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miniscule-meow · 7 months ago

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Isabell and the Lads CH 2: The Healing Process (2.5)

Masterpost

First Part | Last Part | Next Part

Word Count: ~1.9k

Warnings: none? This one is pretty cozy

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“Zeke it is like, two AM. What are you doing?” Marcus leans against the door frame to their shared office space. Zeke is sitting on the floor, an upholstery staple gun in his hand. Strewn around him are piles of books, scraps of fabric, a pair of scissors, and all of the doll furniture they made today.

“I’m curtaining off part of this shelf,” Zeke responds, nodding to the bookshelf he’s sitting in front of before shooting another two staples into the underside of the shelf.

“Uh, okay?” Marcus says, looking across the scene with visible confusion, “Mystery solved then, I guess.”

“It’s so Isabell can have her own space. You know, something that isn’t a box or a dollhouse,” he gives his roommate a pointed look.

“Alright, that’s fair,” Marcus rubs the back of his neck, pushing himself off the doorframe, “This couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Nope,” Zeke responds simply, placing the staple gun down and picking up the scissors. He cuts a slit in the curtain, an entryway for Isabell.

So far, he’s curtained off a little more than two thirds of the shelf, the smaller section will be left open so she can be easily picked up or dropped off. The larger section of the shelf will get walled off with another swatch of fabric for her privacy. But first, they have to arrange the furniture in there.

Marcus sighs, scanning the floor around him carefully, before looking around the rest of the room. His tired eyes eventually land on where Isabell is sitting, blanket bundled around her on Zeke’s sewing table. He crosses the room in a few easy strides and plops down in the desk chair. His arm rests down on the table shortly followed by his head laying down against the back of his hand. After a slow, lethargic blink he sighs again, looking at her.

“Was this his idea, or your idea,” Marcus mumbles quietly to her. He looks more than just a little silly with his cheek squished against his hand like that.

“Um,” she tenses. If she tells him that it was her idea, then he might be mad at her for causing all this noise at two in the morning. But, if she tells him that it was Zeke’s idea, then he might get mad at Zeke, and then Zeke might get mad at her. Zeke is already frustrated with her anyway; she bit him after all.

So the question becomes, should she make one human more upset with her, or should she have both humans be annoyed?

The room was too big for her to go back to sleep. She could have tried, but they ran the risk of her forgetting where she was when she woke up again. That was something that both her and Zeke wanted to avoid. With the dollhouse and the shoe box both being non-options, this was the best they could come up with. Really, it was sort of a mutual agreement they had.

“Hey, relax,” Marcus mumbles with a tired laugh. Zeke turns, glancing over at them out of the corner of his eye. He looks between them for a moment, likely checking that his excitable roommate is keeping his hands to himself. Zeke points to her, then flashes a quick thumbs up. You good? She nods, Zeke gives one sharp nod in response and turns away, continuing to arrange furniture on the shelf. “Not every question is an interrogation,” Marcus says, oblivious to the small communication that just happened in front of him. “I’m just making conversation.”

“You just like hearing your own voice,” Zeke mumbles, placing the little couch on the shelf. He looks at its position for a moment before switching its position with another piece of furniture.

“Hm. Maybe,” Marcs says, a sleepy grin spreading across his face. He winks at Isabell.

“I’m almost done,” Zeke says, picking up the fabric that’s going to become the outer curtain. “Isabell, do you like how this is set up?”

She peers into the shelf, everything was meticulously placed, not exactly an easy feat for someone of his size. But still, she can’t imagine trying to do it herself. Even if the state of her leg wasn’t quite so critical, moving all that furniture would have been

She hasn’t been here very long, but she’s already seen that Zeke has an immaculate sense for detail. Looking into the shelf, she can see that he really thought through where everything should go. He didn’t just put the furniture in and make it fit, he arranged it for her. She nods her approval, and Zeke uses the staple gun to curtain off her room from the rest of the office.

Why did he do all of this? The question burns at the back of her mind

He could have just left her out on the coffee table. Even if that meant rotten sleep for her, it would have been significantly more convenient for him. Instead, he took the time to clear this shelf, delicately arrange all the miniature furniture inside for her, and curtain it off from the rest of the room. He even thought about how this room doesn’t specifically belong to either of the humans, and how this room gets less traffic than any of the other common areas in the house. It’s their shared office space, so she should have the most privacy here.

Why?

Even though it’s very late. Even though the process woke up his roommate. Even though he himself had just been woken up, and not too kindly at that. Even though she had just bit him. Even though she is so small, and insignificant, and practically a stranger to him.

Why?

“Just let us take care of you,” he said

“It’s just human decency,” he said… That can’t be right. That’s nothing.

What is she not seeing here? What could he possibly gain from helping her. She’s known other borrowers that wouldn’t lend a helping hand without a proper trade first. It’s very clear at this point that these humans are very literally saving her life. If she had managed to get back home, she wouldn’t have had nearly enough supplies to allow her to rest. It’s likely that she could have starved or died from dehydration when her leg decided to give out and not let her go borrowing. Or, her leg could have given out in the middle of a mission, leaving her defenseless against whatever human she was stranded with. Or, he could have gotten an infection and that could have taken her. There are so few possibilities for her where an injury like this doesn’t immediately spell the end of her life.

She can’t repay the humans for this. There is no equal trade for what they’re doing for her.

She observes these humans for a moment. Zeke, setting aside the staple gun, and tidying the books around him. They’ll need a new home since they’ve been evicted for her sake. Marcus dozes beside her, his blonde hair is tied back, but a few wavy strands still fall into his face.

What’s in it for them?

What do they want from her?

These thoughts continue to gnaw at her when Zeke approaches. He looks down at his roommate, asleep sprawled across the desk. Zeke huffs, rolling his eyes, but a small smile tugs at his lips. It’s good to see that they do more than just tolerate each other. They must have been friends for some time- not that she should care about the social relationships of the humans here. She hasn’t even figured out what they really want from her, she shouldn’t care about whether or not they actually get along.

Zeke brings a hand to Marcus’ shoulder and nudges him awake. Marcus groans in protest.

“Go to bed, I’m going to have to listen to you complain all day tomorrow if you try to sleep like this,” Zeke says quietly. Marcus heaves a deep sigh but gets up. He mumbles incoherently as he trudges across the hall to his bedroom. Once Marcus leaves, Zeke turns his attention down to her, lowering himself down slightly so he isn’t looming straight over her.

Her heart skips like it always does when she becomes his sole focus. He moves slowly, full of intention. Zeke’s hands slowly cup around her, before he pauses. He’s only done this once before, to bring her from the coffee table into the office. Earlier today he held her to transport her across the house, but her leg was cooperating enough at that point that she was able to hobble onto his palm herself. She had told him that’s how she would prefer to be picked up, and she stands by that. But with the state of her leg, she doesn’t have much choice in the matter anymore. Zeke hesitates now, seemingly uncomfortable with the prospect of simply scooping her up.

His eyes remain trained on her. He doesn’t say anything, but she knows that he’s waiting for her to confirm that this is alright. She doesn’t see what kind of difference that makes. If she doesn’t let the human pick her up, she’s stuck on this desk. So, she hugs the blanket tighter around herself and gives a quick nod. Zeke closes the distance between them, and gently lifts her into his palms. She has had more than her fair share of human hands lately. She’d like to tell herself that this will be the end of it, but she knows that once she wakes up, tomorrow will be a new day filled to the brim with more interactions with these humans. And the day after that, and the day after that. Until she can make the trip back home. To Zeke’s credit, he moves slowly. If she didn’t know any better, she might even say that it seems as though he’s just as uncomfortable as she is. He pulls back the corner of the fabric wall and hovers his hand next to her bed. She awkwardly scoots herself over, and once she’s on the plush surface of the bed, his hand retreats.

“Isabell,” He begins, then hesitates as if unsure about what he should say. He settles on a simple, “goodnight,” and with that, he lets the fabric go, and she’s plunged into a comfortable darkness. She can hear him leave the room, he clicks off the main light as he goes and what little light was filtering in through the fabric, disappears. She blinks, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, and she takes in her surroundings.

It feels safe. She can almost pretend that she’s back in the walls. She can almost pretend that a human hand wasn’t just here, arranging all the furniture in this space for her. She can almost pretend that said human hand won’t be the first thing to greet her in the morning.

Almost, almost, almost.

Pretend, pretend, pretend.

The reality of the situation is that she’s a complete failure.

She’s been outsmarted, they put her in a DIY dollhouse, and she’s going to have to rely on these humans for, what did Zeke say, a month, before she can really go home. She’s helpless. What kind of borrower is this bad at what they do, it’s all she can think about as she drifts off to sleep once more.

#g/t #g/t stories #g/t writing #my writing #isabell and the lads #i don't like this chapter lmao #but i think it's a necessary evil #so here is is #hopefully i can write something uh actually good soon #hey not every chapter can be a banger some of them have to be cozy and simple right?#this is what i'm choosing to tell myself please let me live in my delusions #bleh

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skzms · 3 months ago

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⛓️˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ ruin me - part II lee know x f!reader

There are no words in any language he speaks that could explain what he’s feeling, so instead he pulls you into a kiss, one that wipes his brain free of anything except an almost primal need, and an even more primal sense of pride that he is able to kiss you like this now. Uninhibited. Uncoordinated. Needy. Filthy. Tongues tangling until there’s spit dripping out of the corner of his mouth. The whimper you press into his mouth tells a story of a desperation he never in his wildest dreams thought you could feel about him. He could sob. Maybe is about to, when you rip yourself away, push yourself up with a hand next to his head, and then, suddenly, curl your other hand around his neck and Minho roars, stars exploding in his vision from the intensity with which his eyes roll, his body locks up. OR minho's obsessed with you. turns out, you're obsessed with him, too. and you match his freak better than he could've ever anticipated.

word count: 10.2k words

author's note: phew part 2!!! this got ambitious, lads!! the tenderest, and horniest tenderhorny bdsm shit you will ever read. This one’s real dirty, so please heed the warnings! and while the kink is definitely under negotiated in this fic, I tried to create a realistic portrayal of how consent can look, and how the energy can ebb and flow, how you can go in and out of a scene. be safe everyone!! but also enjoy the filth. Not enough perv!minho out there. he’s not pathetic enough, not down bad enough, in most x reader fics. I have been wanting to write him like this for a looooong time, so really, why am I surprised it got this long

warnings: they match each other’s freak, in a weird fucking way; he’s obsessed with pudge and pubic hair (like a man should be); undernegotiated kink, please don’t engage in this kind of stuff without extensive communication!; very explicit bdsm things: dom!reader, sub!minho; panty stealing, choking and breathplay, on oneself (DON'T!!!) and on someone else, painplay, ball slapping, degradation, praise, spit, dacryphilia; breeding; implied butt stuff (m receiving)

link to part 1

skzms masterlist // ko-fi

A wet dream. His best, filthiest, dirtiest, most magnificent dreams and then some, that’s what it feels like when you push him onto the bed, curl two fingers into the chain of his necklace, your necklace, and slot your lips over his in a hot, searing kiss.

It’s everything. You’re everything. Everything he has ever wanted. Needed. Desired, loved more than anything. Your lips are soft, your spit sweet, the way you move against him controlled but demanding in a way that makes him want to just open his mouth and let you have your way with him. When you nip at his bottom lip, jolts of electricity shoot between his legs and his cock is throbs. He’s so, so close despite being entirely untouched.

And God, every inch of you he can get his hands on – it’s all so fucking perfect that he struggles to make sense of it. Every new inch of you that his hands touch is so new and so perfect – he wants to try and catalogue it all, store it away in his head for a rainy day, when he touches himself, when he’s three fingers deep and sobbing into his sheets. Just in case this is a dream.

Your tongue licks over his bottom teeth and Minho moans. It’s not a dream.

You’d pushed him against the wall as soon as the door closed behind you, one hand fisted into the collar of his shirt, and his breath had caught, his whole body taut like a bowstring – but you didn’t kiss him. You were trembling, breathing heavily, mirroring the desperate shake in Minho’s impossibly tight body, but you didn’t kiss him, only let your forehead fall against his and mumbled out a we need to talk about this first before dragging him to his room.

And talk you did. Standing in front of him, flushed and gorgeous, and just a little self-conscious. That alone nearly sent Minho to his knees in front of you. You’re my best friend. I’ve wanted this for a long time. If we do this, I can’t just be your friend. I want us to be more. The words had just tumbled out of your rose petal lips as if saying them was easy, as if they weren’t words Minho had never in his wildest dreams thought he’d get to hear from you. He’d breathed out your name, taken a step closer, fingers itching to touch, to feel, to finally sink his teeth into what he never thought could be his, but you’d stopped him, a steady palm in the middle of his chest, eyes pits of a darkness so deep it made the hairs on Minho’s neck prick up. Traffic light. Red for stop, yellow for slow down or try something else, green for good. Got it? Minho, nodding blindly, excitement shivering through his veins, his cock already filling out in anticipation. You blinked at him, something even darker running through your eyes like molten glass. Don’t look at me like that. Minho, sucking in a breath. Like what? Barely audible. Breathed out a laugh that wasn’t one.

Like you want me to ruin you.

This time, Minho’s legs did buckle, stumbling backwards, until his ass hit his mattress. A desperate breath, a pleading, something in his voice he’s never heard before. You, stalking towards him, one step at a time, a look in his eyes like you were ready to tear him to pieces. His wildest, dirtiest dreams, coming true.

Ruin me, fuck, please, ruin me.

You straddled him, turning his brain into goo with your sudden proximity, rattling off a laundry list of dirty things you wanted to do to him, waiting for a nod or a shake of his head – the latter of which he had previous few to give you. Most everything you mentioned coming straight from his filthiest dreams. It was a miracle he could listen at all, your breath fanning over his face sweet like steamed red bean buns, the plush of your ass on his thighs, the heat of your body slowly settling into his until he felt like he no longer existed as himself, like he was only a vessel for you to do with as you pleased. At the end, you only looked at him for a long moment.

We’ll talk more about this later, but were you honest with me? Are those your only hard no’s?

The words reached him through a fog, through a dense, all-consuming desire to kiss you. He nodded again, blearily, blinked up at you, met your eyes; dark, predatory, yet oddly loving. He shivered, a full-body thing that you watched impassively, your expression giving nothing away. Then you leaned in. Whispered the words that made Minho whimper pathetically before your lips met his and his entire body exploded into fireworks.

God, you’re perfect.

Minho has never believed in God, but he thinks kissing you is the closest thing he’ll ever experience to heaven.

The weight, the heat of your body – he has imagined it so many times, but it’s so much better when it’s really you. When it’s the plush of your thighs caging his hips against the mattress. The drag of your chest against his as you lick into his mouth.

Your fingers find his jaw, press into the sides until his mouth falls slack with an embarrassing sound, somewhere between a moan and a gurgle, before you lick into his mouth. The smell of you, your shampoo, your perfume, the smell he has sucked out of so many of his sweaters, is all around him, threatens to overwhelm him. He wonders if his sheets will smell like you when you’re done. He might have to sleep on the couch. He might not be able to handle it.

Your hand is still on his jaw, fingers digging into the hinge of it, when you pull back, blink your eyes open, stare at him. Pinned to the bed, under the delicious weight of your body, he lets you stare your fill.

“You never said …” you suddenly murmur, and Minho blinks. Raises his eyebrows in question. “When I said I didn’t want this to be a one-time thing. That I wanted to be more. You never said if you wanted it, too.”

Minho feels his heart plummet. Oh God, how could he not have … how could he …

He tries to say something, but because of your hand on his jaw, all he can do is gurgle. So he settles for nodding, his eyes wide, blinking rapidly.

You watch him struggle, and smile. It’s disorientingly soft for how harsh your grip on his jaw still is, nails digging into his skin and all.

“Shh, it’s okay, bunny,” you mumble, and Minho squirms. His cock throbs at the nickname. “We can talk later, I just needed to know you want me the way I want you. For good. Forever.”

Minho swears his heart gives out at the words. He strains, tries to get the words out, pleads with you with his eyes, and you seem to understand.

“Okay, good,” you whisper, and then you pucker your lips – and spit right into his mouth.

Minho’s eyes roll into the back of his head. You let go of his jaw and his mouth snaps closed immediately, swallows your honey sweet spit before the words tumble out like they were just waiting to be freed.

“Forever. Want you forever. Have wanted you. Always. I lo … I love you. I love you. Please.”

Too much? Too soon? It barely scratches the surface of how he feels for you. Those words seem paltry compared to what you do to him. But he can’t think when you’re so close, when you just kissed him for the first time, when he hasn’t even gotten to kiss you for a second time yet.

Your eyes crinkle at the edges, and you smile, so wide your cheeks bunch up and your nose scrunches adorably and Minho makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat.

You dip down, rub the tip of your nose against his, giggling when he needily tries to push up, tries to mush his lips onto yours again.

“Oh, Minho,” you sigh, and it’s better than every moan of his name he has ever picked out of your daily interactions and manipulated until they fit into his fantasies.

You wait until he meets your eyes, a little cross-eyed from how close you are, before you whisper a soft “I love you, too” and lean in.

This kiss is raw. Softer, slower, but so full of feeling – and maybe he was worried that his sentimentality ruined the moment, but that fear is assuaged by the sheer desperation with which you kiss him, the little sigh that you breathe into his mouth that makes a shiver run down his spine.

“Where are they?” you mumble into his lips without pulling back, and Minho doesn’t have to ask what you mean.

Blindly, he shoves his hand under his pillow and pulls them out. Black lace, crushed and crumpled and humiliatingly obviously spit stained. He’d sucked on the seat of them until he was choking on his saliva just this morning, his mind swimming with the knowledge that you knew, that you would come over later that day ‘to talk’ – the mind-blowing possibility that you might feel the same.

You pull back, and he watches you blink at them, the fingers of the hand resting on his chest curling into his sensitive chest, making the sensitive nerve endings there explode into an exquisite pleasure-pain. You breathe out a curse, dip down to kiss him again, your whole chest flush with his, your weight on his chest and your lips on his making it hard to breathe, but all it does is make his cock throb harder. He might come at this rate, only from your lips on his and the fact that you’re the one robbing him off his breath instead of his own hand.

You pull back until your lips are merely brushing his, your eyes still closed, as your hand slides up the arm, to the hand that he’s clutching the panties in. You stop at the wrist, circle your fingers around it and squeeze. Minho’s breath catches in his throat.

“I came in them,” you mutter, lowly, and Minho’s sanity slips. “I humped my pillow, thinking of you.”

This can’t be real. This can’t be real. He must be dreaming. This cannot be real. He lets out a guttural, feral moan.

“I had come up with the plan then, already. I knew I was going to leave them there, hoping you would pick them up. I … I came so hard, Minho,” you shiver out the last words and Minho’s arms finally move from where they were uselessly resting against the sheets, wind around your body to pull you against him, trying to feel more of you, his hips grinding up into your hip helplessly. “I came so hard thinking of you taking them.”

Minho can’t help himself. There are no words in any language he speaks that could explain what he’s feeling, so instead he pulls you into a kiss, one that wipes his brain free of anything except an almost primal need, and an even more primal sense of pride that he is able to kiss you like this now. Uninhibited. Uncoordinated. Needy. Filthy. Tongues tangling until there’s spit dripping out of the corner of his mouth. The whimper you press into his mouth tells a story of a desperation he never in his wildest dreams thought you could feel about him.

He could sob. Maybe is about to, when you rip yourself away, push yourself up with a hand next to his head, and then, suddenly, curl your other hand around his neck and Minho roars, stars exploding in his vision from the intensity with which his eyes roll, his body locks up. He pulls your hips flush with his cock, at the same time as he presses his hips up so hard it almost hurts. He’s throbbing, one second away from coming into his pants. You tighten your fingers. Minho gurgles out another moan. This is everything he has ever wanted.

“I want you so bad. My filthy, pervy, best friend.”

His vision speckles, his heart thumps in his chest. His breath comes out in short bursts.

“Don’t you think I saw you staring? Don’t you think …”

You let go of his neck and oxygen rushes into Minho’s lungs so fast he has to screw his eyes shut so he doesn’t pass out. You lift yourself off him, and he nearly sobs at the loss of warmth. He doesn’t need to look down to know there’s a wet spot on his sweats. He hears you laugh, hears the note of condescension in it, and his cock twitches in his pants. Clearly, you see because you laugh again. He’s so overwhelmed, he throws his arm over his face and whimpers pathetically.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” you snarl, and Minho shivers with something that is almost fear, but he doesn’t dare remove his arm from his face. “Do you think I can’t see it …,” you trail off dangerously.

And then, so quick he can’t even wrap his head around it, mean little fingers curl into the waistband of his sweats and his boxers and rip both down his legs in one fell swoop. Minho gasps, arm flying off his face and back flying off the bed, his hard, aching cock slapping heavily against his abdomen. When his eyes fall on you, you’re staring straight at it.

“Do you think I can’t see your cock bulging in your pants when you get hard?”

You meet his eyes and Minho blinks, nods, then shakes his head. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to figure out if that was really a question, if you wanted an answer, what answer you wanted.

You smile at him, almost eerily, before you drop your eyes back down to his cock and go back to staring.

“So big,” you hum, and Minho shivers. His cock twitches. “So pretty, too. I wonder if you even know what to do with it.”

Minho’s nails dig into the sheets so hard he wonders if they will tear. He needs you to touch him. He needs it more than he needs air. But you won’t, you just keep staring.

“P-please,” he croaks out, and your head snaps up to him, eyes filled with faux surprise.

“Please what, you nasty little thing? Aren’t you literally currently getting off on me staring at that useless dick of yours?”

Minho whimpers, and he swears he feels tears prick at his eyes. He swallows them down.

“T-touch …,” he chokes on a whimper.

You breathe out a laugh, and Minho thinks he might actually cry.

“Not so fast. Need to see what I’m dealing with here, first. On your hands and knees, now.”

Minho’s body computes the order before his brain does, already scrambling up before his thoughts catch up. When they do, he hesitates. Looks from you to the bed, and back. You seem to understand. You smile.

“Such a good boy,” you purr, and he sinks his nails into his thighs. “Face towards the pillows.”

Oh, God.. He’s imagined this. So many times.

He turns, plants his shaking hands on the mattress. He’s naked from the waist down, except for his socks. He’s still wearing his t-shirt. And the necklace, of course. His ass is still planted on his heels, too shy to lift it, though he knows you want him to. Can feel it. But a part of him wants you to ask.

He’s shaking.

You tsk behind him.

“Come on, bunny. You know what I want. Get your pretty little ass up. Show me.”

Minho does as he’s told. Puts more weight on his trembling arms. Props himself up.

The cool air against his ass, against his hole, is maddening. He wonders if you like what you see. Wonders when he last shaved. It's not like he's getting any. The last time he tried sleeping with someone, he couldn't even get it up. Came in three minutes when he got home and touched himself to the thought of you, though.

He follows blindly when he feels your fingers guiding his legs closer together, barely registers the brush of your touch against his cock before it’s gone again, his balls tucked behind his legs, his shaft resting along the backs of his thighs. He’s so exposed.

You hum appreciatively. One warm palm finds his ass cheek, caresses, kneads the flesh, the other smoothes over his calf, up and up over his thighs, until it’s resting on his hips. It feels like you touch him like that for forever, and he gets so lost in the sensations that he almost screams when a dry finger brushes against his hole.

You shush him soothingly and somehow, it does calm him. His breath is already coming in erratic bursts. He feels his cock twitch against his thighs. You probably see it. You probably see everything. The thought makes a few droplets of precum dribble from his tip. He’s mortified. It only makes him harder.

“Do you like your little hole played with, bunny?” you ask, sweetly, and he doesn’t even pretend to hesitate. He nods frantically. You hum like you’re stowing away the knowledge for another day.

“We’ll try that another time, won’t we? Because only good bunnies get their hole played with. And you’ve been bad, haven’t you?”

The line should be cringey, but your voice is so soft, almost dreamy, and it works. He shakes his head. Then nods. Then stops in despair.

You laugh. He blushes crimson, knows you can see it on the tips of his ears.

You don’t respond, instead you’re quiet and then-

Minho screams when your palm makes sharp contact with his balls. The pain zaps through his oversensitive body and then settles deep in his abdomen, where it turns into liquid hot arousal. His arms give out and he faceplants into his pillows.

“Been staring at me for so long. Staring at me and then getting hard. With that big cock of yours bulging through your pants.”

You slap his balls again and this time he expects it, doesn’t scream, only yelps, screw his fingers into the sheets. Another dribble of precum drips from his tip. It hits his calves. God, he has never been this wet before.

“How long have you been touching yourself to the thought of me?”

Minho barely computes the question. His whole body is trembling, waiting for the next slap, his mind bleary and foggy.

Your palm comes down on his thigh, then his ass, and then his balls, one after another, so fast he barely has time to catch his breath. This time, he moans.

“Answer me, Minho.”

The arousal in his guts pulls tighter at the way you say his name.

Stern, a little mean. Dimly, he realises he will come soon.

You say his name again, warningly, and he blinks the fog from his eyes enough to answer.

“Always,” he gasps out, screw his eyes shut in humiliation, “since we met. Always thought you were the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Couldn’t stop thinking about you …”

He cuts himself off with a high, keening moan, when he feels soft fingers run over his balls, massage the soft skin. You’re touching him. You’re touching him.

“Go on,” you mutter, and he does. He would do anything you ask.

“Couldn’t … couldn’t stop thinking about you. W-wanted you, yes, to touch you but also … so much … ah … more. I always loved you, I promise, I promise.”

He nearly sobs. It feels insane to finally say all of this out loud. To say it to you.

You hum, a soft, appreciative thing. It makes his heart do somersaults in his chest.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

The slap catches him off guard this time, and he yelps, his back arching, the arousal pulling hotter.

“‘M so-sorry …” he howls, “I didn’t think … never thought you … you could want me like that … you were too … perfect …”

“So instead you touched your cock to fantasies of me spanking you? Being mean to you?”

Minho nods, and the next spank sends a full-body spasm through him. There’s a violent heat, building in the very core of his body, and his legs start trembling.

“Stupid boy,” you mutter, and the softness in your voice, laced in with the annoyance, the humiliation pulsing behind his eyes, and the next slap, hitting him just right–

Dull pleasure explodes through his body, and he comes with a tiny, choked up moan, back arching, chest and face pressed into his sheets, his cock spurting his load down the back of his thighs, hot and sticky.

The orgasm is astringent, thin and sharp, like the pain still lingering from your slap, and he sobs into the quiet of the room. You’re frozen behind him, probably in shock. Staring at the mess he made of himself. He fists his hand into the pillow next to his head. Tries to hold on. Feels himself start to spiral.

Suddenly, you get up, your weight lifting off the mattress, the sound of your socked feet leaving the room, and his usual post orgasm shame slams into him like a freight train. He doesn’t even move, stays with his face buried in the drool-stained pillow, his ass in the air, cum drying on the back of his thighs. The pillow feels like it’s getting wetter, and it’s only then that he realises that he’s crying. Not a full on sob, but a steady sniffle, dripping into the cotton until he can feel it wet his skin.

He doesn’t hear you come back into the room, nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a warm, wet washcloth run over the backs of his thighs. The touch is barely there, almost utilitarian, if it wasn’t for the gentleness with which you touch him, hold him in place, caress over the skin. It’s so soothing. When you ghost the towel over the sensitive underside of his cock, he sniffles into the pillows. You make a soft sound under your breath, and the next thing he knows, he’s slowly being guided onto his side by your gentle hands.

He doesn’t even try to hide his tears, couldn’t if he tried, his arms aching too much to move them to hide his face. But he doesn’t avert his eyes from the ceiling, tries his best to ignore your stares burning into him. He can’t face it yet, whatever it is you feel.

Only when he feels you slowly unfurl his legs, helping him straighten them out, knead them between your warm palms, does he look down. You look like an angel. So pretty. So gentle. Tears blur his vision. He doesn’t want to have fucked it all up. He can’t live if you don’t love him any more now.

When his body is stretched out, resting clean and comfortable again his sheets, you lie down next to him. Place your gorgeous head on his pillows, fold your palm underneath your cheek, reach out the other to card through his sweaty hair. Minho thinks he can feel the touch in his entire body.

For a long moment, it’s quiet. You’re looking at him. He’s staring at you. He tries not to blink. He doesn’t want to miss a single moment. A small smile steals its way onto your lips, and he feels tears gathering in his eyes again. God, he’s so fucked up over you.

Before he can cry again, you gently scoot closer to him, your gaze dipping down to his lips, your nails dragging over his scalp soothingly.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here. Did so well, for me, my sweet boy …”

Your voice sounds far away, but your words make the dread melt from Minho’s bones so fast it makes him dizzy. Replaces it with a quiet, helpless kind of love. He can feel your breath on his lips. He closes his eyes. When you kiss him, he kisses back.

It’s only a closed-mouth kiss that you press to his lips, then another, and another. Soft. Almost chaste. Until Minho presses forward, makes one linger. Gently, still fragile, scared, he parts his lips, runs his tongue over the seam of your lips, greedily swallows the little sigh you make in the back of your throat. You open your mouth to him, slide your hand into the hair at the back of his head, and he presses closer, licks into your mouth. Tentatively, he places a hand on your waist. Holds his breath. Waits for your hum of approval, you arching into his touch, before he finally lets his hand explore the body that’s been haunting his every waking hour for the last years.

The dip of your waist is sweet. It fits perfectly under the curve of his arm when he winds it around you, pulls you against his chest until he can feel all of you against him, your belly softly rising and falling against his, your tits squished into his chest, thighs pressing together, before one slings over his. He can feel the strap of your bra under your shirt. He curls his fingers into it for just a second, entertains the thought of ripping it off you. Of the punishment you might dole out. It makes his cock twitch. He’s sure you can feel it, but you seem distracted enough, your fingernails dragging down his bicep, slipping down to his waist, to snuggle even closer, press your body into his like you want to make a home in it. He wishes you would. Carve out his chest and crawl in. Make yourself a home in his bones. He’d keep you safe.

Slowly, slow enough for you to be able to protest, should you not want it, he drags his palm down the dip and curve of your back, until his fingertips start gliding over the thick, mouthwatering swell of your ass. His pinky snags on the pocket of your jeans when he slides down to cup your cheek. Then he squeezes.

Dumbly, he watches, feels, as you gasp into his mouth, your hips twitch forward into his body your hand tightens on him, tries to drag him closer, though your bodies are already pressed so close he loses track of where he ends and you begin. When he kneads your ass again, you rock your hips forward again, and he slips his thigh in between your legs almost instinctively. Your legs clamp around it and with the next squeeze of your ass, you gently moan into his mouth, suck his bottom lip between your teeth and grind against his thigh. He can feel the heat of you through your jeans.

Minho’s cock is already hardening; so fast, and so soon after coming, that it aches. But your body underneath his hands, so beautifully responsive, so clearly enjoying him touching you–

His hand wanders, slides down the expanse of your thigh, down the outside, then back up, sweeping over the top, his thumb dragging over the inside seam of your jeans, until his fingertips find your waistband.

When he pulls himself away from you, he’s breathing heavily. There’s a string of spit that hovers in the air for a solid second, before it breaks, wets your bottom lip. He leans in, licks it clean, presses a chaste, almost reverential kiss to your lips. Much as he wants to let it linger, he doesn’t. He pulls back until he can look at you again and finds you already staring at him. Doe-eyed, yet wild. He has to swallow a growl, like a feral fucking animal. His fingertips trace the waistband of your jeans, knuckles brushing against the impossibly soft, sweetly pudgy skin underneath your belly button, until he reaches his goal. He taps his fingers against the metal button, looks at you with a question in his eyes. You nod.

Your breath puffs against his face in shallow bursts as he pops the button, his mind playing a highlight reel of all the time he’s imagined his as he slides down the zipper. He doesn’t even bother pulling your jeans down, only leans back enough so he has enough space to shove his hand down your pants. It feels a little dirty this way. Like you could be anywhere. In the car. In a restaurant bathroom.

His fingers brush past coarse, trimmed hair and God, he loves that you haven’t shaved it all off. He wants to bury his nose in it, wants to breathe you in until he never forgets your scent. The cotton of your panties is sticky against his knuckles when his fingertips make contact with the hot, slick heat of you. You gasp, and his cock twitches, and he can’t help the wanton groan that tears past his lips.

With the awkward angle, he can really only dip his fingertips in, and it’s not enough, not even remotely, so much so that he feels greedy, feels maybe more courageous than he should. He kisses you harder, pushes you backwards with every greedy press of his lips, until you’re lying back against the pillows and your legs fall open, and he can shove his hand further down your pants and finally–

Your body arches into his, your fingers fist the material of his shirt, when he sinks his fingers into your slick properly. A wet finger finds the button of your clit and his mind shuts down, the only thing he can think of is you. Your heat, your body, your pleasure. He would die in service of it if he could.

His cock is half hard and aching, where it’s lying against his thighs, and he hisses when the sensitive skin of it brushes against the harsh material of your jeans in the most delicious way. He sinks his ring finger into your heat and one of your hands wraps around his chin, forces him to look at you.

The insistent strength of your grips makes fuzziness bloom in his consciousness again already.

“You sure you’re good for another round?” you whisper.

It’s a silly question. As if Minho could rest, knowing he hadn’t pleasured you yet. As if he could rest without knowing what your orgasm tastes like.

Blearily, he nods, grinds his hard cock against your jeans again. He hopes he stains them. If it were up to him, you’d leave his apartment tomorrow with his cum stained all over your clothes. Make sure everyone out there knows you’re his.

“Soft or rough?” you offer, and he nearly melts. You’re so sweet. But you don’t know how insatiable he is for you. How sweet the the roughness feels to him.

He twirls his finger, rubs it against the silky walls of your pussy. The feeling of it sucking him in makes his eyelids flutter and his train of thought fizzles out.

“Rough,” he manages to choke out, his free hand curling around your wrist, dragging your hand up to his throat until you get the memo, but you stop there suddenly. Stare down, like you just realised something.

“The necklace,” you murmur, and he swallows thickly. He’s scared that you smell it on him, the desperation. That it’s somehow written on his face, branded into his skin, how often he has choked himself with it as he was spilling over his fist.

“Did you know …” you murmur, as you reach out, play with the metal. Your fingers are so close to his throat, he barely dares to breathe. His blood thrums in anticipation.

Then your fingers tighten, and you pull and suddenly, there’s metal wound tightly around his throat and the thin little stick end of the closer peeks out of your closed fist.

“It’s a slip chain,” you whisper, eyes trained on Minho’s face.

It feels so good like this. Tighter, a more even pressure. Oh, he had no idea it could feel this good. Stars dance in Minho’s vision and his hips rut forward, his cock grinding and drooling heavily against your jeans. Finally. Claim. Mark. His brain no longer feels like his own.

“I barely dared think about it when I bought it. But I couldn’t help myself …”

His vision goes spotty, and he doesn’t know whether it’s from the lack of oxygen or the fact that all this time, he had worn the necklace, had worn his devotion to you wrapped around his neck like a dog and now … you tell him you thought about it, too.

All too soon, he thinks, you let go and the oxygen rushing back into his lungs makes Minho nearly collapse into your chest. He moans hoarsely and you hum in response.

“But it’s dangerous. You have to promise me you won’t use it like that when you’re alone.”

Minho blinks. Your tone has changed. He’s trying to figure it out, but his brain isn’t … doesn’t …

Slowly, you pull his hand from your pants and he frowns. Did he do something wrong? He doesn’t think he did, but … you don’t want him to touch you any more?

“Promise me, baby,” you repeat, and he just blinks at you. You seem to finally realise when your face softens, your hand comes up to cup his cheek. He nuzzles into it instinctively, his eyes slip shut. You swipe a thumb over his bottom lip, and his mouth falls open instinctively. Your breath hitches.

“Are you worried because you like playing with the necklace? Hm, bunny?”

Minho nods. Without opening his eyes, he nuzzles closer into your palm. Your attention on him is so addicting. Your thumb finds his bottom lip again, pushes in until it’s resting against his tongue. He wraps his lips around it. Sucks, just a little. You curse under your breath.

“God, you’ll be the death of me. Don’t worry, bunny, we can still play with it,” you purr, and Minho’s brain goes to static, “I’ll choke you as much as my dirty little bunny wants, but alone is too dangerous. Bunny could get too into it. Hurt himself.”

He feels himself nodding. He guesses it makes sense.

You pull your thumb from his mouth, shush him gently when he whines at the loss of its weight on his tongue. But all complaints die in his throat when he realises what you’re doing.Calmly, you shove

down your jeans, exposing your panties. They’re not black, like the ones he stole, but grey this time, but they have the same lace detailing around the waistband. His mouth goes dry when you pull them off your legs nonchalantly, dark where they were sticking to your slick cunt. He can’t see your pussy from here, only the tantalising V of it, your sweet belly and the little curl of pubic hair on your mound, but he feels like he can smell it. His brain zones in on it like he’s a hunter, and it’s his prey. He needs to … he needs to touch … he needs …

“Promise me, and you can touch,” you say, gently, but firmly, and he blinks back at you. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and the words barely want to come out.

“I … I promise.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Promise what?”

Your hand winds into his hair and the touch shudders through his entire body. His eyes flutter shut, and he grinds his cock forward, mewls when he finds your skin instead of jeans now.

“Minho …”

He sucks in a breath. Wills his brain to focus for one more second.

“I … I promise I won’t play with the n-necklace w-without you …” You hum, press a soft kiss to his lips, and he nearly tumbles into you when he tries to chase your lips.

“Good boy,” you hum, and Minho preens.

The hand in his hair holds tighter, starts pushing him away from you, and he blinks his eyes open in confusion, before he realises where you’re guiding him.

He lets himself be pushed down, between your legs. His mind swimming when you part your legs for him, expose where you’re wet and needy and so pretty , without shame, and the trust you put in him isn’t lost on him, not even in this state.

Your little clit, pink and sweet and swollen, peeks out from underneath its hood, wedged between the lips of your cunt, and he reaches out before he can stop himself. Brings a thumb there. Drags the silky pudge of it aside so he can see more. Spit pools in his mouth.

When the top of your foot makes sharp contact with his balls, it makes his whole body jump – and he drools a little bit. You laugh. Almost a little mean, yet nowhere near mean enough. He wonders if he will get to tell you to be meaner. He wonders if you’ll want to be.

Nonetheless, he flushes red hot, wipes the drool off his chin with the back of his hand.

“I don’t need to even tell you what you did wrong, hm?” you mutter, disappointment laced into your voice. He shakes his head, swallows thickly. Mumbles an apology. You hum, then your eyes harden.

“Shirt off,” you order, and he rips it off his body so fast he nearly falls over. When his eyes focus back on you, you’re staring at him. Eyes roaming over his shoulders, his chest, the hint of abs on his stomach.

Minho takes a deep breath. Steels himself for what he’s about to ask.

“You, too …? P-please …?”

He blinks his eyes at you innocently. You stare at him, and sit up, and pull your top over your head.

And as much as Minho tries, he can’t stop his eyes from straying, gluing themselves to every newly exposed inch of skin. How your tits strain against your bra, how the straps dig into your shoulders. The goosebumps that litter your skin when you reach behind yourself, undo the clasp. He nearly drools again when your tits tumble free. They’re as perfect as the rest of you. The perfect size, jiggling prettily, when you lie back down. He watches as your big, soft nipples slowly pebble in the cool air. Notices little streaks of stretch marks around the side of them. He wants to trace them with his tongue, wants to suck your tits into his mouth and feel your fingers tug at his hair and–

“Bunny, you were about to do something, weren’t you?”

Minho blinks back into focus when he realises he’s just been sitting between your legs, staring at your tits for an embarrassingly long time. But the fuzziness in his brain prevents him from feeling any real shame. And so does the soft condescension in your voice.

“Oh, goodness,” you coo, and it’s so sickly sweet it makes Minho’s attention snap back to you, “already so stupid, and we’re not even doing anything yet.”

His eyebrows draw together. He wants to say something, but his brain won’t work the way it should. Instead of thoughts it’s just static.

You sigh, shake your head.

Static. Sadness.

“We’ll have to see if you can even manage to make me feel good,” you sigh, and Minho vaguely shakes his head, clumsily reaches out, digs his fingers into the soft skin of your calves. He wants to lie down, already, wants to eat you out for as long as it takes, as long as it takes for you to shake through an orgasm. He’ll learn. He’ll be patient. He’s not too proud. Your pussy on his face would be a privilege. He’d do anything for you. Anything.

“Aw, sweet thing,” you hum, and he realises he just said all of that out loud. His mind spins. His cock throbs.

“Well, if all else fails, at least you have that big, gorgeous cock of yours,” you hum, and the object of your appreciating twitches needily between his legs. He’d always hoped you’d love his cock. Big, girthy, but not too much. Sensitive. Hard. Leaking. He hasn’t had many partners, but they’d all loved his cock.

“Bunny …” you call, and he realises he zoned out again. “Why don’t you finally put your mouth to good use, hm? Before you get distracted again. Maybe that’ll keep you busy enough.”

And despite how badly he wants it, he freezes. Stuck staring at you with a wish lodged in his throat that he can’t find the words for.

“What is it, baby? What’s your colour?” you ask, and this time, it’s free of any condescension. You’re really checking in on him he realises. It’s okay. You want him to feel good. He’s safe.

“G-green,” he mumbles, swallows, “c-can I have a k-kiss?”

Your eyes turn impossibly softer, and without a second’s hesitation you sit up, grab him by the wrist, gently pull him closer until he can lean in and press his lips to yours. It doesn’t last for more than a few seconds, but he leans into it with everything he has, drinks up every ounce of love you offer him until he feels drunk, until the static in his head turns warm, like a million bees buzzing around the sweetest honey. It makes him dizzy, floaty, barely aware of his body lowering itself onto the bed, his hands wrapping around your thighs, your waist, his mouth opening and his tongue lolling out, laving over your most intimate place. The staticky mess in his head goes quiet only long enough for him to hear his own debauched moan he laves into your folds..

Tart and sweet like raspberry syrup. Addicting like it’s laced with something. The smell of you, the smell he’s been chasing in the cotton of your underwear for the last week, only tarter, sweeter, muskier. Real. He wants to fucking drown in it.

Your folds are slick and slippery under his tongue, only aided by the drool that slips out his mouth, his tastebuds going haywire. When he laves over your hole, there’s a whole new world of flavour. Something hotter. Sweeter. Creamier.

He chases it, laves at your hole until your legs start closing around his head, before he finally licks into it, past the soft muscles, fucks his tongue into the impossibly small, burning hot space of it, and all the finds is more of the taste he can’t get enough of. It’s even purer there. He laves over your walls, revels how they flutter around him, clench when he’s especially deep. He sucks against your skin, moans as drool and slick slide down his chin.

His mind is completely gone, and when you gently tug at his hair, pull him from your hole and up to your clit, he dutifully starts licking there, too. Licks over your clit, circles it with his tongue, flicks it until your hips start twitching, jerking so hard he can barely keep his mouth on you, so hard he has to dig his hands into you more firmly, and it helps. It also makes your pussy quiver, and as if on cue, he slides down to your hole again and oh, you’re only getting sweeter. He licks at you again, and again, presses over your clit, then slides down, laps at your hole that’s still, somehow, getting more delicious, cream and peaches and musk–

Distantly, he hears you moan, hears you whimper his name. Not bunny, or baby, his name. It shakes him out of his stupor. Almost drunkenly, he pulls away. Feels a drop of your slick, of his spit, slide down his chin. The hand in his hair slips down to rest on his cheek. He blinks up at you and oh. He’d never thought you’d look like this.

Your head is thrown back and you’re flushed, from the apples of your cheeks, down your neck, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on your body like a thousand diamonds. Your thighs, trembling next to his head, your belly twitching sporadically. He shudders out a breath and you look down at him, make eye contact with him over the swells of your body, and he wishes he could paint so he could immortalize this view. Your makeup is smudged, a strand of your hair is plastered to your forehead. You look absolutely debauched. Fucked out. Perfect. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Oh god, he wants to make you come.

He would've dived back in right then and there if it hadn’t been for your hand sliding back into his hair, fingers tightening in the strands, tugging him to stay upright.

Oh. Right. He was meant to listen. To learn. Instead, he got so lost in it … Are you mad at him now?

“Stop eating me out like you’ve done this before,” you growl, and Minho’s poor, fuzzy brain ties itself into a knot of confusion. “You’re making me fucking jealous. Don’t make me think of you with someone else.”

Oh. He almost laughs.

He almost laughs because … how could you think there could be anyone else? Since the day he met you, he knew this was it for him. It was you, or no one. Anyone he may have had before is only a distant memory, mediocre pleasure, bodies he doesn’t remember, tastes that never did more than mildly gross him out. Right here, between your legs? With the way you look at him, touch him, talk to him, he feels like a virgin all over again. He wants to relearn pleasure. Wants to map it out on your body for the rest of his life. And maybe the next one, too.

Your brows furrow, face scrunching up in annoyance, and he feels giddy. You’re jealous. Jealous of him. Of him.

With a rough little shove, that embarrassingly makes Minho moan very loudly, you push him back, until he’s sitting back onto his haunches. Then you turn around, reach back for his hand and tug him closer.

“Fuck me,” you order, and Minho nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-from behind?” he squeaks out, his brain threatening to melt out of his ears at the mere suggestion.

You nod, shuffle back until you’re right in front of him, stick your ass up and let your upper body fall into the sheets. Presenting your ass, your little hole, your sopping wet pussy to him on a silver platter. When he doesn’t do anything, you wiggle your hips impatiently. Enticingly. As if the view of your naked back, the slope of your waist, the little jiggle of your ass wasn’t enough to drive Minho insane.

He might not survive this.

“Fucking fuck me like you’ve never touched anyone else before,” you hiss, reach out for one of Minho’s pillows, shove it underneath your face, “and make it hard. I wanna feel your cock every time I sit down for at least the next three days.”

Minho reels. You’re filthy. You’re perfect. His hands find your waist, dig into the soft skin, into the soft lines of your stretch marks. He hopes you let him learn them by heart one day. Maybe if you’re still here tomorrow, when the morning sun streams in through his windows. He’d like to kiss you then, all over your body. Explore every inch of it. Worship it like you deserve.

Because he feels almost out of his mind right now. Brain still fuzzy, overwhelmed with the knowledge that you’re here, naked, and jealous. He can hardly remember how to have sex at all. How to make his limbs go through the motions. How to keep enough control of his body to not come immediately when his cock is inside of you. He has soiled innumerable, uncountable sets of bedsheets and pillowcases just imagining this. And now you’re here, naked, jealous of whoever came before you.

“Come on, bunny, or have you really forgotten how to use that big cock of yours?”

Minho breathes out. Tries to shake enough of the fuzziness out of his head to be able to do this. He wants to do this right. Needs to do it right.

With shaky hands, he reaches between you, takes a hold of his cock, hisses at the contact because God, he’s so turned on it actually hurts. He doesn’t know how he will hold out, but he grits his teeth – he will have to. He wants to fuck you with his cock that you called beautiful, and he wants to feel you come around him, and then he wants to breed you f-full …

Nope, he can’t go there right now. He really can’t. He won’t make it. He lines himself up with your hole, watches entranced as your folds part around him, your slick coats his tip – and then he pushes in.

The head of his cock pops in and Minho … loses it.

“Oh fuck. Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuuuuuuuck.”

He curses until he bottoms out. Loud. Way too loud for a Thursday at 7pm in his busy apartment building. He doesn’t give a fuck. Your naked body is in his hands. Your slick, wet hole is sucking him. Taking all of him. His head nudges at your cervix. It’s a perfect fit. It’s a perfect fit. He almost starts crying.

But before he can, you swivel your hips forward, and then backwards again, fuck yourself back on his cock so perfectly, he nearly doubles over. Nothing has ever felt like this before.

“God, you do feel good,” you moan into his pillow, and Minho just whimpers helplessly. “Such a pretty cock. All for me.”

Without allowing him a second to catch his breath, you do it again, pull back almost all the way before you press his cock back into your pussy, then, again, and again, the slide of it getting easier with every swivel of your hips.

You fuck yourself back hard, slam your ass into his pelvis and the head of his cock brushes your cervix, and he throws his head back, his hands that were previously hanging helplessly by his side, scramble to find your waist. He digs his fingers into your skin, tries to ground himself.

With his cock buried all the way inside of you, you start grinding your hips in slow, torturous circles, and Minho’s cock twitches violently, deep inside of you. You laugh, breathlessly.

“Are you gonna do something, bunny?” you ask, the condescension still clearly audible, even through the veil of arousal. “Come on, I know you wanna. Filthy boy. Come on, hump me, like the horny dog you are.”

Minho nearly blacks out. The embarrassment settles deep into his guts, burns brightly, making his balls tighten already.

“W-wanna … so bad …”

You coo, clench your walls around him tightly, and he keens, nearly doubles over and crashes into you.

“Then go for it,” you coo, “come on, bunny, with a cock that big I’m sure I’ll still feel something at least.”

He feels like the luckiest man alive. Like he’s nothing but a feral, horny dog that you’re tugging into place so he can hump you. He’s the luckiest man alive because you let him and you like it.

He tightens his grip on your waist, sinks one of his hands into the plush of your ass, pulls back, and then fucks into you at the same time as he pulls you back onto his cock, and it’s the best thing he has ever felt in his entire life.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “do it again. Just like that.”

And he does. Every thrust punctuated with a helpless moan, he starts fucking into you, slowly, savouring every drag, until your pussy gives way for him so easily, the drag against your walls gets so wet and easy, that he speeds up. One hand screwed into your ass, using the thickness of it to pull you against his cock, he starts slamming into you in earnest.

He’s moaning. Wantonly. Loudly. Dimly, he realises that you are, too. Just as loud. Your hand fisted into the sheets so hard your knuckles are turning white.

He lets his body take over. Rolls his hips, grinds against you harder with every thrust. His knee slips slightly to the side on the sheets, and it angles his hips differently, and you moan loudly into the sheets, your pussy gushing wet and hot around him. He drills into the spot again and again, rolls his hips, rubs the sensitive underside of his cock against your walls until he thinks he might pass out, the pleasure rocking through him threatening to consume him.

When you swirl your hips to meet him, his hips stutter. But you do it again, drag over his cock with a practised swivel of your hips. Practised. With someone else.

Suddenly, the tables have turned. Now he’s the one consumed by a murderous jealous rage.

He doesn’t know if you feel it in the air, if something changes in the way he moves, but suddenly, you’re moving, pushing yourself up on your shaky arms, reaching a hand behind you, reaching out to him, and he doesn’t hesitate to lace his fingers with you. Pull you up. The changed angle makes you gasp, your fingernails digging into the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, his hips faltering, settling into a slower, more controlled pace, “baby. Baby. Y/Nie …”

He’s babbling, but he can’t stop himself.

“I love you. I love you so fucking much. Please, don’t … don’t fuck anyone else ever again. Want you to be yours. Want to be your only one. Please. Please.”

His voice is high and thin. He’s babbling and pleading, and you whimper, and then you grind backwards, grind his cock inside of you deeply, and he feels the shudder that goes through you shiver through the walls of your cunt. He’s connected to the deepest part of you and the knowledge alone makes him dizzy. Blindly, he falls forward, plants one palm into the bed in front of you. Your soft back catches him. His face lands in your hair. He breathes you in like a starved man. You’re here. You’re his.

“F-fuck, bunny,” you gasp out, and it’s so close to Minho’s face that he can feel your voice rumble through your body. It’s unreal.

With one hand resting on your belly, resisting the urge to worship every inch of it with his fingers, he cautiously pulls back, just a little bit, and then sinks his cock back into you. The twin moans you let out, bounce off the white walls of his room.

“I love you, too, bunny, you’re the only one,” you gasp out between the little moans punched out of you with every rut of Minho’s cock inside of you, “never felt … never felt like this, bunny. Baby. Minho.”

His name again. Minho feels faint. His lips find the skin of your shoulder, brushes against every inch of it he can reach. Tongue, teeth, lips. Licking up the saltiness of your sweat, the heady musk of your body.

He feels drunk when he starts to set a cautious rhythm. Pulls back as far as he can, without having to unglue himself from your back, because he thinks he might die if he does.

Your pussy feels hot. Swollen. Wet. Abused. It throbs around him. He wishes he could stay buried inside you for the rest of his life.

Both your bodies move with every thrust of his hips, and his slow pace picks up again soon because it’s addicting, hearing the noises punched out of you, feeling every single tremor of pleasure shiver through your skin. His free hand finds your tits, wraps around one of them, thumb and pointer finger finding your nipples. Soft. Soft soft soft like everything about you. He pinches meanly and you gasp quietly. Not so sensitive there, he notes, carefully, in the compendium of you that he will fill out for the rest of his life.

With one particularly deep thrust, your pussy squelches around him, and he realises just how wet you are around him.

“G-gonna cum,” you mumble.

You wrap your fingers around his wrist, bring his hand up to your mouth and suck two of his fingers into your hot, wet mouth. Minho groans, fucks forward so hard he nearly sends you toppling over. You’re not phased, only lick around his digits until they’re soaked, and then, with an unrelenting confidence, drag them down, down, down, between your legs and oh of course.

The angle of his arm makes his body press closer to you, and he could cry for joy. Every deep thrust of his hips makes your sweaty bodies slide together. Minho laves over a bruise in the crook of you that he barely remembers sucking into your skin, and rubs his fingers over your clit and your response is immediate.

Your head falls back, comes to rest against his shoulder. He rubs deeper, harder, fingers brushing against where his cock is pounding into you with every swipe, trying desperately to not lose his head, trying to take in every single second of this.

Your body leaning back into him more, relying on him to hold you; your walls tightening, fluttering, squeezing him so hard he can barely feel his toes, so close is he to coming.

The beautiful tightening of your body culminates, and before he knows it you’re shaking apart in his arms. Trembling. Letting out a long, desperate moan, fucking your hips back against his cock, holding his hand between your legs, wringing every single drop of your pleasure out of his willing body.

Before you’re even done, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and he comes, too, pleasure throbbing through his veins, pounding through his head so hard he fears he may black out. Still rubbing your clit he bullies his cock as deep as he can, and then fucks in even closer, no doubt bruisingly punching against your cervix, but you don’t seem to care. You moan. Sob. Take every single drop of his seed, milk it out of his cock and into your greedy body.

You freeze there, for a second, breathing heavily, aftershocks racking through your body, through your pussy, still locked around him. Minho’s brain feels like it’s floating somewhere far above him. Blearily, he realises that he’s still blindly suckling on the skin of your shoulder, and he lets go of it with a pop. There’s a bright purple bruise where his mouth was. It makes a familiar flicker of shame lick up in his guts.

But before he can panic, you sigh contentedly, take his hand, slowly manoeuvre the both of you onto the bed without Minho’s cock even slipping out of you. Some feral part of him purrs in satisfaction. Wants to plug you up and keep you full of him all day, every day.

You come to rest in his arms, the little spoon to his big spoon, warm, pliant, slightly sticky, pulling him closer until he’s plastered against your back again, wrapped around him tightly, like you don’t want to let him go either. When you try to pull him closer, still, he can’t help the soft giggle that escapes him. You smile. His heart skips a beat at the sight.

Lazily you squeeze his hand, pull it up until you can press a soft kiss to the back of it. You hold it there, nuzzling your face into his skin, nudging his thumb with your nose. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest. You let the fingertips of your free hand trail softly over his arm.

“Did so well for me, baby,” you mumble, sleepily, “so well. Love you so much. Let’s rest for a moment and then shower, okay?”

The words make something in Minho’s chest bloom. The flicker of shame and anxiety is smothered by sheer light and warmth, and he realises now, what he was missing all this time.

He mumbles your name into your hair. You hum.

“Stay?”

You giggle, gently tug his arm tighter around you until he nearly topples over you, his sensitive, softening cock shifting inside of you.

With your eyes closed, and a giant smile on your face you bring his hand back to your lips, press a kiss the back of it again, before you start peppering kisses all over his hand, his wrist, anywhere you can reach. You tip your head back, wait until he presses a soft, dazed kiss into your hair, before you blink open your eyes. Smile at him. “You’re not getting rid of me anymore.”

Minho smiles. Then he leans in and kisses you. Cups your face, runs a hand over your sweaty hair, breathes a million I love yous into your lips until you’re giggling again. In the morning, he’ll find the real words. All the scattered remnants of his burning, desperate love for you, scattered through his battered, bruised, body, and he will tell you, for real. He will tell you how and and just how much he loves you.

But not now. Now he’ll kiss you, again and again and again, just because he can, until you call him bunny again, just to make him pliant enough to let you shoo him in the shower.

He likes being your bunny.

link back to part 1

skzms masterlist // ko-fi

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