Hello

Standing in front of where you’re sprawled on the couch, Seungmin is still wearing the clothes he’d walked in with — formal tonight from a function you’d elected to skip, tie barely loosened, only his top button undone. There’s liner at his eye, slightly smudged, and cuff links at his wrist, hair neatly gelled. Tall and broad and just a little too far to touch, he almost looks like someone else tonight: a stranger, someone dangerous. In your nightgown, you shiver, staring up at him.

It’s something you’ve talked about before and played with already: alcohol and weed and sleeping pills, waking up with marks and a mental montage of hours you’d spent helpless underneath him, or vice versa. You knew you were going to do it again, and a little different, and soon; you knew that.

You didn’t know it would be tonight.

Leagues above you, Seungmin’s half-lidded eyes are so dark. His hands in his pockets, pressed and prim in his suit, he would be convincingly uninterested if it weren’t for the way he tracks your every movement, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way an eager flush is burning like a wildfire up his neck.

You hold your glass up to him with a grin. “Cheers,” you chirp, and slam it back.

Things get fuzzy fast, even as everything simultaneously slams into focus. You know Seungmin moves you, though you don’t quite know how, distracted by the way he smells, by the cold floor underfoot, by the feeling of his hands lingering on your arms and back and nape. You know you end up in his room, though he must have changed his sheets; they don’t smell like they usually do. It makes it a little scary, then, when you take a deep breath of them just as Seungmin lifts your hips — and he’s taking your panties off, you realize, though you’ve no sooner felt the drag of them down your thighs before they’re on the ground, out of reach.

“Minnie,” you breathe, reaching for him. He squeezes your hand before you even see him move — and his hands are so big, and so warm, even just the feeling of his palm to yours makes you jolt, turned on and aching before he’s even touched you.

“Right here,” he assures quietly, hand slipping between your thighs where they’re pressed together: big, so big, way too big— “I’ve got you. Relax.”

Seungmin makes you come with just his thumb on your clit and his breath hot on your neck: eager, gasping, sinking his teeth into your skin at random intervals. It’s too much, because everything is too much; it hurts, tears springing to your eyes, whining your complaints and trying to jerk away — but you can’t jerk, and your words get mumbled into vague noises, high in your throat, cut off with every new bite.

Still, his words stay sweet and gentle, encouraging and soothing: “Good girl,” as he pushes a finger inside you, and, “Very good,” when you come, and then pleased, rumbling moans when he ends up with his face between your legs somehow, licking the slick from your skin, pressing his tongue inside you.

Everything is so much like this, bright and vibrant and hot to the touch — the feeling of putting your hand on the stove in the moment before the pain comes, just that tingling awareness, the shooting-star falling feeling before you jolt away. But Seungmin doesn’t let you jolt, so you have no choice but to feel it: his lips too soft, his movements too hard, his mouth too wet, his tongue too big. You come again and it isn’t even satisfying; there’s no relief, and not just because Seungmin doesn’t stop. Your whole body feels like a live wire, an exposed nerve, his groping hands on your thighs and hips taking your breath away just as much as the flat of his tongue on your clit.

It isn’t bad; it isn’t panic — but you don’t know how else to describe it, vocabulary failing you as he works you up again, too fast, way too fast— “Can’t, can’t— Minnie, can’t—”

He just moans, shameless and eager, vibrating against you as he crooks his fingers— And when did he even put them back in; you must have felt him put them in—

You’re still shaking when you realize you came again, and Seungmin is kneeling between your legs with his cock out. He’s still so dressed: jacket and tie discarded, at least, shirt sleeves pushed clumsily to his elbows instead of rolled, hands trembling. Not a stranger, just Seungmin; just your Seungmin.

When he unceremoniously spreads your legs, you try to fight back, just for the sake of fighting — but your limbs are so heavy, and all you manage to do is loosely hold his wrist, hanging in the air between you.

“Already came,” you complain insincerely as you watch him stroke himself, your tongue clumsy and speed inconsistent. “Three times.”

“Only three?” Seungmin echoes softly, and you’re relieved to hear that he sounds out of breath too, at least. “Are you sure?”

The room is dark, darker than he might normally leave it — but through the shadows, you see Seungmin: biting his lip, hair stuck to his temples, eager flush burning like a wildfire up his neck.

Heat jolts through you, eager and too-much. You give up on looking and you give up on thinking, relaxing back into the cushions, voice far away. “Not three?”

When Seungmin taps the head of his cock on your clit — big, hot, heavy, too much, jolting through you like a static shock, curling into you like a black hole in your belly, and you’ve never been so empty, never — you almost feel like you could come. Maybe you do; maybe that’s why when you next blink your eyes open, gasping and shivering, your mind is suspiciously empty and your knuckles ache from your death grip on the sheets.

But then again — maybe not, because Seungmin answers like no time has passed. “No, sweetie,” he laughs, fond and condescending, dragging down to prod at you, cock catching at your entrance with an embarrassingly wet sound, “not three.”

You think you scream when he pushes inside you. You think the scream gets stuck in your throat. You think you come; you think you’re still coming, when he leans down to kiss you, another laugh on his tongue.

“That’s not even half,” he says, stroking your hair, holding your hands gently in his when you go to push him. “You can do it. Work hard.”

Runner ups/guys who I think check most but not all of the boxes:

Hyunjin: less into extreme fearplay; really enthusiastic about the concept but there is a threshold of how genuinely scared you can seem before he gets sad, even if he's pretty sure you're still into it. Depends a lot on his mood that day. More likely to roleplay like, a vampire creeping into your window and ravishing you

Seungmin: has trouble committing to the roleplay element and also prone to pretty bad dom drop, so this kind of thing is a big commitment. Maybe easier with another dominating party?

I.N: scary good at it but he's mostly doing it for you; likes it, but doesn't have the blind, feral enthusiasm of minsung in this area

Some more thoughts on this topic; I’m doing more kidnapping for Lino and more creepy for Han 🫶

Lino (cnc, abduction play, car sex, bondage, playfighting, spitting):

For Lino I think a lot of it is the anticipation — it’s like an extension of teasing but more extreme? Like you talk about the fantasy, you outline what you like, you give a go ahead, and then you just… wait. And wait. And days pass, and you’re jumping at shadows and overthinking if you’re overly attached to the clothes you’re wearing and feeling your heartbeat speed every time someone drives by. And then you go home and Minho is just… normal. Coming home from work, eating dinner with you, teasing you when you stare, eyes curved, voice lilting — “Need something?” And maybe you start to think it isn’t actually going to happen any time soon; maybe he’s too busy, maybe there just isn’t the time. Maybe you start to relax. Maybe you stop jumping at shadows. Minho texts you one night asking you to check for a package; it isn’t outside the front door. He asks you to check the lobby; it isn’t there either. He asks you to check outside — and you go, unsuspecting if a little concerned, because your boyfriend never asks you to do stuff like this, not to go out alone and certainly not at night and certainly not in your pajamas. Not with how protective he is. There isn’t even a car to hear — you feel the hand first, wrapped tight around your upper arm, wrenching you background. Instinctively, you open your mouth to scream — only for the stranger’s other arm to wrap around your front, palm flat over your lips. “Screaming already?” a familiar voice asks, sweet and lilting and dangerous. “Save your voice, kitty. It won’t help you here.” And even as your heart tries to throw itself out of your chest and your knees go weak and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end — you all but collapse into Minho’s arms. You don’t actually want anyone to think he’s kidnapping you for real, so you wait to put up more of a fight until you’re in the car, protected by nighttime and tinted windows and the private parking garage. Then you do fight — viciously, kicking and elbowing as Minho laughs and ties you down. It kind of depends on the day if he gets you to a secondary location or not. You learn to make pretty good use of the car’s backseat, even though it pulls your shoulders painfully when he ties your wrists to the grab handles on the ceiling. When you snap your teeth, he just shoves his thumb between them with a slow hum. “If you thrash anymore, you might dislocate your shoulder,” he says, eyes curving over his plain black face mask with a simple, sadistic joy. “Do you think I’ll stop just because you hurt yourself?” You bite — not hard enough to seriously injure, but hard enough to sting. Minho just laughs, prying your jaw apart and spitting in your mouth. You spit it right back, but like this — back to the door, arms stretched straight above you and legs pinned under his knees — it just lands on your chest, bare where he’d cut your t-shirt open down the center. Minho hums again, smearing your own spit across your heaving chest. “Keep fighting,” he says sweetly. “I’ll break you in.” You knee him in the ribs; he ties your legs open.

Han (cnc; stalking, date-rape, and infidelity roleplay; bondage, salirophilia):