m1rotics

[m1rotics]

dig your trenches

body possesser!seonghwa x fem!reader

word count: ?

what i listened to while writing.

warnings: heavily implied dom/sub dynamics, codependency, emotional manipulation, possession, power imbalance, sadomasochism bc I can't help myself, breath play, throat fucking, someone please help her stand up, something is gravely wrong with seonghwa, impact play, boot worship/humping,

The water is scalding, numbing your fingers as you finish up the dishes. The leftovers from dinner are lukewarm in their plastic containers. Fried chicken and fried rice. Trees rustle outside the window, cars flit past, people chat outside the window, the sink runs. You don't contribute to the noise. You move silently, robotically. Rinse, wash, repeat. The cycle is as absorbing as it is comforting. Like soapy water, you let your thoughts swirl down the drain the longer you stand there. 

You try to let go of the dread, but it swells inside your ribcage. Metastasizes and latches onto your brain. It mutates into a lasting anxiety; into gnawing your lips raw and sleepless nights. 

It manifests as emptiness—an itch to hurt. 

Someone knocks, and you jolt. 

You stare at the door until it blurs around the edges, transforming itself into a gaping maw, until it fades back into the beige of the wall. Somehow, you already know who's behind the door. They don't knock again, but you know they're still there. 

They're just waiting to be let in. 

Your eyes shift to the clock. 2:00 am. Turning off the sink, you pad to the door. You take your time unlocking it, buying yourself a scant minute. When it slowly opens, there stands Seonghwa.  

He looks mostly the same. 

Silver hair curving around his face and half-way down his neck. His eyes liquidy and abyssal. His skin pale like alabaster; etiolated. The air outside is humid—heat already latching onto your skin. Still, Seonghwa is covered from head to toe, bundled in a black leather coat. He glances down at you, but he doesn't speak. His eyes flick up to peer behind you. Scanning the area. Scrutinizing. 

“Hey,” you breathe. 

“Hi,” he replies, simple yet deadpan. 

You slide over to let him inside, locking it when he enters. Seonghwa saunters in and looks around like he's familiarizing himself with the place. 

“Why,” you start, but the end of the question is dubious, “are you here?” 

He shrugs, “came to see a familiar face.” 

Seonghwa doesn't bother to regard you. Instead he observes, touches, gliding his fingers over your new coffee table and the fake flowers in their glass vase. Glancing over at the quaint kitchen. 

“How did you find me?”

When he looks at you, something in his eyes scintillates— a flicker of knowing. 

“It wasn't exactly hard.” 

You bite your tongue, “I mean why did you come looking for me?” 

“Why wouldn't I?” He says, and it stuns you into silence because you don't know what you expected. You think that answer might've been one of them, but you can't tell. You never can with Seonghwa. 

“You were the one who ran away,” he adds, flat. 

“I didn't…” you try, but it tapers off into nothing. You don't bother finding the right words, and so the silence persists.

It's not comforting, but not awkward. It's loaded, and at the same time strangely empty. The best way to describe it is tense. For a long time, Seonghwa just watches you. He doesn't speak, but you can tell he's stripping you down with his eyes alone. Peeling away your human disguise, and leaving nothing but your soul. Till your nothing but baser instincts and vulnerability. 

Unceremoniously, he states, “I'd like to fuck you.”

You put the food up first, shuffling through the kitchen without saying a word. Seonghwa doesn't repeat himself; he knows you heard him. Rather, he watches, he anticipates, and he knows.

He knows you'd never say no to him— it's not in your nature.

Once you close the fridge, that's when you follow Seonghwa to your room. Seonghwa is a vision to behold in the confines of your room. He looks otherworldly; seraphic. He looks ghastly. He fills you with the type of dread one feels when brushing with death, or seeing exposed innards, or standing at the edge of a cliff. 

That simple, instinctive dread.

You almost forgot what this felt like. You should've known that Seonghwa wouldn't let himself be forgotten. 

Seonghwa has always prided himself on outsmarting you—has always liked keeping you under his thumb. 

Seonghwa beckons you closer, and you oblige, stopping around a foot away from him. He smells earthy and sweet with a faint hint of chemicals. The two of you fall into your respective roles so naturally it makes you dizzy. A piece of you aches, but the rest of you hums. Your heart throbbing in your chest like a fresh bruise.

Seonghwa's hand stops to idle on your waist, on the bare skin exposed by your crop top. His skin is cool, even when he should've been warmer to the touch, and briefly you wonder how long it's been. How late is it now? 

Time feels like a foreign concept here. Something wooly and disfigured in Seonghwa's hold. He has a way of making abstract ideas like time feel insignificant, like they don't matter in his presence. 

Seonghwa leans in to kiss you. The kiss is languid, his thumb lazily stroking your side. His lips are soft and smooth. He doesn't deepen it immediately. He keeps it chaste at first. Sweet, almost. Controlling. 

He makes you want it—want him. He waits until your hands are brushing your fingers up the coarse leather of his trench coat, and wrapping around his neck. Seonghwa's mouth tastes like artificial strawberries, and you whine into it. Needy. It doesn't make him speed up, but it pleases him. You know it does because you can feel the hint of a smile against your lips. How his nails begin to dig into your skin.

His other hand splays over the small of your back, pushing you into him. When Seonghwa pulls away, you're already panting and desperate because that's the way Seonghwa likes you. Sometimes, it makes the process quicker, makes him eager enough to throw patience to the wind. Not in today’s case. Seonghwa takes a step away from you, and the distance feels agonizing. 

His hand skims down to slide past the band of your sweat pants to press against your swollen clit through your panties. 

“You're pathetic,” he murmurs, leaning in to brush his lips over your temple as he says it. You shudder. He presses harder, until the pressure is more painful than pleasurable. 

Yet you don't move away. 

Seonghwa pulls back to look at you, eyes like smoldering coal. 

“Does it hurt?” 

Eyebrows scrunched, you mumble, “yes.”

“Good.” He says, “Why do you let me do it?”

“Be– fuck– because I'm pathetic,” you huff. 

Seonghwa smiles, and his lips look blood-red in the low-light of your lamb. He eases off to run his fingers down to your slit. The relief is instant.

“You're soaking,” he says, arbitrarily, like he doesn't know what he does to you— what he's doing to you. 

“I'm sorry,” you mutter. 

“it's okay,” he drawls, dipping a finger into your panties, “you can't help it.”

His finger begins to circle your clit, and your legs tremble, “You'll always let me in, won't you?”

A quick, jerky nod. 

Seonghwa continues, “you’ll always let me fuck you, right? You won't deny me anything I want, no matter how unreasonable.” 

A smaller, more delayed nod. One fueled by shame and a splinter of an overwhelming need to please. 

“Why though?” He asks, and the words are a shock to your system. 

“Huh?” 

“Why do you let me do this to you?” he slips a finger inside of you, and your thoughts momentarily blank. 

“I don't–” 

“You didn't even think about rejecting my advances, and you still don't know?” He interjects, and you feel like there's more to this— like he knows something you don't. 

An objection forms on the tip of your tongue. Something brainless and defensive. A ghost of protection against his astuteness.

“Then I'll enlighten you. It's because you like it; all of it. The maltreatment, the humiliation, the patheticness of it all. It's so bizarre to me, I'll never understand it.”

He slides in another finger beside the other. You pant, trying to find purchase gripping his coat. Cognitive function draining out of you. 

“And I've tried to. A few days ago, they put me in a woman.” He murmurs, scissoring his fingers. It's too early, and it stings, but you bite back your whimper. 

“I was a housewife. Seemed like a lovely lady from what I knew, but her husband didn't agree. He treated her like shit, and constantly smelt like another woman's perfume. It was sickening.”

He pumps his fingers. Once, twice. Curling them just to make you keen, and then sliding them out of you. 

“He fucked me, and it was disgusting. I didn't want to do it again, but I did, and do you have any idea why?”

You don't, but you're sure he'll tell you anyway.

“Because I thought of you,” he admits, and you feel a little ashamed, and a little pleased that he thinks about you. That he remembers you even when you're gone.  

“I thought of you, your endless softness, your pitifulness, and the way you let me do as I please, and did it again.” He mutters, “it didn't make it feel better, it made it worse, and so now I know you must like it.”

You're not able to reply before he pushes two slender fingers, smearing slick on your tongue. It's not like you had anything to say, but the words make you feel sick; grief-stricken all over again. Closing your eyes, you lightly suck at his fingers, eager to get through the motions. To do as Seonghwa asks, because that's all you've ever done. You imagine Seonghwa fresh out of the shower, pink faced with a towel around his waist, oozing domesticity. You suck harder, tonguing the space between his fingers, and his breath hitches– it's so slight, it might've been non-existent, but you catch it. You always do.

It's easy to focus on Seonghwa, and not on yourself, or the pleasure you just lost. It's grounding in a way. To think about his wants instead of your own.

 What you want doesn't matter when it comes to Seonghwa is what you tell yourself. There is no you outside of him in his presence. 

You open your eyes when tugs his fingers from your mouth, nails scraping over your tongue. You wince and finally amusement glints in Seonghwa’s eyes. 

“See,” he murmurs, wiping the spit off on your cheek, “tell me i'm right.” 

“You're…” you pause. Slow blink. Seonghwa waiting. Seonghwa impatient. Hesitation idles on your tongue. Wrong. “right.” 

Seonghwa grins. His teeth like tombs lined up in a row. 

“On your knees.”

Like clockwork, you're sinking down, down, down. Your knees ache when they hit the floor. It should be sobering, but it isn't. His hand settles in your hair, and he tugs your head up. His tongue probing his cheek as he stares down at you. 

He tuts when your hands reach for his fly, “no hands.” 

Tension melts off you. Shedding off like old skin. This is easy. This you can do. Follow and listen, let him direct you. You can do anything but think. You lean forward, taking his zipper between your teeth and pulling it down. It goes slow and you look up at him as you do it. Seonghwa's hand flexes in your hair. 

“Did you think I wouldn't notice you were gone?” he asks. The words are rigid and cold, startling you. 

“I didn't think–” 

“That's right,” Seonghwa sighs, “you don't think. You never do. That's not what you're good at.” 

“Seong–” 

You're spiraling, stuck between relinquishing to Seonghwa's will and the anxiety mooring you to earth. The thing that's been grounding you for months now. Your heart is a heavy thing in your chest; aching and beating. Soft and warm. Squeezable. More of a stress ball than a vital organ sometimes. Docile as a lamb. Ready to roll over into Seonghwa’s hand if so much as asked– belly up and pliant. Supple skin waiting for his knife, ready to bleed.

“Don't worry, I'll do the thinking for you. All you have to do is follow my lead. Speak when spoken to. Answer when asked,” he says like it's simple, like it's easy, and to him, you're sure it is. To you, the task seems daunting. Looming over you. A potential collapse in everything you've built, “you can do that, right?”

You think about saying no. The raw, sour taste it would leave on your tongue. Seonghwa's furrowed brow, his doll face frowning. Disappointed. 

“Right,” you agree.

“There you go,” he croons, “now open your mouth for me.”

You let your tongue loll out, and Seonghwa pinches it between his thumb and pointer, squeezing. His hands are rough and callous. His skin tastes sterile but familiar. 

“Doesn't it feel good to listen?” His voice is low and satiny, “doesn't it feel good to be mine?” 

You nod despite it tugging at your tongue, a soft mewl slipping out. The possessiveness sending a zap of pleasure done your spine. Seonghwa's never called you his before. You've always just been something to have, but not to own. Something he plays with, but not worthy of being called one of his own. 

His fingers release your tongue, but you don't move. You won't until he tells you to. Seonghwa's spit is cool when it hits your tongue. It's degrading and frankly gross, but he's never done that before and you accept whatever you can get, so you swallow it. Rolling your tongue back out whenever you're finished, just to show him that you can be good. That you know how to be obedient.

Seonghwa pulls the band of his underwear down, and his cock springs free. Pink and leaking, long and pretty. 

“No hands,” he instructs.

Carefully, you inch forward to place a chaste kiss to the tip. He groans. You wrap your lips around the tip, sucking softly. The salt of his precum filling your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head, trailing back to tongue at slit. Peeking up at him with wide eyes. 

You don't take more than a quarter, barely anything really. You just sweep your tongue over the head, humming around him. Teasing. You don't stop until his hand applies a little bit of pressure, holding you there instead of letting you pull away. This time you surge forward. He hits the back of your throat, and your eyes water. You feel your throat begin to struggle, and you force yourself to relax. Seonghwa hand guides you forward, and you follow. 

He doesn't stop until you're taking him to the hilt then he keeps you there. He stays like that for a minute stuffed in your mouth and buried deep in your throat. A grunt tumbles out of him. Breathing circumvents you in your mission to make him moan. You hollow your cheeks, pushing your tongue up and applying pressure to where he likes it. It's greedy the way you swallow him up, making sure none of him remains neglected. 

Seonghwa hips drag back and then jerk forward, eliciting a gag, tears sprouting in the corner in your mouth. His cock twitches. A snake-like moan crawls out of him. He fucked your throat with reckless abandon now. Your throat pulses around the intrusion, convulsing and quivering. The squelch of it loud and wanton. 

Your head is empty. Nothing but hot air and the sound of Seonghwa’s voice. His tongue is growing loose, turning all throaty and crass. His carefully contained thoughts spilling out of him. Still, it's hard to focus when your mouth is stretched around the girth of him. Spit trailing down your chin, foaming at the seams of your mouth. 

“You don't get to leave,” he grunts, furthers his point with a harsh thrust. You gag, spit trailing down your chin and falling into your lap. You almost miss his next words, “you don't get to leave me.” 

The sentence comes out thin and waspish; punched out of his stomach and straight from the chest. It's enough to have you high off the slight possibility that Seonghwa cares. You want him to care. You want him to care so badly it aches. It's like withdrawals; a deep-seated need. A craving that lasts forever, and damn near kills you when you don't get it. 

“You're not going anywhere.”

You’re whining, drooling around his cock like it's all you know how to do. Fat tears coasting down your cheeks and down your neck. You keep your hands tucked underneath your thighs, turning clammy from the body heat, nails digging into the soft flesh of your thighs; a constant sting. There's a fog wafting over you. Your thoughts turn thick and syrupy; slow-moving and faraway.

“You're mine,” he huffs, and you keen, long and low, humming around the length of him. “All– shit– mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to use.”

Pathetically, you gurgle around his cock, trying to agree, but it comes out unintelligible and useless. Seonghwa's head falls back with a prolonged groan. Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. His hand flexing in your hair.

“You're not allowed to leave me,” he pants, “you don't get to make decisions like that. You don't get to do that. Do you understand?”

It's hard to nod when you're choking on his cock, yet you try. Nodding and wailing around him; giving him your muffled assent alongside pathetic rambling. He pulls you off with a wet pop, his tight grip wresting a whimper out of you.

“Do you understand?”

He repeats, makes sure to stretch the words, labored but firm.

“I do, I do. I understand,” you sniffle, voice hoarse.

Seonghwa lodges his cock deep down your throat when he cums. Pinching your nose as you sputter around him like an old car. The panic is a reflex; a natural defense mechanism, kicked in motion by the lack of air. Your throat spasms around his cock, struggling to force his cum down.

Seonghwa's hand is heavy on the back of your head, grounding you in a way. You're floating away, you think. Your body is dense and light all at once. It might just be the lack of oxygen getting to you, making your thoughts all murky. You're blubbering around his cock, but Seonghwa doesn't seem to mind. He studies you with minimal interest, only speaking when he sees your eyes slowly shutting.

“Keep looking at me,” he mutters, thrusting his hips and making you gag, knocking a loose tear off your lash line. You blink a few times, trying to glimpse past unshed tears, trying to focus on Seonghwa's face. It doesn't work, and spots bloom in your vision, drilling through Seonghwa's figure– his face is the first to go. A real tragedy since that's what you were straining to catch a peek of. Eventually, he eases his grip, tugging you off of him until there's only a string of spit connecting you to his cock. You gasp for breath, cheeks hot and your forehead veiled in a thin layer of sweat. Nothing on your mind but Seonghwa, Seonghwa, Seonghwa.

“You’re already cock-drunk and all I've done is fuck your pretty little face,” he chides but sounds oddly pleased.

“You want me to make you feel good?”

A whine and a nod.

Seonghwa admonishes, “words.”

“Mhm, want you to make me feel good, hwa,” you breathe.

Seonghwa head cocks. His face is eerily vacant. Not a frown or wrinkle in sight. White illuminates half of his face, and he looks spectral; bloodless.

“hwa,” he comments, and wrenches you by your hair tugging you up to straighten your spine. It's so quick you barely have time to react when his boot meets the softness of your stomach. The bite of it is enough to make you gasp. Your arms immediately wrap themselves around your abdomen to protect your innards from extra harm. The pain turns into a dull, constant ache, but his hand makes it impossible to curl up into yourself.

“‘m sorry,” you whisper, and Seonghwa grip eases.

“Still want me to make you feel good?”

“Yes, sir,” you murmur.

Shame burns at you, searing through your veins, and you tug the inside of your cheek between your teeth, biting down. It's disgusting what you'd let him do– what you already let him do to you. The slick leaking out of you feels like confession; like acceptance; humiliation and sacramental all at the same time.

“Such a silly little mutt,” Seonghwa's chuckle is low and derisive, “you'll take anything I give you.”

You don't respond, he doesn't wait for one.

“Remove your pants,” he orders, and you rush to oblige, shuffling your shorts down your thighs. It's awkward trying to slide them over your bent knees, but you succeed and then they're rolling off your calves. Seonghwa takes this opportunity to nudge his boot-clad foot between your legs, lightly pointed up to press against your throbbing cunt.

“Hump,” he instructs as he tucks his cock back into his briefs.

It's cool enough to make you jump, but your hips stall. Your inaction irks him. He presses his foot into you again.

“Don't make me repeat myself.”

This spurs you to action; your hips come to a steady grind. The friction is uncomfortable. Your panties rub against your sensitive clit. It’s too rough. Too dry. Your head knocks into his knee, a soft whimper escaping you.

“Harder,” he instructs.

You know better than to argue. You don't tell him it hurts because he knows. He always fucking knows, and all you do is defer, surrender yourself to his whims, so you hump harder. It hurts, and you hiss. Tears sprouting in your eyes, little dollops clinging to your lashes.

You're pathetic.

That's one thing you know. It's the one thing you're sure of. It's the one thing that is constant. It is the only thing that lasts forever— not Seonghwa, not this makeshift relationship, this horrific display of dominance and compliance.

But the lack of personhood you have is undeniable. The fact that the idea of you is a shaky, unstable concept, and the singular thing about you that's true is your obedience to the point of stupidity. The fact that your heart beats for a sole purpose, and that is to please Seonghwa. To ache for him— Even if he isn't in the room, even if he is, even if he doesn't give a damn about you.

The transition into pleasure is a slow one; you've never been fond of discomfort. No matter how much Seonghwa doles it out. Perhaps that's why he likes you. You take whatever you're given; well-trained. It gets easier when your panties are completely soaked. Each pass of your hips slick and quick. Your sounds of pain veering into soft panting.

[m1rotics]

Do you have a taglist?

No I don't have one, but I can make one if you'd like to be on it!

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One day seonghwa will get what's coming to him (me)

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Seonghwa is truly my muse because I can't stop writing that man

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[m1rotics]

Hongjoong's hair in your fantasy mv is driving me crazy..gfkfjfjfjfj

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It's disgusting how bad I need mingi

[m1rotics]

fire-licked (bodies burn)

seonghwa x fem!reader x wooyoung

word count: 1k

warnings: heavily implied dom/sub dynamics, sadomasochism, sensory/temperature play ( fire play specifically), human furniture (you to hold an ashtray for them), they're both mean, nothing explicit happens but the entire thing is inherently sexual.

Seonghwa and wooyoung like playing with fire; they always drag you into their schemes. But that's enough about their impish behavior, today they're playing with fire in the literal sense. There's a lighter clutched between Seonghwa's fingers. A plain silver zippo lighter with his and wooyoung's initials engraved on it. Wooyoung did it while you were all shooting the shit with the pocketknife he always keeps with him.

You can hear him clicking the flame to life just to kill it again. The warm orange fills the entire living room, just to leave it dim again with nothing but the living room tv illuminating the room. Wooyoung's situated himself on the couch in wide-legged repose, black pants tight on his thighs. A hand resting under his baggy shirt. A cigarette tucked between his lips; you in between his legs, holding out a glass ashtray.

Smoke swirls in your vision; twirling around itself like ribbons.

"getting tired?" wooyoung sneers. His voice is a bit gruff from disuse, from all that smoke clogging his lungs. You're not expected to answer, so you don't.

Wooyoung's teasing you, purposely making fun of you— he doesn't care about your response when he's doing that; Seonghwa does though, so he's the one that interjects, "words, use them."

You are getting tired— you've been at this for a while now, around ten minutes or so, and the muscles in your arms are already burning.

"yes, sir," you reply. Seonghwa hums, placated. The lighter clicks on again, orange light highlights the side of Wooyoung's face. The name is for everyone and no one at all— Wooyoung could give two fucks less about what you call him, and Seonghwa's a bit of a chameleon, morphing into whatever honorific feels apropos to his mood.

Right now, sir suits him best. He's feeling mean, you can tell.

Wooyoung's chuckle is more of a harsh exhale, his smile sharp, he taps his ash off into the tray. "That's too bad."

After a few minutes, Seonghwa's sidling to your side because you can register it. Knobby knee knocking Wooyoung's foot out of the way. It's a tight fit because of the coffee table behind you. Seonghwa can barely stretch out. He doesn't seem to mind. Wooyoung's cigarette is almost done, nearly a quarter, and you're so close. All you need to do is hold the tray.

You jump when Seonghwa's hand rests on your thigh and his teeth plunge into the skin of your arm.

Wooyoung tsks, "careful.”

"sorry, sir" you mumble.

Seonghwa plants a tender kiss to the mark when he's done, taking pride in it whilst offering the slightest nonverbal comfort.

A chink of the lighter opening, a click of it turning on. Seonghwa lightly squeezes your thighs. He holds the flame underneath your arm. The feeling is instantaneous; heat permeates your body and it stings. A muffled whimper, and you're shaking intensifies.

"stay still," Seonghwa scolds.

"I'm trying," the words came out with less bite than you had hoped; more thin and wet, than mean and snappy.

"don't try, Do," Seonghwa's voice is low and edged. A bow dipped in poison. You shudder.

You're surprised Wooyoung hasn't said anything, but he seems to be entranced, shot pupils focused on the lighter Seonghwa's placing so close to your sensitive skin. He bites his lip, and you can see his Adam's apple shifting as he swallows. There's a flush to his cheeks that wasn't there before, a gleam in his eyes incited by your pain. Without realizing your thighs rub together to release a bit of tension.

He groans when this time, you whimper, the wetness in your eyes begins to drip down your cheeks. His hips thrust up to get a little friction from the inseam of his pants. The gesture is so desperate that it sends a pang of arousal through you.

Seonghwa holds it there longer this time, and the pain quickly becomes excruciating. It's too much, but enough to make you tap out, but it's enough to have a constant stream of tears rolling down your cheeks. The inside cheek pulled between your teeth to distract from the throbbing.

It seems like forever when he pulls away, and you see Seonghwa smile in your peripheral, pleased with your obedience. You can't help but preen under the attention.

"ten seconds down," he murmurs, planting a soft kiss to your cheek, "one more time, and you'll be done."

"okay," you breathe.

"Only one more," he repeats. Another kiss to the cheek. Finally, he pulls away.

Bracing yourself does not make it better is what you swiftly learn. It makes it worse honestly, because the pain is somehow worse than what you expected despite previously experiencing it. It's like your body is reacclimating itself to it each and every time. Your sobbing, sniffling, and chewing on your bottom lip. Seconds seem to slow into minutes, and wooyoung's soft panting is grating at your patience— you wish he'd hurry up with this last drag, so you could be done with it all.

You're so fucking close to the finish line.

The moment it happens is filmed in slow motion. Wooyoung's about to ash it one last time, seonghwa still holding the lighter to your skin. You're shaking like a wet dog, hands sweaty and arms growing weaker by the millisecond. Seonghwa instructs you to stop squirming even though it's pointless. All it takes is a practically hard jerk, and the ashtray is falling to the ground. Ash spilling over old tile. Luckily it doesn't break.

The dread is immediate and all-consuming. Clawing out of your chest, and forcing more ugly sobs out of you. The lighter clinks shut, and Seonghwa's hand is guiding your head to look at him. He groans at the sight of you, reveling in your misery, and leans closer to place a chaste kiss to your open mouth. You don't kiss him back, and the kiss is awkward. His mouth moves relentlessly against yours, tongue licking into your mouth, as you do nothing but sob and gurgle.

Seonghwa pulls away flushed, breathless and dazed, looking at you like your beauty incarnate.

Unsurprisingly, it's Wooyoung's that breaks through quiet, "you were so close. I almost feel bad."

[m1rotics]

Writing everything but what I'm supposed to 😕😕😕

[m1rotics]

A Lesson in Obedience | Song Mingi

—synopsis: in which your rigid professor has a taste for seeing you after office hours.

pairing: sub professor! mingi x honor roll (college) dom student! reader

genre: indulgent smut, drabble, secret relationship

wc: 1.1k (unedited)

warnings: oral (f receiving), d/s dynamics, femdom, reader’s kind of mean, submissive & bratty mingi, slapping, recording, collars & leashes, undertones of sadism & masochism, light degradation, dry humping (?), age gap (10 years, reader is 23/mingi is 33), established relationship, and mingi’s pretty when he cries.

A/N: it seems i’m on a strictly sub mingi agenda…

He’s practically begging for it.

You feel his cold eyes before you hear the critique in his tone, followed by the awkward shuffling of jeans as students move around in their seats—avoiding eye contact with their incredibly hard to please Ethics professor. You stop yourself short from snorting at the irony of it.

“You can make your essay as thick, eloquent, and verbose as you want—but if it fails to convince me of your stance nonetheless, your grade will reflect that. If you have any questions regarding your mid-term grades, please come by during my office hours.” He doesn’t directly address you, but the other students catch his intentional, pointed stare.

The calm on your face remains undisturbed, smiling cherubically with mellow understanding. Moving along the beautifully procured performance of a small nod to your head and a graceful, slow packing of your books—your classmates almost whine at how mature you’re still being. Professor Song’s habit of picking on you—the academic powerhouse of their class— didn’t go unnoticed by the masses, and you were praised for your saintly patience.

You waited until the room had emptied before moving past Professor Song, each step measured, your heels clicking softly in the stillness. As you paused beside him, the air tightened. He tensed when your lips hovered near his pulse, breath catching—almost as if he could taste the whisper that never quite touched his skin.

“Under the desk. Five o’clock.” The words leave your lips cold and flat, carrying the weight of a threat. You hear the faint clink of his silver rings as his hand tightens, knuckles shifting under the strain. Then you open the classroom door, deliberately slow, letting the lingering trace of amber in your perfume trail behind for him to breathe in.

Mingi swallows, fingers trembling slightly as he unbuttons the top of his dress shirt. He draws out the chain collar tucked beneath, adjusting it with practiced care—tightening it just enough for the pressure to bloom faintly against his skin, leaving the barest trace of red.

And then he waits for after hours.

You enter Mingi’s office with a practiced, familiar ease. Smoothing out your skirt, daintily laying your bag on the countertop by the window, and removing your heels before sitting behind the thick, grandiose stained mahogany desk. Reaching for the confidential folder conveniently laid out, you thumb through sticky notes justifying each failure given to poor college students trying to get by.

A hand ghosts up your thigh, and you immediately click your tongue.

“Failed to convince you of my stance? Interesting feedback, given the fact that my ethics professor is kneeling on the floor waiting to eat me out like a rabid dog.” Despite your wording, they fall out of you deceivingly casual and sweet. “I trust that the pretty collar I gave you is wrapped nicely around that neck of yours?”

Mingi’s dark eyes beam at you, nose bridge flushed noticeably at the wake of sensual fever. His tenor greets you with a snide remark, trying his best to play gentle.

“You haven’t given me any attention lately—missed calls, texts left on read. Baby, did you forget that you’re supposed to be in love with me?” Your firm tap on his cheek sends a shiver down his spine, yearning for the softness of your palm for the last week before you pull back momentarily to strike his face.

“Yeah—well, I had to focus on trying my hardest to pass your fucking mid-term.” He’s missed your bite, stifling a smile—knowing full well how much of a punch you could pack if he pushed it too far. “—which clearly didn’t work out too well.”

“Let me make it up to you.” With a flicker of reckless intent, Mingi lowers himself even more, spine curving as he lifts your ankle in his large hand. He brushes a kiss to your skin—soft, almost reverent—before dragging his tongue up the length of your leg in one slow, unbroken stroke. Flattened. Controlled. Just shy of desperate as he reaches the heat of your inner thigh.

You’re unbothered, still flicking through essays “If you really want to make it up to me, change my grade first—“ you still when your eyes land on your own paper, glaring at the 89 circled in red ink. You thought he failed you but this? This was somehow worse.

He almost laughs when you clutch his chin with your pretty hand, leaving out the singular point entirely on purpose after committing your hatred of odd numbers to memory.

You press your tongue on the inside of your cheek, eyes steady as you take his office key. The drawer clicks open. Without a word, you slowly drag out his leash.

This is exactly what he wanted. His slacks tighten impossibly further at the constant pulsing threatening to break through the fabric.

A cold finger; pulling at the latch, and a relieving click. Your smalls hands pull down the sheer tights hugging deliciously thick, soft thighs before you part them achingly slow.

With a tug that’ll most likely leave a bruise around his neck, Mingi’s nose lands against the damp fabric of your panties. He inhales—slow, deep—saliva gathering instantly. He stays still, choosing obedience in the face of heaven.

“If you want to make it up to me, you’ll keep your mouth open and pray it’ll be enough.” Your hand pries his mouth open, spitting on the flat of his tongue. He unconsciously moves closer, grinding his hard on against your leg.

There was something intoxicating about a man so big brought to his knees, tears brimming, all because of you—a high you couldn’t find anywhere else. And Mingi, looking devastatingly pretty on the verge of frustrated tears from your neglect, embodied everything you had buried deep inside, pushed down with every man who came before him. You used to lie back, untouched even as they moved inside you—dry, detached, unmoved by the thrusting of men mistaking dominance for desire.

Were you too mean for pushing him to the brink of loneliness, just to see him cry? He was always the most beautiful like this; writhing under you, crying prettily, yearning impossibly for more.

You could feel the delectable throbbing on your calves, sporting a small damp spot from his soaked slacks.

Mingi presses his face between your thighs, locking thick arms around your lower back to push you tight against him with a whimper. The force his tongue rolls over your clit despite your underwear serving as a barrier does nothing, and your cold facade cracks steadily at the surface. His hips rub without restraint against your leg, small thumps resonating from the leg of the chair you sat on going off kilter.

You try your best to not think about the thickness of his cock, wanting to stick to the firmness necessary to keep a brat like Mingi in line.

Your desperation couldn’t be seen, but Mingi tasted it on his tongue, felt it slick and slimy—and wanted to push your limits to see how far you’d go to control someone like him.

Stretching his mouth, he sucks. Hard. And grinned when he feels you flinch, head thrown back, eyes shooting open. Mingi doesn’t relent even when you tug at the roots of his atomic blonde hair in silent reprimand, using his teeth to pull and tear your panties, sliding his tongue directly between your cunt with a fucked out groan.

He wanted to be your bitch.

He already was, but it’s his job to test if you could still do it after all.

For a moment, you almost cave—feeling his tongue slide and fuck into you, curling, tasting. But then the red 89 flashes in your head and you go cold.

He’s your bitch. Not the other way around.

With two firm hands, you pull his head away.

“Clench your teeth.” You mutter, smoothing your face into a cold calculation.

Mingi does, hiding a smile in the process. That’s my girl.

You slap his cheeks until they’re splotched red, spitting on his face with performative disgust. He’s drooling a little and you note the shaking of his thighs, small convulsions arching his back. His hair’s matted with sweat, jaw drenched in all sorts of your fluids—damp, sexy, dangerous, red. And you won’t give him what he wants, no matter how good he looks.

He wants to cum.

“No cumming either or I’m recording this and sending it to the academic board.” He flinches, hearing the honesty in your tone.

He almost screams when he feels your thumbs drag over his nipples and above the sturdy cloth of his white button up. Mingi can’t even throw his head back, else he’d knock the back of it on his desk.

And he’s the hottest thing you’d ever seen, slouching while restraining his tears to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, muttering inaudible mantras to stop himself from cumming.

You pinch his nose, blocking airflow after tugging the leash again. His eyes fluttered in surprise, as you cup his jaw and fuck yourself against his face, grinding at the surface without reprieve.

“Suck” A direct instruction followed by sandwiching your lips against his mouth, and he grows dizzy from over sensitivity and lack of airflow. He feels you pulse around his lips, pawing and squeezing at your damp thighs hard enough to leave little white indentations on the skin. He doesn’t register the fact that you orgasmed, too fucked out and lightheaded.

Your foot presses hard against his cock and he cries out “Wait, wait, wai—“ Everything goes white, eyes rolling back and sparks flying when he cums long and hard while still fully clothed—fear spiking when he registers the flash from your camera as you filmed him.

“Professor Song, I don’t think this is very ethical.” Melodic, calculating, evil, and pretty as a bell—as expected of his star student.

Mingi thinks he feels himself push another string of cum out at your words. Sliding your foot away, you snort at how wet it’d gotten.

Mingi slumps, shoving his face into your stomach, panting heavily.

“I don’t need much convincing for that statement. You, pretty lady, are absolutely correct.”

Yeah.

He’s never letting you break up with him. Not by a long shot.

A/N: I usually don’t see enough representation about how much power submissive’s can have in a d/s dynamic. At times, the dominant party serves the whims of a submissive in more covert ways—catering and finding compatibility in the power dynamics that please them. (This isn’t for every case.)

Reader isn’t necessarily a service top, and neither is Mingi a power bottom—but he’s a bottom that likes power and a brat at that, if you get me?

[m1rotics]

risen heaven

seonghwa x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: dubcon, is it fear play if it's just him getting off on your suffering idk, fingering, groping, seonghwa is some type of entity, established relationship (you don't know about him not being human), reader almost has a panic attack, do not read this if you don't like bugs.

a/n: wrote most of this in one sitting, plus I'm tired, so it's definitely not my best work. umm this is inspired by the new golden hour: part 3 photos because they're haunting my daydreams. seonghwa will be the death of me.

the room is dark and damp; the walls are riddled with water-damage. the air is heavy with the smell of mildew. it's frigid, cold air prickling at your skin. you attempt to blink away the blear. still sleep-soft and impressionable. there's an a sense of his unease tickling at you. it was warmer before you fell asleep. the blanket covering you does little to keep you warm.

something shifts in the shadows, and you blink again, squinting.

"hwa, is that you?"

silence.

you sigh, laying back down and closing your eyes, convinced the tiredness is getting into your head. you groan, shifting, contorting your body into odd shapes. a desperate attempt to get comfy. the silence is deafening. maddening even. sleep refuses to pull you back under, so you just lay there, face smushed against the pillow. something rustles beneath the sheets. you throw out a hand, feeling around.

nothing comes up.

you pull your arm back to your side, flipping over to lay supine— as still as a cadaver.

times sidles by.

every second blurs together the more you lie there. distantly, you wonder when seonghwa's coming back. he always comes back something during the twilight hours.

it isn't until something skitters over your leg that you jolt up, throwing the cover off you. it's gone before you catch sight of it, and you're struck by a wince of panic— paranoia beginning to itch at you. you scoot closer to the front of the bed until your back meets the firmness of someone's chest.

"what's wrong?" seonghwa hums, faint and silken. your sudden movements had knocked your shirt off your shoulder, and he plants a lingering kiss to your exposed skin. you don't remember hearing the door open, but it must've been the fact that your heart is already echoing through your head. eyes darting around uselessly, trying to force themselves to adjust to the dark quicker, trying to see more.

"hwa, something's in the bed," you mumble, your heart beating a mile a minute.

"are you sure?"

you refuse to blink, "yeah. I felt it crawl on me."

seonghwa hums and his hands dip under your shirt, dragging his blunt nails up your sides to tweak your nipples. his bulge is pressing into the knobs of your spine. yet, you can't shake the fear.

"hwa," you mutter, and his name comes out drawn out like a whine, "not right now."

"just focus on me," he says as he sucks a hickey onto your neck. melting into seonghwa comes naturally; easily. your head lolls, and seonghwa uses the access wisely, trailing his tongue up your jaw to your earlobe, nipping at it then pulling away. his breath skates over your cheeks, tickling your ear.

he sinks his teeth into your neck, hard enough to make you gasp.

then, a tingling feeling runs up your leg, whirling around your ankle, and finally you catch a glimpse of something lean and black in the pale moonlight.

your legs kick out, and you attempt to push yourself up, but seonghwa holds you in place.

"relax," he purrs, nipping at your neck. his teeth feel slightly sharper than before. a chill runs down your spine. the scurrying draws up your leg, and you tremble, eyes growing wet. you let out a feeble sob, and seonghwa's hips buck.

you try to break free from seonghwa's hold, writhing and shrieking.

"seonghwa, let me go!" you scream, but it comes out watery, "there's— fuck, it's crawling on me!"

he doesn't budge. in fact, he seems to relax, slouching to rest his chin on your shoulder, head tilted with his hair pressed against your cheek, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. you shiver.

"might wanna stop moving like that, it bites," he notes. his tone is deceptively light and airy, downright playful. with those words, you freeze, eyes wide; a tear already slipping down your cheek.

"hwa," you whimper, wet and pleading.

seonghwa groans, broken and guttural, pushes himself closer to you, trying to get more friction as he rolls his hips. his hand ventures down your body, slipping into your underwear.

"god, you're so fucking sweet when you're scared," he moans. sibilant and gaspy.

whatever it is long and agile; it scuttles around your body like it has no sense of direction, trekking over your stomach, around your legs. you assume it's a centipede when its antennas brush against the underside of your knee. occasionally skidding over the underside of your breasts, and you tremble, forcing yourself to be somewhat still lest it digs its mandibles in you. you get scant relief from the fact that it doesn't seem to go past your breasts.

you're muttering under your breath, desperate pleas and bitten off curses, but mainly you're begging seonghwa to let you go. you hate bugs, he knows this. you despise them touching you, it makes your skin crawl and your chest unbearably tight.

your head is spinning, the word fading in and out of itself. there's a yawning pit in your stomach, you almost lurch forward. you don't. you can't breathe. your chest is throbbing. your mouth is parted, but nothing is coming in. seonghwa's hand splays over your chest, feeling the harsh thumpthumpthump of your heart.

he says something, but it doesn't reach your ears.

seonghwa's cool fingers meet your clit, and you freeze, gasping. your breathing picking up again; quick little puffs of air that make you more dizzy than anything else. the air feels thick in your lungs, harder to pull into your lungs.

you think a protest slips out of your mouth because seonghwa hushes you. his voice velveteen and dulcet—so cloying, you think you might drown in it. a creature scampers by your toes, and you smother the urge to jerk away. his fingers get less lazy, the circle grow tighter, more precise. your hips thrust without you realizing, and the air turns cold.

the centipede freezes, stalling at your thigh, fear washes over you, seeping into the gaps of your bones, settling into the many holes of them. you choke out a pathetic, meager sob. tears dripping down your face, some getting lapped up by seonghwa. time halts around you.

finally, the centipede resumes its travel, and you don't think you've ever been more relieved in your life.

"that was close," seonghwa hums, pleased. you can hear the smile in his voice, the mirth tinging the edges.

"no abrupt movements, sweetheart. don't wanna get hurt, now do you?" he warns, cooing at you, plying your neck with more suckling kisses. then he pauses, rolls your nipple between his finger, you stifle a moan, "plus, I think there's another nearby. I don't think you wanna catch the attention of that one too."

it sounds vaguely like a threat, and you mumble a shaky agreement. your heart is reduced to a beating drum in your chest. aching and pulsing.

his fingers get lazy again, working your nub with careless expertise, stroking and flicking it. his other arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you in place. he only stops to place a soft slap to your clit, and you struggle not to buck your hips up. you don't know how much time passes, but it stretches into hours. like you've spent an entire lifetime here. the soft squelching noise in the air, your pussy soaking seonghwa fingers after so much teasing, but he refuses to make you cum.

his fingers pump into you leisurely, curling enough to make you bite your lip so hard it bleeds. the taste of iron stains your tongue, you barely register it. the fear melded with the pleasure is confusing. it's a heady feeling. borderline addictive. the pleasure makes your thoughts fuzzy and insubstantial, but the fear keeps you jittery and on edge. your strings pulled so taut, you imagine yourself splitting in half, everything spilling out of you like cotton. you're getting so good at staying motionless, at keeping your hips from moving, letting it explore your body, that seonghwa's praising you now— telling you you're being such a perfect girl and he knew you'd get hang of it in no time.

the praise makes your cunt clench around his fingers.

"you're doing so well," he drawls, massaging your side, "I think it's time to make you come."

"I can't-"

"shut up."

your mouth clamps shut.

his thumb applies more pressure to your clit, his fingers curling just right, and your back wants to arch off of him so bad, but you don't. however, the centipede hikes up further when you cum, crawling up your chest. its cool underside caressing your pebbled nipple. it goes up your neck, and half-way up your cheek, before turning and passing over your open mouth to slink down your chin.

it's disgusting and revolting, but the panic heightens the arousal, and your mind blanks.

when it's over the centipede scurries off into the shadows again, probably to go back to its corner of the house.

you don't notice seonghwa slipping from behind you, until he's already flanking your side. his eyes big and glinting in the moonlight. finally you can see his flushed cheeks, the glimmer of the black cross dangling from its neck.

"what are you?"

he snorts, smiles, and it resembles something of a snarl, exuding danger. too many teeth. canines too sharp to be human. you think about putting space between but something holds you in place.

"wouldn't you like to know?" he lilts, eyeing like a cat stalking a mouse. you think he's already got your tail between his teeth.

seonghwa leans back and he unclasps his necklace. then he's up in your space again, clasping around your neck, "here, isn't this supposed to me you feel better. protect you from evil and all that."

seonghwa titters, and presses a kiss to your lips, "maybe it'll keep me away."

you both know it won't.

[m1rotics]

"You're home," you chirp.

It echoes through the house. You don't sound far. Your voice is pleasant like warm tea mixed with honey. Yeosang snorts when he sees you; a harsh exhale through his nose. His shoulders relaxing immediately. Unknotting themselves at the sight of you.

You're perched on the couch like a saint— endlessly gentle and beautiful. Love shrouds you in its radiant light and you beam. A lazy beacon, a brisk relief. A sun temple where jasmine scented smoke twirls in the air and sunbeams feel cool compared to your brilliance. You straighten out when you see him, uncurling your legs, and placing them on the tiled floor. You're smiling. You are happy. He drops to his knees in front of you, weather-beaten and weary.

"you look tired," you sigh, cupping his cheeks., warming him up. Your hands are smooth and delicate; clean. You kiss him, and Yeosang's hands come to rest on your thighs, kneading through your dress, staining the fabric with blood.

You pull away and your eyes are kind.

Yeosang mumbles, "there's blood on your dress."

You glance down. You do not scold him. You are patient and lenient. Benevolence seeps from your pores.

You kiss him on the lips, the tip of his nose, and his forehead. You tell him it doesn't matter. That you don't mind.

It should matter, he thinks. You should scream at him. You should hit him. Send him back to the depths he crawled out of.

He tells you that, and your smile doesn't waver. Your hands are still soft, still clean. Your eyes are still kind. You are so forgiving it makes him sick. You are disgustingly merciful.

His eyes shut. He sees grainy images of him leaving during the night and never coming back on the back of his eyelids. Disappearing the way he should, removing himself from your light. You guide his head to your lap.

Your thighs are warm and soft. Yeosang sighs, he shuffles closer. You pet his hair. Yeosang sleeps.

[m1rotics]

"You're home," you chirp.

It echoes through the house. You don't sound far. Your voice is pleasant like warm tea mixed with honey. Yeosang snorts when he sees you; a harsh exhale through his nose. His shoulders relaxing immediately. Unknotting themselves at the sight of you.

You're perched on the couch like a saint— endlessly gentle and beautiful. Love shrouds you in its radiant light and you beam. A lazy beacon, a brisk relief. A sun temple where jasmine scented smoke twirls in the air and sunbeams feel cool compared to your brilliance. You straighten out when you see him, uncurling your legs, and placing them on the tiled floor. You're smiling. You are happy. He drops to his knees in front of you, weather-beaten and weary.

"you look tired," you sigh, cupping his cheeks., warming him up. Your hands are smooth and delicate; clean. You kiss him, and Yeosang's hands come to rest on your thighs, kneading through your dress, staining the fabric with blood.

You pull away and your eyes are kind.

Yeosang mumbles, "there's blood on your dress."

You glance down. You do not scold him. You are patient and lenient. Benevolence seeps from your pores.

You kiss him on the lips, the tip of his nose, and his forehead. You tell him it doesn't matter. That you don't mind.

It should matter, he thinks. You should scream at him. You should hit him. Send him back to the depths he crawled out of.

He tells you that, and your smile doesn't waver. Your hands are still soft, still clean. Your eyes are still kind. You are so forgiving it makes him sick. You are disgustingly merciful.

His eyes shut. He sees grainy images of him leaving during the night and never coming back on the back of his eyelids. Disappearing the way he should, removing himself from your light. You guide his head to your lap.

Your thighs are warm and soft. Yeosang sighs, he shuffles closer. You pet his hair. Yeosang sleeps.

[m1rotics]

and...if I whipped up another seonghwa drabble then what??

[m1rotics]

They don't know I'm literally crazy

[m1rotics]

risen heaven

seonghwa x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: dubcon, is it fear play if it's just him getting off on your suffering idk, fingering, groping, seonghwa is some type of entity, established relationship (you don't know about him not being human), reader almost has a panic attack, do not read this if you don't like bugs.

a/n: wrote most of this in one sitting, plus I'm tired, so it's definitely not my best work. umm this is inspired by the new golden hour: part 3 photos because they're haunting my daydreams. seonghwa will be the death of me.

the room is dark and damp; the walls are riddled with water-damage. the air is heavy with the smell of mildew. it's frigid, cold air prickling at your skin. you attempt to blink away the blear. still sleep-soft and impressionable. there's an a sense of his unease tickling at you. it was warmer before you fell asleep. the blanket covering you does little to keep you warm.

something shifts in the shadows, and you blink again, squinting.

"hwa, is that you?"

silence.

you sigh, laying back down and closing your eyes, convinced the tiredness is getting into your head. you groan, shifting, contorting your body into odd shapes. a desperate attempt to get comfy. the silence is deafening. maddening even. sleep refuses to pull you back under, so you just lay there, face smushed against the pillow. something rustles beneath the sheets. you throw out a hand, feeling around.

nothing comes up.

you pull your arm back to your side, flipping over to lay supine— as still as a cadaver.

times sidles by.

every second blurs together the more you lie there. distantly, you wonder when seonghwa's coming back. he always comes back something during the twilight hours.

it isn't until something skitters over your leg that you jolt up, throwing the cover off you. it's gone before you catch sight of it, and you're struck by a wince of panic— paranoia beginning to itch at you. you scoot closer to the front of the bed until your back meets the firmness of someone's chest.

"what's wrong?" seonghwa hums, faint and silken. your sudden movements had knocked your shirt off your shoulder, and he plants a lingering kiss to your exposed skin. you don't remember hearing the door open, but it must've been the fact that your heart is already echoing through your head. eyes darting around uselessly, trying to force themselves to adjust to the dark quicker, trying to see more.

"hwa, something's in the bed," you mumble, your heart beating a mile a minute.

"are you sure?"

you refuse to blink, "yeah. I felt it crawl on me."

seonghwa hums and his hands dip under your shirt, dragging his blunt nails up your sides to tweak your nipples. his bulge is pressing into the knobs of your spine. yet, you can't shake the fear.

"hwa," you mutter, and his name comes out drawn out like a whine, "not right now."

"just focus on me," he says as he sucks a hickey onto your neck. melting into seonghwa comes naturally; easily. your head lolls, and seonghwa uses the access wisely, trailing his tongue up your jaw to your earlobe, nipping at it then pulling away. his breath skates over your cheeks, tickling your ear.

he sinks his teeth into your neck, hard enough to make you gasp.

then, a tingling feeling runs up your leg, whirling around your ankle, and finally you catch a glimpse of something lean and black in the pale moonlight.

your legs kick out, and you attempt to push yourself up, but seonghwa holds you in place.

"relax," he purrs, nipping at your neck. his teeth feel slightly sharper than before. a chill runs down your spine. the scurrying draws up your leg, and you tremble, eyes growing wet. you let out a feeble sob, and seonghwa's hips buck.

you try to break free from seonghwa's hold, writhing and shrieking.

"seonghwa, let me go!" you scream, but it comes out watery, "there's— fuck, it's crawling on me!"

he doesn't budge. in fact, he seems to relax, slouching to rest his chin on your shoulder, head tilted with his hair pressed against your cheek, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. you shiver.

"might wanna stop moving like that, it bites," he notes. his tone is deceptively light and airy, downright playful. with those words, you freeze, eyes wide; a tear already slipping down your cheek.

"hwa," you whimper, wet and pleading.

seonghwa groans, broken and guttural, pushes himself closer to you, trying to get more friction as he rolls his hips. his hand ventures down your body, slipping into your underwear.

"god, you're so fucking sweet when you're scared," he moans. sibilant and gaspy.

whatever it is long and agile; it scuttles around your body like it has no sense of direction, trekking over your stomach, around your legs. you assume it's a centipede when its antennas brush against the underside of your knee. occasionally skidding over the underside of your breasts, and you tremble, forcing yourself to be somewhat still lest it digs its mandibles in you. you get scant relief from the fact that it doesn't seem to go past your breasts.

you're muttering under your breath, desperate pleas and bitten off curses, but mainly you're begging seonghwa to let you go. you hate bugs, he knows this. you despise them touching you, it makes your skin crawl and your chest unbearably tight.

your head is spinning, the word fading in and out of itself. there's a yawning pit in your stomach, you almost lurch forward. you don't. you can't breathe. your chest is throbbing. your mouth is parted, but nothing is coming in. seonghwa's hand splays over your chest, feeling the harsh thumpthumpthump of your heart.

he says something, but it doesn't reach your ears.

seonghwa's cool fingers meet your clit, and you freeze, gasping. your breathing picking up again; quick little puffs of air that make you more dizzy than anything else. the air feels thick in your lungs, harder to pull into your lungs.

you think a protest slips out of your mouth because seonghwa hushes you. his voice velveteen and dulcet—so cloying, you think you might drown in it. a creature scampers by your toes, and you smother the urge to jerk away. his fingers get less lazy, the circle grow tighter, more precise. your hips thrust without you realizing, and the air turns cold.

the centipede freezes, stalling at your thigh, fear washes over you, seeping into the gaps of your bones, settling into the many holes of them. you choke out a pathetic, meager sob. tears dripping down your face, some getting lapped up by seonghwa. time halts around you.

finally, the centipede resumes its travel, and you don't think you've ever been more relieved in your life.

"that was close," seonghwa hums, pleased. you can hear the smile in his voice, the mirth tinging the edges.

"no abrupt movements, sweetheart. don't wanna get hurt, now do you?" he warns, cooing at you, plying your neck with more suckling kisses. then he pauses, rolls your nipple between his finger, you stifle a moan, "plus, I think there's another nearby. I don't think you wanna catch the attention of that one too."

it sounds vaguely like a threat, and you mumble a shaky agreement. your heart is reduced to a beating drum in your chest. aching and pulsing.

his fingers get lazy again, working your nub with careless expertise, stroking and flicking it. his other arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you in place. he only stops to place a soft slap to your clit, and you struggle not to buck your hips up. you don't know how much time passes, but it stretches into hours. like you've spent an entire lifetime here. the soft squelching noise in the air, your pussy soaking seonghwa fingers after so much teasing, but he refuses to make you cum.

his fingers pump into you leisurely, curling enough to make you bite your lip so hard it bleeds. the taste of iron stains your tongue, you barely register it. the fear melded with the pleasure is confusing. it's a heady feeling. borderline addictive. the pleasure makes your thoughts fuzzy and insubstantial, but the fear keeps you jittery and on edge. your strings pulled so taut, you imagine yourself splitting in half, everything spilling out of you like cotton. you're getting so good at staying motionless, at keeping your hips from moving, letting it explore your body, that seonghwa's praising you now— telling you you're being such a perfect girl and he knew you'd get hang of it in no time.

the praise makes your cunt clench around his fingers.

"you're doing so well," he drawls, massaging your side, "I think it's time to make you come."

"I can't-"

"shut up."

your mouth clamps shut.

his thumb applies more pressure to your clit, his fingers curling just right, and your back wants to arch off of him so bad, but you don't. however, the centipede hikes up further when you cum, crawling up your chest. its cool underside caressing your pebbled nipple. it goes up your neck, and half-way up your cheek, before turning and passing over your open mouth to slink down your chin.

it's disgusting and revolting, but the panic heightens the arousal, and your mind blanks.

when it's over the centipede scurries off into the shadows again, probably to go back to its corner of the house.

you don't notice seonghwa slipping from behind you, until he's already flanking your side. his eyes big and glinting in the moonlight. finally you can see his flushed cheeks, the glimmer of the black cross dangling from its neck.

"what are you?"

he snorts, smiles, and it resembles something of a snarl, exuding danger. too many teeth. canines too sharp to be human. you think about putting space between but something holds you in place.

"wouldn't you like to know?" he lilts, eyeing like a cat stalking a mouse. you think he's already got your tail between his teeth.

seonghwa leans back and he unclasps his necklace. then he's up in your space again, clasping around your neck, "here, isn't this supposed to me you feel better. protect you from evil and all that."

seonghwa titters, and presses a kiss to your lips, "maybe it'll keep me away."

you both know it won't.