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the shape of breath (j.yh)

summary: life has been too much. too big, too loud, too present. you ask yunho to take you further than you've ever gone, and he does, with every rope and every inch of your surrender. i want my eroticism mixed with love, and deep love one does not experience often. - anaïs nin 🔗 read it on ao3 📚 fic masterlist 🪢 shibari glossary & resource library 🌹 anchor point mood board

note: this work is a one-shot of romance and erotica, and is set between yunho and reader, a couple both in a romantic relationship and an established d/s dynamic. anchor point has not been published yet, but is a series that will tell their story of trauma, recovery, and rope play. this story is set several years in the future, when they have come to their version of a happily ever after.

warnings: dom!yunho, rigger!yunho, sub!reader, rope bottom!reader, shibari, kinbaku, bdsm dynamics, d/s dynamics, rope play, partial suspension, full suspension, predicament ties, pain play, hard dom yunho, subspace, pushing limits, on page consent checks, use of the color system, on-page discussion of the scene both pre-play and post-play, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, bites, marks, heavy use of "sir" and very formal d/s dynamics, kneeling, total submission, body manipulation, rough handling, fingering, oral (f receiving), internal vibrator, nipple play, impact play (light), hair pulling, slapping, breath play, penetrative sex, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, implied belly kink/belly focus, daddy kink, creampie, use of the word 'little', praise, degradation, lots of aftercare, additionally there are references to past physical trauma within a bdsm scene including SA but mention is brief, this will be handled in the full anchor point series later on. mention of injuries sustained from a past rigger / traumatic rope scene.

pairings: rigger!yunho x fem!reader

genre: smut, hurt/comfort, bdsm erotica

word count: 21k please be mindful of the tags on this one, and reference both the resource library and the disclaimer under the cut if you're not sure if you want to proceed.

disclaimer:

this work is a big leap of faith for me, and a foray into a kink and a bdsm practice that is extremely detailed and nuanced. i do not practice shibari personally (though i am looking into it and would like to) but i have done extensive research in an effort to write this honestly and accurately. if you practice shibari or know more about this than i do, and you catch anything written here that is inaccurate, or potentially if any of the ties/suspensions or combinations i've written are unsafe, please let me know. i do not believe in producing work that spreads misinformation about bdsm, and am more than willing to listen, learn, and adjust an existing work to ensure that future readers have a safe and genuine experience reading. further, if this is your first introduction to shibari, bdsm, or pain play i encourage you to go in with an open mind. if any of these dynamics, particularly the dynamics of shibari or dominance and submission interest you personally, please make sure that you do your own research and find your own limits before engaging in any of the acts i've described here. reader and yunho have been in a relationship for six years in this work, they are fully established. i would never recommend jumping into anything this intense with a new partner or without your own full understanding of these dynamics. that said.... this work is super personal to me. i truly hope you enjoy it. please check out the resource library for a glossary of terms, reference images to the ties and suspensions listed in this work, and free resources to watch shibari scenes to get a fuller understanding of these dynamics. thank you for reading. ♡

Your rope room is a sacred space.

His and yours alone.

Most of the time, the door stays closed, shut and sealed off from your regular lives. It’s a world away from your nine to five, it doesn’t factor into your morning coffee or your game nights with friends.

It’s private, it’s ritual.

To you and to Yunho, it’s holy.

It’s been weeks since you’ve used the room properly, months if you’re being honest. Life has been leaning on you heavily lately, in that sweet spot between work, more work, and every little thing going wrong that could go wrong. You’re working late nights, getting up earlier and earlier, kissing him with a perfunctory peck on your way out the door. You haven’t connected in too long. Not with dates, or sex, or intimacy, and certainly not with rope.

The door has been closed. Occasionally he pulls it open to grab supplies for a workshop he’s teaching or a rope jam you’re attending, but lately it’s just been shut and you haven’t had the space or the energy to try and push it open.

Tonight is different though.

The large sliding door that closes off this space is wide open when you get home from work, and you can feel the tension in your shoulders starting to unspool just at the sight of it. You had planned this with Yunho in excruciating detail, just like you always do, but it’s still a surprising comfort to see it as you walk through the front door of your shared loft.

You suppress the urge to call out and let him know you’re home from work, you know that if he’s already in the room that means he’s already preparing, getting his mind and his body ready for tonight, and so you quietly slip through the apartment to do the same.

You discard your stiff outside clothes, freshen up for the night ahead, and slip on your softest silk robe. On quiet feet, you pad over to the open door and look inside, leaning against the outer wall as you watch him.

The lights are low, warmth spilling from the lamps, but your chest warms at the sight of the candles. White, long stemmed, and placed throughout the room, strategically far from your play mat, but adding a flickering glow to the space. The rig hangs in the center of the room, a thick bamboo bar anchored firmly to the ceiling, glowing almost golden in the low light.

Yunho’s back is to you, but you watch as he shakes out a match, a curl of smoke blooming from the end, the sharp smell of sulfur and flame dissipating along with it into the air. He’s dressed comfortably, in loose, breathable fabric. Soft black pants that shift with him as he moves, and a gently fitted black tank top, no sleeves to catch against the ropes as he works, nothing to interrupt his flow or his attention on you.

With a slow breath, in and out like you’re walking into a yoga class or a meditative retreat, you let the day fade behind you and you step inside.

His head turns at the first sound of you, barefoot on the tatami mat, the soft give of the bound straw under your feet as you make your way towards him. You let the smell of jute and beeswax take you, the way it curls around your senses like a soft hand against your spine, guiding you into the center of the space.

Yunho’s eyes flicker down your body, not in hunger or anticipation, but for health. His practiced eyes study your steps, the set of your shoulders, your posture, your expression, the tension you carry into the room.

It relaxes you instantly.

“Come here, baby,” His voice is warm, tender.

It pulls you, like a cord tied to your breastbone, tethering you to him, and you go.

You step past his rope bag and the tools set up on the table. Clean towels, room temperature water in a glass carafe, a new pair of medical trauma shears.

As you step to him, he reaches for your waist with one hand and brings the other to your face, cupping your cheek so gently it makes your chest ache.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,”

A small smile pulls at his lips, “You good to be here tonight?”

You nod, sinking into the touch of his hand unconsciously.

He arches a gentle brow.

“Yes, sir,” You correct yourself.

He studies you a little longer, his thumb brushing a tender line over your cheekbone, and then he dips forwards to press a kiss to your forehead, “Take a breath,” he instructs gently, “let it go.”

You inhale, and with your exhale, you let the weight of your week fall away.

He takes a step back, and this time when he speaks his tone shifts, still gentle, but anchored in something deeper, “Let’s check in.”

As he reaches for the water carafe and pours you a glass, you take your familiar place on the mat, the rig behind you as you kneel into the perfect picture of submission, feet tucked under your backside, hands resting open and up on your thighs.

Yunho kneels before you, a mirror of your body, and passes you the water glass as he begins his ritual.

You take a sip, waiting patiently.

“Any pain today?” He starts off.

“My right hamstring is a bit tight,” You answer honestly, “everything else is okay.”

His hand smooths over your thigh, his fingers skating along the seam of your folded legs, “We’ll keep this leg grounded,” he says, “you tell me if things feel tighter or sharper.”

“Yes, sir,”

His eyes flick to yours, pleased, “Your shoulder?”

You roll it to show him, “Feels good.”

His hand skims up over your arm and rests over the cap of your left shoulder, just for a moment. The gentle pressure of his hand communicates a silent vow, a promise to protect you here, to guard you from pain, from memory.

It’s been a long time since it’s pained you in a scene, and a long time since you’ve found yourself tumbling back into difficult memories of your last rigger and that final, terrible scene with him. ‘Scene’ isn’t even the right word for what it was, but you don’t like to think of it often. It’s just the night that left your arm damaged and numb and clinging to physical therapy while you latched onto your best friend, to Yunho’s sure safety in the aftermath of it all.

No matter how many years it’s been, he still checks your shoulder every time. You think he always will.

“Any changes to your hard limits, today?” He asks as his hands settle on his own thighs, palms down and grounded.

You sip your water, “No,” you say as you shake your head, “but still no gags.”

He’s ready for that, he always is. It’s your firmest limit, the one that you have to echo at the beginning of every scene just to let your body relax the right way. Yunho understands with perfect clarity, as the one who pulled you down from the amateur rig, cut you out of dangerously wrapped rope, and stitched your body and your mind back together over years. He’d never even suggest a gag, and he’s the only man you trust now to hold you like this, but you still have to say it.

He smiles faintly at your own ritual, “Wouldn’t dream of it,”

A thought occurs and you blink, “No inversion today,”

His gaze sharpens, “Of course,” he nods, “tell me,”

“I had a headache a few days ago,” You explain, “it took a little while to shake it, full inversion’s probably not the best right now,”

“Understood,” He says, “if you start to feel it, or if you get dizzy, you call yellow.”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods, “And soft limits? Anything new?”

Warmth curls in you and you nod, “If you want breath, I’d like to try.”

He takes a beat, taking in your words, “Tell me how,”

You steady yourself, “Your hand only,” you tell him softly, “and I want to be able to pull away.”

“Always,” He replies, “anything else?”

“No, sir,”

His eyes soften up considerably for just a moment, “Drink your water, sweetheart.”

You bring the glass back to your lips and take small sips.

“Did you eat today?”

“A light lunch, around three?”

“Good girl,” He reaches for the glass as you finish it, and a flutter bursts in your chest at his warm words.

You rest your hands on your thighs once again, palms up, fingers soft and curled.

“Tell me your colors,” He asks.

“Green, I’m good, continue.”

He nods.

“Yellow, slow down, verbal check-ins, potentially end suspension.”

He nods again.

“Red,” You say, the word still an echoing shape in your mouth even years after that night, “stop, end the scene, cut me out.”

“Good.” He nods.

You hardly need to review limits with him, not after years and years of developing this language and this intimacy with one another, but after the things you experienced before him, after having ‘red’ be ignored by your previous rigger, Yunho maintains verbal clarity with you no matter what.

You love him for it.

“You know your body,” He says gently, “and I’ll be watching like I always do,”

You nod.

“But sharp pain, total numbness, anything you haven’t felt with me before,” He says, “I do not want you pushing yourself through that tonight.”

Your eyes flick over him. You want to clarify, to ask, especially since you had discussed new ties for tonight, specific predicament positions you wanted. Some amount of challenge and newness with that is to be expected, and his words throw you off, but he continues before you even open your mouth.

“It’s been a difficult week, a difficult month,” He corrects, “I’ll hold you through that, and everything we discussed last weekend is still on the table, but we haven’t tied like this in a while. We’re not here to please me, we’re here to process.”

Soft realization blooms in you, “Understood.”

Yunho lets that sink in, and then leans forwards, kissing you gently on the lips once.

When he leans back, you watch as something settles in his chest, his posture, the way his expression smooths into something almost passive.

“Are you asking me to take control?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Willingly?” He asks, as he always does, “Without pressure?”

“Yes, sir.”

The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “Then I accept.”

Liquid heat spreads inside you, from your chest to your belly, creeping into every limb.

Yunho shifts, rising slowly back to his feet, tall and sure above you, and reaches for the first coil of jute. He moves around you slowly, letting himself sink into his dominance, the rope a familiar weight in his hand as he assesses you.

Your body thrums in anticipation, in aching interest, a nervous flutter in your belly like the rapid beat of hummingbird wings.

He settles by your side into a crouch, bare feet on the mat, his knees bracketing your chest and back as he encroaches into your space.

You swallow tightly, but keep your eyes trained on the wall ahead.

“This rope belongs to me,” He murmurs softly, a coarse curl of it brushing over your tricep.

You stay quiet.

“And this body,” His hot hand slides across your chest, fingertips grazing against your collarbone, “this body is mine alone for as long as you give it.”

“Yes,” You breathe, “yes, sir.”

His voice hardens, not unkind, just clear and sure, “Then give it to me.”

Your body melts, head turning to him and dipping low in supplication until your forehead gently connects with his inner thigh.

His hand rests over the back of your neck, warm and tight on your skin.

He hasn’t even wrapped you yet, and you already feel like you're flying.

Yunho shifts back, clearing space, and slowly pushes your head to the mat until you’re settled into a deep bow.

You don’t shift or sway, you don’t try to get more comfortable, not now. Now, you wait, just as you always do.

You wait and you breathe.

The warm scent of the rice straw, the flicker of candle light, the warmth of his gaze as he slides behind you.

Gently, Yunho finds the tie to your robe and tugs it free, guiding the fabric down and off your body until it’s pooled around you like a frame. His fingertips glide along the visible line of your spine, emphasized in this folded position, his hands mapping you with every brush.

You can feel yourself trembling, not in fear, but in anticipation, and he strokes your back once more.

Quietly, he finally speaks, “Sit up, sweet girl.”

You breath hitches, something tight and warm in you at his words, and slowly you raise back up to your kneeling position, back straight and head high. Your skin prickles at the cool air of the room and the weight of his eyes on you.

He sighs once, pleasantly, but when he moves again it’s with complete and total control.

Yunho slides close, the heat of his body behind you its own kind of weight.

You let your eyes unfocus, let the knot in your belly start to unfurl.

“Breathe,” He reminds you gently, and then his hands skim over your arms with intimate care.

“Yes, sir,”

There’s no music, no sound but your mingled breath and skin brushing along skin, but the way he moves with you and the way he handles rope always feels like a dance. A new rhythm every time, new steps, but a song between your bodies that only you two can play.

Yunho’s large hands slide over your forearms until he cups yours in each of his, fingers curling over to press into your palms as he guides your arms up and into position.

You let him take you, lead you, until your arms are lifted and folded– elbows tucked against your ribs, palms facing front, thumbs brushing your shoulders.

Your shoulderblades naturally tuck together, chest lifting and opening.

His hands drift away, but you stay in position, and then finally, you feel it.

He draws the rope over your right shoulder, not to tie, just draping it there. Quietly, he gives you the weight of it, the scratch of the fiber, the intention.

You exhale on instinct.

He says nothing, but you feel his fingertips ghost along the small of your back, and the sharp sensation of rope over skin as he pulls the draped cord quickly back into his own hands, his work hidden behind you.

You swallow tightly, audibly.

He’s skilled at this, the way he builds anticipation with every breath. The gentlest touches of rope to skin, the soft pads of his fingers, changing pace from fast to slow and back to fast, all of it marrying together to make a rhythm you have to submit to. Something that makes you let go and accept the not knowing.

With your arms in this position though, the first coil comes exactly where you know it will, a looped single column tie around your upper left arm just above the bicep. He cinches the knot snugly, checking the seam of the rope against your skin with two fingers, and adjusting the knot into place. His hand settles on your shoulder again, his thumb rolling slowly over the joint.

“Color?” He asks gently.

“Green.”

The rope shifts as he continues to wrap, looping under your right arm and curling back over, and with the guided pressure of the rope as it slides over your skin your arms tuck back, shoulder blades tighter together now.

He checks the cuffs, locking off the first knots with loops of jute, his body warm at your back, silent, and solid.

Your spine is straight, shoulders together, chest open wide to the front of the room. It’s already hard to maintain composure. There’s overwhelming intimacy in this, the way he attends to your body, the way he knows you. It’s not arousal yet, but the anticipation of it leaves your body thrumming.

With a sudden breath against your hair, Yunho leans in against you, and wraps the length of cord over your chest, situated in a familiar arc above your breasts before wrapping back and locking into the cuffs binding your arms into position. He secures knots with sure hands, attaching another length of rope to the center point behind you, and here you feel the scene start to really begin.

The heat of him envelops you as he leans in close, body cocooning yours from behind, his lips against your cheek as he wraps the next cord around your ribs, high, just under your breasts to make a pretty picture of your chest.

His free hand settles high over your abdomen, just under your breastbone, “Breathe for me,”

You inhale, full and deep, holding the air as he feels your body under his wraps, and then exhale.

He locks off the cord that wraps over your ribs behind you, and settles close again, both hands flat on your skin, chest, belly, “Again.”

You do.

He’s watching your ribs, your diaphragm, the way the rope moves with your breath. He looks for how the knots settle, if the cords slip on a hard exhale, if they pull, stretch, or cut into your skin on an inhale.

“Good girl,” He murmurs roughly against your temple, “how are your shoulders?”

He leans away as he asks it, his fingers pressing into your palms and testing your responses carefully, but you reply with ease, “Good, sir.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

He continues the Tengu Harness with sure fingers. A line of cord between your breasts to tighten the top and bottom line of the chest harness, new cuffs wrapped around either wrist, loops from wrist over open palm, a rough line of rope in the soft juncture of your hand between thumb and index finger, all anchored to the knots between your shoulders to hold you open.

Yunho checks your hands again, and then slides his whole body in front of you. His eyes study you, but he looks nothing but pleased at the gentle softness in your expression.

He adds one more coil of rope in a decorative pattern over your upper chest below the hollow of your throat, pretty loops and knots for him to admire as he plays with you, but it adds no extra pressure or tightness to the already snug harness you’re bound in.

He sighs pleasantly as he looks you over, and then he reaches for the next wrapped coil of jute.

You watch him move, but you’re focused entirely on the sensations in your arms, your chest. The tight hug of the ropes around you, the way they press into you pleasantly with every breath, the rough warmth of as it holds you.

“Legs now,” Yunho says, his hands settling on your hips to guide your movements.

You follow the gentle pressure of his hands, sinking out of your kneeling position onto your right hip, letting Yunho guide your legs out from under you’re seated criss-crossed in front of him.

He loops the cord over, under, and around your crossed ankles until they’re loosely bound together, preventing you from straightening or separating your legs.

The position holds you casually open, locked in vulnerability without added tension or pressure on your thighs or knees.

He’s seen you bound and naked a thousand times, but every time you’re in a position like this, spread, exposed, it still stokes something needy and hot inside you like it’s the first time. He hasn’t looked between your thighs once, simply focused on your ankles, but the shape of your body starts to make an offering, and you settle into it.

His fingers skim under your thigh, on the hamstring you mentioned, “Tight like this?”

“Not here,” You assure him.

“Tell me if it cramps,” He gives your thigh a soft squeeze, “don’t wait.”

“I won’t,” You promise.

He checks the tension in your ankle ropes once more, fingertips feeling your pulse to make sure your circulation is where he wants it, and then he ties off and steps back.

The absence of him is sudden, like a rush of cold air, and your eyes snap up to his.

He’s watching you, and for a long, long moment he doesn’t say a word. You feel his gaze travel over your body, not possessive yet, just precise, a rope rigger’s eye measuring balance, pressure, breath. Taking in what he’s done, what he will do.

“You’re beautiful like this,” He murmurs finally, his eyes tracking over the way the ropes frame you, revealing parts of you hidden even to yourself.

His words settle something in your chest.

Yunho hums, a small sound not even really meant for you, and then he kneels in front of you again. His brown eyes are deep, full of reverent tenderness, and his thumb skims up and down the column of your throat as he cups your neck, his touch featherlight and centering.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation take you.

The pad of his thumb presses against your jaw, “Lift your chin, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flutter open, and you’re quick to obey.

“How’s your breath?” He asks.

“Good,” You reply, taking in a strong inhale and letting it go to show him.

He nods, satisfied.

“Now,” he murmurs, his hands coming to cradle your body as he shifts forwards, “relax for me.”

Your muscles loosen, like you’re trained to the commands of his voice.

Slowly, he applies pressure and dips you backwards, holding your weight in his sure hands as he rocks you back and guides you flat to the floor.

You settle carefully into position, a curve in your low back as your hips stay anchored to the mat, legs still crossed with your knees wide, your tucked shoulderblades connecting softly with the tatami mat, head falling back last like you’re going vertebrae by vertebrae to the floor.

Your body is humming, aching tightness where the ropes cross over your skin, but you don’t feel the first flush of heat until Yunho leans away and his eyes finally flick down once to take in the sight of your spread thighs, your cunt exposed and on display for him.

He makes no move to praise you, to call you beautiful, to reach out and touch what’s open and on offer. He merely looks away and reaches for another line of jute, and it makes the tense spool of need inside you start to wind tighter.

“Color?” He asks as he crouches at your side, his fingers pressing down on your breastbone, searching your flesh under the wrapped ropes for his entry point.

“Green, sir.”

“Upline,” He tells you as he threads another loop of rope under the lines of your chest harness, squarely over the place where your ribs meet your sternum.

You let your head fall back, eyes going soft as you watch the sway of the bamboo bar overhead, trusting the sensation of his hands on you as he manipulates the ropes into something firm and safe for suspension.

You don’t need to look to know the way he ties. He’s talked you through this harness before, twists of rope, a secured epsilon, a doubled bight to provide the loop he needs to hoist you.

His hands are steady, quick and experienced, and when he stands to draw the working line over the bamboo bar, your head softly rolls against the mat to watch him. He passes the end of the line, now looped securely over the bar, through the loop left on your chest harness and then with practiced slowness, he pulls.

Your back bends, chest lifting with the guide of the ropes.

A soft sound echoes from your lips, and you watch him check your expression before pulling more, bringing you higher.

Inch by inch, your upper body lifts away from the mat. Shoulders no longer touching, your head lolling back as you let your head hang.

“Breathe,” He reminds you.

You do, and on your second inhale, he pulls the cord again.

The pressure across your ribs increases, the harness tightening its hold around you as it bears your weight, and you feel your shoulders draw back slightly, your chest more open than ever as your upper body is pulled up and away towards the rig.

This isn’t full flight, not yet, but it’s just as intimate, just as open.

Your back arches.

Your spine curves.

Your hips stay grounded and open wide.

The suspension line shifts as he ties things off, securing the lines into a careful lock off that can be easily released if you need to be dropped quickly.

Yunho stands slowly, and circles you, his bare feet soft on the padded floor.

The pose has you curved open, a back bend of subtle elegance that leaves your pelvis tilted, your breasts high, your sex open and bared to his gaze.

“You’re stunning like this,” He says, his voice deep and warm, “held open just for me.”

You sigh, muscles relaxing further into the cradle of the ropes.

“Keep breathing,” He says, and then you feel the next brush.

A rough drag of rope over your exposed belly, and then a loop, loop, loop above your hips.

A waist tie.

Your breath catches as he locks it off, watching your body carefully as your abdomen expands and contracts under the ties.

You steady your breath, he doesn’t need to tell you again.

The long line of the rope wraps and coils over the bamboo bar, giving him another connection point, another axis of control.

This time, when he threads and lifts, the effect is instant. As he draws tension into the waist tie, the curve of your back deepens, your hips tilting more open. The delicious ache of the chest harness feels tighter as you dip deeper into its precious hold.

Yunho adjusts his position, standing directly in front of your splayed knees, and then suddenly he pulls. His movement isn’t fast, but it is more. A new guided direction, a tug of the waist tie towards himself not towards the ceiling that pulls your body deeper into the stretch until your back bends to its limit and your hips angle farther, your cunt lifted in its display.

You whimper, heat bubbling through your limbs, tingles in your skin and something hungrier building in your belly.

“Too much?” He checks.

“No, sir.” You answer, breathless.

“Color?”

“Green.”

He locks off the line of the waist harness to keep you here, “Then rest,” he says softly.

Around you, the room hums. Your mind goes soft.

There’s still no sound, nothing to focus on, but lifted and wrapped like this you’ve never been more aware. The soft creak of the rope and the rig, the sharp sizzle of a candle extinguishing as wax over takes a wick, steady breath, slow breath.

This tie doesn’t hurt, but it does demand something of you.

Predicaments often offer just that, a decision point between one axis of pain and another. Let one body part relax, and another enters strain, a beautiful balance of tension and control all wrapped in ropes. But this is about time, about center and space, to really accept this, you have to breathe into it and stay in awareness. The longer you spend open, the more it starts to burn, pulse, ache, and the more the outside world dissipates.

Bound like this, your body just exists and offers. The ties may keep you locked in place, rooted where he placed you, but it’s your obedience that gives you both everything.

As you hang, the air grazes the soft, bared skin between your legs. You start to feel the ache center there too, a slow pulse between your thighs that asks for an answer, but Yunho hasn’t touched you since the last knot.

All you can do is breathe.

Yunho watches, circling you, studying you. Occasionally he adjusts a line, small calibrations of the knots, a little tighter here, a small shift of your weight there. Every soft tug at the tension line of the waist tie sends a new shiver through your pelvis, not painful, but a reminder of who owns it.

Your eyes close, and the whole world narrows to the feeling of the rope, the stretch of your back, the soft ache in your thighs, and the knowledge that he’s still there even when he’s silent, seeing you and choosing not to touch you yet.

It’s maddening in its perfection

He stands there, arms crossed, the flickering candlelight catching on the long line of his jaw as he watches you with familiar, analytical silence.

You’ve floated for long stretches before, you’ve been tied more tightly, bent even deeper, but something about the stillness now makes your skin feel thin like you’re stripped down to the nerves.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

Your breath shudders.

The ropes hold you steady as he looks, your chest still cradled, but the waist rope is cruel in its elegance. That’s the line that keeps your hips arched high, your pelvis barely on the mat, your body bare and on display.

Finally you feel him crouch next to you again, and you tense in anticipation, your eyes opening.

Yunho’s thumb traces the rope that cuts across your sternum and you twitch at the sensation of his warm hand. You’re trembling, and he knows it.

“Name it,” He instructs softly.

Your breath feels thready at his sudden proximity, but you swallow and follow his words, “Exposed,” you start off, letting the words come naturally, “overwhelmed, wide, held.”

He hums in approval, “That’s what I wanted,” he tells you, “for you to give yourself this way, there’s no hiding with me in this room.”

His fingers trail over your side, over the edge of the waist tie, and you suck in a sharp breath. He presses, not enough to really move you, but enough to remind you that he can if he chooses to.

A whimper escapes you before you can catch it.

“Need to say something, sweetheart?” His fingers fall away from the tie, and his words seem soft, seem caring, but you hear the edge of heat that tells you the scene is about to change.

“N-no, sir.” You manage.

With a soft hand, he brushes two knuckles over the skin of your chest, ghosting towards the curve of your breast. He catalogs your breath, your sensation, fingers travelling over your skin from collarbones to sternum.

When he finally moves his hand lower, skimming lightly over the swell of your breast, he doesn’t apply pressure, doesn’t linger, it’s just a pass of his flesh over yours.

Your nipple tightens at the barest sensation, and he notices. Of course, he notices.

“Oh,” He hums, “is that what you want?”

You suck in a breath, but say nothing.

His thumb passes intentionally over your nipple this time, still soft, but deliberate.

You can’t fight the gasp that leaves you at the sudden spike of heat, your body arching into the ropes.

His eyes sharpen on your chest, “Needy, are we?”

“Yes, sir,” You whisper, voice hoarse.

He raises a brow, but doesn’t look up, “I wasn’t asking you,”

You flush hard, heat pooling in your cheeks, lips parting around a soundless protest, and then Yunho leans in and the warmth of his mouth ghosts over the sharp peak of your breast. He doesn’t kiss it, or lick it, or suck it, or even bite it, he just lets his breath tickle across the skin before he pulls back entirely.

The denial burns.

“So pretty like this,” He muses, still not really talking to you, “every breath, every twitch. I could play with your body for hours and never get tired,”

Your hips shift, just an inch, an involuntary move that leaves him smirking.

“Frustrated?” He murmurs.

“I–,” You take a breath, trying to control your voice, “I want your hands on me,”

“They’re on you,” He says, feigning naivety, his palm brushing over your lifted ribcage.

You whimper.

“What, sweetheart?” He croons, a mask of concern.

“Lower, sir,” You all but beg, “please,”

He traces a single fingertip over your navel, “Oh,” he says, “you mean here?”

“Lower,” You bite your lip.

His fingers skate down until they’re resting just above your mound, so, so close, and then he pulls away entirely.

“Mm,” He sighs, standing and circling around you again, “I don’t think I understand,”

Your body aches, thrumming with awareness and arousal now.

The rope creaks as you struggle to stay still, to stay grounded in the hold of his ropes and to obey. He steps around you slowly, watching you as he tests your submission, letting you unravel under the weight of what he hasn’t given you yet.

You’ve missed this, you’ve missed him.

You ache to be good for him, but your body arches as his fingers tap the waist line, hips tilting and opening more towards nothing.

“Please,” The word pulls from your chest, “please, touch me,”

He crouches by your hip, and without a word he brushes his fingers once between your thighs, just the barest graze over the line of your slit, a whisper light pass of his knuckle against your wet heat. He sighs, “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “is this what has you squirming?”

Despite the hang of your head, you nod, “Y-yes, yes sir,”

His knuckles pass over you once more, and then disappears as he stands again.

“Messy little thing,” He murmurs, “one touch and you’re dripping,”

You whine, helpless and locked open for him, under him.

“Shh, shh,” He shakes his head, “we’re just getting started.”

Your body is strung tight with need. The ache between your legs is no longer gentle or suggestive. It’s present, throbbing and hot, unbearable in the most beautiful way. And still, Yunho moves like he has all the time in the world.

He watches you. Every breath. Every tremble.

Your thighs strain softly against the ankle bind. Your hips shift as far as they’re allowed. Your chest rises and falls, caught in the tension of the Tengu harness.

You suck in a breath, but then he settles next to you, and finally, finally his hands return.

One slides up your leg, the other cups your breast, and he squeezes both with firm pressure.

Your body sings at the contact, a rough moan on your lips.

“Color?” He checks.

“Green,” You gasp, “God, green, sir,”

“Good girl.” He says it with heat, with promise, and then he moves with purpose, one hand parting your folds while the other finds your taut nipple, his body suddenly close and real and everywhere.

Two fingers dip through your slick slit, applying real pressure and real intent. He doesn’t rush it, and he doesn’t yet push inside you, but he explores you with his touch and with the rapt attention of his eyes, spreading you open and mapping you again like he’s relearning the shape of your pleasure under his fingertips.

You moan, soft, wrecked.

He circles your clit lightly. Once, then again, and watches as you fight to stay still, the rope creaking with effort.

“You can move,” he says, “you can buck a little, let me see how much you want it.” Your hips lift, seeking him, guided by the tilt of the waist tie. It only deepens the pressure across your chest and ribs, and you moan at the compounded sensation.

You chase his touch without thinking, trying to rock into him with the little movement you’re allowed.

“Needy, needy,” he teases, “and I haven’t even put anything in you yet.”

“P-please,” Your voice is strained.

He answers you with a finger, dipping one inside slow and deep.

Your thighs twitch, your hands tightening into fists around the coils of rope.

“There she is,” He breathes, curling his finger just enough to brush against that tender spot inside that makes you see stars.

“More,” You strain against the ropes.

“Hush,” He delivers one tight slap to your inner thigh, the stinging heat of it leaving you gasping, “you’ll take what I give you.”

A second finger pushes inside, thick and sure. Yunho knows your body better than anyone, sometimes even better than you know it yourself. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how deep to press, how slow to build. His free hand rests just above your pubic bone, a steady anchor while his fingers work a slow, devastating rhythm inside you.

You’re embarrassingly close, too close.

Yunho smirks as he feels your muscles fluttering and tensing around his fingers, “Already?” He teases, his voice low, “I’ve barely touched you.”

“Please,” Your voice is deep, hoarse, not a trace of vanity in it as you beg properly, “please, sir,”

He huffs a small sound, and then he bends forwards, his lips connecting with your stomach, a lingering kiss just below your navel. He hums pleasantly against your skin, breath warm.

You gasp as he adds another, an open mouthed caress, the hot line of his tongue on your belly.

“A-ah, ah,” You shudder, eyes fluttering.

“Not yet,” He murmurs, “you don’t come until I say,”

You nod as best you can, your hips aching in the ropes.

He keeps the pressure building, a slow pulse of his fingers dragging in and out and crooked just right, his thumb flicking against your clit, but never for long enough, never hard enough.

He keeps you strung tight on the edge of pleasure.

“I need to,” You sob, a breathy sound as you balance on the edge of coming, “please, fuck, please,”

His hand stops moving.

“N-no,” You suck in a sharp breath, “god, please, sir,”

He sits up again, eyes meeting yours with steady calm, “Do you trust me?”

You swallow, throat thick with want, but you nod, “Yes, sir.”

“Then wait.” He says it clearly, crystalline in its command.

You nod, the first tug of tears at the back of your eyes as you bend to him.

He shifts his position, tucked close to your side on the mat. The ties still hold you suspended, back arched and hips tilted, your arms still locked up and open. He slides one leg under the suspended curve of your spine, and you feel the heat of his thigh as he presses upwards, a soft rest from below to hold you steady.

One arm reaches around, his hand cupping the back of your head, and he draws you close to him, holding you tenderly in his wide palm.

“You’re going to come now,” He tells you, matter of fact, “and when you do, it will be because I say so. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” You breathe.

His fingers slide up and down over your swollen, tender clit just once, “I’ll count back from ten,” He says, “you don’t let go until I get to one.”

Your breath hitches.

“Say it,” He instructs.

“I’ll hold it,” You manage, “I won’t come until you say, until one.”

He nods once, and then his fingers return, slick and fast and fucking you with steady confidence. Every stroke pushes you higher, every pulse sends waves of tight pleasure rocking through you.

Yunho’s eyes never leave your face.

You're caught in his gaze, lips parted in silent, painful pleasure.

“Ten,” He says as the rhythm of his fingers deepens, “nine.”

Your breath catches sharply in your throat, a bloom of need inside you.

“Eight,” His voice is low, grounding, “seven.”

You’re shaking, your whole body clenched and ready, “Sir, fuck, please–,”

“Six,” His thumb circles your clit, and your vision goes white with pleasure, “five.”

Tears spill down your temples, your hips jerking into his fingers.

“Four,” He continues, “that’s it, hold it,”

Your hands lock tight over the ropes against your palms, “I can’t, I can’t,”

“Three,” He continues, “yes, you can.”

Your orgasm swells, hot pressure dropping inside you, and you don’t know if you can make it, if you can wait. You’re not sure if he’s letting the space between numbers stretch or if your mind is so dizzy with almost pleasure that time is slowing down, but it doesn’t matter. You’re a breath away, and you’re not at one.

“Two,”

You sob roughly.

His hand holds your head steady, eyes locked on yours, “One.”

“Yunho!” The feeling rips through you, a hot knife slicing from your center up through your chest.

“Yes, now,” He holds you close, tucking your spasming body to his shoulder, “come on baby, let go,”

You come like he summoned it out of you, your body breaking apart in the harness. Your hips shake, thighs twitching, your breath lost completely to the waves.

He holds you steady, cradled against his thigh, his shoulder, his fingers still working you through the tremors to make it last just a little more, just a bit longer.

“Good girl,” He whispers, pride laced in his tone, “that’s my girl,”

Your release stretches long, your body wet and unspooled, and the rope creaks faintly as your weight shifts in its embrace.

Normally, this is where he would slow down. After an orgasm like that, there’s softness, stillness, a grounding ritual to bring you back into your body as the ropes fall away, but something's different tonight. An echo of your words from the weekend flicker through you – I want you to push me.

His hand on your head tightens suddenly, his fingers threading into your hair to lock you in place with sharp, sweet control, and his fingers start to move again.

This time harder, pushing fast and deep into your still fluttering pussy.

Your hips jolt, “Sir!”

You barely manage the word before he cuts it off with a kiss to your forehead, his lips on your skin warm and steady and unmovable.

“Again,” He says in a breath, “you’re not done.”

“I c-can’t, you d-don’t,” You’re a babbling mess, blinking and frantic.

“I know,” He croons, “I know what I usually do, but I’m not finished with you.”

His fingers thrust deep, a relentless pulse, his palm connecting with your clit on each hot push in. The edge builds so fast inside you that it hurts, sharp and aching.

“Fuck, oh god,” You shudder, “sir, sir, it’s too–,”

He cuts your words, “No, it isn’t.”

You choke, pleasure sparking up and down your body in hot bursts.

“You’re going to take it,” He whispers against your forehead, “you’re going to let me break you open, pretty girl.”

You whimper, hips straining for something, anything, but the ropes hold you steady and wide.

“I’ve got you,” He promises with a kiss to your hairline, “you’re mine, you’re safe, let it hurt, let it come.”

Sharp sensation spikes in you, tears coming hot and fast as his fingers work you with precision and purpose.

And then, just like he told you to, you let it come.

Your hands relax, body going soft, mind sinking.

He takes, he gives.

Nothing in the world exists but him, only his rope and his hands and his voice. Only the shape of his want and your body bowed to him.

He feels the way you coil tight, strained and ready.

“Again,” He urges, fingers tugging at your scalp, “give it to me, come. Right now, right now.”

Your orgasm slams into you like a body blow, sharp and vicious. It feels like a release, but it’s harder, tighter and more heady, his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks as your body tries to fold together.

His hands never let go, coaxing every last tremor, every pulse, until you’re gathered into his lap, wrecked and wet and wholly his.

Your body sags in his arms despite the suspension, your back bowed but boneless, and he keeps his hands cradling you, his mouth at your temple.

“You did beautifully, sweetheart,” He murmurs, his lips brushing your sweat-damp skin, “you gave me everything,”

You breathe in, out, and shudder open.

Your body still floats, but now your mind isn’t far behind.

Yunho feels it the second your breathing goes thin, your hands falling open and relaxed while your eyes go hazy.

He moves immediately, still slowly but with direction. His fingers withdraw from your core and he gently wipes them on a clean towel beside him, before bringing one strong arm under your body while the other works the lock off ties.

You feel the ropes loosen incredibly slowly, your upper back eased back to the mat first followed by your waist tie, a slow relaxation of your body to the floor. Your spine eases out of its arched curve, and it takes a moment before you realize you’re breathing harder, not with arousal or pain, but with reentry.

Yunho cups your cheek, drawing your gaze, “Sweetheart,” he says clearly, “eyes on me.”

You blink slowly, your lashes still sticky with tears, and his thumb gently smooths them away.

“There she is,”

You swallow, trying to find words inside you, but none come.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “Color?”

“Green,” You sigh, that you remember, “I’m just… floating,”

“I know,” He murmurs, “you did so well for me,”

Warmth pools again inside you.

On a day with less planned, this might be the end of your scene. You’ve orgasmed, you’ve been lifted, Yunho’s touched you in a dozen sensual ways, but today it’s just beginning. He promised you flight tonight; boneless, weightless, bliss, and all you’ve called is green.

He pulls apart the ties on your ankles with a sharp tug, the coils falling away to the mat, but then he moves.

One hand locks under your thigh and spins your body quickly, a rough transition into a new direction, and then he claps a hand over your chest, fingers curling into the binds of your harness at your sternum, tugging you up off the mat with a single pull.

You gasp, the sudden lift again leaving you swimming, and when you blink away the wave of motion blur you find yourself tugged up and in his arms, straddling his waist where he sits criss-crossed on the floor.

One arm wraps around your back while the hand locked in your harness releases, his fingers suddenly transitioning to a tight pinch on your jaw, positioning your face where he pleases.

You whimper.

“We’re not done,” He tells you, his voice firm, “you’re not done.”

You shudder a breath, caught in the sudden heat of his gaze.

“Sweet girl,” Yunho’s breath is hot against your cheek when he leans in, his voice deep, that rich dominant tone that sinks into his chest in the middle of a scene, the one he only lets out when he lets himself fully take you apart, “are you ready to fly?”

You melt into his touch, “Yes, sir.”

He feels the way your body sinks, relaxes, opens.

“Obedient girl,” You feel the curve of his smile against your cheek, and then his head dips to your neck, nipping a sharp bite that’s sure to leave a red crescent of his desire on the smooth column of your throat.

You shudder.

The hand on your back starts to work the ties that thread through your harness while Yunho kisses the bite, pain and tenderness always distributed in even measures with him. His body curves around you, not to cradle you into any rest, but to envelop and overwhelm you, and all you can do is let him.

Your head drops naturally until it’s resting against his, as if any part of your body is too heavy to hold up on your own, and with all the heat and pressure of his need he moves. You stay tucked tight, pelvis to pelvis, but he quietly checks your arms and hands for responsiveness while his lips start to work hot kisses up your neck.

“I want you open,” He says against your skin, his hands pressing into your waist to drag you tighter against him, “I want you coming apart until you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t exist outside of this room.”

If your arms were unbound, you’d pull him closer, you’d beg, but pinned like this you just shudder, “Please,”

“Please, what, baby?” He bites at your neck again, at the soft flesh that curves towards your shoulder.

“Please, sir,” You suck in a sharp breath at the pain that tingles through your skin.

“Better,” His hand grips your ass, a silent warning, and then with a sharp movement it cracks down into a shocking slap that leaves you twitching.

“Oh,” Your body leans into him instinctually, “please, sir, yes, sir.”

He huffs a laugh against your hair as he straightens up, “That’s supposed to be a punishment,” he teases, “did I not do it hard enough, baby?”

Your brain feels like it’s going fuzzy, and you accidentally let out a non-committal sound.

His hand laces into your hair, tight again, and wrenches you backwards to meet your eyes

The sound that leaves you now is tight, animal.

He studies you, a flick of a smile on his lips, and then he slides you off his lap to the floor, “Stay.”

You’re shaking, body trembling from the orgasms, from the binds, from the way he’s touching you, talking to you. You think by the time he’s done, you’ll be cracked open on this mat, nothing but pleasured wet putty.

Yunho steps back to prepare the rig for full suspension and you watch him work once again. He’s planned this in detail, that much is always clear, and he moves through the motions with a confident set to his shoulders. Securing a large metal ring with wraps to the bamboo bar, he checks that everything’s secure and then checks again, testing it with a firm hand before he ever even thinks about lifting you off the ground.

It only takes a few minutes, but the strange silence of the room without his eyes on you leaves you aching, his lack of attention more punishing than a sharp slap or a firm hand could ever be.

The rig groans as he finishes the tie off.

He sets a loop of spare rope aside, takes a slow inhale and exhale, and then he turns and his hands are on you.

A soft, involuntary sound of surprise puffs through your lips as he grips your body, hauling you up to your feet like you’re just another piece in the scene, another tool to be arranged and prepared. Yunho sets you on your feet beside the rig, and keeps one firm hand on your back until he knows you’re steady on your feet, that your equilibrium hasn’t shattered.

You focus on your breath, on the rooted feeling of your feet to the mat, awareness grounding you.

“Spread,” Yunho says, not a suggestion, a command, and then he sinks to his knees in front of you.

Your breath catches, a spike of need bubbling, but you shift your feet wider apart until he looks satisfied.

“Good,” He praises this time with warmth in his tone, one broad hand cupping your right leg, “this leg stays free,”

You nod.

He touches your left now, “This one’s mine,”

“Yes, sir,” You swallow, holding yourself steady and looking down at him. His skin is flushed, pink across his cheeks, his ears. His dark hair mussed and already a little damp with sweat.

Yunho squeezes your thigh once and then holds your gaze, “Listen closely, baby.”

His voice is low, and you zero in, lips parting softly.

“I don’t want to hear a word out of that pretty mouth unless it’s a color,” He pinches your thigh this time, and you jolt a little at the sensation, “or an answer to a question, and it better end in ‘sir’. Understood?”

You swallow, “Yes, sir.”

He smiles, just a little and still close-lipped, “Color?”

“Green, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest.

Yunho rubs the pad of his thumb over the spot on your thigh he had pinched a moment ago, and then he starts to wrap you again.

Your top half is already encased in the Tengu, one of his favorites for the way it opens your chest, but also for its versatility. This harness can transition well into a full suspension, and so you know already that he’ll keep it.

Your bottom half is another story entirely. He has options at his disposal, all different depending on the way he wants to see you held. When he starts with a loop of rope around your hips though, a diagonal cut across your low belly from right hip to left, you know it’s a gunslinger and you know you’re going up on your side.

Yunho works these ropes quickly, efficiently. A cradle around your hips, loops around your upper thigh, nestled by the tendons of your groin. The ropes get knotted together with efficiency and protective care until you’re wearing the side leaning harness low on your left hip.

Yunho sighs as he checks the ropes against your skin, his fingers deftly checking the meat of your inner thigh where the ropes cross tight but not too tight, making sure nothing’s pinched or pained. He’s always careful to make sure that if you hurt, it’s in the way he designed, not as a byproduct of his lack of care.

As he checks you, his hands warm against your skin, he shifts forwards. You breathe in sharply, but hold silent, your body suddenly aware of how close he is to you from his perched position on his knees.

“Hmm,” He hums, his fingers brushing over your exposed sex, “Look at you, pretty thing.”

Your core clenches.

His thumb brushes over your seam, two fingers then spreading your lower lips, his eyes locked on you.

You’re dripping, you can feel it.

“Mm, and this?” He sighs, and you can feel the ghosting touch of his breath, “Your cute little clit? All swollen and peeking out like that?”

Your teeth clench to fight the sound that wants to bubble up.

He sinks into your wet heat, hands braced on your hips now to keep you steady, as he lets his tongue slide over your swollen bud.

You moan sharply, body trembling, and your head falls back.

He licks a deep stripe from your fluttering hole back up to your clit, pulling you into him for the best angle, and he groans. He passes his tongue over you again, and once more, and then delivers a sharp suck to your clit before he leans back on his heels and looks up at you.

For your dominant, he looks debauched. His face is covered in your slick wetness, his eyes blown wide and hot and hungry.

“I’m feeling a bit greedy tonight,” He admits, and then he uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe off his face.

You bite your lip at the peek of his bare abdomen.

“Nothing to say?” He teases.

“No, sir,” You breathe.

Yunho smiles, and then reaches for his bag on the table to his side. When he turns back, your heart hammers hard in your chest.

In one hand he holds heavy, metal carabiners that clink together as he sets them on the mat. In his other, he holds a gift for you. Or potentially a test, depending on how you look at it.

Quietly, as if he’s not driving you crazy with every little thing he does, Yunho slicks up a pink egg shaped vibrator with a bit of lube, and then turns back to you. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t talk you through it, he just reaches between your legs and finds your entrance with the slick, tapered end of the lush vibrator and pushes.

Your body jerks, naturally, just a little, and he steadies you with a hand to your hip.

He pushes up a bit more, and you feel your body stretch around it, accept it, and then the egg gets sucked inside and nestled right against your g-spot where it belongs.

Yunho smiles, and tucks the pink tail of the vibrator into place, “You’re throbbing, baby. I can see it,” He flicks your clit once with his thumb, “I haven’t even turned it on.”

You sigh, teeth locked and still trembling.

He doesn’t say anything else, but he also doesn’t turn the toy on. You swallow tightly, and watch him work as he prepares the rest.

His fingers work deftly to loop the suspension lines into your harness, he makes quick work of getting the loops and knots of jute tied just right to hold your weight up at the side of your Tengu.

The rope at your chest tugs softly with every breath, and the gunslinger at your hip feels heavy and secure, hugging you with perfect pressure. Your arms are still bound, hands forward and open, chest presented and offering, your legs parted, only one cradled in the pattern of the harness. He’s taking you up on your side, you knew it from the moment he placed the gunslinger, but you’re even more sure given where he ties the knots on your upper harness.

You’re not flying just yet, but you will be.

Yunho is quiet as he keeps preparing, working with precision, every movement deliberate and without urgency. He knows intimately how long you can last in ties like this, but also the importance of rigging you up safely so that you’re cradled at all the right pressure points.

Without words, he presses a warm hand wide over your belly and presses, guiding you two steps backwards until you’re in the right spot under the suspension ring that hangs overhead. His eyes flick over your face, but finding no resistance or discomfort, he continues.

With quick loops, he secures your chest lines to the ring above, checking and double checking the secured coils and lock offs.

The rest happens quickly.

He clips a sturdy metal carabiner through the thick side knot of the gunslinger and threads through an upline. Dropping to his knees again, he selects another long coil of rope and begins your third anchor point, a supporting tie around your upper thigh. His hands are warm and firm, his movements sure and practiced as he loops it into a secure single column around the thick center of your thigh, somewhere it won’t press too hard against the tender nerves that run along your inner thigh or add unnecessary stress to the joints of your knees. The rope bites in, but it’s not cruel, just exacting and direct, and his fingers tap along the skin to check the resistance and how it holds.

“Pain?” He verifies softly.

“No, sir,” You respond with ease, but that’s not exactly true. There is pain, but only the intentional kind, only the ache you’re chasing, nothing like the sharpness or discomfort he’d want to know about.

He nods once.

His thumb strokes over the top line of that wrap, and then he rises, threading the tail of that rope through the ring above you to make another line for his pulley.

You know this lift well, it’s one he’s explained to you before. Three points of lift: your chest harness, the gunslinger at your hip, and the added support at your thigh line. It’s one that’s balanced in its tension, but anchored cleanly in the center where the ring lines up perfectly with your hip, a slow tilt into your side suspension until you’re weightless.

His movements here are slow, controlled to allow you to ease into the motion, and as he pulls that thigh line, your left leg lifts. Your body is carried with the movement until he has enough of the tie through the O-ring above to gather all the uplines into one hand, and you balance on your one foot as your opposite knee raises.

Pausing here, Yunho cups your cheek once, eyes on yours.

You feel yourself soften, the tug of a smile on your closed lips.

That’s all he needs. His fingers brush over your jaw gently, once, and then he steps behind you.

You’ve done variations on these ties a thousand times, but never this exact connection, and something warm and fluttery rocks in your gut as he brushes one hand down your bare back, over the loops of jute.

He takes a moment to gauge everything once more, stepping side to side to review the ties. He’s tall and focused, his bare feet soft on the tatami, his dark shirt clinging faintly to his skin where sweat has built up on his chest and back. Yunho moves like he’s part of the rope, purposeful and practiced. Fluid with every step and shift.

His dominant hand rolls, wrapping the grouped suspension lines over the back of his hand until they’re secured in his fist, and then without warning, he pulls.

It’s slow at first, and his left hand guides your shoulder to the side to encourage your body to lean in the way he wants you. You follow that guidance, your weight all centering over your right leg as your body tilts to the side.

Yunho inhales, and on his next exhale, he pulls again.

Ropes drag over the metal ring, your harnesses and wraps pull tight into a firm cradle, your weight distributing across the ties, body rotating naturally into the tilt.

He breathes again, his feet firm and spread on the mat, core tight and engaged, his left hand finding the ropes now. Inhale, a soft beat of anticipation as you balance everything you are onto the ball of your right foot, and then exhale.

A steady pull, pull, pull.

Ropes creak, the bamboo rig makes a familiar groan, and then, you’re up. Your grounded foot lifts, your body tipping fully to the side, and your breath leaves you all at once. You hang like this for a moment, your body still sinking low into the hip that faces the ground below, and then Yunho moves. He doesn’t like to leave you in a transitional spot for long, mindful of the strain it can have on parts of your body that don’t need it. With another breath, you feel the steady heat of his knee press up into your right hip. He pushes up with his knee at the same time as he pulls down with both hands on the gathered suspension lines.

With easy grace, he gets you perfectly positioned on your side and starts to lock the lines with quick fingers, lacing the three uplines through the O-Ring: a gathered u-lock, a wrapped half hitch, all firm but intentionally ready for quick release.

With the loose tail, he tucks the rope through your thigh wrap, and quickly tightens it with a coil around the upline that leads from gunslinger to suspension point, drawing them tight together so that from the side it appears you’re only suspended from the point at your chest and the point at your hip, the third rope at your thigh nestled and concealed together with the gunslinger, and effectively dragging your bound leg higher and tighter.

When his hands are on the ropes, you find yourself focused on him, on the sensation of movement and vibration through the jute, but when he steps back to review and all you have is weight and rope, then the pressure hits.

The wraps around your chest hug tighter and the lines across your hip pull deep against your pelvis, into the thick meat of your right hip as your weight bears into it. Nothing hurts, but it burns, a delicious kind of ache that only weightless rope can bring, a feeling that grounds you into your body even while you’re flying.

This final suspension is a warm kind of surrender. You’re held on your side, perfectly parallel with the floor, a weightless kind of vasisthasana – as if he lifted you from a side plank into the air and pressed pause. Left knee raised, hip cradled below, spine straight with your chest just a little lower than your bottom half to protect your back and keep pressure off your lower spine. Your neck relaxes, head hanging to the side but still supported in the position, nothing like the heavy helplessness of a full inversion.

You’re cradled.

And Yunho is everywhere; in every wrap, every line, every point of pressure and controlled breath.

He circles you slowly, eyes carefully watching every moment. He checks the lift from each side, stepping behind you, then forward again, quietly crouching low to look at the way they cradle you from beneath.

You can feel yourself trembling already, but let yourself relax into it, sink deeper.

Quietly, he adjusts the tuck of the loose ends of rope, and once he’s satisfied, he steps back to admire his work.

You’re beyond open for him like this, legs spread wide and offering yourself to his pleasure, your chest presented, shoulderblades tucked and immobile, arms still pinned in place. You’re suspended, weightless, held. You let your eyes go soft, your vision relaxing without focus, taking in whatever exists in your field of vision and nowhere else.

Yunho reaches, his fingers gently curling over your ankle, lifting your free leg gently to guide you into a new angle. Your body rotates, a soft spin in the air, his opposite hand cupping your waist to keep you steady in the sway.

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to.

This is his favorite part, and it’s yours too.

The way the room holds you in such tender silence, the lift, the feeling of being nothing except breath and pressure. The way you exist singularly in his hands, for his hands.

On a different day, he might pause here. The quiet click of his camera shutter capturing disparate moments of your pleasure, your pain, the aching release of letting go. Today, he just watches. Breathes.

The ache in your body is already deepening, a warm pulse in your arms, your thighs, in your hip where the gunslinger bites tight and holds so much of your weight, but it’s not pain. Not really. It’s all a reminder, you’re not in control, and what’s more, you don’t need to be.

“There she is,” Yunho hums softly, his hand finally cupping your jaw, “look at me,”

You let your head tilt, finding his gaze.

His eyes are steady, dark with affection, soft with something unspoken.

“You’re flying now,” He says, “let it all go.”

With a breath, your body sinking into the lines, you exhale. You let go.

The ache settles into something steadier, your body swaying in a slow rotation as the rig creaks above you. The only sound in the room is the rope, your breathing. Held, tilted, and bound in the cradle of his binds you feel like for the first time in days, maybe longer, that you’re not responsible for anything, not needed for anything.

You let your eyes close, and you float.

For a little while, Yunho lets you. He stays quiet behind you, only pressing his fingers to your skin when he wants to double check your body for safety, for responsiveness. He’s learned you well though over the years, he knows what to watch with his eyes and what to be tactile about, he knows the exact shade your skin darkens to when your arms are bound right versus going dangerously numb.

So you hang, and time stretches around you until you’ve lost track of it entirely.

He changes the rhythm eventually though, first with his proximity, the heat of his body close, and then with the bare whisper of a touch. His fingertips skating over the arch of your foot, drawing a tender line over your anklebone, up and up, featherlight and exploratory. It’s almost absentminded, but you feel the intention of him all the way up your spine.

A soft exhale blooms from your lips as awareness creeps back in.

His touch rises higher, knuckles brushing across the inside of your tied thigh, the one that hangs suspended high and open, and all of a sudden, there’s heat in this touch, not just affection.

You feel the spark of it deep in your gut.

He says nothing when you twitch.

Another pass, slower this time. His fingertips press into the muscle, dragging down the line of your inner thigh, and there’s a moment, just a bare single breath, when you think he’ll touch higher and brush close to the soaked seam between your legs, but he doesn’t.

Your teeth tighten, mouth closing around a whimper.

His hand lifts, his body circles you again. You feel Yunho move behind your back, and then he’s brushing over your spine, skimming over the loops of rope. He pushes your hair to the side with his palm, revealing the stretched column of your neck, and his thumb strokes here once, the muscles tensing under his touch as you take a tender swallow.

You don’t expect a kiss, but he leans in, just a warm press of his mouth below your ear, and you shudder at the contact. His lips press lower on your neck, and then again on the crest of your shoulder, again at the top of your spine. He’s quiet, he’s careful, but everything feels deliberate now in a way that makes your breath catch.

“Color?” He murmurs softly.

You soften, “Green, sir.”

“Good,” He hums.

He shifts in front of you, fingertips dragging along your exposed stomach as he does. He doesn’t touch you more, not right away, and then his thumbs both brush against your nipples, just once.

Lines of heat spike in your chest and you jolt like you’ve been shocked.

The ropes press tighter at your sudden shift, and you can’t stop the moan that pulls from your lips as you wake up to his touch.

“Feeling everything, jagi?” He smiles, his voice low and warm in his chest.

“Y-yes, sir,” Yours is just a whisper.

His thumbs circle again, just a teasing touch that makes your nipples pebble up with just the slightest attention, and between your splayed thighs, your clit throbs once.

“Sensitive little thing,” He sighs, and you feel your mind go pleasantly soft at his tone, “hanging here all open and aching.”

A tiny sound works its way out of your throat.

His lip pulls, just a gentle smirk, and then you feel it.

The toy inside you wakes up, a low, deep thrum in a steady pulse where it presses into your g-spot. You gasp, your back arching, hips jerking in the sling. You had forgotten it entirely, lost in the sensation of ropes and air, so sunken into the lift that you didn’t even see Yunho finding his phone, connecting to the toy, and pressing start on the low pattern that would drive you into a dizzy ache.

“Oh, baby,” He says, mock sympathy in his tone, “you forgot, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes, yes, sir,” You twitch in the ropes again, “fu–,” you bite down on the curse.

“That’s alright,” He cups the side of your face, finding your eyes, “I’ll remind you what it’s for.”

You suck in a sharp breath, body rocking into the pulse of it.

The vibration inside you is steady, but not aggressive, not yet. It’s just enough to start curling heat low in your belly again, to make your walls clench down around the toy in a desperate ache for more, muscles fluttering from your earlier orgasms.

Yunho doesn’t give you more, not right away. He lets you sway in it, trembling and aching, until the gentle pulse becomes maddening. Never enough, not to push you anywhere except into the pulsing want for more.

You sob when his fingers finally slip between your thighs, letting the warm pad of his middle finger press over the swollen nub of your clit. He barely strokes, he just lets the sensation start to build with gentle pressure, circles that sync with the toy’s throbs inside you.

“God,” He murmurs, almost to himself, “you’re dripping down those pretty thighs. This is what you needed, hmm?”

You nod, breath catching, “Yes, sir,”

“Tied up and teased until your brain turned off,”

You whimper.

His fingers dip a little lower to catch your messy wetness, and then when the rhythm returns to your clit it’s firmer.

“You gonna come just from this?” His fingers increase their pace, “Hanging in my ropes, stuffed full of a vibrator, and your legs wide open?”

You moan, nodding, not sure if he really wants a response or if he’s just getting himself hard at the idea of it, “Y-yes, sir, fuck–,”

“You will,” Yunho says, “you’re going to take it and come just like this.”

Your hips buck, and then his other hand slides up your body. It’s not guiding, not here to soothe you or tease you, his fingers curl gently around your throat to hold.

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes flying wide open.

He doesn’t squeeze, he doesn’t press yet, he just lets the heat and the weight of his palm against the front of your throat feel heavy, fingers wrapped around the sides.

You swallow tight under his palm, your body stiffening at the new sensation.

He stills immediately, his thumb stroking softly once over your pulsepoint, “Alright?” He asks, his voice gentler for just a moment, waiting for you to communicate.

It’s new, but god, it’s good.

“Green,” You nod into his touch, “green, sir.”

His eyes spark with heat, “Good girl.”

His fingers on your clit speed up, firm circles, and he lets his hand stay steady on your throat. The idea of it alone is enough to make your thighs tremble with want.

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs, “I’ve always got you,”

Your head tilts back instinctively, exposing more of your throat, and that seems to break something in him.

Yunho groans, and leans in close, mouth tight to his ear as his fingers work faster, “You want to come like this?” He sighs, “My hand right here? My cock not even inside you?”

“Please, please,” You whimper, tears beading at the corner of your eyes, “yes, please, sir,”

His hand squeezes slightly, a pulse of pressure on either side of your neck that makes your breath stutter and your head pulse, “Not yet,” he says as the stimulation on your clit just stops.

You scream, or you would if his hand wasn’t holding your throat, no air behind the sound as you choke out a whimper, your clit pulsing as you seek more.

“Shh,” He soothes, rubbing a slow circle on your inner thigh, “you can wait, you can take it.”

Tears slip down your temples.

“Be good for me,” He sighs, “can you be so good for me?”

Your body is strung tight, achingly desperate, and the buzz of the toy inside you an insistent pulse that makes your head swim, but you answer him, “Yes, sir,”

He waits two breaths, and then he gives it all back.

“You take so much for me,” He whispers, “you always give me everything,”

You choke on a moan.

His pace picks up, fingers working fast in a messy circle over your clit with just the right pressure. The ropes creak as you jolt in his hands, arching, aching.

“Look at me,” He pulls back.

Your eyes snap open at the command, vision blurry with hot tears.

“Come.”

It hits like lightning, a sudden strike that leaves your body locked and trembling, suspended in midair as the orgasm crashes through you. Your cunt pulses violently around the toy still stuffed deep inside you, your body wrecked and open and unable to do anything but feel.

“Good girl,” He says, voice warm, pleased, “just like that, oh, good fucking girl,”

Your head swims, pops of pleasure and color blooming behind your eyes, every nerve ending alight with your orgasm.

Yunho holds you steady, his fingers still guiding your pleasure with ruthless precision, but when your body turns to reckless shakes, his hand slowly loosens its grip on your throat and he slides it up to cup your cheek and then you feel the toy inside you go still.

“There’s my girl,” He breathes.

You sob again, relief, release, it’s all the same. Your muscles go slack and you sway in the ropes, the heat of tears sliding down your face as the ropes hold you steady and Yunho holds everything else.

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs softly, “I’ve got you.”

You drift. Suspended, spent, breathless and open in the center of him.

Yunho falls quiet again and then his presence surrounds you. His hands are warm on your hip, brushing the sweat at your waist. The vibrator inside you has been still, quiet since he turned it off, but your body still clenches around it, twitching from the echo of what you gave him.

His fingers move to the lines at your thigh, and things start to shift. Decisively he starts to work, pulling open the first of several lock offs that will let him guide you back down to the ground. His body presses close as he works, and you feel the heat of him immediately, the thick line of his cock under his soft pants grazing your leg as he unties.

You twitch at the contact, the promise of it, but he doesn’t apologize, he doesn’t acknowledge it at all.

He steadies you with one broad hand as he uncoils the rope with the other, feeding the lines through and unravelling the support with relaxed precision.

Each tug and slide of the jute through the support ring eases you down a little, gravity returning to your body in precious little increments. The ropes creak, the bamboo bar lets out a whine, and your body dips as you drift downwards.

His grip tightens, and then you feel the slide, a slow and controlled descent until your right foot kisses the floor, just the ball first, then toes, then heel as you find your footing. You’re not grounded yet, not while the rest of your body is still strung up in his devotion, but it’s the first touch of anything and you exhale heavily into the sensation change.

More ropes slacken, the support line at your thigh coming first, and your leg releases with a hiss of the rope over metal. His hands follow the line down your leg, pressure along your inner thigh and then release, a check and a tease all at once as your other foot hits the mat.

Your rock unsteady on your feet, and Yunho tucks you smoothly into his side, unwrapping the gunslinger with nimble fingers before sliding you down and down, back to your knees on the rice paper mat.

You let out a puff of air, soft and unfocused.

He guides a hand over your hair, cupping your head for a moment, before he slides behind you on his own knees, his chest brushing your back as he reaches around you to work the knots of your chest harness upline. You feel the brush of his body, and then, as he leans forward, the brush of his hard length once again.

Your breath catches, and he leans into you for just a moment longer.

With gentle hands, he makes short work of unknotting the jute that kept you so cradled, your body shuddering and expanding with every line that falls away. Your skin prickles with gooseflesh as sensation pours back into your limbs and you shiver in his arms.

You’re still upright on your knees, but barely, your body melting and your spine bowed with the effort of supporting yourself. His fingers unwrap the crosspoint at the back of the Tengu harness, loosening the coils and unwrapping your arms with quick slides of rough rope over your flesh.

Every touch is grounding but somehow, with the heat radiating off him, equally claiming.

As your arms start to fall, he catches them, presses his thumbs to the center of your palms. Instinctually you grip back, squeezing him with as much as you can muster, a silent answer to his question about how your body is coping.

With that confirmation, Yunho lets your arms fall to your sides and he shifts again, this time on his knees in front of you. Your vision feels like it’s hazy, liquid and warm as you watch him.

In the middle of a slow blink, his hand wraps around a line still looped to the center of your chest and with a sharp pull he tugs.

You gasp sharply, falling forwards as his opposite hand catches your chin and drags your eyes up to him.

The heat in his eyes now is unmistakable. His want is thick in the air, and he holds your gaze.

Your body melts in submission.

With another tug, he guides you right down, forwards to the mat, and you go easily.

Your knees widen naturally for balance, sinking into a child’s pose with your arms slack at your sides, and you stay there, instinct guiding you on how to fold into his desires.

Your body doesn’t try to rise, your mind doesn’t flick through shoulds and shouldn’ts, you’ve sunken into that delicious place where Yunho thinks for you and you just exist.

His hand slides up the back of your neck, palm dragging roughly as his fingers sink into the loose waves of your hair. Gripping roughly, then releasing, he uses the pressure of his palm alone to push your head to the side, smoothing back your hair so he can watch your hazy expression.

His fingers go back to work on your harness, loosening knots until they’re yawning off you.

His hands search you, seek more of you, a soft brush on your ribs and a heavy drag against your skin. Fingers in your hair, soft, then rough, manipulating your body to his pleasure.

Then release, absence, distance.

And all at once a return to sensation, a soft brush of his hand against your head, smoothing your hair like water over a bowing sculpture. Then tight again, and tighter.

He drifts between both, tender softness and rough control, until the ropes are released and pulled away, and his body is nestled behind you, his hips pressed flush against your ass.

He’s still hard, still throbbing.

Yunho releases a tight exhale, just a puff of air through his nose, but that’s all, until he slides one hot palm all the way down your back from lumbar to cervical spine. He grips the back of your neck with that hand while the other slides under your folded body to cup your ribs, and then again he lifts you.

You lean back up, guided into the warmth of his chest behind you, the last of the ropes that were looped and tucked under you still sticking to your tender, slick skin.

His arms wrap around you, his thumb hooking under the last loop, the longest one that started the wraps, and he pulls, drawing it up and away from your body, jute running rough against your skin slowly with every second of his intention.

He watches how your body responds, breath catching, thighs still clenching, naturally sinking into the guidance of his touch.

Finally, he lets the rope fall away.

In his arms, you’re completely bare again.

His lips nuzzle the side of your head, breath still warm, and his voice cuts low through the quiet, “Color?”

You shudder, sinking into his chest, “Green.”.

He nods once, head heavy against yours, and then he wraps his arms tight around you before sliding across the floor. You cling to him, but this time when he lets you go and you fall backwards it’s against the soft cushion of the plush white futon that he rolled out for you both, just for this.

“Open up for me,” Yunho says, tilting your pelvis as he sets you down, “let me see,”

You keep your knees splayed wide open when he shifts back, looking down at you. Your mind is hazy, warm and delicious, but even in that you know what he’s seeing. Your body is soft, loose, slick and wet between your thighs, and covered in criss crossed indentations from the ropes.

He wets his lips with his tongue, his breath a little ragged in his chest.

He’s been holding himself back, for hours, days as he planned this, and now it’s his turn for pleasure. Your body aches in response, and if it’s possible to get wetter, you do.

Yunho tugs his shirt off, tossing it beside your discarded robe, and pushes down his soft pants. His cock is already rock hard, leaking at the tip and dark with need.

He strokes himself once, and then reaches between your legs to find the tail of the toy and gently remove it.

You shiver as it comes out, and moan as his fingers sink in, testing your slickness, your ache.

“Pretty girl,” He says, shifting between your open legs.

You sigh, mind soft, mistaking his tone for praise and not an attempt to get your attention.

A sharp tap on your cheek brings you back to center fast, Yunho’s fingers firm on your jaw, “You with me, babygirl?”

Your core clenches, “Y-yes, sir,”

“Still green?” He asks, careful whenever he sees your mind going gooey like this.

“Very green,” You breathe.

“Mm,” The hot head of his cock notches on your entrance.

You moan sharply.

“Yeah?” Yunho looks at you with mock sympathy, “you need it?”

“Yes, yes, sir.” You nod.

He smirks, just the pull of one side of his mouth as he appraises your need, “Beg for it.”

And like a trained pet, you do: “Please,” Your voice is husky, desperate, even you can hear that through the fog, “please, sir, fuck me. Put your cock in me, plea–,”

Yunho snaps his hips forwards in one brutal thrust, driving the thick, long length of him as deep as he can get it until your hips are pressed flush together.

The sensation of him spearing you open is like hot fire, and you wrench back into an arched cry, fingers scrambling to find something to hold. Your nails dig into his thigh, the rough texture of the futon below you.

“Fuck,” Tears are bubbling to your eyes already as you shudder, “fuck, sir, thank you, sir.”

He groans at that, a curse you barely make out on his lips, and then he drops his weight over you. Yunho crowds you in missionary with your pelvis tilted up, legs hitching around his hips and your back flat to the cushion under you. He wraps you up in his arms, one hand cradling your head while the other caresses your cheek, your jaw.

“Oh, baby,” He sinks his head down, forehead pressed to yours, “babygirl,”

You let your hands settle on his shoulders, and you drag in a ragged, needy breath.

He nuzzles you softly, just once, nose to nose. Your mind feels like liquid heat, like you’re floating in a hot spring just you and him.

But the tenderness goes just as quickly as it comes, and Yunho pulls back to find your eyes, “Sweetheart,” he says, “what’s the rule?”

“W-what?” You manage it.

He lets that little transgression slide, amused at your hazy, fucked out expression, “When I’m inside you,” he says, enunciating clearly so you have no chace of misunderstanding, “what’s the rule?”

“Oh,” The word leaves you in a puff of air, eyes widening.

He really is pushing you tonight. Your mind can’t consciously understand that here, in this moment, but something inside you is opening, deepening, with every moment he leans harder into the dynamics you’ve built over the past six years, every confessed fantasy, every need.

Yunho rocks his hips once, just a deep grind to remind you how far inside you he is.

A strained whine bubbles up, your mouth slack in a silent something.

“When I’m inside you,” He says again, his voice low, “when I’m fucking you, when I’m filling you, what is the rule?”

The word snaps to the front of your mind, “Daddy,”

“There you go,” He nods, thumb hot over your jawline, “I knew you could get there, baby.”

You can’t stop the way your cunt clenches tight around him.

He lets out a hot exhale from his nose, smiling as he glances down at your tangled bodies, “You’re so easy like this, aren’t you?”

You nod, fingers tight on his broad shoulders.

“Arent you?”

“Yes, Daddy,” You rush to correct.

Yunho’s eyes darken, his teeth catching his lip once as he looks down at you, and then his hips twitch, his cock pushing impossibly deeper with his subtle grind forwards. The weight of it, his body above you, cock thick and hard inside you, makes you tremble.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he draws back, just enough to make you feel it, the stretch, the friction, and when he thrusts forward in one perfect, brutal stroke you lose your breath.

You cry out, unguarded, desperate as your head lolls back on the cushion below you.

His hand brushes your jaw, and then his fingers apply steady pressure to guide your head back, “Eyes on me,” he says.

You follow his guide, blinking hazy eyes open to meet his gaze.

“That’s better,” He murmurs low, the intensity in his expression leaving your body taut and aching. Yunho lets his hips roll, slow and deliberate until your legs are twitching around his hips, “You feel that, baby?”

A whimper claws its way up your throat.

He adjusts, tilting your pelvis deeper with one hand locked on your ass, and then his other trails down the side of your body. It dips over your breast, your ribs, and then settles on the soft plane of your belly. He holds himself up, hovering over you as he touches you there, pressing his palm low.

“That’s where I am,” He murmurs, his voice low and certain, “deep inside this perfect little pussy.”

Your breath seizes, and you nod, your muscles tightening in anticipation.

Yunho thrusts, finding a slow dragging rhythm in and out that leaves you whining, but his hand stays steady over that spot.

You’re shaking, pleasure blooming deep, sparking through your body from chest to toes.

“This is mine, right?” His thumb presses into your skin, just above your tender mound.

“Yes,” You jolt with a moan, “yes, Daddy,”

A raw sound escapes him, his pace faltering for a beat, his eyes blown wide at your words, your tone, but he recovers and pushes himself harder, his thrusts firmer, needier.

“You always let me in,” He says in a pant, “you let me fuck you like this,”

All you can do is nod, heart racing, pulse skipping.

“Always let me make you mine,” He groans.

You shudder as his cock connects again and again with that tender, soft spot inside you.

His fingers tighten where he holds you, his eyes locked on yours, “You want me to fuck it in, don’t you?”

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand flying to his shoulder and the other braced against the mattress.

He exhales, hot, heavy, “Want me to fill that pretty belly, babygirl?”

“Fuck–,” Your words get strangled in a keening cry, your head swimming, thoughts sparking.

This need between you both is new. Calling him Daddy, the dirty talk, the filthy confessions about how much he wants to see you full of him, possessed by him, heavy with what he made. It’s not real yet, you’re not sure if it will ever be real, but here in this room, in play, none of that matters. Here, with his cock inside you and your mind soft and pliant, all you can think about is how much you need it.

He groans something else you don’t catch, and then your hand is sliding from its locked place on the mattress to the swollen bud between your legs.

He pants, lips pulled in a smile as he watches you, “Fuck,” he shakes his head, “you want it that badly?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Your fingers find the right pace, working your clit fast and frantic.

“That’s my good girl,” He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, kissing you fast, “touch yourself, come for me while I fuck you full,”

All at once the room feels like it narrows to the sound of his voice, the slap of skin as his hips connect to yours, the heat of his body radiating down. All there is, is him, only him.

You tumble into your orgasm, unexpected and sudden before you can brace for it.

It pulses through you, pleasure rolling as your body locks down, your hand tight on his shoulder as your legs spasm. Yunho fucks you through it like this is what he’s been waiting for, his breath warm on your cheek.

“There she is,” His forehead leans heavily against yours, his hand returning to your belly, “that’s my good fucking girl.”

Your eyes flutter, vision white-hot, the way you respond whenever he touches you like that is a mystery even to yourself but your body craves it, bends to it, and you sink into the feeling.

He exhales hard against your skin, and you realize through your hazy, fucked out brain that he’s trembling.

You blink hard, tears caught in your lashes, and look up at him. Your dominant, your partner, your man. He’s still braced above you, his skin slick and damp with a sheen of sweat. His chest heaves, dark red blush spreading over his chest and up his neck, and his cock is still buried deep and twitching with need. His hand brushes over your belly again, and he sighs.

“God,” His voice is tight, his forehead still pressed to yours, “you feel that, babygirl?”

You whimper softly, nodding against him.

His body rolls slowly, like he can’t stop moving, and the pace starts again as he curses under his breath, “You’re still so fucking tight,”

You moan, pleasure still hot and fluttering at your center.

“Your body doesn’t want to let me go, baby,” He kisses you hard, groaning against your lips before he lifts his head, just far enough to see you properly.

You can’t speak, all you can do is cling to him, your hands both braced on his upper arms.

“Do you know what you do to me?” He asks, his breath ragged, “every time you say that word, every time you let me in this deep,”

His next thrust is deeper, pointed, and knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I can’t fucking think,”

Your head drops back against the cushion, mouth falling open, nodding.

“I can’t,” He mutters it, like he’s the desperate one now, and he sinks down to kiss your skin. Lips tender on your cheekbone, your jaw. He nuzzles your head to the side so he can work his mouth down your neck, his thrusts still coming in steady pulses, his cock thick inside you and grounding you with every stroke.

“You’re mine,” Yunho says against your collarbone, “my girl, my good girl,”

Your brain is soft, and you nod, weak and floaty.

He rocks his hips deeper, his hand tipping your thigh to open your legs wider, angling you for the next stroke.

His cockhead connects sharply with something deep and primal inside you, and you moan sharply, your entire body jerking in response, “D-Daddy, Daddy,” your voice is slurred, pleasured, syrupy sweet to his ears.

“Oh, there,” He breathes, pleased at finding that place inside you, “yeah, right there,”

You whimper, but he stays, grinding over that spot again and again, his rhythm tight and focused now, like he’s working you open from the inside out.

Your body gives in easily, if there was any thread of resistance in you, any whisper of your own thoughts, this feeling drives it all out and you soften for him that last little bit, sensitive, slick, his.

“There,” You babble, hand drifting to your belly, settled over where he moves inside you.

Yunho moans, head dipping to watch where your bodies meet, where your hand rests, the angle, the stretch, the flushed swell of it all and the way you cup your own body with a silent plea for more.

“Yes, baby, there,” He murmurs, awe and affection laced in his voice, “right there,”

You sob, taking every inch. Your body too weightless and pleasured to move, but your nails dig into his shoulder as heat spikes though you again.

“Oh, shit,” He stutters, “fuck, baby,”

You whimper as his hand presses over yours.

“Needy girl,” He says, voice hoarse, “is that it? You’re desperate for Daddy to come in this perfect little body? Leave you full?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” The world sharpens again, your eyes snapping to him as he pumps into you.

In a quick rush he adjusts your bodies, your words leaving him groaning and needing something more. He wraps an arm under your lower back to hug you to his chest so that when he slides up the mattress you’re safe in his hold, and then he maneuvers you.

Legs spread impossibly wide and open, a deep mating press, and he gathers your hands in one of his, pinning them above your head firmly, wrists tight together in one of his large hands.

Yunho runs his other hand through his mess of damp black hair and then sinks back into you properly.

You cry out, twitching in his hold.

His eyes rake over you, the fantasy swimming between you, “You’ll be so fucking pretty for me, won’t you baby?”

You nod, mouth falling open.

“Right here,” He drags his knuckle down your stomach, a steady press of pressure that leaves your cunt fluttering, “tight and swollen for me,”

You gasp.

“Everyone will know,” He teases you, “everyone will know that you let me fuck you raw like this,”

“Ah, ah, fuck–,” You pant, and he’s not even moving, but some kind of tingling pleasure tugs inside you.

His eyes flick up to yours, and then again he descends, his mouth hot on your skin and his hips moving again, relentless thrusts this time. Your voice catches, something between a moan and a scream, but he kisses it away, like he’s desperate for your mouth, for your breath.

“Everyone will see you owned by me,” He pants, “won’t they, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy, fuck,” Your hands tighten in his hold.

“Do you think they’ll know you cried for it?” He shudders, overwhelming you with his touch, “That you took my cock and called me ‘Daddy’? That you begged me again and again to fuck you full of my baby?”

Your mind spins, eyes locking shut tight as you arch into his touch, “Please, please, god, please,”

His breath stutters, and you can feel him getting close. His rhythm gets sharper, his heart pounding in his chest, and his voice goes soft and wild all at once as he chases his pleasure.

“Gonna give it to you,” He groans, lips dragging against your ear, “fill you up, pump you so fucking full of me,”

Another orgasm rises in you, a sudden tightening and pressure low in you where he pulses his cock in and out again and again, and you whimper, head tucked into his shoulder as you hold onto him through the building waves.

“Tell me you want it,” He shudders, his hands tight on you, holding you impossibly close as he works you both up to the edge.

“Need it,” You choke against his slick skin, “want you to come, Daddy, please, want you to get me pregnant, please,”

He moans, “Again, say it again,”

Your mind goes soft, “Get me pregnant,” you beg, “make me a mommy, please, please,”

He lets out a rough, choked sound, his body jerking, and then he thrusts deep one last time.

You could swear the world tilts, everything going fuzzy and white and hot, and then you feel him pulse in you, a groan against your ear as he empties himself deep, his cock pumping rope after rope of his release against your fluttering womb.

It’s a flood of warmth, and he keeps you locked tight to the hilt with his hand on your hip, like if he moves an inch he’d risk losing a single drop.

“Fucking god,” He buries his face in your neck, a broken moan, “that’s it, baby, take me just like that,”

You tremble in his arms, the promise of your own orgasm strung tight and waiting on tender hooks as he lets go.

“My girl,” He sighs heavy, kisses travelling over your skin, wherever his lips land, “my fucking girl, god,”

You’re still shaking, body coiled tight and still right there, right at the edge of tipping into pleasure one last time. Stretched out under him, filled, locked in his hold with your hands pinned above you and his body still pressed in the cradle of your hips.

You feel every full, heavy breath he takes. Every twitch of his cock still hard inside you.

Your eyes are full of unshed tears, your walls pulsing with need around him, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

His hand releases your wrists, and he gathers you close in his arms, cradling you against him, under him, one hand at the back of your head to hold you in his wide palm.

His hips move slowly, just a rolling rock, subtle movement that is just enough to drag the thick, slick head of him against the soft, needy spot inside you that wants more. He shudders, sucks in a sharp breath like it hurts, an overstimulated groan on his lips as he sinks into you, but he doesn’t stop.

“G-god,” Your hands fly to his shoulders, bracing yourself here.

“I know,” He pants, “I’ve got you, baby.”

Another roll, still not thrusting, just smooth, deep presses as he works that spot again.

Your orgasm builds again, cresting with a vibrating heat that floods from your deep core up through your chest and you moan.

“So full of me,” He sighs against your lips, kissing you slow, “you’re gonna come again.”

You sob, gripping him, letting it take you.

“You were so good for me,” He says like a confession, “took everything, gave me everything, my good fucking girl,”

The praise lights up your brain, every nerve ending, just as his cock grinds just right against the place that’s been begging all along and you break under him. Pleasure washes over you in a hot wave. His words, the mess inside you, the way he’s giving you everything with just the smallest, most tender rocks of his hips.

His lips are hot against your ear, and your world cracks open when he says, “So pretty and pregnant for me, aren’t you?”

You cry out, the sound raw and caught in a half sob, your entire body locking down around him, “Yunho!” You don’t mean to say his name, but it pulls out of you in a moment of wrecked dizziness, and you cling to him.

“Oh, fuck,” He groans, sensitive and overstimulated, but he keeps moving just to make sure you’re carried through it, just to make sure you get every last drop of his release.

Your mind whites out, hazy, everything just a blank except the feeling of him deep in you, his body above you. You hear the blood rushing in your ears, your heart stuttering in your chest.

You don’t know how long you’re floating before you realize he’s still talking, soothing you with kisses and tender words like he can’t stop. His lips are reverent on your cheeks, your jaw, lips. He presses one to your forehead and sighs, “Breathe, just breathe.”

Your breath hitches with something, a catch of emotion, sudden like a snap release.

He’s stills, just letting himself stay heavy inside, and it’s voice that brings you back, “Shh, shh, baby, it’s okay, I’m right here, I’ve got you,”

You blink your eyes back open, finding Yunho above you. His brow is pinched tight with something like concern, but his expression is tender, and he smooths tears away from your cheeks with his thumbs.

Your body feels loose, relieved, sore in all the right ways.

You sob, clinging to him, “I–,” words catch, “I’m,”

“Easy,” He brushes damp hair back from your forehead and kisses you gently, “sweetheart, go easy, look at me,”

Your eyes find his.

“You’re safe.” He says that first, clear and calm, “You’re home, with me in our place.”

You manage a nod, a shuddering breath leaving you.

“The scene is over,” He cups your cheek, “right here, it’s done. You’re safe, you’re in my arms. Do you feel them?”

His words ground you down into your body and you swallow, feeling the warmth of his embrace. You nod.

“Good,” He murmurs, “doing so good,”

Your chest swells with warmth.

“Say it back, sweetheart,” He brushes away more tears, “tell me where you are.”

You take a steadying breath, and bit by bit the world starts to settle in around you again. Your voice is hoarse, but yours, “Home,” you breathe, “with you.”

He nods.

You exhale heavily, sinking into his touch, “Safe with you,”

His eyes shine, “Yes,” he nods again, “yes, you are.”

More tears snake down your temples and into your hairline, but neither of you are scared of them. It’s release, relief, the kind of tears that spring up after something that intimate and intense, and he knows to just hold you through it.

Warmth settles in your chest and you sigh, “Love you,”

He smiles, dipping to kiss your lips again, “I love you too,” he murmurs, “so much.”

You melt.

His lips press to yours again, just soft and present, and you can feel the way he loves you with every way his touch softens, every brush of his lips.

Everything is warm.

You blink slowly, your lashes still wet, and Yunho’s fingers gently trail through your hair, clearing damp strands away from your cheeks and temples, tucking them behind your ear. He doesn’t ask for anything else yet, just a soft touch that reminds you it’s him, that you’re still safe.

You stay pressed to his chest, your legs tangled together, and slowly the room starts to reform in the corners of your awareness. Your tears quell, and you shift your cheek, just a little nuzzle into the hollow below his collarbone.

A little sound leaves your lips, and it makes him look down, “Still with me?” He murmurs.

“Mhm,” You nod slowly, your fingers curling against his warm skin.

He smiles, warm, a kiss to your forehead, “Can I pull out, sweetheart?”

“Mhm,”

Slowly, he slides back and uncouples your bodies, and you suck in a tender breath at the sensation. He brushes his thumbs over your waist and settles your legs down into a more natural position, “Let’s do a few checks, baby. You don’t have to move, alright?”

You nod.

It takes effort to stay still, not because you’re resisting anything, but from how completely soft your body feels. Every part of you wants to fall slack and open, and you try to come back into yourself so you can feel, so you can have some awareness of yourself as he works.

His hands move in silence as he stays seated on his knees over you.

Starting with your leg, the one that was bound and raised, his thumb drags over the joint and presses behind, then down the arch of your foot, a smooth touch of his palm and fingers working across the curve. When you twitch, a tickle of sensation, he smiles.

He checks the rest of your leg with careful fingers, reviewing the line around your thigh, inspecting the skin for rope burns, his fingers skimming in the indentations. Your hips shift towards him at the touch, your body seeking his warmth naturally.

He kisses your hip without a word.

His hands slide again, over your arms this time, lifting them one by one and giving each his full attention as he twists you through gentle motion, rolling your wrist and then massaging each joint, each muscle.

Yunho’s touch is firm, patient, and loving.

A slow exhale leaves you, and then another, and another.

Without a conscious thought, your breath finds its way back into a natural rhythm, the room coming into sharper focus, your head no longer completely under water.

“Doing okay?” He murmurs gently, resting your hands back down at your sides.

When you nod this time, it’s a little steadier, “Yeah,”

Leaning in, he kisses your shoulder, the one he’s always careful of, and then he nods, “Alright,” he breathes, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

You reach for him, hands sliding over his broad, bare shoulders.

Strong arms curl under your body, and he lifts you back up, keeping you tucked against his chest as he carries you out of the rope room and into your master bathroom, cool air passing gently over your warm skin.

Your shower is well equipped for this, a bamboo bench installed along one of the natural stone walls, and he rests you there and before getting the warm water started. Steam starts to build, the glass doors fogging, and he leaves the lights low and warm as he slips into the spray.

Kneeling in front of you, he keeps his eyes on your expression, quiet and watchful. He tests the warmth of the water on the back of his hand, making sure it’s not too hot, and then with the handheld showerhead he washes you, guides the water along your skin, letting you breathe into the sensation, the heat.

He moves through the ritual quietly, washing your hair first, lathering it up with softly scented shampoo. You stay resting on the bench, your body coming back to yourself minute by minute as he cares for you.

“Lean back, love,” He murmurs, and you follow his guiding hand.

He supports your body gently as he rinses your hair clean, suds slipping over your wet skin and down the drain. He repeats the process with your conditioner, a kiss to the crown of your head as he finishes this first step.

“With me?” He asks softly as he lathers a washcloth with soap, his hand passing over every inch of your body with slow, steady strokes.

“Here,” You murmur quietly.

You watch his hands move over your body, careful of the rope marks that are still visible in places, gently caressing one with his thumb as he washes you clean.

Your shoulders roll back gently as you adjust, feeling coming back into your legs properly, and you look up at him. With a lazy smile, you sigh, “Hey,”

“Hey,” He leans in and kisses your forehead, water sluicing down his jaw and onto your cheek.

“You did so beautifully,” He murmurs against your skin.

Emotion catches in your throat, something warm and full curling in your chest, “I missed you,” you confess quietly.

Leaning back he brushes your cheek, “I’m here,”

He finishes washing you off quietly, and moves through the quick work of his own shower. You watch him with soft eyes, body leaning into the cool rocks behind you.

After a minute, he clicks off the water and wraps a towel around his own waist before bringing one in for you, freshly washed and soft, “Let’s get you dressed, okay?”

“Mhm,” You murmur as he wraps the towel around you and guides you to your feet.

Nothing’s rushed here, he takes it at your pace, easing you into the bathroom and drying you off with soft hands. When he slips the soft cotton robe over your body, it’s gently heated, fresh from the towel warmer and you sigh at the sensation.

Sliding your arms through the sleeves, you look up at him as he pulls the front closed and knots the sash loosely at your waist.

“How’s that?” He murmurs.

“Good,”

“Alright,” He kisses your forehead again, gentle, guiding you back towards the stool at your vanity, “Sit for me,”

You sink onto it, finding your own eyes in the reflection, and his body behind you.

You look flushed, healthy, your skin plump, eyes still a little hazy as you drift down from subspace. With quiet reverence, he picks up your hairbrush and starts to untangle the knots in your hair, beginning at the ends and working his way patiently upwards.

His face in the reflection is calm, still focused as he moves through his ritual of care, but fully relaxed. Any tension in his brow is gone, and there’s a softness to his brown eyes, and the gentle curve of his lip.

As he finishes, you reach up and touch his wrist, “Thank you,”

He meets your eyes in the mirror before bending down to kiss your shoulder, “Stay right here for me,”

You nod, and you wait.

He steps out of the room for only a few moments, always prepared, and returns with a cool glass of water. He presses it into your hands, but lets his fingertips linger on the bottom of the glass to steady it as you bring it up to your lips. You sip slowly, and he waits until you’ve had half before accepting the glass back, and helping you to your feet again.

He walks you out into the living room, lights dim here too, and tucks you into your favorite corner of the couch. He wraps the robe around your bare legs, adds a soft blanket over your lap, and brushes his hand over your damp hair ever so gently, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Your body starts to hum again in that quiet, grounded way that it always does after he’s held you through something deep, after he’s taken you flying.

Yunho moves through the kitchen quietly, and you listen as he works. The flick of the stove, the kiss of the fridge door, a knife on the cutting board and the familiar hiss of garlic as it connects to hot sesame oil in a shallow pot. Low music starts to flow through the space, punctuated by the chirping sound of your rice cooker announcing it’s hit another hour on the warming setting.

You turn and watch him work, and when he looks up and sees your eyes already on him, he smiles.

You smile back.

He cooks you something simple, a shallow bowl of dak juk, the rice porridge warm and comforting, and the gentle aromatics of the garlic chicken feel like home. He’s added some gimjaban, a soy egg for flavor and protein, and a healthy sprinkle of spring onion.

He sets the bowls onto a large tray, and then settles next to you on the sofa.

You tuck your legs under you properly, shifting to give him room for the food, and look up when he sets a warm hand over thigh.

“Try this first,” He murmurs, passing you the juk and a long silver spoon.

You sink into the meal, the first bite perfectly warm and salty, just what your stomach had been too soft to remember it needed. You hum pleasantly into the bite, body unspooling that last little bit.

“Yeah?” He brightens a little, “That good?”

“So good,” You nod, taking another bite, “you’re getting good at these eggs,”

He watches you for another moment, and then picks up his own bowl.

You eat quietly for a few minutes, comfortably, each of you relaxing into your own bodies again, eyes meeting every few bites.

When you reach for your water glass yourself, eyes a little clearer, he speaks up.

“How are you, sweetheart?” He asks gently.

You pause, asking yourself that question before you answer reflexively. Your spoon settles back into the warm bowl of porridge, and you nod. You’re back in your body now, mostly, but your mind still feels deliciously relaxed, and you catalog the warmth of him beside you, the heat of the food, the gentle but persistent ache in your thighs.

“I’m–,” You start and then trail off, searching for the right words.

He doesn’t fill the space or presume, he just waits.

“I feel soft,” You manage first, looking up at him, “very held.”

Yunho nods, watching you carefully as you parse through the emotions, his own bowl back on the tray so that all his focus is on you.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that deep in it,” You confess, “if I have, it’s been a long time.”

His fingers gently brush along your forearm, “And now?”

“Safe,” You look up, meeting his curious gaze, “and you held me safe the whole time, I felt that with everything,”

He lets out a tight exhale and nods, tucking that truth away inside himself, “And the breath?”

You glance down at your bowl and then back up, a tentative smile on your lips, “I was worried it would scare me,” you confess, “that I might have to safe out of that,”

He nods.

“It didn’t,” You admit, “I liked it, and you were so there,”

“I’ll always be there,” His fingertips brush along your forearm again.

It feels like a silly thing to say, of course he was there, but he knows what you mean without having to explain it. The way Yunho is so attuned to you, so sharpened to you and your needs, the level of presence he brings in a scene is indescribable, especially when you’re trying something new.

He smiles softly after a moment, “I’m glad about that,” he adds, “I know it’s a vulnerable thing,”

“I don’t know why,” You nod, “but it gave me something I didn’t know to ask for,”

His smile is softer at that, eyes warm with pride, “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, “you gave me so much of yourself, you trusted me with so much,”

You reach for his hand properly, lacing your fingers together, “I always trust you.”

Emotion tugs at his expression, but he clears his throat, kisses the back of your hand and takes a steadying breath. It’s not lost on you, now that you’re back in your right mind, how much care Yunho puts into every scene with you. You can see that in every second of his relief after when you’re feeling like this.

“I asked you to push me,” You murmur, setting your bowl aside and sliding closer to him on the cushion, “and you really did,”

“Not too much?” He checks, cupping your cheek.

“No, baby,”

“You sure?”

“Mhm,” You nod, turning your face to kiss his palm warmly, “I’m sure,”

Yunho smiles, “You were so pretty wrapped like that,” he adds, “next time, when your right leg feels a little stronger, I’d like to guide that leg back,”

“Yeah?”

He nods, fingertips brushing down over your neck as he considers it, “We can work a harder predicament there when you’re open to it, I have a few ideas,”

It’s been a while since you’ve been able to talk about tying like this, and you drift into the comfort of it, “Next time,” you agree.

Keeping you close, Yunho reaches for your bowl of juk and presses it back into your hands, a silent instruction to keep eating while you talk.

You tuck back into the meal without protest, but then remember something you wanted to tell him, “Mm,” you look up, swallowing a mouthful, “Yunho,”

He hums to let you know he’s listening as he takes his own bite of food.

“The untying tonight,” You murmur, “I liked that.”

That surprises him, and his brows lift with a little amusement, “Yeah?”

“Mm,” You nod, a soft smile curving on your lips, “you’re usually… softer by then? But you didn’t stop topping, even when the ropes were off you really kept me in it,”

“I didn’t want things to feel disjointed for you,” He explains, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, “and besides, I like you like that.”

You laugh a little, “Massively subbie?”

He huffs a laugh, “I was going to say soft, pliant. You get very honest when you surrender to me,” he cracks a smile, “but sure, massively subbie works too.”

Knocking your shoulder with his, you look down, focused on the food in your lap. Flickers of his touch pass through your mind though. It’s never about being tied, the finished picture of it floating mid air, it’s always about how you get there. His hands, the jute, the dance of it that belongs only to you.

Your eyes close for a moment, and you sigh, “You always make me feel like something sacred,”

He stills, his spoon quietly dropping into the bowl, his hands gentle on your face as he guides your gaze back up, “That’s because you are,” he murmurs, “to me, you are.”

There’s nothing to say, if you tried to you’d cry, so you manage a nod, a soft smile.

“Alright,” He breathes, kissing your forehead, “two more bites, baby, for me,”

You finish the bowl without complaint.

When you’re done he clears away the food with ease, checks that you have everything you need in your little corner of the couch, and then steps away.

His ritual for you is done, but this part is just for him.

He disappears into the rope room for a little longer, and you relax into the cushions to listen. You hear the soft rustle of jute as he recoils the strands, organizing the mess back into something neat and tidy. You can almost picture it, you’ve seen him go through this routine a hundred times.

Jute wrapped and packed, emergency tools tucked back into their proper places, mats wiped down, futon rolled away, candles extinguished and left to go cold.

When he’s done, he turns out the lights and slides the hanji screen door shut with soft finality.

The scene is done, it has been, but now it’s placed away, done, and honored.

Yunho returns to the couch with an easy smile and soft shoulders, sinking down beside you with a stretch, “It’s late, but I don’t think I’m tired yet,”

“Mm-mm,” You shake your head, “me either,”

You curl into his side without thinking, his arm lifting to welcome you in, and you nestle against his chest. His hand settles over your hip, his thumb drawing mindless patterns into your skin.

He reaches for the book on the coffee table, the one you’ve been reading but not finishing, and he tucks it into your lap before opening up a game on his phone, switching the track on the speaker and relaxing into the couch with you.

You open your book, brushing open the pages and finding your place, and Yunho’s arm tightens to pull you in just a fraction closer. For a little while, you read and he plays his game, in companionable, sated silence.

After a while, you yawn and he mirrors it back.

“Still up for dinner tomorrow with San and Hwa?” He asks softly, “It’s been a while,”

“If you’re up for it,” You reply without looking up, turning the page to a new chapter.

“Mm,” He hums, “maybe somewhere outside, it’s supposed to be beautiful,”

“I’d like that,”

“I’ll check reservations in the morning,”

You nod, sinking further into his side, your head starting to go heavy on his chest.

“Tea,” He murmurs, squeezing your hip, “then bed, you’re exhausted, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to protest but find yourself yawning again, “Kay,” you concede.

He makes you ginger tea while you finish the last few pages of your book, ushers you to bed with the same gentle hands he’s used all night.

Tucked together under the covers he holds you close. Something in you just feels at ease, like he reached in and soothed the part of you that’s been fraying at the edges for months now.

Yunho kisses you softly, your chest rising and falling to the same rhythm, his hand on your hip like a tether. This time when you exhale it doesn’t catch, every breath steady and sure, shaped around the way he loves you.

In the hush that follows, you both rest.

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