MINE | JEONG YUNHO
[yunho x fem!reader] yunho reminding you who the fuck you belong to | heed the warnings i’m not your mother: smut minors dni 18+, pwp, mean dom!yunho/hard dom!yunho, you call him sir, ownership, submission, desperation, p in v, oral m!receiving, facefucking, lots of heavy degradation, fingering, thigh fucking, orgasm denial/edging, restraining with a belt, pussy fucking (not inside☝🏻), lots of crying, cum eating, jealous yunho, he's not nice like at all. not even a little. another round to pregame aftercare. creampie. as always, let me know if i missed anything! wc 10.7k
⊹ ࣪ ˖ for my angel face lover girl @03jyh23, once the brainworms took over i really could not stop writing this. thank you for requesting, i hope i did mean dom jealous yun justice, i love playing with him. i feel like i had empty headed in my mind the entire time i wrote this, if you're reading this, please for the love of god read empty headed. my favorite joongie fic in the world, mon is so unbelievably talented & so inspiring, if you like even one sentence from this fic i promise you will devour mon’s. thats all, enjoy xoxo
You didn’t mean to piss him off.
Not really.
But there’s something invigorating about watching his jaw tighten, a clench in the hinge that shows the structure of his face. The way his brows flatten, dark and heavy over his big, brown eyes, turning them three shades darker, more charcoal than chocolate. A hand through his styled hair, veiny fingers lost in black locks, mussing it to the point where the gel is rendered useless. Yunho angry was a sight to behold, exciting, magical; it brings out a completely different side of him, one you feared as much as you revered.
Across the room in his dark suit, tailored to his perfect body, his shoulders sat squared, in perfect posture. Your dress matched, a long, navy gown, if anyone paid attention, they’d know you belong to him. You know you belong to him, Yunho knows you belong to him, Yeosang knows you belong to him, but somehow you think the message has been lost along the way.
Deep red hair sitting perfectly over his cheekbones, hiding the birthmark beneath his eye you’ve seen a thousand times, Yeosang does look good. He always looks good, biceps stretching the sleeves of every shirt, filling out every pair of pants he owns like they were made for him, it doesn’t help that he has the most contagious laugh you’ve ever heard. A silly joke, a stupid one that left him snorting, made the laughter creep up from your chest and force its way out of your lips until you were folding forward, a hand clutching your stomach.
He’s funny without even trying to be and you fall victim to it every time, every hangout, whenever you and Yeosang are in the same room. Yunho notices, of course he does, a sixth sense embedded in his veins that he says is named after you. Usually his jealousy with Yeosang is under wraps, he can see your friendship for what it is– but tonight of all nights, at the company gala where Yunho is receiving an award for his efforts, tonight is about him. And here you are, across the room, chopping it up with Yeosang instead of standing by his side so he can introduce you to everyone in the room.
You can feel his stare, harsh eyes like blades cutting into your skin, it makes your spine straighten, your heels click together. Even without words you can feel his command, summoning you to him like there was a part of him inside your head, you excuse yourself from the circle of people you were conversing with and walk back to your boyfriend, a low rumble in your belly because you know exactly what’s awaiting you.
Leaning over the tall, circular table dressed in a black tablecloth long enough that it touches the floor, one of Yunho’s knees is bent into it, his arms crossed over the surface. He watches you, eyes following your every step, aware of each person you pass like every one of them could be a threat. You keep your face innocent, your eyes big and doe-like, your hands politely holding your clutch in front of your body, a small smile on your face as you approach him at the table, nothing else on it besides two full glasses of prosecco.
“Wipe that look off your face,” he says as soon as you can hear it, his voice low and stern, “damage is already done.”
Excitement blooms in your chest, you swallow down your smile. “What do you mean?”
He steps back from the table, picking up the flute of prosecco, holding it close to his chest. He shifts his view upward, examining the crowd, “You know exactly what I mean, stop pretending, you look stupid.”
You can’t fight the smile this time, throwing an elbow over the surface of the table with your clutch, leaning on it as you pick up the glass of prosecco instead. He turns to you, eyes slimming, “You’ve had enough.”
Your brows furrow, head tilting, “I’m not even tipsy–”
“I said you’ve had enough.”
Slowly, you set the glass back on the table, his tone was clean cut, no room for disobedience. You frown, ankles crossing beneath your gown, “I was just talking, Yunho.”
“Talking,” he repeats, a ghost of a smile clawing at his lips, “laughing, leaning into him like I don’t fucking own you.”
Your breath catches in your throat as the word leaves his lips, it always ignites something deep in your gut, turns your mind to fuzz. Ownership, being his, so deeply his you don’t need to think if you don’t want to, Yunho can see the warmth spreading through your body like your skin was transparent.
He takes a step toward you, leaning down, breath ghosting the shell of your ear, “You belong to me. Never fucking forget it.”
You swallow, heart picking up speed in your chest, your voice is a little shakier than you want it to be as you whisper, “I could never forget that.”
Standing up tall again, he smiles like he remembered there’s other people in the room, “Good.” Turning his head to examine the crowd again, coworkers, staff, people who have all praised him tonight, congratulated him on his hard work. You drink in his figure, long legs that stretched on forever clad in navy, his suit jacket unbuttoned, showing the white button-up beneath. The tie that laid in the center, snug beneath his collar, just from a few words your mind escaped to the gutter, brain drifting to the things he could do with it.
“Let’s go,” he says simply, turning toward you again.
“Already?” You look around, standing straight, dessert hadn’t even been served yet. “I don’t think it’s appropriate–”
“I don’t give a fuck about what’s appropriate.” You’re lucky there’s no one around you to hear the sharp words leaving his lips, “I don’t care about this, and clearly neither do you if you’d rather go talk to Yeosang.”
“Yun–”
“Come,” the word is firm, a wall splitting your defense. He grabs your clutch from the table, tucking it beneath his armpit, placing his glass of prosecco delicately on the table, “We’ll make our goodbyes, I’ll text the driver.”
He shoots a quick text before laying a heavy hand on the small of your back, bringing you on his round of goodbyes where you smiled politely, shook hands, gave small hugs to every person you made eye contact with tonight– except Yeosang. You didn’t even meet his eye, standing off to the side while Yunho gave him a tight hug, a wide grin on his face like he wasn’t planning on tearing you apart the moment you stepped foot in your apartment.
You didn’t talk on the drive home, in the backseat of a black car you didn’t know the name of, your driver nodding his head along to what was playing on the radio. A small, muted hum, it stood as background noise for your raging thoughts, adrenaline ripping your tummy to shreds as you wonder about what comes next. It’s rare for Yunho to react like this, he’s generally a grounded, secure man, he knows you’d never leave him, he knows you’d never cheat. He’s asked you the same rhetorical question a thousand times: Who could possibly be better than him?
No one. That person doesn’t exist. You love him too much to ever even consider someone else, he was too engraved in your being, the blood in your body circulated for him, your heart beats to the rhythm of his name. Yunho was everything, everywhere, he was half of your body, your soul.
But he doesn’t play nice when it comes to his toys.
He punched in the code to your apartment with steady hands, opening the front door softly, holding his arm out for you to walk inside first. Hanging your coat on the rack, there’s a pit in your stomach, a blooming warmth of fear and adrenaline beneath your skin. You begin, “Yunho, we shouldn’t have left, I was just talking–”
He’s at your back, hands on your hips, head standing tall above yours, “You think I give a fuck about what you were doing?” His voice is rough, gravelly, tone bleeding dominance, it makes your toes curl in your heels, back straightening against his presence. “I don’t care if you were giving him the fucking heimlich, you’re mine. Do you understand what that means?”
Your breath catches, fingers tingling at your sides, eyes wide as you stare at the pale yellow wall in front of you, art covering the walls. The paintings seemed to stare back, snickering at your disobedience, saying you reap what you sow.
“Yes,” you whisper, accompanied by one singular nod.
“Yes what?”
You fight the sound that claws at your throat, “Yes, sir.”
“This body is mine,” his hands trail from your hips up to your waist, squeezing the skin beneath your gown before traveling up to your chest, holding his palms there to prove a point. “It belongs to me. Your pleasure, your pain, your actions, your mistakes, they’re all mine.”
His palms leave your chest to unzip the gown at your back, you can feel the chill of metal all the way down to the base of your spine. Pooling around your feet, you don’t move, back straight, chin held high, heels clicking together, presenting yourself for him how he taught you. Every bone in your body begged you to turn around and kiss him, you ached to touch him, to wrap your arms around him, to feel him inside you, curved and pulsing and hitting every spot that made you scream. When he steps around you, fear simmers, you come to terms with the fact that none of which is on the itinerary for tonight.
Shoulders squared, jaw locked, eyes dark, brooding. He watches you, still fully clothed, shoes kicked off, his suit remains. His eyes drink in your naked figure, already well aware of the lack of anything beneath your form fitting gown, watching how your upper body expands with each breath, the tremble in your legs, the glint of nerves in your eyes, how you’re already struggling to keep still under his heavy stare. He watches like he’s mapping out a plan, debating what he’ll do to you, how loud he should make you beg, deciding what he’s in the mood for.
He always wants obedience. Expects it. You’ve learned to not expect anything.
“What do you think you deserve tonight?”
The question sets your body aflame. Meeting his eyes, you swallow, “I don’t deserve anything, sir.”
He nods slowly, arms crossing over his chest, he hums. “Do you think you deserve my cock inside you?”
He watches how your spine bends, the slightest movement. It tells him the words out of your mouth are a bold-faced lie, “No, sir.”
“Why not?”
You can feel the heat in the tips of your ears, embarrassment, guilt, it curls into the flame of arousal flickering brighter in your gut with every second he keeps his eyes on you. “Because,” you pause. His brows raise, waiting. Your voice cracks, “B-because I was, um– talking. To Yeosang.”
“Why are you stuttering?” He tilts his head a fraction of a degree. “You know what you did. Say it with your chest.”
“I was laughing,” you continue, feeling the sweat forming at your brow, the light of the foyer too warm, too bright. You swallow, “I was laughing with him when I should have been with you.”
He hums again, debating. “Do you think you deserve to cum at all?”
“Only if you think I deserve it, sir,” there’s a shakiness to your voice, one he knows all too well, it means please.
He looks you up and down once. “Bedroom,” is the only thing he responds, a sharp word that sends your heeled feet clicking over hardwood to the room at the back of your apartment. The lights are dim, soft, misleading; the way it lays over your duvet, your furniture, a streak creeping into the bathroom, it breeds comfort. You’re scared you won’t get any tonight.
“Kneel beside the bed, face it.”
You wince when your knees splinter the hardwood beneath you. Back straight, hands flat on your thighs, you sit on your calves, ass just meeting the heel of your stilettos. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t praise you for following directions, following order, he watches.
One second, two, five, ten. Sitting on your shared bed, suit jacket discarded, knees spread, heels of his feet edged on the base. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows before they meet his knees as he leans over his thighs, giving you a full view of his size above you. A display, one that makes you shiver every fucking time.
“You disappointed me tonight,” his voice is low but his tone is calm and it’s worse than loud, edged, spit-soaked anger. “You know how to behave, you know better. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” you nod once.
“Do you have anything to say about your behavior tonight?”
“I’m sorry,” you mumble. His brow arches. Louder, you repeat, “I’m sorry for my behavior tonight, sir.”
He stares, waiting, watching. One second, two, five, ten.
“Save the apologies,” he stands, fingers working at the prongs of the black leather belt, so close to your face you almost flinch at his movement. “You’ll make it up to me properly.”
You nod, words breathy, “Yes, sir.”
With one step he’s behind you, you can feel him squat down just from the heat of him, you hear the metal of the belt buckle dragging against the hardwood floor, it makes your thighs clench together. His palms are warm when he wraps his long fingers around your arms, just above your elbows, he pulls them behind your back. Silently he wraps the belt around your wrists, tying it off securely, tight enough for you to feel the restriction but not enough to cut circulation.
With another step he’s in front of you, veiny hands tugging at his tie, loosening it before throwing it, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. He works the fastening of his slacks open, fingers tugging down his zipper, with thumbs in the waistband of his briefs, he pulls them both down over his hips until they reach mid-thigh. Your eyes flicker upward to meet his gaze, holding a question in your stare– he’s not even hard yet.
“Why are you looking at me?” His brows raise, “Do you not know what to do with a cock in your face?”
Your cheeks burn as you lift up, the tips of your toes meeting the hardwood, adjusting your height to meet his flaccid cock, there’s no hesitation as you bring your head forward, tongue poking out to catch the tip of him in your mouth. You hear the change in his breathing, a small, sudden intake of air, if it wasn’t so quiet in your bedroom you’re sure it would’ve gone over your head.
The breath is enough praise to take him into your mouth with confidence, to massage your tongue slowly against the underside of him, you feel him expand; length doubling in size, the width of him stretching your lips, the weight heavy on your tongue. Slightly salty, the taste of skin, bland and neutral, he mutters a curse when you take him deeper, but you don’t struggle bobbing your head, working up a rhythm, your movement quickening with each run of your tongue over his ridged tip.
“You can do better than that,” his tone is condescending, it makes your stomach drop. His hips buck into your mouth, cock reaching the back of your throat, making you gag, an ugly noise; his small hum of pleasure is worth a thousand words of praise.
“Is this what I have to do? Fuck your throat so you take me properly?”
Your eyes fill with salty tears as his cock fills your throat, you take him deeper, faster, nose meeting the tuft of hair at his base, inhaling, moaning, gurgling around him with each bob of your head. He groans, a hand coming up to meet your styled hair, ruining it as soon as his fingers tighten in your scalp. “Don’t cry, it’s pathetic, suck my cock like you mean it. Or do you want me to think you’d rather have your mouth on Yeosang?”
Your brows knit together and you hope it’s enough, that he sees the answer you can’t communicate. He hisses when you swallow around him, “He couldn’t fuckin’ handle you, couldn’t put you in your place, he wouldn’t know what to do with you. Do you understand? That you’re something that needs handling?”
You can’t answer– he knows you can’t answer, he isn’t expecting one, he knows your response. He flashes his teeth in a nasty grin when your tears spill, hot on your cheeks, streaking your makeup. “You need to be owned, need to be used, tied up with nothing left to do but take.”
The noise you make gets muffled by his cock, he hears it, his hips roll deeper into your throat, fingers gripping tighter at your scalp.
“You love it, don’t you? When I use your mouth? Turn you into a toy?” You whine around his cock, drool gathering at the sides of your mouth, you can hear the squelch of spit. “I know you do, bet your thighs are stickin’ together already. Should I fuck them instead? Cum all over your legs while your little pussy begs me for attention? Begs me just to look at her?”
Your eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back behind them, your thighs squeeze, wrists tugging at the leather binding them. His chuckle is dark, patronizing, when he speaks the words come out tighter, “Look at you, already begging for it when you can’t even talk. Is this what you wanted? Is that why I had to watch you flirt with my fuckin’ coworker? You needed a reminder that this is all you’re worth?”
Tears flow, makeup stinging your eyes, blurring your vision, his cock so heavy, so deep in your throat, each gag around him breeds more. His other hand meets your hair, rocking your head at the same pace of his hips bucking into your mouth, you breathe through your nose, your nails cut into your palms.
“Fuck,” it’s sharp, under his breath. “There you go, make me fuckin’ cum, ‘s all this mouth is good for.”
Drool spills from the corners of your mouth, dripping onto your thighs that start to shake, knees burning where they dig into the hardwood. You’re clenching around nothing with every other thrust, wishing he was fucking into your pussy with the brutal pace he’s using on your mouth.
“Don’t you dare waste a single drop,” his voice is ragged like his breath, the only proof he was enjoying this. His palms meet your cheeks, forcing your eyes open so he can ask, “Do you hear me?”
Your eyelids flutter, ignoring the sting of tears your gaze darts upward to see his face, veiny forearms in your peripherals. Jaw slacked, cheeks splotched with pink, eyes so dark they’re burnt, pleasure etched in each line of his perfect face. His button-up splits at the hem, showing you the pocket of skin between, the veins that swim from his hipbones up to where they disappear behind the v of fabric swollen, prominent.
“Gonna ruin this throat,” he uses pressure on your flaming cheeks, holding your head still as he fucks into your mouth faster, harder, ignoring how you choke around him. “Mine to do as I fuckin’ please.”
Your face is covered by saliva, tears and melted makeup, bubbles of spit popping before they sink down your jaw, down your neck, between your breasts. The sounds you make around his cock are brutal; loud, wet, unbecoming– they push him over the edge.
He cums with a strangled noise like it was caught in his throat, his chin dropping to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut. Ropes of warmth shoot straight down your throat and you’re disappointed you can’t taste the salt, feel the slimy consistency as if it were intentional, like you fucked up so bad he was keeping his cum from you, too. You whimper when he pulls out, sucking in a needed breath, swallowing down the spit in your mouth, feeling the cool air of the bedroom brushing against the streaks of liquid on your body.
You don’t move without direction. You don’t speak without order.
He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving beneath his shirt, he gives you no praise. He doesn’t even look at you kindly. He gives you a one-over, top lip lifting in distaste, “You’re a fucking mess. On the bed.”
Your legs are wobbly beneath you as you climb onto the white duvet, hands still secured at the base of your spine, you lay on top of them, knees still burning, swollen, uncomfortable. He doesn’t get on the bed with you, he tugs you back down to the edge by your ankles, pushing your legs up until they’re dangling. Hands on your swollen knees, he parts them, ignoring the way you suck in a sharp breath.
“Be quiet,” he’s staring between your legs, “I don’t want to hear a sound out of that mouth. Holes don’t speak.” You clench your jaw to keep it closed, thighs twitching. He continues, “Knew this slutty cunt would be soaked. ‘S all over your thighs, aren’t you embarrassed?”
You meet his eye, lips parted, but you don’t speak. His lips curve at the corner, “No? Proud of how wet you get from being used? Being nothing?”
He’s baiting you, you force your breath into submission, calm despite your heart pounding against your ribs, wild and arrhythmic. You clench around nothing, air catching on the wetness between your legs, coating your thighs, you’re not embarrassed. You could never be, not when his eyes light up, his lips curve, staring at you like he wants to do nothing less than devour you when you’re spread out for him like this.
You’re built for him, by him, and he knows it.
Warm palms sear your thighs, one sinking down your calf, fingers ghosting over one of your heeled feet. He pushes it forward, towards your chest, staring at the silver stiletto, finger following the shape of the arch, touching the pointed heel. Not even looking at you, keeping his eyes on your pedicure, he mutters, “These stay on.”
Your bottom lip quivers, trembles, fingers clawing at the mattress behind your back. His eyes find yours, “Being so obedient now, is this what happens when you’re guilty? When you know you fucked up? I get a sweet girl for once?”
Your entire body reacts to his words, a full-blown shiver that racks through you like a wave. His voice is a spell, his words are tantalizing, laced with sweetness, it throws your mind for a loop, you almost reply. Your lips open and then close, he grins like he knows he’s on the right track.
His fingers wrap around your ankle, placing it over his shoulder, his other hand leaving your thigh to paint a finger through your folds. Your lips tighten, teeth clamping down, brows furrowing at the stimulation, noise climbing up your throat with claws bared. His touch leaves as quickly as he gives it, he brings his finger up past his lips, moaning at the taste, loud and obnoxious, “It’s too bad you don’t deserve my mouth, wanna eat her so bad. I think Yeosang would like the taste too, don’t you?”
Your jaw clenches, he stores the reaction. Bringing his hand back down to your center, he uses two fingers to spread your folds, watching as you clench around nothing, as your body begs for what your mouth isn’t allowed to say. He hums, leaning down, gathering spit in his mouth before shooting it straight onto your mound, your body jumps in response. With his thumb at your clit, he adds the smallest pressure to spread the slick, your lips part, a quiet gasp sneaking through.
His eyes flicker upward, “Behave.” He rubs slow circles, barely any pressure, following your hips that buck into his hand, “Stop moving. Take it.”
Your face contorts, abdomen flexing, spine bending, teeth clamped down over your bottom lip. You try to keep your hips flush to the bed, you fail. His hand leaves your calf over his shoulder, falling to your belly, pushing down to keep you flat, “Right after I said you were being obedient, too. Shame.”
His thumb leaves your clit to push two fingers inside and your elbows bend, hands sliding up your spine, pulling at the belt keeping you restrained. A desperate moan pushes past, hips jerking against his hand pinning you down, his name falls off your lips right after, “Yunho! Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Lips pursed, his head shakes slowly, disappointed. Your body burns, hot with embarrassment, blood carbonated, sizzling with fear, your eyes stay blown wide, watching him calculate what comes next. He doesn’t react further, instead his fingers work you open, pads of his fingertips massaging against the spongy spot inside you, your breathing becomes verbal. Shallow, chest moving rapidly, wrists fighting against the restraint, it feels too good not to move. Not to react.
He knows your weak points, knows your strengths; he uses them both to his advantage.
“Do you think I’m doing this for your pleasure?” He doesn’t look up, voice steady, he watches how your slick gushes around his digits instead, how your core takes his fingers so easily, greedily. “I should shove my cock inside you without prep, that’s what you deserve for being a whore. But I decided to be kind, and this is how you repay me? By being greedy?”
You keep your lips glued together until his eyes meet yours, “Speak.”
“I’m sorry!” Your voice is pitched, face scrunched together, he can hear the shame in your voice, feel how your body disagrees. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t deserve it, I- I, please just–”
“Shut up,” he cuts you off, “Forgot how fucking irritating it is to hear you whine.”
You feel the pressure in your face again, swimming up your sinuses, filling your waterline with salty heat. He doesn’t notice until your breathing breaks, tears already spilled, pleasure wound tight in the pit of your belly, below his palm that sits heavy and harsh.
“You’re crying again?” He sounds bored, annoyed. “You’re useless, you know that? Can’t follow simple fuckin’ directions.”
He sighs before he slips his fingers out, two hands finding the plush of your ass beneath your lifted thighs, pushing you up the bed.
“Maybe you should fuck Yeosang,” he crawls on top of the mattress with you, fingers working his buttons open while you shake your head, tears falling silently, he stares at you with lifted brows like he couldn’t be more uninterested. “You’re nearing worthless at this point.”
He throws the button-up off the bed, pulling his white tank over his head, his slacks and briefs already gone, discarded before your back hit the mattress. Face still reading uninterested, he grabs both of your legs by your ankles, throwing them over his shoulders as he spreads his knees, lowering himself until his eyes lock on your glistening folds.
“You don’t deserve my cock,” he says it like it’s something you already know. A mewl stirs in your throat, you swallow it down as he wraps his fingers around the base, pushing it through your folds. “So fuckin’ wet, she’s begging for it. You think you deserve it?”
He looks up at you just to see you shake your head no, his eyes follow the way your tear-streaked cheeks shine in the dim light.
Circling his tip over your clit, he asks again, “Not even the tip?”
You release a shaky breath, sniffing through your clogged sinuses, every bone in your body screaming yes, you’d beg for it, on all fours, you’d do anything for it. But that’s not what he wants to hear, so you shake your head once more.
“Alright,” he says it passively and it makes your brows knit together. Like if you said yes, he’d do it.
Your lips part, face warped into confusion, voice coated in a cry, “W-wait.”
“No,” he moves one of your ankles to his other shoulder, crossing them, “You made your bed.”
“Yunho–”
His eyes flicker upward, warning enough, your lips smack together to silence yourself. The tip of his cock prods at the seam of your thighs, so thick and hot and wet it makes you squirm, ankles locking over his shoulder. He smacks the side of your thigh once, “Clench ‘em for me. Be a good sleeve.”
Your breath is shaky as you tighten your thighs, body rigid, wrists fighting their restraints. Tears spill hotter, heavier when he groans out in relief, cock passing between your thighs, so close to your aching cunt you can feel your composure getting pushed to its limit. One hand holds your ankles over his shoulder, the other squeezes one of your thighs, you watch how his abdomen flexes with each roll of his hips, how his throat bobs when his head falls back in pleasure.
“Feels good,” his voice is gravelly, laced with arousal, his hips moving slow enough to draw out his own pleasure. You try to keep yourself tight, composed, enjoyable for him, but your patience is a thin band, one running taut too quickly. He picks up the pace, his hips smacking against your sensitive legs, they start to shake where they lay hooked over his shoulder.
“Stay still,” he gruffs out, “Stop shaking.”
A defeated cry escapes through your parted lips, mumbling a wilted, pathetic, “Please.”
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t address that you’ve spoken. You’re drifting as his grip turns tighter, fingers on your ankles, palm on your thigh, tight enough to bruise; his hips pick up speed, filling the room with the sound of skin smacking skin. You’re clenching around nothing again, so strung out and sensitive that the ripple of his cock between your thighs is close enough to friction. You can feel your pulsing clit, muscles tightening, heart picking up speed as it starts to feel somewhat pleasurable. Better than nothing, not nearly enough to get you off.
He does a double take when he notices your brows knitted up, lips parted, breath layered. His laugh is punched, taunting, “You’re getting off on this?” A whimper escapes. “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut. This is a punishment, not a fucking position.”
You seal your lips together again, your lashes becoming a waterfall, his hand leaves your thigh just to land against your skin heavier, harder, the sound striking through the room, nearly blending in with the sound of his hips against your thighs.
“I’d be inside you if you listened. If you didn’t speak, if you didn’t flirt with my friend in front of my goddamn face,” his voice is as rough as his movements, he watches where his cock disappears, grinds his teeth when your thighs clench. “Can’t believe this is getting you off. Nothing but a cockhungry whore, doesn’t matter where I fuckin’ put it, does it?”
Your thighs clench again and he cracks ever so slightly, a splinter in his demeanor. The sound he lets out is pitched, something of a moan, small and wanting as he chases his release, “Fuck, almost as good as your pussy. Maybe I don’t need to use her at all anymore, maybe I’ll tape her shut.”
Another sob falls past your lips, head tilting to the side, “No.”
“No?” His eyes meet yours, “No?”
“I need you–”
“You’re mine,” his voice is harsher now, like you’ve finally hit a nerve. He pulls out, throwing your legs to the side, one arm scooping under you to flip you onto your stomach. Pulling you upright, on all fours, knees together, your face is buried in the bed, another sob cracking through your shaking body. “I’ll do whatever I want, this body is mine, you belong to me. You’re my property, when are you going to get that through your thick fucking skull?”
When his cock pushes past the seam of your thighs again, legs on either side of yours, it's lower. Farther away from your slippery cunt, skin still lubed up with how much you’ve spilled, his voice is edged as he lands a harsh smack on your ass, biting, “Squeeze your fuckin’ thighs, you can’t afford to disappoint me again.”
He holds his hands tight on your hips, steadying you, groaning low and long when he picks up the pace tenfold, harsher than the rhythm he was giving you before. He plants a foot on the bed, choking out a moan, “Gonna cum all over these thighs, this ass, then I’m gonna make you eat it.”
You moan, it’s a soft noise, too soft for how unforgiving he was at your backside. Your mind is cloudy, in your head, his degrading words are close enough to praise, your body responds. He lands another heavy smack to your ass, sending you deeper into the plush of the mattress, into the fuzz, you moan.
He sounds almost surprised when he says, “That’s not a fucking reward, you’re disgusting.”
Your wrists pull at the belt, thighs clenching, another shameless moan pushing past your lips. His hips stutter, fingertips tightening at your hips, “Fuck, nasty fuckin’ thing.”
He slips from between your thighs, leaving them vibrating and hot. You can hear how fast his fist moves over his length, slick and wet, lewd, his groan is a stutter as he cums, thick ropes of white landing over your ass, your thighs, warm, heavy, you can’t help but moan at the feeling. Being marked, owned, being his, however he wants you, however he’ll have you.
You hear him panting, tight breaths pushed from his lips, you know he’s staring, watching it drip, admiring the mess he made like it was art. With one hand still on your hip, he uses the other to wipe his painting off your skin, gathering it on his fingers, a glob of wet sticky warmth, your mouth waters knowing he’s about to feed it to you.
Your thighs shake as he knocks your knees apart for stability, reaching one arm forward to wrap under your belly, pulling you upward. You whimper at the force but your body follows without hands to help you.
“Here,” he sounds like he’s giving you a gift as your back hits his chest. He moves your hair out of your face, your jaw already pried open, he stuffs his cum-coated fingers past your lips and your eyes roll back. Salty, thick, nasty, you moan at how fucking dirty it feels, abdomen flexing because he’s finally giving you something. Mouth closing, tongue sucking his fingers clean, your thighs squeeze.
“Good girl,” he whispers, “Eat it all, lick my fingers clean.” You moan again, eyes opening, low-lidded as you stare at him from under your brows, swallowing. His face scrunches, lips parting, “Fuck.”
He watches as your spit-stained mouth opens when he presses down on your tongue, no evidence of his release leftover. His fingers move slowly, spreading inside your mouth like he wanted to feel the texture of your tongue, they drag down until your bottom lip folds over, your own spit hitting your chin.
“So pliant,” he whispers, watching, analyzing, “You’ll let me do anything right now, won’t you?”
You whimper, so soft and light you barely register it came from you. His other hand wraps around your front, two fingers dipping between your legs, adding pressure to your clit. You fold, or try to, his other arm wraps around your front, forearm between your breasts, fingers landing steady at the base of your throat, holding you flush to him.
“Still.” Despite the order being direct, his voice is calm, sweet almost, eyes dancing over your features, watching how your face contorts in pleasure. He keeps his pace slow, circling his fingers lightly, “Cum, just like this.”
Your instinct tells you not to trust his kindness, pressure building steadily at the base of your belly, but he works you so easily, even with small circles and light pressure, your body responds like a live wire, as if two light fingers were a vibrator on its highest setting. Your moans mix with tiny gasps, body fidgeting at the pleasure, so sensitive you think you might be running from it.
He cooes, “Come on, baby. I’m letting you cum, might be the only orgasm I let you have tonight. Impress me.”
The need to deliver, obey, appease him is too embedded in you not to listen, even if you know better. You choke on a moan, reaching your peak quicker than you should, sounds climbing in staccato, so close you could fucking taste it– he rips his fingers away just as you approach the edge and you sob, body lurching forward, “No!”
He pulls you back against him, keeping you locked in place. He shushes you, running his hands over your skin, your thighs, your stomach, comforting touches that pull tears from your eyes for the third time. You choke on a cry, crumbling into him, leaning your weight against him.
“So good for me,” he praises, voice candy-sweet. Confusion makes you whimper a mumble of his name.
He waits until your twitching subsides, still brushing his fingers over your skin, soothing the loss until you’ve forgotten it. When your sobs quiet, your breathing evens a little more, he dips his fingers between your thighs again.
“Yunho!” You gasp, bucking against him, “T-too much.”
“Shut up,” he grinds out in your ear, “Take it.”
His fingers work quicker, more pressure, pleasure builds inside you like it never stopped.
“I can’t–” You hiccup, “Please let me cum, sir, p-please let me, I can’t take it–”
The arm that’s wrapped around your front reaches farther up until two fingers push past your lips, sitting heavy on your tongue like stone. You gag around the length of them, knuckles hooked between your teeth while his other hand works quicker, tighter circles on your clit.
“Don’t remember telling you to speak,” you feel his breath on your ear, words chopped, rough, mean. “I remember telling you not to make a fucking sound.”
You’re gurgling around his fingers, more ugly noises, you’re too close to care. Electricity zaps through every limb, legs trembling, hips bucking away from his fingers because you can’t handle the pleasure even if you need it.
You’re babbling over the weight on your tongue, looking up at him with pleading eyes, mumbling begs in-between every gag, he stays focused on his fingers between your legs, pulling you as close as he can to the finish line.
“Y’gonna cum?” His eyes finally meet yours, searching your face for the answer before you can make a sound. You nod, tongue flexing under his fingers, pressure built up so tight and heavy in your body you might blow if he doesn’t let you release. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, so sticky sweet it makes you moan. His voice is sharp against your skin, “Slutty cunts don’t get to cum.”
There’s a millisecond to process his words before he rips his fingers away and that’s how long it takes for your sanity to slip. Sobs, real ones rip from your chest; ugly and booming, he lets your body go, lets you fall forward, flat against the mattress, wrists clawing at the belt, twitching and jerking so fucking shamelessly it makes Yunho smile.
“Am I breaking you, baby?” He crawls on top of you, flipping you over like your dead weight means nothing to him. “Are you finally understanding what it means to be mine?”
The word yes leaves your lips between each sob like a chant, wrists aching beneath leather, your skin was probably inflamed and swollen by now from how much you’ve thrashed against the belt, but you don’t feel it, you don’t care. You need more. You need release.
He pushes your knees up, humming, ignoring your choked sobs like they didn’t exist. “You think Yeosang would want you like this?” He smacks his teeth, “A crying, begging whore? You think he’d touch this slutty, swollen cunt?”
“No! I’m s-sorry,” you hiccup, sounding so distraught it’s almost deranged, “Please.”
“Please what?” His cock lays heavy over your leaking cunt, reaching well over your pubic bone, it makes your trembling worse. “What are you asking me for?”
“I– I–”
“Shut up,” he lowers his grip down to your thighs, the sensitive part on the inside, rutting his hips ever so slightly against your folds. Your head tilts back, letting out a sound of tight pleasure mixed with frustration, his cock on you isn’t enough. You need him inside.
“He wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole,” he continues, wrapping his fingers around the base of his length, adding pressure as his hips rut against you again. “This pussy is used. I’ve ruined it for anyone else, ruined you.”
Your spine bends at his words as he works up a rhythm, pace combined with the added pressure, his cockhead runs over your swollen clit with each thrust, it’s almost enough for you to start climbing again. You moan out in relief, in euphoria, just from having him on you.
His grip tightens on your thigh, “You like that? Being ruined? Like the idea of another man being repulsed by you?”
“Yes,” your face contorts, tears hot in the lines stretching across your skin, breath ragged, hips bucking against him when his rhythm slows.
He curses under his breath as he feels you clench, “Of course you do. This pussy only wants me. Trained to only respond to me.”
“Yes,” a little louder, laced with your climbing pleasure, “Only you.”
“Don’t cum.” You watch his knuckles turn white at the base of his cock. “You haven’t earned it yet.”
“Please!” You cry, so completely at his mercy, body shaking, heels piercing your thighs with each roll of his hips. “Please l-let me, I’ll be good– I’ll listen, I won’t ever look at him again–”
Your fingers curl into the duvet beneath you, pleasure, desperation, the stimulation you’re getting from his cockhead over your clit is enough, it’s fast enough, he said no. He’s focused on your core, how his cock slides against your slick, how it bubbles and swirls around your folds with each thrust of his hips.
“Yunho,” you cry, a little louder, more severe, “Inside, p-please!”
He grits through tight teeth, “Shut the fuck up.”
Your body locks, bones feeling tight, stuck to each muscle like one look from him had turned you to stone. Small, stuttered breaths escape you one after another, rising in pitch, he can feel the stemming pleasure in your gut, he knows it’s building, he can see it on your face.
You’re close, but he’s closer. He takes the chance, fucking into his fist before his cock meets the wet heat your folds, he grunts out a curse, fingers so tight around your thigh it hurts.
“You wanna cum?” His eyes flicker upward and your heart stops dead in your chest.
“Y-Yes– Yes Yunho, please, I’ll do anything–”
“Beg for it.”
Incoherent babbles disguised as pleas, nothing more, a display of desperation that was music to his ears. His hips stutter with each whimper, each whine, the wetness on your cheeks, your body that’s steaming under his touch, it’s so hot his stomach curls with his approaching orgasm.
He chokes on a groan, “You’re so fucking stupid, you don’t learn. Nothing but a dumb, desperate whore.”
You moan and he gasps, thighs twitching as he ruts into his fist like an animal, fucking himself through the orgasm that leaves your cunt, your belly, your thighs covered in cum, his third orgasm. Your knees tie together, a sob so defeated and tired ripping from your gut, your cunt pulses, he can see it. He can’t stop himself from pushing his cock inside.
“Yunho!” You all but whisper, wrecked voice bouncing off the walls, body thrashing against him.
He moans, small but there, it’s suffering and overstimulated. Your wrists burn, halfway up your back, arched so high the leather doesn’t touch you. You can feel your tears pooling in your ears, sobbing in relief and satisfaction and sheer fucking pleasure.
He doesn’t move. He sits there, face tied together in overstimulation, lips caught between his teeth, fingers holding onto your legs for purchase like he might die if he didn’t grab onto you with all his strength.
“Please,” you cry, “Move.”
His jaw clenches, breathing manual, chest rising and falling so heavily you regret the word as soon as it passes through your lips.
“I can’t take it,” you continue through the regret, another mistake. “I’m yours, Yunho, I- I belong to you, I’m your whore, your sleeve–”
“If you were my fucking whore you wouldn’t disobey me,” he grits out, you can feel his thighs shaking, but he adjusts himself to fuck into you properly. “Say it if you need to, but you’ve taken it before and I know you can take it again.”
The word is nowhere near your tongue and he knows it.
“Quit crying, then,” he moves his hands, fingers sinking beneath your back to hold your waist, thumbs sliding where they slipped through his cum on your sides. “I’m tired of hearing it. You’re getting what you want.”
“I want to cum,” you cry out, you’re sure you’ve broken skin at the heel of your palms from how hard your nails have cut into them, you can barely feel the sting. His fingers bruise your back, keeping you still, forcing you to take it as he slips out agonizingly slow, and pushes back inside.
“I don’t think you deserve it,” he sounds unaffected by being inside you, like fucking your thighs really was the same, if not better. Your sobs reflect the thought, feeling so used, full of shame; the flame of desire that dwells within your gut is nowhere close to being smothered, you need more, you need to be full of him, you need to cum around his cock.
“Ple– ase,” you choke on the word, “Y-Yunho, please.”
“Pussy missed me,” he sounds like he’s reminiscing, “Listen, she’s suckin’ me in.”
You hear it then, the squelch, the ungodly sound of his cock sliding into you fluidly. You wallow in it, the humiliating noise, the feeling of him running over that spot with every thrust, filling you up like he’s carved himself space inside you, whittled at your womb until you could take him and him only.
“There you go,” it’s not praise, it’s relief, “Finally giving up. So much better when you’re easy.”
There’s nothing left inside you but sound, desperate and aching, it fills the room on top of the sound of his hipbones slapping against your thighs, the room sounding wet and disgusting. Pressure builds, steady and true, his rhythm daunting, pushing you closer to an edge you don’t know if he’ll let you fall off of.
“This is all you need,” his voice sounds heavier, layered with pressure, “My cock fucking you full. You don’t need to think, don’t need to breathe, you don’t need to be.”
You breathe out a noise, a babble about getting close, he doesn’t hear it. You sink deeper into the haze with each thrust, consumed by pleasure, cheek sliding against the duvet every time his cockhead kisses your cervix.
“You all dumb for me?” You can hear his smile, “Fuck, are you finally broken, baby? Feel nothing but me? Thinking of nothing but me?”
The leather binding your wrists feels miles away. You’re reaching, he knows it.
His hips snap against yours, so brutal and unforgiving, pleasure is an unwrapped gift with how your orgasm hits, catching you off guard. The sound that rips through you is deafening, limbs thrashing against the duvet, your restraints, it’s too late for him to slip his cock out. He knows it, even if he does it anyway, you cry out, hips bucking against nothing searching for friction to extend your orgasm as long as you can.
He doesn’t speak when he flips you over. His hands are rough, movements quick, his cock splits you open the moment your knees hit the mattress. You don’t get a second to feel relief.
“You’re nothing but a greedy fucking whore,” each word is punched, animalistic, angry and ragged; your spine bends toward him, cunt clenching around him, toes digging into the heels on your feet. He pushes you down with one hand, “Keep that fucking back down.”
“Again,” you cry, weak and desperate, “Again.”
He’s fucking you like he hates you, like your pleasure meant nothing to him. Brows furrowed, jaw sharp like a blade, he’s angry as his cock drills inside you, chest red and splotchy, sweat beading down his mismatched skin.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, “Stupid bitch, you’re only making it worse for yourself.”
“I’m sorry–”
He lands a sharp smack to your ass, “Don’t fuckin’ apologize. Deal with the consequences.”
“I’m sorry!” It’s louder this time, strained. Your hips fuck back, knees buried in the bed for stability, “I need you, I need it, I need to cum again, please– please Yunho, I’ll–”
He reaches down to push your face into the mattress, “I told you to shut the fuck up, listen for once in your goddamn life.”
Mouth meeting cotton, you can’t catch your breath, shins kicking against the mattress. His pace is angry, brutal, you can feel yourself falling apart, pleasure and pain melting together, desperation and satisfaction blending into one. Your head feels fuzzy again from the loss of air, cloudy in a way that means submission, your body softens.
He lets go of your head to grab onto the belt with one hand, pulling you up, back level with your hips, your sobs becoming verbal once again. Your head hangs low, deadweight for him to hold.
“Say you’re sorry.”
Light, airy, your cloudy eyes meet the duvet, “I’m s-sorry–”
“Say it like you fucking mean it.”
You wince, “I’m so sorry, sir.”
His voice sounds rigid, like he might cum again. “Tell me what you are.”
The answer comes easy, “I’m a whore.”
He lands a sharp smack to your ass, “You’re less than that.”
“I’m n-nothing,” you whimper, “A h-hole, a sleeve.”
He lets go of the belt and you fall against the mattress, a rough sound muffled as your chest hits cotton. He flattens you with his palms, lowering his weight over your back until his skin sticks to yours, he slides one arm beneath you, under your chest, cupping your jaw with one huge palm. He guides your head to the side to see him, sweaty and angled and fucked out, but he rounds out when he sees you– face flushed, wet with saliva, tears, splotched and messy, your eyes glossy and huge and somewhere else.
He starts rolling his hips into you again, slower, just as damning, “You’re missing something.”
Your brows furrow, clenching around him, mewling out something incoherent before asking, “M-missing?”
He rolls his hips, cock brushing over that spot, you shake against him, body trembling. He bites his lip roughly like he’s forcing himself into composure before he asks, “Who’s hole? Who’s sleeve?”
“Y-Yours!” You’re scrambling to correct your mistake, “I’m y-yours. Your whore, your hole, your sleeve. Yours to use.”
He moans, soft and wilted and fucking angelic. His rhythm doesn’t falter, patient but aimed, like he wanted you to feel every inch, every vein. You can’t move, stuck under his weight, held in his palm, your face forms to gratification, lips open but silent, eyelids fluttering, you feel like you’ve given him all of you. Your pleasure, your pain, he holds it all in the palm of his hand, he holds you like you’re something sacred.
“Made for me,” his voice is quieter, soft at the edges. “Only I could love you like this. Broken, small.” He drops into just above a whisper, “Ruined.”
“Please,” you whisper, a single tear running down your cheek, “Cum inside me.”
Hot salt meets his fingers, his grip tightens ever so slightly, cock twitching inside you. “Cum for me first. Show me how well you listen.”
Your brows furrow, instinct at war with his tone, his words. Even if you don’t know how honest he is, your body reacts, rutting against his thrusts, clenching around his length that sails over the front of your walls with purpose. Climbing, reaching, you stare into his dark, focused eyes, softly whimpering, “Yunho.”
“I got you, I’ll let you,” he encourages, his tone not fully sweet. “Just this once.”
Your body trusts him, enough that your peak approaches in a cloudy haze; you tremble in pleasure, choking on a cry, crumbling against his arm that holds you still, steady, safe.
“Fuck,” it’s a hot word in your ear, “So fucking tight.”
His hips pick up and you move, tears falling hot again, overstimulated and forced in a cycle of pleasure, your wrists pull, your legs thrash, your whines pick up, his grip tightens on your jaw.
“Want me to fill this pussy up?” His breathing is as verbal as his question, “You think you deserve it?”
“Yes,” you answer in a cry, “I do, I do, please– inside, sir, Yunho, please–”
He gruffs out a noise squeezed from his throat, hips smacking against your skin, stuttering. His fingers push up on your jaw until it closes, silencing you with fingers pressed in your face, his head dipping low as he chases his orgasm.
“Slutty fucking cunt,” he growls out, lips just grazing your shoulder he lifted, “No you don’t.”
You don’t process the rejection as he lifts himself, you turn over with haste in the second it takes to settle, pleas on your tongue; he’s already crawling over you, knees beside your shoulders, fist wrapped around his cock.
“Yunho, no–”
“Learn from this.” He pumps his length with fervor, knuckles white, hips bucking into his own hand. “Remember this the next time you think about giving my property away.”
You don’t know how you have any more tears to give. Sucking down air, body thrashing beneath his thighs that pin you down, you wail. He watches, lips parting, brows furrowing, like your face and your pain was getting him off, it doesn’t take long until he’s groaning, cock spilling ropes of white onto your cheeks, your nose, your hair, your chest.
Heartbreak blooms. Chest cracking, you succumb to the tears, slipping from your half-open eyes down to the streaks of white on your face, mixing into salty, thick heat. You might be talking, repetition of no filling the air like it’d rewind time, convince him to fill you up again and leave his mark behind.
He takes his time crawling off you, turning you halfway, one hand skillfully prying the belt undone. Your arms are free but you can’t feel the air on your wrists, even as he moves them in front of you. Sitting beside you he lifts your wrists, checking them, moving the pads of his thumbs over your swollen veins on the inside.
“Fist,” it’s soft; a direct order, one without malice. You barely hear it over your cries, but you flex your fingers, make a fist, he nods once in approval, thumbs ghosting over the red, broken crescents in the heels that your nails left behind.
Tangling his fingers with yours, it’s not a show of affection, he moves your wrists in a circular motion, clockwise, then counter-clockwise, watching your face for any sign of pain or discomfort. There’s none, other than your dejected cries, he knows you well enough to know the difference.
Laying your wrists softly beside you, he crawls downward, lifting one leg, untying the buckle at your ankle. He slips your heel off your foot, pressing a kiss to the underside of your toes, another to your ankle. He moves to the other after gently laying your leg down, repeating the process, his lips soft against your skin.
He leans forward again, stretching his legs out beneath him, slinging an arm under your shoulders to tuck you into his chest. Your forehead meets his skin, wet and sticky with sweat, his cum, saliva; being eased into comfort after so long of not having it just makes you cry harder. He lets you release, one hand in your scalp, the other grazing your back, he doesn’t speak until your sobs lower, when you’ve reached a point that you have nothing else to spend.
“You did so well for me,” he whispers, lips softly meeting your roots. “Took everything I gave you, I’m so proud of you.”
All you can respond is a whimper, soft and light, the only sound you have left inside. Exhaustion lays heavy like a blanket, its weight on your eyelids, on your legs, in the arches of your feet.
“I’m gonna go get you some water.”
Your shaky arms reach, neck bending, holding him close with your palm on his waist. Meeting his eye, seeing him, you hope he can see the not yet in your eyes. His face deflates into roundness as his thumb meets your cheek, wiping slick off your skin that’s gone cold by now. His eyes sparkling and soft, he’s in caretaker mode– the doing after he takes, you aren’t ready for it yet. You need him.
His eyes flicker to your lips and he can feel the way you bend for him, into him, asking for it without saying a word. His lips meet yours with delicacy, a soft graze of his lips before you part for him, beckoning for more. He lets his lips mold with yours, open and sweet, no haste, gradual and slow, his hands exploring your skin, your palm reaching upward to cup his cheek.
“One more,” you whisper into his mouth, using all your might to form words. Your ankle hooks over his back, a shaky breath escaping you when your body meets the cold slick of his spent length. He hisses at the friction, head beginning to shake, you cut him off before he can speak. “Please.”
His eyes study your face for a moment. “You can handle it?”
“I need it,” your voice cracks on the second word. “Need to feel that you love me.”
His brows furrow, “Baby.”
“Yunho,” you whimper in the same tone, “Please.”
He catches your lips in a kiss and you’re not met with any more haste than before. It’s slow, passionate, he’s burning words onto your tongue, making you feel it instead of him saying it. He reaches down between your bodies, pumping his cock once, twice, pushing a small sound into your mouth, one you swallow down, tucking it beside your heart. Running his tip through your folds, you brace yourself, legs already shaking, bruised and battered and still aching for more.
You wince as he starts pushing inside, his lips meet your jaw. On your sides, facing each other, you throw your arms over his shoulders, his hands sinking down around your waist, from how close you lay there’s barely any room for him to feed you a full thrust. He tries, grinding his cock against that spot inside you, eating every soft, wrecked moan you spill.
“I love you so much,” he finally says, “Every inch of you, every part of this body.”
You whimper, fingers curling into his hair with no force, succumbing to the pleasure, the slight sting of overstimulation.
“You take everything,” he whispers, lips against your cheek, you feel his breath, the severity of his words. “Do so fucking well for me every time. I need you.” Your heart jumps, clenching around him, pressure stemming. He repeats, voice a little louder, “I need you, love you s’much, ‘d do anything for you.”
Your hands drop to his shoulderblades, nails sinking in, breath growing heavier, a soft moan slipping past your lips, into his mouth. You whimper, voice cracking, “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” his fingertips curl into your back, “I know, baby.”
“I love you,” your voice cracks again, breath going uneven, he kisses you softly.
Your hips move with his, meeting each roll, the slick sound of your still-soaked center a symphony in your dimlit bedroom. He hears when your breathing shifts, as you start to climb. “Yes,” he encourages, voice dripping in praise, “Cum for me, baby, you deserve it. Did so good for me.”
Your breath hitches, hips twitching against him, he rolls into you a little harder. He kisses you, tongue sloppy inside your mouth, tasting everything you’d given him tonight, taking responsibility for it all. He turns you just slightly, angling you onto your back a little more so he can piston his hips higher, against that spot inside you. Your leg dangles, leaving your body spread and open, so trusting it makes his stomach do a flip. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing quick, tight circles.
He knows you’re seeing stars by the loud, pitched cry from your throat, he curses under his breath, “C’mon, cum for me. Give it to me, let me have it, I need it.”
Your spine bends on command, thighs shaking, pleasure washing over you in tremors. Eyes squeezing shut, he kisses your unmoving mouth, fingers working your clit, fucking you through it, extending your release, pulling it deeper, hotter, longer.
He kisses your cheek when a tear slips out, wiping his upper lip with his tongue. Your face is bent up in pleasure, eyes big and doe-like, pupils dilated. You mumble, voice little and weak, “Please cum inside me.”
His pace quickens, chasing instead of supplying, voice caught in his chest. You kiss him again, sloppier, moaning into his mouth as he fucks into you steadily, fingers curling into his hair while you fuck him back. He chokes on a moan, hand splayed across your abdomen, hips losing their rhythm before he stutters, legs shaking, spilling everything that’s left inside him to give.
Winded, breathing heavy, Yunho’s spent. There’s nothing but the sound of your breath in the room, he keeps his cock inside you until it’s soft and even then you wait until discomfort knocks on your door to part.
“Can I clean you up?” He asks into the silence, palm still heavy over your sticky stomach.
You moan your disagreement. “We need to shower.”
He rolls over, pressing a soft kiss onto your cheek, “Are you strong enough to?”
Your head turns, meeting his eye, a smile curving your lips to a singular degree. “I don’t really have a choice. You came on me twice– three times?”
He plants his palms on either side of your head, eyes meeting the ceiling in thought. “Mouth, thighs, stomach, face, inside. Three.”
You throw your arms over his shoulders, bringing him down to kiss you. A soft, quick peck, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he smiles into your lips, “I’ll carry you and clean you, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll change our sheets, we’ll eat something, watch our show…”
You nod slowly, brain drifting. From the most vulnerable part of your foggy mind comes a question, voice thin as you ask, “You know I don’t want Yeosang, right?”
His eyes flicker over your face, searching for the emotion that asked the question.
“Of course,” he replies, full of confidence, already spitting quick reassurance, “We’re perfect. I’m not angry at you, I’m not upset with you, I don’t have any feelings that will fester over tonight. Are you okay? Did I push you too far?”
You shake your head, “No.” Biting your lip, they scrunch to one side. “I’m okay, I just… Don’t stray too far away from me tonight. Please.”
He leans down to press another kiss on your forehead, “I won’t leave your side. I promise.”
masterlist
Existential depression
