunho can do is stare helplessly as you take him in: dusty, disheveled, halfway out from under your bed, hair stuck up with static, face flushed and sweaty, eyes wide, and pupils blown.
Your brows draw together slowly.
"...Yunho?"
He throws his hands up, as if to say, Please, I’m not a pervert, then scrambles the rest of the way out, limbs flailing, utterly hopeless.
His knees buckle from lack of blood flow when he tries to stand up, so he just stays there—pathetic, tragic, and doomed. Because there's no explanation in the world that can make this make sense. No way to erase the image of your roommate crawling out from under your bed, covered in lint, eyes wild, and very obviously hard.
"I—it's not—I wasn't—" His voice cracks.
Excuses scramble like rats in his skull: Surprise? Prank? Illusion?? Nothing sounds remotely sane.
You blink at him, then at the bed he just slithered out of, then at the obvious bulge in his lap. He can see the gears turning behind your eyes as you put two and two together, but when your lips part, nothing comes out.
Yunho's intrusive thoughts detonate. Lie. Say you were fixing the slats. Say you saw a mouse. Anything but the truth. She's going to call the cops. You're going to end up on a list. God, why didn't he just jump out and die earlier?
His voice is strained with fear, and even to him, it doesn’t sound believable, but he throws out the only thing he can think of in that moment:
"I-It’s not what you think, Y/N. I can explain..."
