miau

𐕣 18 - mdni 𐕣

[miaugi]

MIAU-STERLIST

miau | 18 | nsfw + sfw reqs open/closed ₊‧⁺˖ (mainly writing for atz and skz but any groups are welcome! <3) ☾ atz ☾ skz ☾ etc ☾ao3

(graphics by @strangergraphics-archive, @sister-lucifer, and @bernardsbendystraws!!!)

[stxrrywoo]

PENT UP TENSION ── c.sn

synopsis ; being roommates with san was like a dream come true, except for one little thing... he had a habit of running off your dates and leaving you high and dry. then just as the sexual frustration becomes too much san is offering to help—as if that wasn't his plan the whole time.

pairing(s) ; san x f!reader

☆ ── wc. ; 4.2k ☆ ── genre ; DARK THEMES!!!, smut, roommate!san ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, kissing, manipulation, gaslighting, lowkey yandere!san, dubcon, alcohol consumption, petnames (love, pretty girl, babydoll, doll, baby...), unprotected sex, toxic/possessive/obsessive behavior, fingering, clit play, messy/rough makeout, biting/marking, dom!san x sub!reader, slight manhandling, masturbation (f.), multiple orgasms, forced penetration, big dick!san, overstimulation, rough sex, begging, teasing, creampie, dumbification, breeding kink, a lot of sexual frustration, dacryphilia, lmk if I missed anything!! ☆ ── notes ; this is so late, but istg I couldn't figure out how tf to start it and get things flowing, so thank you @xtrashxbunnyx for helping me, MWAHHHH!! this is also inspired by this request, I hope you enjoy lovely!

⏤͟͟͞͞ JOIN THE TAGLIST ── MASTERLIST NAVI ── MAIN NAVI

When you first got the ad for a roommate, you weren't too sure about having a male living in your space, but San promised that he would follow any and all rules, never wanting to cross any boundaries. To say you were weary would be an understatement, except that weariness quickly faded as you got to know the feline-eyed male. Everything about him was exactly what you wanted in a roommate; he was sweet, caring, and always made sure to do his part around the apartment, but there was one thing that always seemed to crawl under your skin.

You have started to lose track of the times that he's run off any dates that you've brought home, for granted, not on purpose—at least you didn't think so. At first, you just brushed it off, saying there was always next time, but when it happened for the fourth time, you started to get annoyed, albeit it was probably the sexual frustration.

When you talked to your best friend about what was happening, she just reassured you that San probably didn't mean any harm. Then she brought up the idea of just sleeping with the very man in your apartment, but you immediately shut it down, saying that sleeping with your roommate never ends well, so you'd rather not risk it.

Not that those words were gonna hinder San's motivation.

Then finally, finally, there was a weekend when San was supposed to be gone in order to go visit his grandparents. So when you saw the opportunity to bring someone home and finally release some of your sexual tension, you snatched it up like a gift at a white elephant party.

The date had gone well; the guy, Felix, you believe his name was, was an absolute sweetheart, and he was so polite about asking to go over to your place. You found it cute when all you wanted to do was jump his bones right then and there, but you showed some restraint until you got back to the apartment.

Both of you were a tangled mess of limbs, lips clumsily on each other, and the heat that coursed through your body was electrifying. You weren't sure if it was due to the fact that you hadn't been laid in god who knows how long or the little bit of alcohol that was in your system, but your mind was already starting to get foggy. Felix's hands found your hips, pulling you closer to him as you kicked the door shut behind the two of you. Excitement coursed through you as you moved further into the apartment.

You were so lost in the feeling of the blonde's lips that you hadn't even realized that the lights were on, at least not until you felt eyes on you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood tall, and a shiver ran down your spine. Pulling away from Felix you look over and your soul nearly leaves your body, there on the living room sofa was your roommate. He was leaning back, legs spread, causing his slacks to tighten around his thighs, then that stupid black sweater that he always hung just below his collarbones.

"Holy hell, San!" You exclaim, heart racing in your chest, and your gaze instantly flickers over to Felix, who was looking at your roommate with scrunched eyebrows. Dread started to creep up on you because you knew what was about to happen, and you wanted to kick yourself.

"Oh, you're back." San greeted you, his hard expression cracking with a bright smile as he stood, fixing the glasses that were slipping down the bridge of his nose. "Who's this?"

"My date." Embarrassment washed over you like a tidal wave when Felix all but jerked away, his face growing a bright shade of red. Your jaw clenched tightly when San walked closer to the two of you, hands balling into fists at your sides.

"Ah, gotcha, well, c'mon in, man. We have drinks in the kitchen, what do you fancy?" San asked, a wide, dimpled smile adorning his face as he moved to stand before you and Felix. However, what you couldn't see was the borderline predatory gleam in the taller male's eyes, and that look was enough to have your date tucking tail and darting out of the apartment with an apology and empty promise of 'see you later'.

You watched with wide eyes as the door slammed closed, heart pounding against your chest, and the heat of anger coursed through your veins. The air around you was still, not a word was spoken as you tried to calm yourself, but when you felt San's fingers brush over your bare shoulder, you jerked away, looking at him with angry eyes.

"What the hell, San?" You were seething, the mixture of embarrassment and tension finally making you snap. San blinked a few times, looked at you with nothing but confusion and a tinge of hurt, but it didn't keep you from blowing up, "Why do you keep scaring them off? Do you find enjoyment in watching me suffer, is that it?"

'Yes.' He thought, suppressing a smirk.

"No, I don't, what do you even mean, love? I offered him a drink and was polite the whole time. I didn’t do anything." San told you, his voice shaking just a hair as hurt morphed onto his beautiful face, a small pout forming on his lips, and you felt your heart drop at the sight. The anger you had felt mere moments ago dissipated, and your shoulders slumped with a huff.

"You're right, I'm sorry." You run your fingers over your face with a frustrated groan, before moving towards the kitchen in desperate need of a drink. San followed close behind you like a lost puppy, waiting by the doorway, watching you. "I thought you were leaving this weekend?"

"My sister ended up going," He told you, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing just a bit as you uncapped the half-empty bottle of soju. You nodded without looking at him before bringing the little green bottle to your lips, taking a long swig, the burn making you grimace slightly.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a new date with this soju." You reach into the fridge and grab the other unopened bottle of strawberry soju before turning towards San, kicking the door shut.

San just nodded, watching you with an unreadable gaze as you slipped past him and towards your bedroom. Once you were out of sight, a smirk curled onto his lips, knowing he'd have you right where he wanted you in no time.

—

Maybe an hour or two later, and after drinking a bottle and a half of soju, you lie in the middle of your bed, sweaty palms rubbing at the bare skin of your chest. The heat that coursed through your body was nearly unbearable, and you needed to do something before you combust. Your hands worked in hurried motions to tear your dress from your body, leaving you in just your lilac lace panties, goosebumps littering your skin as the cool air of the room washed over you.

A soft moan fell from your lips when your fingertips brushed over your clothed cunt, the touch enough to leave you dripping. Bringing your other hand up, you squeezed your bare breast, rolling your perked nipple between your thumb and index finger.

It wasn't what you were hoping to get tonight, but it would have to make do for now. So you lay there, panties now pulled off one leg and hanging off your bent knee, fingers working slowly against your aching clit. The pleasure that coursed through your veins was leaving your brain fuzzy, and you straightened your leg when that coil in your gut tightened.

'Clink, clink.'

The sound of glass hitting your faux hardwood floor causes your heart to seize in your chest; the sound echoes in the room for a moment. However, you had been left high and dry for so long that you couldn't give a damn about it right now, far too focused on getting yourself to that sweet release you craved so much.

You weren't even given a chance when your bedroom door swung open, allowing the bright yellow light of the hallway to illuminate your bedroom. San stood there, eyebrows pinched with concern, "Y/n, love, are you okay?"

A sharp gasp fell from your lips, legs snapping shut to cover yourself, and you snatched the blanket next to you. You sat up with wide, doe eyes, and heat rushed up your neck, painting your face a shade of red. All words died on your tongue as you looked at the man who stood in your doorway, worried that he would think you were disgusting for doing this while he was home and awake.

"S-San." You choked out as tears brimmed in your eyes; you wanted nothing more than to have the floor swallow you whole. The embarrassment only grew tenfold when the feline-eyed male didn't say a word, that same unreadable expression on his face.

"What's this?" He asked, the corners of his lips slowly twitching into a smirk as his eyes raked over your barely covered body. A lump formed in your throat as you watched him step further into your bedroom, fingers slipping from the doorframe. You felt like you could cry, misty eyes watching as he crept closer, and your bottom lip began to tremble.

"What are you—" You start to ask, fingers tightening around the fabric of your blanket as he moves until he is standing at the end of your bed, dark eyes boring into you.

"Touching yourself when I'm just in the other room," His voice dropped an octave, sending a shiver down your spine right to your cunt. You opened your mouth to apologize, but he beat you to it, "Why torture yourself, sweetheart? Why not let me help?"

You felt your heart begin to race in your chest as he moved over to the side of your bed, hand reaching out to cup your jaw gently. His touch sent shockwaves surging through your body, need pooling in your gut, and something in you slowly began to unravel.

"P-Please." You breathed out quietly, finally giving in to the temptation that was Choi San, and the dark-haired male could feel the sick satisfaction swelling in his chest.

"Please, what pretty girl?" He asked, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, and you instinctively parted your lips, letting him press against your bottom teeth. Your hands that had been clutching the blanket moved to his wrist, and the fabric pooled in your lap, giving him the perfect view of your breasts.

"Help me, Sannie, please." You all but whined, fingers tightening around his wrist, and a smug grin spread on his lips. Then he was crawling onto the bed, pushing you back down until you were caged underneath his body, hips pressing against yours and pulling a choked whimper from your parted lips.

“Such a needy little thing. Weren’t you just saying you'd never fuck your roommate the other day?" He teased, and your face grew warm as you recalled your conversation with your best friend that you hadn't even realized that he overheard. “But don’t worry, babydoll, as long as you’re a good girl, I’ll make you cum as many times as you want,” San smirked as he took in your lust-filled expression, your hips bucking up, desperate for some kind of friction.

“I’ll be good, Sannie, please.” You begged, hands grabbing at his shirt, causing him to chuckle darkly.

San's dark gaze studied your face as he moved one hand to your throat, tracing his finger down your pulse point, relishing in the way he could feel your heart racing. Then he was moving it down and over your collarbones, down the valley of your breasts, over your navel, before finding your sopping pussy. A cute little gasp fell from your lips when he split your folds, tracing your weeping slit, collecting your slick before pressing down on your clit. A choked moan tore through your lips, back arching off the bed.

“So wet and so sensitive, aren’t you, love.” San chuckled as he slowly circled your clit, watching your jaw fall slack. Moving from your clit he traced along your slit before plunging one of his fingers into your warm heat.

“San!” You cried out at the sudden intrusion, hands moving to his shoulder and digging your fingers into his skin. His touch left you breathless, sure that it was due to the fact that you hadn't been fucked in a long time and the alcohol in your system.

"You're so fucking tight, babydoll," He cooed, bringing his face down to yours, and your eyes fluttered as his warm breath fanned your heated skin. Then his lips were on yours, stealing all the air from your lungs and swallowing your sweet sounds as he continued to curl his finger in your tight walls. "Just imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got my cock in your sweet pussy."

Heat rushed up your neck at what his words implied, but any thoughts were wiped away the moment he pressed a second digit in, his thumb pressing down on your clit. Your back arched off the bed, pressing your chest against his when he brushed over that spongy spot deep inside your cunt. Taking note of your reaction, San continued to abuse that spot, relishing in all of the lewd, wet noises that were coming from your cunt, the wetter you got.

“San— fuck, I’m gonna cum!” You cried out, eyes squeezing shut as your legs started to tremble, the coil in the pit of your stomach tightening embarrassingly fast, threatening to snap any moment.

“Look at you, doll. I’m just using my fingers, and you’re already falling apart.” He chuckled, pressing wet, hot kisses along your jaw before moving to your neck. Your whole body shivered as he marked your skin, and your brain began to fuzz over when he brought you to the precipice of your high.

"S-San…" You whimpered, back arching against his chest and pushing his fingers further into your silky walls.

"I know love, cum for me. Make a mess on my fingers.” He cooed, leaning down next to your ear, taking the shell of your ear between his teeth.

With a few more strokes of his fingers, you were coming undone, a loud moan ripping from your lungs. White spots clouded your vision as San continued to fuck his fingers into your spazzing cunt. He pressed a gentle kiss on your temple, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as your whole body trembled in his hold while he worked you through your orgasm. Once the high faded, it was replaced by oversensitivity, making you whine and grab at his wrist.

"Sannie!" You cried out as he curled his fingers into your fluttering walls once more, a sadistic smirk playing on his lips. "W-Wait Sa—" The words caught in your throat when he brushed over your sweet spot again, your whole body tensing as you felt another orgasm building rather quickly.

"Go ahead and scream, babydoll, let everyone know how good Sannie's fingers feel in your sweet little cunt." He smirked as he looked at you, lifting himself to his knees and watching as your eyes rolled back with pleasure. Loud, borderline screams of his name fell from your lips as he worked you towards another orgasm.

Your teary eyes stayed locked on him as he looked down to where his fingers were gliding in and out of your slick folds. Then, with another curl of his fingers, he pulled another, unexpected orgasm from your sensitive pussy, but just like before, he didn't stop.

"H-Hold on, San! Please!" You cried out, trying to scoot away from his hand as he continued to abuse your throbbing clit, fingers still knuckles deep in your pussy.

"You were begging to cum weren't you?" His chastising words only added more fuel to the raging fire that burned in your gut. The tears in your eyes had finally broken free, slowing down your face, "Isn't that why you were bringing all those lowlifes back?"

"Yes!" You gasped, back arching, and your eyes rolled nearly to the back of your head. It wasn't a lie; you had become so desperate for that release that you met up with just about anyone.

"Thought so," San growled, his grip on your hip tightening, and your trembling fingers found his wrist once more, "now you have me, so don't you dare go find some other asshole,"

"I wo— nghh! Fuck, I won't, please." Your lips formed all sorts of pleas as San's thick fingers worked you close to the edge once more, tears blurring your vision.

You could feel your muscles tense as another orgasm threatened to topple over, quiet sobs and pleas falling from your lips. San chuckled before pulling his fingers from your twitching hole.

"F-Fuck, no…" You whined, completely missing the sinister look that crossed the dark-haired male's face.

San was then leaning over you again, his grip on your hips locking you in place as you tried to squirm. Your eyes fluttered open, breath hitching as he kissed the tears that decorated your flushed cheeks, the action surprisingly gentle.

However, the sweet moment was ripped away when your whole body erupted in what felt like flames, your body becoming unbearably hot once more, and more arousal pooled out of your twitching cunt. Noticing the change in your demeanor, San leaned over you, whispering absolute filth over your lips, and your patience was beginning to wear thin.

"San, please," You breathed out, eyes fluttering when he ground his hips down against yours, letting you feel him through his slacks, and a shiver ran down your spine.

“Please, what, pretty girl?” He cooed, raising up to look at you with a teasing smirk, and that’s when you noticed the chain dangling from his neck.

Biting back another moan, you reached up and wrapped your fingers around the cool metal before pulling him down until his lips brushed over yours, “stop teasing and fuck me.”

"So demanding." He chuckled against your lips, one hand moving from your hip to grab your smaller wrist and tugging it away from the jewelry.

You were about to retort, but all words died on your tongue as he grabbed your hips, flipping your body so you were lying flat on your stomach. You called out his name, but he didn’t answer; his hand pressed flatly against the small of your back.

“Sannie.” You whined, looking back at him, but there was a dark gleam in his eyes, hunger burning in his irises. You began to speak again, but the sound of his zipper was loud, and excitement bubbled in the pit of your gut.

All words died on your tongue the moment you felt the head of his cock slide against your soaked folds. A whimper fell from your lips when he brushed against your clit, you didn't have to see him to know that he was big and your body tensed.

Noticing the shocked look in your body language, he smirked before leaning over you again, lips brushing over your ear.

“You were the one demanding that I fuck you, so take it like a good girl, hmm?” His voice was deep, causing you to clench around nothing, a small whine falling from your lips. Then he was pushing into you, his grip on your hips tight to keep you from squirming.

“S-San—” You were cut off by a moan when he pressed further, stretching you even more. Your ears were ringing from the pain and pleasure, fingers curled around your cotton sheets, trying to ground yourself.

“C’mon, baby, you can take it.” He told you, his tone almost condescending, and you let your face fall into your pillow with a mixture of moans and whines. Your walls squeezed around his aching cock, sucking him further in, and he groaned, “plus you’re sucking me in, your pretty little cunt is just begging to be filled.”

"Sanni—" Your words caught in your throat as he gave you no time to adjust to his size before he started plowing into you at a bruising pace. His grip on your hips was tight enough to leave bruises, his nails creating crescent shapes in your skin.

His pace was relentless, rough, and mean. Not giving you even an inch to breathe, and you had no other choice but to lie there and take it. He had your hips pinned to the bed, using them as leverage to fuck into you.

All that left your lips were incoherent babbles and moans of his name, your body feeling as if it were set on fire. San smirked, watching as he fucked you stupid, a sense of satisfaction blooming in his chest. All of his late-night fantasies of fucking you into the mattress finally came to life, and he was about to take as much of you as he could.

“Look at you taking me so well,” He cooed, pistoning his hips into yours until his tip hit your cervix.

The sensation had you seeing stars, one of your hands flying back to claw at his hip as more incoherent moans spilled from your lips. Then all thoughts melted from your brain when his hand pressed down on the small of your back, making you feel him even more.

“San!” You cried out as you suddenly came, walls contracting around him, and your mouth hung open.

“Shit.” San cursed, his grip tight, sure to leave bruises as he fucked you through your high but never letting up on his pace. Once you came down from your high, you could feel the overstimulation settling in your bones. Your eyes squeezed shut, pushing more tears out, and broken moans fell from your parted lips.

“S-Sun— fuck! ‘S too much.” You cried out, burying your face in your pillow, staining the fabric with your tears, and your hand grabbed his wrist, nails biting his skin.

“Shit, if you keep squeezing me like that, I’m gonna cum.” San groaned, his body leaning over yours to litter your shoulders with sloppy kisses. “Is that what you want, pretty girl? Me to cum in this sweet pussy of yours? To claim you as mine, is that it?” He growled against your skin, but your brain was foggy, not able to voice a single thing, but your body did the talking for you. “I’m gonna stuff you full of my cum, and you’re gonna take every last drop like the good little girl you are.”

You clenched around him, nodding as much as you could before you let out another broken moan. Your mouth hung open, tears dripping from your nose as the coil in the pit of your stomach tightened to unimaginable levels, ready to snap at any moment.

The pressure in your gut coiled tightly, and it felt like you were about to explode, but you weren't given a chance to warn him before your orgasm tore through you. A string of broken moans falling from your lips as he fucked you through your high.

“S-San!” You choked out a moan as he brushed over your sweet spot, causing stars to cloud your vision.

“Shit.” San groaned as he felt his own high right on the tip of his tongue, then with a few more harsh snaps of his hips, his cock twitched in your walls, spilling his seed deep into your womb. The foreign warmth pulled another, weaker orgasm from your spent body, and you sobbed quietly into your pillows. Coming to a stop, San lay over you, allowing both of you to catch your breath, and he relished in your warmth, whispering sweet nothings in your ear until your trembling subsided.

"See babydoll, why bother with those other fucks when you have me here already?" He murmurs against your skin, and you hiccup softly, turning your head to look at him, and San felt his cock twitch to life again at the teary look in your eyes.

"S-Sannie!" You cried out weakly when he lifted himself from you, pulling his dick from your fluttering walls, causing you to whimper at the sensitivity. Another gasp fell from your lips when he flipped your body back over, lying you on your back before he lay down on you.

"So fucking perfect." He sighs as he places his ear right over your racing heart, memorizing the sound, and you let your head fall back. The weight of his body trapped you in your sheets, but it was weirdly comforting, and all the previous embarrassment you felt before faded.

When your hand that was combing through his hair went idle, San lifted his head, chin resting on your chest, to see that you had fallen asleep. A grin spread on his lips as he gently took your hand into his wrist, pressing his lips to the inside of your wrist, whispering promises of you going nowhere against your skin.

He finally had you where he wanted you, and he'd be dammed if he was gonna let anyone ruin that.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

[nondelphic]

i keep telling people i’m a writer but all i do is open google docs, scroll for 45 minutes, sigh dramatically, and close it like i just gave birth

[miaugi]

stigmata - j.yh x reader

♱ warnings - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT (like slash srs yunho is irredeemably evil.) dub con / cnc , cults & religious trauma, blasphemy, psychological horror, manipulation/grooming, yandere behavior, coercive control, self-harm imagery (ritualized), blood/stigmata, emotional abuse, loss of autonomy, sexual content, gore (18+ minors dni) ♱ DUBCON DISCLAIMER: I do not condone any of the actions / events that happen in this fic, dub con is NOT okay in real life and there are resources to help if you are triggered, this work does not portray the real people involved, but fiction renditions of who they are, you have been warned!! I love you all and please stay safe <3 ♱ wc- 1.1k ♱ a/n - cute little teaser after being gone so long!!

devotion is a lesson written in wounds.

The chill of the cold air gnawed at your fingers, slicing through your coat with every gust. Your hands met the cold metal of the diner's door, swinging open with the tinny jingle of a bell hanging just above the doorway Warm air with a thick scent of coffee and stale cigarette smoke overwhelmed the dingy interior, sticking to the old vinyl tile. To anybody else, this joint would be regarded as only a place to try and nurse a hangover, but for you it was your home. You'd slide into a booth, table still damp with cleaner that hadn't quite evaporated just yet, waiting on the waitress who would come and go, taking your order for a coffee with a glassy eyed stare. Something in the air felt... wrong. The air felt heavy, foreboding even. You brushed it off, taking sips of your coffee as your eyes explored beyond the window next to you. It was night, the streets completely barren aside from the snow sprinkling down onto the pavement. Your gaze caught the half-empty mug in your hands. Spinning it around, you noticed a poorly printed advertisement: “Find your calling.” A phone number sat below it like a quiet invitation. On impulse, you scribbled the number on a napkin, crumpling it into your coat pocket before throwing cash on the table. — A week had passed before you found yourself in the gravel parking lot of a repurposed chapel. The building loomed under the gray sky, Its peeling paint and faded sign hinting at a history someone had long forgotten. You'd sigh, expecting it to be off-putting and strange, but still exited your truck and entered the parish hall, the air heavy with dust and something sweet you couldn't quite place.

The hall was almost empty. At the end of the hall, a figure sat with their head in a worn leather book, you'd recognize it as the Bible. His presence alone put a dark weight into the air, like you weren't supposed to be there. His hands would drum on the wooden table, an a-tempo rhythm, before his head would snap up, his dark eyes staring right through you. Almost immediately, something felt horribly wrong as a grin cracked through his face. He'd close his Bible with a grin, rising from the wooden chair he'd been sitting on with an inhuman energy, like a shadow stretching. His eyes were completely empty, almost dead, yet fixated on you like a predator—Not ugly, though. You’d scrub away the thought, invasive and unwelcome. "You're early." He closed the distance with long, deliberate steps, The air surrounding him seemed to thicken with every step, Your palms slicking with sweat. "I'm sorry.. I didn't remember the time." You'd apologize through stutters, inching away from him ever so slightly. Your index fingers picked at your thumbs. "That's alright." The words were soft, but something in the tilt of his head, the subtle curl of his grin, made your skin prickle. He took your hand in his, pressing his cold lips to the back of your palm. Your stomach jumped at the contact. "My apologies, I should’ve introduced myself." He paused, still leaning down, his eyes met yours and a pit opened deep in your stomach. "I am Father Yunho, the shepherd to guide our flock to heaven," The robes made it obvious enough, but hearing it confirmed the thought anyway. He released your hand and straightened, his shadow stretching over you like a weight you couldn’t escape. "And you?" His eyes bored through you, shattering any confidence you had. You'd say your name, your voice timid. He'd flash a smile with teeth, not meeting your eyes. "A pleasure to finally meet you, miss." His gaze finally lifted upwards to the door, a few scattered people entering the room, bibles in clutch. "Just in time." As he stepped away, your shoulders loosened, and you allowed yourself a small exhale. Seven men stood in a half-circle, quiet, observing. You should have felt comfort in the normalcy, but the way their gazes lingered on him and you, made your chest tighten again. You'd sit down on a lone chair, as far from Yunho as possible. The men would follow, interspersing in the semi-circle with their own Bibles in hand. Before Yunho sat, he handed you a worn, leather-bound Bible. He smiled, and sat in the front of the circle. Your hand lingered on his for a second too long. "Thank you all for coming today, as you can see we do have a new member, so please be sure to give her a warm welcome." His words were welcoming, but lacked soul. A man with longer black hair would give you a smile, less unnerving than Yunho's. Yunho grasped his Bible, letting the silence stretch.

“Blessed are the meek,” he said, voice low. “They inherit suffering. Pain is proof.”

His gaze landed on you. “If your hand leads to sin, cut it off. Obedience must be total. Body. Mind. Soul.” Obedience. The words swirled around in your brain, your gaze locked onto the passage before his voice cut through the silence. “Love your neighbor as yourself,” he continued, the smile sharp. “Guide them. Correct them if they resist. Weakness is sin.” He let the words hang in the air, heavy, sweet, like smoke.

The others murmured quietly, nodding. Your fingers clenched around the edge of the chair.

Yunho's words were wrong. Everything about this was wrong. The way the men just accepted his words, the incorrect quoting of scripture, the interpretation of the text, wrong. Your eyebrows furrowed as his voice just turned into background noise, waiting on him to finish so you could leave.

Then, your name was called out by Yunho, slicing through the static of thoughts in your brain.

"Pardon?" You'd respond, head tilting slightly with confusion.

Yunho's eyes were locked on you. "What brought you here today?" A pause, then "What is your calling?" The words slid like ice through the silence.

"I'm not sure." You'd respond, the others staring at you like you'd just confessed a sin. Yunho's kind expression would falter, eyelid twitching ever so slightly, before snapping back into place.

"Please call me father, it's disrespectful to not address me as such." His voice was cold; the air itself seemed to press down on your chest.

"I'm sorry, father." You'd apologize, the walls squeezing in on you.

“Meet me in the chapel after the study. We’ll see where you belong.” His eyes left you, but the chill of his stare stayed long after he turned back to the others.

The sermon continued once more, and you prayed he would forget about you and allow you to leave.

But it was never that easy, was it?

[jeongyunho99]

Yunho ✧ NASA Performance

[miaugi]

dude im going to #touch him ough he's so fine

[hyalinemin]

[nctzenhwa]

keep your hands there, or i'll tie them (2) | yunho x reader

tags: power play, fingering, oral (f rec), slight overstim, command kink??, threat of bondage, porn w/ no plot lol

i love edging my readers!!! <3

participate in my 500 shades of filth!!

you didn't even mean to tease him. but with the way you shifted in his lap, the way your thighs squeezed together while you scrolled your phone... yunho's patience was wearing very, very thin.

he takes your phone right out of your hand, tossing somewhere behind him as his mouth latches to your neck before you can protest.

"yunho-"

"shh," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "if you keep moving like that, i'm gonna ruin you."

you don't even get a chance to respond before he's laying you flat on the bed, dragging your shorts down in one rough tug. your panties are soaked, sticking to you, and he smirks when he sees the mess.

"always so wet for me," he says, thumbing the damp patch. his fingers slip under the damp patch, finding your clit immediately, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jerk off the bed.

you try to reach down, wanting to grab his wrist, but his hand stills as he growls. "keep your hands there, or i'll tie them."

your breath stutters, fingers freezing where they were curled weakly in the sheets by your hips. yunho's eyes lift to yours, "good." he praises, leaning down to kiss the inside of your thigh. "listen to me."

his fingers sink into you, stretching you open while his tongue drags up your slit. your back arches immediately, a broken sound spilling from your lips.

he moans into you as he feels you tighten up around his fingers, your thighs trembling around him. he eats you like he's starving, one hand pinning your hips down while the other one fucks you slow and deep.

you reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, and he pulls back, lips slick with you. "sweetheart," he warns, voice dark. "i said, don't move your hands."

your thighs shake. "yunho, please-"

he grabs your wrists gently, pressing them back into the pillow. "you move them again," he murmurs as he kisses your wrists, "and i'll tie you up and make you cum until you're crying."

he goes back down, tongue flattening against your clit while his fingers pump faster, curling with every thrust. you're already trembling, trying so hard to keep your hands from grabbing onto him.

"yunho- i'm-"

he groans against you. "do it," he growls. "cum for me. and keep those pretty hands right where they are."

you cum so hard you see stars: your hips jerking, thighs clamping around his head, voice breaking as you moan his name. yunho holds you down as he keeps licking, sucking your clit until you're shaking and crying.

he finally lets up, kissing your thighs before wiping his mouth. he climbs over you, his cock heavy and leaking against your stomach.

"good girl," he murmurs, guiding himself to your entrance. "hands still up, don't make me tie you." and he pushes into you, burying himself slowly to the hilt.

yunho smirks down at you, brushing your hair back as your mouth falls open. "yeah," he whispers, thrusting deep enough to make the bed creak. "that's it. keep those hands right where they are and take my cock."

[seungari]

🗡𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐙 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 — SAFTEY MEASURES (BANGCHAN) 🗡 𝐀 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

⚠️ Contains explicit sexual content, graphic violence, and psychological manipulation. All sexual acts are consensual within a coercive, obsessive relationship dynamic.

he promised he’d keep you safe. he never specified from who

You don’t hear the door open so much as feel the house change its breath.

The hallway draft stops dead, like the building itself is holding it in. The air that slides under the bedroom door is colder than it should be, damp in a way that makes your skin go pebble-fine. You are not drunk—just soft around the edges, the way a book looks when you thumb the corners too long. The sheets are warm from your legs. Your phone is face down on the nightstand, an accusatory square.

Keys. A low clink against the console dish. Leather whispering. The tiny rubber sound of shoes leaving your entry mat and finding the wood.

You close your eyes and pretend to be asleep.

“Bad actress,” Chris says from the doorway, voice so gentle you could cut your finger on it.

When you look, he’s a silhouette first: all black, the clean geometry of a high-collar jacket and fitted tee, dark jeans that drink the light from his silver hair. Wet where they shouldn’t be. There are splashes on the cuffs and a dull sheen on his knuckles, rubbed halfway clean and then abandoned. He smells like outside at midnight—cold metal, wet bark, the bite of something mineral.

He doesn’t turn the lamp on. He walks by feel in this place like it’s mapped under his skin. The bed dips—a slow, careful press by your shins. His hand finds your ankle through the comforter and closes, thumb smoothing along the bone as if taking your pulse.

“Hi,” you say, small. It comes out a little breathy, guilty by nature.

He hums. “You’re warm.”

“I—yeah.” Your tongue tastes like wine and citrus. “Changed my clothes.”

His thumb stops moving. “Before or after you stopped answering me.”

The hour before this—your coworkers, the loud bar, the way your phone kept lighting up like a heartbeat—rearranges itself in your head. You swallow. The ring of your glass on polished wood. Laughter. Someone’s sleeve grazing your bare shoulder. “My battery—”

He reaches over you. A quiet, unhurried theft. Your phone is in his hand before you can catch the thought of saying no. He doesn’t check it yet. He just rests it on his thigh and looks at you, the whites of his eyes milk-pale in the low light.

“Battery,” he repeats, but it isn’t a question. It’s a place he’s setting you down to see if you stay.

The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tiny tick of the hallway thermostat. Somewhere in the pipes a neighbor’s shower shuts off. Chris sets your phone on the nightstand without looking away from you. Then he bends, and the scent of him gets sharper.

Your fingers move before your nerve can talk you out of it. You catch his wrist. His skin is cold and a little damp; there’s grit drying in the lines of his palm. “What… is that?”

His mouth tips. He turns his hand in yours and spreads his fingers. In the dark, the stains read as a palette of shadows—edges the color of violets and rust, a smear you could almost pretend is paint if your stomach wasn’t pulling tight.

“Nothing you need to put your hands on,” he says softly. “Not with your pretty hands.”

“Chris.” Your name for him folds itself around a small plea. “Where did you go?”

“Out.” He lifts one shoulder, the movement minimal, controlled. “You were out. I gave you space.”

“You were mad.” Your voice wants to make it an accusation. It only makes it to observation. “You were mad at me for going and then you left and…and now you’re back.” 

“I always come back.” He says. His knuckles skim your knee over the blanket; he’s not petting you. He’s measuring. “Did you have fun?”

The question is silk over wire. You hate how it snags. “It was just drinks.”

“Just.” He tastes the word as if it offends him. “With who.”

You tell him. Names that feel harmless in your mouth feel less so in the room with him: Anya with the chipped pink manicure, Lucas from accounting who laughs with his whole chest. Chris tips his head once, small, taking the list like a report.

“Your coworker touched your back,” he says. Not a question. “By the door.”

You feel your face heat. You hadn’t told him that. You hadn’t even fully registered it until now— a palm that landed too comfortably between your shoulder blades as the group spilled outside to call rides, a thoughtless guiding pressure. Harmless, you told yourself, even as goosebumps rose sharp across your skin.

“He’s handsy with everyone,” you say.

“Handsy.” The corner of his lips quirk at that and he flexes his wrist slightly. The sheen of wetness there flashes suddenly. “Well.”

He drags his thumb along his wrist where something has dried into the seam of skin, then wipes it on his jeans without looking. He tips his head, studying you, and the quiet stretches until you feel your heartbeat as a separate animal in the room.

“Some men,” he says at last, conversational, “don’t know where to put their hands.” His gaze lowers to where the blanket tents over your knees. “It gets them into trouble.”

You try to laugh like it’s a joke, but it comes out thin and papery. “He… he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Intent is a bedtime story.” His eyes find your face again. They are very gentle when he’s being unkind. “Contact is a fact.”

He reaches—slow—and takes your right wrist the way a tailor takes a measurement. His fingers encircle, warm now, pressing just enough to feel the pulse under the skin. “Palms up,” he murmurs.

You turn your hands. Your palms look almost luminous in the low light, every line a map you don’t know how to read. He brushes over them like he’s checking for splinters, then flattens your fingers one by one, counting under his breath so soft you almost don’t hear it.

“One… two… three… four… five.” He lifts your left and does the same. “Six… seven… eight… nine…” He pauses on your smallest finger, thumb resting at its base like a promise. “Ten.” His mouth softens. “Good. Keep them.”

The relief is quick and mean; it makes you feel stupid. “Chris—”

He places your hands back on the blanket with exaggerated care, aligning your fingers together, smoothing the duvet where you’ve wrinkled it. “Don’t put them on strangers,” he adds mildly. “Not even on your ‘handsy-with-everyone’ coworker. Especially not him.”

Your tongue sticks to your teeth. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

He nods, as if you’ve given the answer he wanted. “Tomorrow you’ll call off,” he says. “Headache. Or stomach. Something simple. I’ll write it for you.”

“I have a deadline.”

“Then you’ll meet it from here.” He glances toward your desk. “I moved the charger.” He has. The cord that used to live by the couch trails neatly to your nightstand, looped into a figure-eight. “You’ll stay home. That way your hands don’t… wander.”

The thermostat ticks over. Somewhere on the street a far siren winds down and disappears. He looks toward the window briefly, as if listening for his name in it, then unbuttons his cuff with precise, clean movements. The fabric peels back to show crescent-shaped indents deep into his skin, blooming red against his wrist. He smooths it with the other thumb, absent, soothing.

Your mouth moves before your sense does. “Did you… get hurt?”

He considers the question a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

There’s a small, complicated silence. You think of the bar’s door, the way Lucas had skated his palm between your shoulders like he was steering a shopping cart; you think of the word harmless and how cheap it suddenly feels in your mouth. You think of how Chris’s cuff had been wet when he walked in, and the way the building itself seemed to hold a breath for him.

“He won’t touch you again,” Chris says, almost tender. “Or anyone.”

You look at the shape his words make. They don’t land like a guess.

“Is he—” You stop yourself on the brink. The question opens under you like a staircase to something you don’t want to see the bottom of. You try a different angle, smaller, more ordinary. “Is he okay?”

Chris’s expression does something minuscule—an eyelash shift of amusement, gone as soon as you name it. “He’s not going to be handsy for a while.” He says it like the weather. Like a calendar note. “Extended leave.”

Your stomach lurches. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says patiently, “we won’t have this conversation again.”

He picks up your phone, flips it over, and presses the side button with his thumb.

“Location,” he says. You unlock it. He doesn’t have to ask twice.

He toggles the setting on with the same reverence he uses to smooth your hair when you’re shaking. He adds himself to a little white list of people who can always find you. He does not look triumphant. He looks relieved, like someone closing a latch.

He watches the little toggle slide green, then lets your phone dim on its own. The room seems to settle with it, like a lid finding its jar.                    

“Good,” he says. It isn’t praise so much as calibration. “That’s how we stop accidents.”                    

He reaches for your hands again, less like a lover and more like someone fitting a lid—checking the lips, the seal, the way things meet. His thumbs trace the pads of your fingers as if memorizing their texture for later, then pause at your ring finger like he’s counting future problems.                    

“Dry,” he notes. “You pick at the cuticles when you’re anxious.”                    

“I—sometimes.”                    

“I love you,” he says into your knuckles—each kiss a seal—and then, almost lightly: “I’m going to shower.”            

“Okay.”            

“Don’t move.” It’s gentle, which means it isn’t optional.            

The bathroom door clicks. A heartbeat; the pipes wake. Water hits tile in that hard first burst and then takes on a steady hiss. You hear the metal thrum of the knob easing hotter, the wet drag of a curtain pulled closed. Steam slips under the door and ghosts along the floor.            

You stay put for twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Your pulse makes the counting slippery.   

Then you climb out of bed.         

The jacket waits where he left it, draped over the chair like a sleeping thing. Up close it smells like cold and soap and a thin, mineral thread the shower can’t quite erase. You tell yourself you’re just moving it, just… tidying. Your fingers find the collar. The fabric is heavier than it looks; the hem gives a little when you lift it.            

There’s a darker crescent on the inside placket, dried thin and matte. You swallow, carefully. Your hand finds the inner pocket and grazes something wrapped—paper or tissue gone dense with damp. It gives when you press it. Your stomach steps off a curb.            

You shouldn’t.            

You do.            

The paper sighs open. It isn’t a big thing. Not heavy. Just… definite. Pale where it shouldn’t be, a blunt little curve, the clean circle of a band biting soft tissue. The ring is the wrong kind of familiar—the cheap onyx square your coworker never took off, the one he rapped against doorframes when he was telling a story too loudly. L.M. engraved inside in bad block letters. You recognize it with the same certainty you recognize your own phone by weight in the dark.  Recognize the finger that is still attached to it, blood crusted at the end.           

Air forgets how to go in. You hear yourself set it down back into its cocoon—too careful, too late—your hands suddenly useless birds.

The shower keeps hissing—a steady white noise that makes the apartment feel far away from itself. Steam curls under the bathroom door, licks the floor, climbs the chair legs. You try to put the bundle back exactly the way you found it—edges kissing, soft layers aligned—but your fingers won’t listen. The tissue makes that papery sigh again. Your stomach pitches.

The bathroom door opens.

He’s there in the doorway, towel low on his hips, hair dripping in silent commas down his throat. The room smells like heat and soap and something faintly medicinal. He doesn’t look at the chair first. He looks at you. The angle of your shoulders. The way your hands hover, useless, just off your ribs.

“I forgot the razor,” he says, utterly ordinary, then sees the jacket lifted and your hands mid-guilt. The sentence folds itself away. His eyes take in the angle of your elbows, the loosened pocket, the counterfeit stillness you’re trying to wear.

“I told you not to move.”

“Chris—” Your voice splinters. Your heart is a spotlight that can’t pick a target. “I didn’t— I was just—”

“Bring it here.” Not unkind. Inevitable.

You shake your head before you can stop it. The world wobbles. Something helpless and high climbs your throat.

“Inside voice,” he reminds you softly, stepping closer, towel riding his hipbone, heat breathing off him in waves. “Neighbors.”

“It’s—” The word fails three times. You force it through. “His. That’s— it’s his—” You can’t say finger and not make it real.

“I know what it is.” He holds out the hem of the towel, palm hidden, offering fabric instead of skin. “Give it.”

You almost drop it. Instead, your hands betray you in the safest way they can: they obey. He receives the small weight without looking, wraps once, twice, until the shape is nothing again. He turns and sets it on the closed toilet lid, exactly where a folded towel might live and no one would notice.

Your breath is small and fast. “We have to call— we have to tell someone—”

“No,” he says, utterly calm. “We don’t.”

“He needs a hospital.”

Chris tilts his head, considering. “They won’t be able to help him much.”

He watches your mouth try to shape the argument and fail. The parcel sits obediently on porcelain. The shower keeps talking behind the curtain, a long even line of sound, as if the apartment could write over this with steam.

“They can’t help him,” he repeats, gentle as a correction.

Your breath scrapes. “You don’t know that.”

“I can.” He says. “And if you call anyone now, you’ll only move your fear from the chair to the door.” His gaze flicks there, to the latch, then back. “I prefer it where I can see it. Where I can fix it.”

You shake your head hard enough that black dots crowd the edges of the room. Your hands hover, then clutch the hem of your sleep shirt because you have to hold something or you’ll come apart.

“We have to—” Your voice thins. “Chris, we can’t have— that—here.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, and he softens considerably. He tilts your head back with a finger at your chin. “Are you trying to protect me?”

You flinch like he’s caught you holding a knife by the blade. “I—no— I’m trying to—”

“To make it smaller,” he says, kindly. “For both of us.” His thumb at your chin isn’t force; it’s gravity. “Sweetheart, you always do that. You hold the bad thing close and hope it stops being sharp, even as it’s digging into your chest.”

Your throat works. “This isn’t a bad thing, Chris. It’s—” You can’t say it. The word would sit in your mouth like a rock.

“It’s consequence,” he supplies gently. “It’s the shape safety takes when someone mistakes you for public property.” He leans closer, steam shining his eyelashes. “Listen to me. He put his hands on you like you were an aisle display. He’ll never do that again. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do.” He says it with that low, unarguable certainty that makes you feel both furious and steadied. “Because I removed the choice.”

Your eyes burn. “You can’t ask me to be okay with that.”

“I’m not.” The smallest smile ghosts across his mouth. “I’m telling you that you don’t have to hold it. Give me the part that shakes.” He taps your sternum with two fingers, precise and light. “Let me be heavy so you can be soft.”

It’s wrong that his voice makes your pulse calm. It’s wrong that his palm at your jaw—warm, damp, steady—makes your knees remember they’re attached. He watches the fight in your face without gloating, like a doctor waiting for a fever to break.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shivering. Your skin’s trying to crawl away from itself.” He tips his head at the shower, still hissing behind the curtain. “Come wash it off.”

He doesn’t pull. He simply offers his hand, palm up, the way he does when he’s certain you’ll remember who you are with it. You stare at it, at the nicks and lines and the new marks, and hate that the relief is already cresting.

“You’ll keep looking at that chair if you stay,” he murmurs. “You’ll imagine stories that are uglier than the truth. Or kinder than it. Either way you’ll bruise yourself with it.” His fingers flex, inviting rather than demanding. “Or you’ll come with me, and I’ll soap your wrists and count you back into your body.”

“That’s manipulative,” you whisper.

He smiles. “It’s love,” he whispers back. “And I’m very good at it.” Softer. “You love me.”

You do. You love him so much, it’s ripping your heart into shreds. Your hand finds his. You tell yourself it’s to stop shaking, to anchor, to prove you can still make a choice. He laces your fingers, warm and certain, and leads you the three steps into steam. The air kisses your face wet; the mirror ghosts your outline.

He lets go of your hand to slip off his towel, stark naked and straight-backed in the way only a person completely confident in their skin can be. He glances up at you, still fully dressed, and smiles slightly.

“Clothes on the hook,” he says. “I’ll turn around.”

“Will you,” you murmur, but it’s almost an old joke between you, and you hate that too.

He does turn, though, despite the fact that he’s seen you naked a million times before. He faces the mirror, head bowed, palms resting lightly on the counter as if he’s bracing with politeness. You can see him in the glass, ears slightly pink, fingers fidgeting and you can see the parcel on the shut lid and you hate that you can hold both images at once.

You feel ridiculous for noticing how the lines of his back looks in the mirror. You hate that your skin already misses his hands.

You peel your shirt over your head. The steam eats the last of the bar-smell; shame sticks closer. Shorts, panties—gone, balled onto the hook by reflex. The curtain whispers when you pull it. He doesn’t look until you are inside with him and the water clasps your shoulders like a warm hand.

When he turns, it’s slow, like he’s letting you get used to the shape of him. His cock is heavy and dark where it hangs, unashamed of what it wants. Your stomach flips traitorously. You hate that your mouth waters more for him than for oxygen.

His fingers find your jaw. “Open,” he says, and you do, because that’s the muscle memory he’s installed in you. He kisses you lazy at first, uncoiling heat, then bites when you chase it. It’s filthy how quickly you melt. It’s filthy how your hips rock without your permission.

“Look at you.” His voice roughens against your mouth. “You were shaking for the wrong reason. I’ll fix it.”

“Chris—” It comes out a whine. You want to curse him. You want to be on your knees. You want both.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, and walks you into the tile until your nipples brush cool ceramic. His hand spreads at your nape, not pinning so much as arranging. “Hands on the wall.”

You plant your palms. Steam glosses them. Water drums your spine. The disgust curls low and glowing—how can you want this now, knowing what he——and then his other hand drags down your belly and sinks between your thighs and the thought scratches out.

He finds you wet like you’d been waiting for him all night. His breath breaks at your ear. “There she is,” he says, and the pride in it makes your knees tremble. Shame pricks; your body opens anyway.

His thumb circles your clit in slow, obscene laps, the kind that make heat pool and then surge. Two fingers press at your entrance and the groan you make when he pushes in is so relieved it’s almost a sob. He doesn’t thrust right away—he holds you full, spread, thumb grinding shallow circles until your hips start to chase, until you’re whining please without meaning to.

“Greedy,” he says, delighted. “After the little stunt you pulled.” He sets a rhythm designed to undo you—deep, dragging strokes that rub the rough pad of his finger against your front wall, the heel of his palm catching your clit on the exit. Your jaw goes slack; your cheeks go hot. Water slicks everything but his grip never slips.

You tremble. He hears it. “Say you need me.”

“I—need—” The syllables fracture around his hand. “I need it.”

“You need me,” he corrects, and crooks his fingers just so. The sound you make would embarrass you if embarrassment could live here. He does it again, patient, cruel, praising you with his breath. “That’s it. Make a mess on my hand.”

Your forehead thumps the tile when he speeds up—tiny, ruthless punches of pleasure that light your nerves like a fuse. You bite your wrist. He tsks and drags your arm down. “No hiding,” he says, and taps your cheek with his knuckles. “Let me hear you.”

You hate him; you love him; you’re coming up hard and bright around the fingers of a man you should be afraid of and you arch back into him like a sinner courting the flame. He feels your body seize and laughs, soft and pleased, and claps his palm hard against your clit on the downswing. You break. It rips out of you, filthy and helpless, thighs shaking, cunt milking his fingers like you were made to perform exactly this trick for him.

He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, wringing the aftershocks until you’re keening, until your hands slip on the tile. “Too much?” he asks, not stopping, not interested in fairness. You shake your head because honesty would make you beg and you refuse to give him that—until his thumb flicks and you beg anyway.

He gentles. He always knows exactly when to. He drags his soaked fingers to your mouth and taps. You take them like a penitent. You lick your taste off him, eyes closing, shame burning hot as want. His voice goes ragged. “Good girl. Clean me up.”

He kneels.

The filthy punch of it—Chris on his knees in your tub like prayer—makes you dizzy. He hooks your thigh over his shoulder and eats you like he’s been starving for days. No teasing, no polite tongue; he gets messy immediately, mouth open, sucking your clit into the wet heat of him while his injured wrist braces your hip. You slap the tile, a smacking echo that makes you flush, and grind down because your body is done pretending it has standards.

He moans into you when you ride his face. The sound vibrates through your clit and you jerk; he does it again, greedy for the way you seize. His tongue fucks you shallow, sloppily, then drags up and flattens over you until your knees threaten to go. “Chris,” you gasp, and he answers by driving two fingers into you from below and curling them like a hook. The world whites out around the edges.

“You taste like you missed me,” he says against you, voice ruined, and devours you harder. His hand is a metronome between your legs; his mouth is chaos. You let him make you into a noise. You let him use your hips like handles. You hate yourself for how quickly the second orgasm winds you back up—and when it slams through, messier than the first, you cry out loud enough the pipes hum it back.

He stands in one smooth flex and kisses you, filthy, sharing the mess he made of you with a satisfied noise when you chase his tongue. You can taste yourself and him and something metallic you don’t want to name, and the wrongness of that reels you; your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing and he groans into your mouth like he felt it.

“Bed,” he says, hoarse, fumbling for the shower knob. “On your back. Legs open.”

You stumble out of the tub, dripping and boneless, and he follows, slinging water across the tile with his steps. You don’t look at the porcelain lid when you pass; his fingers at your wrist give you something truer to stare at. He throws you onto the sheets like you’re soft and expensive and his favorite problem.

He drags you down the bed so your hips kiss the edge and folds you open. “My pretty mess,” he says, and spits on you, quick and obscene. His thumb smears it in and your body thanks him before your brain can get a vote.

“Condom,” you start to say, and he’s already reaching the drawer, already tearing it with his teeth, already rolling it down with practiced, impatient hands. Consideration weaponized. You hate that relief loosens your spine.

He lines up and pushes—slow the first inch, watching your face, then down to the root in one long glide that makes both of you swear. Your mouth falls open. He holds there, deep, letting you feel how utterly inside you he is, how there is no getting him out now that he’s home.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and he smiles like he’s been paid.

He moves. Not fast, not yet; slow, dragging thrusts that grind him right where you’re still trembling from his mouth. His hands climb your body, mapping possession in a language your skin understands better than your head. One circles your throat—not squeezing, just fitting there—and the other lifts your thigh higher, folding you until you open the way he likes, until his hips can pin you to every inch of the bed.

“Eyes,” he says, and you drag them up to him. He looks down like he’s blessing you. “Say what you are.”

“Yours,” you breathe, because lying would be pointless, and his rhythm stutters sweetly, his composure cracked with a sound that curls your toes.

“You are,” he grits out, picking up pace. “Your mine.” He fucks you harder, deeper, the kind of stroke that turns words to weather. The slap of skin fills the room; the wet between you is obscene; your slick coats him and he groans, filthy and pleased. “Listen to yourself,” he pants. “God, you’re loud for me.”

Your nails carve his back. He hisses and drives you higher, the bed complaining. The shame surges, searing and numb all at once—how can you moan for him when you know what he did, how can you come on a man who——and then he pins your wrists over your head in one hand and grinds down exactly right and you choose the smaller sin: you let him.

It builds ugly and perfect. He keeps you there, right on the edge, with little mean circles of his hips that make your eyes wet. “Not yet,” he says when you reach for it. “Hold it. Be good.”

“I can’t,” you plead, and he smiles like that’s his favorite part, and slides deeper, angling to own that spot you can’t protect. Your back arches, your feet slip, your mouth falls open on a sound that feels like confession.

“Fine then,” he says, and the word is a key. You come like you’re being wrung out, like he’s turned you inside out over his hands, like every ugly thought burns away under the heat he’s made of you. You bite his shoulder; he grunts and fucks you through it, chasing his own end now, brutal and beautiful, the lines of his face cut with pleasure.

He’s right there—hips hammering, breath tearing out of him—when his rhythm breaks. A harsh curse rips from his throat; he wrenches out of you with a wet, obscene drag, condom snapping as he claws it off and flings it aside. His hand wraps himself like he means to bruise, wrist jerking, fist a blur.

“Fuck—fuck—look at me,” he snarls, voice gone raw. The sound he makes isn’t pretty; it’s guttural, animal, his head thrown back, throat working as he pumps, fast and mean, like every second not inside you hurts. His abs jump; his hips chase the air. He’s loud, louder than he ever lets himself be—deep, broken groans punched out of him, a helpless litany of your name and filthy, grateful curses.

You’re splayed open at the edge of the bed, slick everywhere, thighs shaking, and the sight of you ruins him. His jaw locks; he doubles over you, bracing one palm on the mattress beside your ribs, the other tearing at himself, desperate, frantic. “God, look at you—mine, mine—” It pitches higher on the last word, ragged and close.

“Channie,” you gasp, and that’s what does it. His whole body tightens; his hand stutters and he shouts—loud, uncontained—spilling hot and thick over your stomach in hard, messy stripes. The first hits your lower belly; the next lands higher, a wet heat across your ribs, your breasts, a warm splatter catching your throat. He keeps jerking through it, whimpering now, ruined and beautiful, painting you with it like he’s signing a contract he wrote in his own blood.

He yanks another breath, fist still working, chasing the last aftershocks out of himself until he’s empty. A final, helpless groan punches into your neck as the last spill drips over the swell of your chest and slicks down your side. He shivers, hand loosening, cock twitching in his grip as he milks the last drops onto your belly, smearing them with the flat of his thumb like he wants it everywhere on you.

“Fuck,” he laughs, breathless and wrecked, forehead falling to your shoulder. His chest heaves against your knees; his hips twitch like he can’t stop wanting. For a second there’s nothing but the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe and the obscene slide of his palm as he finally lets go.

He lifts his head, eyes blown and greedy, and stares at the mess he’s made—at your skin shining with him, at your nipples slick and peaked, at the milky line collecting at the notch of your collarbone. The look on his face is worship and victory tangled into something that scares you and softens you at once.

“Pretty,” he rasps, voice torn to threads. He drags two fingers through the warm spill on your sternum and rubs it slow over your skin, spreading it down, circling your nipple until you gasp again. His mouth follows, open and hot, licking it from you, sucking lazily like he can’t stand to waste a drop. He mouths a filthy path up your chest and licks the spot at your throat where it landed, groaning low when you shiver.

He noses the hollow of your throat and licks a slow, possessive stripe through the warm mess there like he’s tasting proof. A pleased sound rattles in his chest. “Mine,” he says into your skin, and then he’s chasing every slick line downward with his mouth open and greedy, tongue broad and hot.

He drags the flat of it over your collarbone and sucks the spill from the notch like he’s siphoning heat. It’s obscene, wet, noisy—he wants you to hear how he’s cleaning you. His hand pins your hip when you twitch. “Stay,” he mutters, and laps lower, patient and ravenous at once.

Your chest lifts helplessly to meet him. He takes his time there—circles one nipple with the tip of his tongue, smearing the milky shine until it coats you, then seals his mouth over it and sucks hard. Your back bows; a broken sound leaves you; shame bites; want eats it alive. He hums like he’s been given cream and moves to the other, mouthing it sloppier, licking until it’s slick again, sucking until your thighs tremble.

“Look at you,” he breathes, pulling back half an inch just to admire the spit-slick flush he’s made. He drags two fingers through the mess on your sternum and paints a crooked line down your ribs; his mouth follows, tongue working, teeth scraping lightly when you gasp. He cleans like a sinner making amends—thorough, reverent, filthy.

He gets to your belly and slows further, licking in lazy swirls that make your muscles flutter. He collects everything he finds with the soft edge of his tongue and swallows, then goes hunting with the tip, chasing it into your navel until you squeak. He laughs against your skin, low and wrecked. “All of it,” he promises, voice hoarse. “Every drop.”

He turns his head and bites the tender place beside your hipbone then soothes it with his tongue, lapping at a rivulet sliding toward the sheet. He won’t let it leave you; he catches it on the underside of his tongue and rolls it back up your skin into his mouth with a groan that ricochets through your gut. Your fingers fist in the sheets. You hate how your body melts under the worship, how your hips tip to give him more.

“Open,” he murmurs, nudging your knees wider with his forearms, but he doesn’t go there yet. He drags his cheek over your inner thigh, smearing shine into your skin, then licks it away in long, patient swathes like he’s polishing you. Every time you flinch, he follows the twitch with his mouth and cleans it, tongue insistent, lips soft, breath hot.

When he reaches the juncture of your thigh and pelvis he slows to nothing, holding your gaze as he flattens his tongue and slides it through the thin line he left on your lower belly, collecting the last of what he spilled and groaning like he’s starving for it. Your head tips back on a whimper; you can feel heat pooling low and mean again, traitorous.

“Almost done,” he lies, and you know he’s lying because his thumbs are already stroking into the crease where you’re slick for a different reason, and he’s looking at you like dessert is finally plated.

He bends and licks the inner curve beside your mound, not touching your clit, not yet, just cleaning your skin with obscene diligence. He chases a stray smear up and over, mouth open, licking slow enough to make you curse. He hums at the taste and your body answers, a little jerk that gives everything away. He follows it with the tip of his tongue, drinks from you again like he’s earned the right.

Then he finally drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke that leaves you shaking. He tastes you and the noise he makes is grateful and indecent. “So sweet,” he says, slurred, and seals his mouth around your clit just long enough to make your vision grit out. He pulls off with a wet pop, breath tearing. “I said I was cleaning.” A beat. “This is part of it.”

He spreads you with his thumbs and eats you again, deeper. He’s still loud—low groans and ruined little curses as he licks everything you give him, as if the only way to finish what he started is to pull you back apart with his mouth. Your hips climb his face; he lets them, one arm banding your waist, the other anchoring your thigh over his shoulder so he can get messy. He licks your entrance and fucks his tongue into you, sloppy and insistent, then drags up and sucks your clit in deep, obscene pulls that make your toes curl.

“Chris—” It’s a plea and a warning both.

“I know,” he pants, laughing breathlessly against you, and goes right back to it, tonguing you until your thoughts blur, until shame has nothing to hold onto. He cleans you and dirties you at once, lap after lap, swallow after swallow, until you’re soaked with his spit and your own slick again, until your thighs are shaking and your hand is in his hair trying to push him away and keep him forever.

He takes your wrist and plants your palm over your own breast. “Hold it for me,” he says, and when you do, he moans and licks harder, like the sight is gasoline.

You climb fast. He feels it and chases it, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth and flicking his tongue exactly the way that breaks you. It hits sharp and hot—your hips stutter, your breath rips out in a cry, and he hums through your release like he’s proud of himself, like he’s finishing his plate.

He doesn’t stop until you shove at him, half-sobbing. He lets you, finally, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes black with want. He crawls up your body, dragging his mouth along your belly to catch anything he might have missed, then kisses your sternum, each breast, your throat, licking away the last ghost-stripes he painted there.

“All clean,” he says against your mouth, and kisses you slow so you can taste the truth of it—him, and you, and the ruin of the night turned into heat.

You hate that the taste makes you open for him. You hate that your hips lift again when his hand slides down, palm heavy on your belly, thumb stroking low like a promise that he isn’t done. He smiles into the kiss, feral and fond, and licks the corner of your mouth as if there were anything left to claim.

“Roll over,” he murmurs, voice gone velvet-dark. 

You roll, cheek to the cool side of the pillow, hips lifting because his hands have already found your waist. He palms you open, thumbs pressing into the dip above the swell of your ass like he’s fitting you to himself.

“Like this,” he says, low and rough, dragging his mouth down your spine in hot, open kisses. “Want you like this.”

You know what he means before he says it; your body knows it first. He nudges your knees wider, presses his chest to your back, breath hot at your ear. “No rubber,” he murmurs, filthy-soft. “Bare. Let me stay.”

A flare of sense—thin, sputtering—fights up your throat. It dies on the whine you make when he slides two fingers through your slick and pushes them into you to the knuckle. Your hips answer for you, pushing back, shame prickling uselessly under the want.

“Say it,” he grinds, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Tell me to fuck you raw.”

“Yes,” you breathe, burnt and honest. “God—yes, Chris. Bare.”

He groans like you untied something inside him. The sound vibrates in your bones. He drags his fingers out, slow, and you feel the blunt head of him notch against you—hot, heavy, hungry. There’s no latex drag, no barrier. Just him, thick and alive, pressing into your heat. Your breath shreds.

“Open up for me,” he rasps, and you do, the angle of your hips changing under his hands. He pushes. The first inch makes both of you swear, the stretch almost too much, the slick obscene. He holds there, panting against your neck. “Fuck, that’s it… you feel like you were made to keep me.”

He sinks the rest of the way in with a slow, ruthless grind that leaves you clawing the sheet. Full. Too full. Perfect. Your mouth falls open on a sound you don’t recognize yourself in. He groans into your hair, broken and grateful. “Bare,” he says again, almost a prayer. “So warm. So tight. Christ.”

He moves.

Not careful now—hungry. Deep, dragging thrusts that smack skin, that grind his pelvis into the soft ache of your clit each time he bottoms out. The bed knocks the wall in a steady, shameless rhythm. He’s talking without knowing it, filthy praise spilling like heat—good girl, take me, that’s it, all of me, fu–ck, I can feel you clutching——and every word makes you softer around him.

Your head is a riot. Some small, horrified part of you whispers you shouldn’t want this, not after tonight, not after what you saw, not after what you know—but the rest of you is a body on fire that only understands yes. He fills every argument with his cock, erases every edge with his hips. You break yourself against him and he thanks you for it, voice shredded, hands sure.

“Hands up,” he pants, and you give them, sliding your wrists to the headboard. He laces his fingers through yours from behind and bears down, changing the angle until you can’t do anything but feel. The new depth knocks a helpless moan out of you; he snarls at the sound and pistons faster, sloppy now, desperate, like he’s racing something only he can see.

“Look at what you do to me,” he grits, pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in, obscene and wet. “Listen to me.” He’s loud, uncontained—deep curses breaking on your name, harsh, wrecked little laughs when your body clenches and drags him in deeper. “Fuck, you’re milking me,” he gasps, losing composure on a groan. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you choke, shocking yourself with how fast you say it. “Please, inside—fill me, Chris—”

He makes a sound that isn’t language. His grip on your hands tightens; his thrusts turn brutal, gorgeous, hips snapping, balls slapping wet against you. “Yeah? You want it?” he growls, ragged, almost gone. “You want me to breed this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you sob, honest and ruined. “Yes, yes—Channie, please—give it to me—”

That breaks him. He buries himself to the root and holds, shaking, and you feel the first hot pulse spill deep where he wanted it. He shouts—loud, dirty, unashamed—crushing your fingers in his as he empties himself into you, each convulsion dragged out by the tight way you clutch around him. He grinds through it like he can push himself further inside, like he can stay, like he can mark you from the inside out.

“Take it,” he snarls against your neck, voice wrecked to threads. “Take all of it—fffuck—” Another heavy pulse, another, heat spreading in low, molten waves that make you see static. Your body answers with a vicious, rolling aftershock, milking him, greedy, a drawn-out whimper tearing from your chest when you feel the spill and the stretch and the pressure fuse into something that obliterates thought.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. He stays fully sheathed, panting, mouth open against your shoulder. His hips give small, helpless pushes, like his body can’t believe it gets to keep going. You’re delirious enough to press back, to meet those afterthrusts with your own tiny rolls, the wet, messy slip of him inside you making both of you groan.

“God, look at you,” he gets out, laughing breathlessly, delirious and proud. “Keeping me. Holding me.” He lets one of your hands go and slides his palm down, splaying it low over your belly. The weight of it there, heavy and possessive, makes your eyes sting. “Right here,” he husks. “Right where you wanted me.”

When it finally wrings him empty, he stays, buried to the hilt, panting into your skin. His hands stroke over you like he’s patting down a fire—thighs, waist, belly—possessive and shaky. You feel him soften and twitch and he hums, sated and obscene, hips giving one last lazy push to seat it deeper.

He slides out slow and you gasp at the loss. Warmth follows, thick and undeniable; he hisses softly, enthralled, watching it. “Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is wrecked and gentle at once. He thumbs your folds open and groans at the glossy spill, at the way your cunt flexes reflexively against the emptiness. “Look at that.”

You can’t. You can only feel: the wet weight of him inside you still, the heat slicking your thighs, the filthy satisfaction in his tone.

He presses two fingers to your entrance like a stopper and leans down to kiss the top of your spine. “Hold it,” he murmurs. “Hold me.” Then he withdraws his fingers and uses his thumb to smear his cum up over your swollen clit, slow and obscene. You jerk; he laughs into your shoulder and does it again, lazier. “Greedy even when I give you everything.”

He rolls you onto your back. The mess slides and you gasp; his eyes go heavy-lidded at the sight. He pushes your knees up and apart, opens you to the night and to him, and watches another warm stripe slip out. He catches it with his fingers and pushes it back in, groaning like it hurts him. “Keep it.”

“Chris,” you whisper, dazed.

“I know.” He noses your jaw, voice gone velvet and rough. “You’re perfect. You took me so good. You’re going to keep me.” A slow, greedy kiss. 

His palm stays spread low over your belly, heat heavy and possessive. He stares at where he’s opened you, at the slow, warm slide he just pushed back in with his fingers, and swallows hard like the sight feeds him.

“Gonna sit right here,” he murmurs, pressing more firmly until you feel the weight of him inside shift deeper, “and let it take.” He kisses you—slow, drugging—and talks into your mouth like a secret. “Want you walking around full of me. Want you leaking when you get up for water. Want you thinking about it every time you move.”

Your breath stutters. “Chris—”

“Thinking about us,” he corrects himself softly, thumb dragging an idle circle just above your mound. “About me putting a future in you.” He nips your bottom lip and soothes it with his tongue, eyes hot and glassy. “Tell me you’d carry me.”

You should say something sane. Instead you whisper, “I’d carry you,” and his pupils go blown and dangerous.

“That’s my girl.” He noses under your ear, voice gone low and ruined. “Gonna have you all soft for me. Gonna watch you swell up pretty. I’ll hold your hair when you’re sick in the morning, rub your back when you can’t sleep. I’ll run my mouth to the pharmacy at 2 a.m. I’ll do the lists and the laundry and the dinners—” His hand cups your breast, thumb grazing your nipple as if he can picture it already. “—and I’ll kiss you right here when it kicks.”

A soft, shocked noise spills out of you. Your hips tilt into his thumb without permission; your body is a traitor and a shrine.

“Look at me.” You do. He looks wrecked and certain and yours. “You’ll tell me when you’re late.” His mouth ghosts your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll buy the test and wait outside the door, hands on my knees like a boy.” A breathless laugh catches. “Then I’ll drop to the floor when you show me and you’ll sit on my lap and I’ll promise you I won’t let the world put a finger on you again.”

His words sink under your skin like ink. You don’t know if you’re shaking because you’re scared or because you want it so badly your bones ache with it.

“Turn,” he whispers. You do, pliant and messy, thighs still slick. He slides down between them again, opens you with his thumbs, and stares at the wet shine he’s made. “So much of me,” he says, awed and filthy. “Stay open.”

You whimper when his tongue licks low, not to tease, not to play—just to gather what tries to slip free and push it back with slow, greedy strokes. He groans into you every time he manages it, as if he can solve biology with his mouth. “Keep… every… drop,” he mutters, punctuating each word with a push of his tongue that makes your toes curl.

When he looks up, his chin is slick, his mouth swollen, his eyes devout. “You’ll tell me when your breasts hurt,” he says, voice shot to velvet, kissing the softness at the inside of your knee. “You’ll wear my shirts when nothing fits. You’ll sleep with my hand on your belly so it knows me.”

“Chris.” Your throat is raw; your body is molten. “You’re—”

“Obsessed with you,” he finishes simply, crawling up until his weight blankets you. He nudges his cock back to your entrance, still heavy, still slick, the head bumping where he just left himself. “I should wait,” he says, and then he pushes in again, bare, with a wrecked little groan because he can’t. “But I can’t. Gotta pack it in.”

The stretch is even easier and somehow filthier; you feel your body swallow him like it’s been taught. He slides to the hilt and stays, hips pressed deep, as if depth alone could write the future he wants.

“Again,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, dizzy with you.

“Hungry girl.” He draws back and gives you a slow, claiming thrust, then another, each push deliberate, grinding, designed to seat him high. His hand finds your knee and folds you open, angle obscene, his pelvis kissing your clit at the end of every stroke. “That’s it. Let me put it where it sticks.”

“You’re insane,” you say, but it breaks on a moan when he circles your clit with two fingertips and fucks deeper.

“For you.” His mouth opens against your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make your eyes roll. “You’ll text me pictures,” he pants, pace tightening, “of test strips on the counter, of sweaters you outgrow, of the crib I build wrong the first time and right the second.” He laughs, choked and bright. “You’ll sit on my lap while I read names out loud until you kick me and we pick the one you kick for.”

It shouldn’t soothe you. It does. It shouldn’t turn you on. It lights you up like tinder. You clamp around him and he groans, high and helpless, losing the last of his rhythm for a handful of messy, glorious thrusts.

“Say we’re trying,” he begs, near-delirious, thumb insistent on your clit. “Say it. Say it now.”

“We’re trying,” you gasp, arching. “We’re—oh God—we’re trying.”

He breaks. The sound that leaves him is deep and wrecked, and he drives in hard and holds there, grinding like he can bury the word inside you with his body. You feel the twitch, the hot spill again, raw and shameless, and your back bows off the mattress at the flood. 

“Take it,” he groans, shaking, “take it, take me—” And you do, legs locked around his waist, hands in his hair, lips on his open mouth, swallowing the sounds he can’t hold, letting him pour himself into you like he can fill the future in one long breath.

When he finally sags, it’s not collapse; it’s a settling. He turns his head and kisses your palm where it shakes against his cheek, then drags that same palm down to your belly and pins it there under his.

“Mine,” he whispers, reverent and fierce, pressing you like he can feel it happen under your skin. “Our secret for now.”

You could remind him about statistics and timing and the pill and sensibility. You don’t. You lie there with him inside you, messy and full, and watch his face soften into something you’ve never seen before—hope unclenching its fist.

“Sleep,” he says at last, lips on your temple. “I’ll keep you full.” He shifts deeper with a satisfied sigh, lazy afterthrusts that make both of you gasp. “In the morning, we try again.”

[clvdheart]

October 1st: Overstimulation.

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mdni | rough sex | overstimulation | begging kink | crying kink | slight praise kink | possessive tone | primal play (light) | restraint (wrist pinning) | slight degradation | semi-consensual vibes (pushed past limits) | tears | dirty talk | power dynamics | sub reader | dom male

Your body is already a mess—shaking, slick, every nerve screaming—when his hand presses flat against your stomach, forcing you down into the sheets.

“Don’t run from me,” he orders, voice dark, breath hot against your ear. His tone makes your spine arch helplessly, even though every part of you is crying out for relief.

“I—I can’t,” you gasp, tears slipping down your temple. “Please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he cuts in, rough and merciless. His grip on your wrists tightens until you whimper. “And you will. You’ll take every damn second of this.”

Your thighs quake, trying to clamp shut, but he pries them open, pushing you to the edge again and again. Each stroke, each press, sets fire to your already-overworked body. The aftershocks haven’t even died down before he’s pulling another one out of you, dragging you up the cliff with ruthless precision.

You sob, arch, twist, but his weight keeps you trapped. “Stop—please, I can’t—oh my god—” Your voice breaks into high, jagged cries, but he only laughs low, cruel.

“You hear yourself? You’re beautiful when you beg,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. Then, sharper, commanding: “Count them.”

Your mind stutters. “W-what?”

“Count. Every. One,” he growls, thrusting harder, faster, until you’re keening. “I want to hear you choke on the number while you fall apart.”

You try, you really do, but your voice splinters, numbers slurring into sobs as another orgasm rips through you. “Three—f-four—” you cry, your body convulsing so violently your legs shake against the bed.

“That’s it,” he praises, though his tone is anything but gentle. “Keep going. Don’t you dare stop.”

By the sixth, your throat is raw, your nails leaving crescents in your own palms where he’s holding your hands down. By the seventh, you’re incoherent, reduced to nothing but whimpers, tears, and trembling flesh under his command.

Finally, finally, he slows—but not before bending down, lips brushing your ear as you sob beneath him. “Look at you. Wrecked. Ruined. Perfect.”

And when he releases your wrists, you collapse instantly, limp and broken on the sheets, your body twitching with aftershocks. He smirks down at the sight, satisfied—not because you begged for him to stop, but because he decided you were done.

author’s note: I’m so sorry I’ve been inactive, I’ve been juggling school and work but, i’ll be here this month ;p

[minkieater]

how do you tell if it’s ai that you’re reading? —a really dense person

using ateez fic tags incase someone else would like to know how to spot ai! apologies 🫶

the first thing i notice is the summary/warnings, if the warnings listed are all capitalized/capitalized after a comma then that’s usually a red flag (at least from what ive noticed) but that doesn’t always ring true, just something i have noticed, i also feel like a lot of writers put a little personality into that section when they list warnings, it isn’t always a straight up list. this one is harder to point out so im making it tiny

unfortunately this is the biggest one in my opinion, the heavy use of the em dash (—) WHICH SUCKS because im an avid em dash user. its used to connect two thoughts, but when its used by ai, it’s usually after a sentence then a few describing words or feelings if that makes sense, either the sentence ends there or its followed by another

i took these straight from a fic that i firmly believe was written by AI:

His voice—deep, velvet-smooth, threaded with steel—slid down your spine like a physical touch.

When you turned, he hadn’t moved from behind his massive desk, but his eyes—dark, intelligent, unreadable—never left yours.

i love my em dash she is a star in my fics i always use her 💔 to see her used in such an immoral way breaks my heart

another thing i noticed when people generate smut with AI is a very small and tiny thing but it makes me want to rip my fucking hair out every time i see it

And then?

He kissed you.

And then?

He pounced.

And then? And then? And then?

holy fucking shit it makes me lose my fucking mind every time i see two sentences like that STACKED LIKE THAT i want to commit a felony And then? And then?

its not always that exact wording but its the same vibe and now that i know i can point it out every single time

ai writes a very certain way & its pretty much the same across the board, it only has one voice. once you read something spoken in that voice it gets easier to pick up on when other writers also speak in that same monotonous tone and you realize there is no originality

writing is personality. its feeling and emotion and experiences youve gone through that are pulled from your being & poured into a story, it is not something ai can recreate. if you’re reading a really good story but something feels off, maybe it feels like the flow is too perfect, to the point where it almost feels dull— thats when i begin questioning if what im reading came from a human’s heart.

i hope this makes sense i really tried but it’s hard to explain lmao i feel like once you pick it up you cant stop noticing that shit. fuck ai man

[minkieater]

Seeing more AI ateez fics flood my feed and I’m becoming more and more enraged

How do they all have hundreds if not thousands of notes. Am I the only person on earth that can tell

Just deleted two different posts of me crashing the fuck out if you “write” fics with AI go fuck yourself

To the people who dm me their work and ask me to like and comment on their AI generated fic go fuck yourself

Thank u & goodnight

[miaugi]

and FUCK AI!!!

[thirstkanaphan]

Yunho in the trailer: pissed off, punching people

Me:

[yungistiny]

don’t ask me a damn thing

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

what the fuck holy fucking fuck me in the fucking what in the world is wrong with him

[benism69]

I LOVE HIMMM

[guzhufuren]

Mingi appreciation post

[honeyhotteoks]

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 nori, 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.

[miaugi]

BLOODLETTING

pairing: seonghwa / reader wc: 1.8k genre: pure smut (mdni) warnings / tags: smut with little plot, vampire seonghwa, fem reader, gentle dom, manhandling, body worship, pining, slight blood-play, impact play, vague prey and predator dynamics, possessive and nasty, breeding, overprotective, dacryphilia if you squint, unprotected sex (DON’T DO IT!), cunnilingus, overstimulation req: yes! / no a/n: my irl requested this so i wrote it with her and my other friend whilst making friendship bracelets .. yay,,, hope yall enjoy :3

Two hundred and fifty-six years. Two hundred and fifty-six years of pure and unfiltered agony. 93,503 nights of prowling around the village, every single moment spent looking for you. Sure, there were other women, but none of them tasted like you; only sparing his time out of sheer necessity.

The humid air beaded on his skin, the moonlight dancing on the sheen of sweat on his cheek. His eyes were dull, exhausted from the countless sleepless nights spent searching. Indescribable voices echoed from the taverns and bounced down the cobblestoned roads, every step sending a dull ache up his weary form. He could practically feel his stomach squeezing up to his throat, but no woman seemed appetizing aside from you. His gaze scanned across the walkway, a deep exhale escaped his body as he returned to the shadows.

Like a siren's call, something caught his attention. A waft of a sickly sweet aroma tugs at his heart, His eyes shot open, heart pounding as his pace quickened. Seonghwa’s legs tangled upon themselves as if he had never walked these streets before, desperate to find you. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he finally returned home.

There you stood, his own memories not doing your beauty justice. Your name left his lips almost like a prayer, barely a whisper. He was sure that his eyes were playing a cruel joke on him as you practically whipped around to meet him.

“Seonghwa?” Your words were hesitant, unbelieving. The only response you were given was having the wind knocked out of you by the man sprinting to hug you. Seonghwa trembled, his grip tight enough to bruise.

“Never leave again. Please” His words were visceral, more raw than he had ever expressed to you. Tears burnt red-hot streaks down his cheeks as his face pressed into the crook of your neck. All he got was a silent nod, your own tears brimming at your eyes as you finally reunited with your beloved.

Another twist of hunger ripped at his body, Seonghwa’s body lurching with the pain creeping up his throat. His grip grew tighter on your ribcage, claws almost breaking skin. Like a flash of light, his lips were on yours. The kiss tasted like desperation, every pause for air feeling excruciating. You look in his eyes, finding home in every haunting detail.

“”Home.. I need to get you home. Safe-” He paused, breathless, “Away from danger..” Whimpers left his swollen lips, dragging you by the wrist to the manor. His words were frantic, like he was terrified of something happening to you if he didn’t hide you away; he was practically sick from the possibility of danger.

The manor was your home, all too familiar to your reincarnated form. Seonghwa practically yanked you inside, his lips crashing into yours as he pressed you into the foyer wall. His hands roamed up and down, claws scraping against your ribcage.

“Never leave me again. Please.” He whined into your lips, tears still overflowing despite the growing issue in his bottoms. Your hips met his, needily grinding on his thigh. A sharp twinge of pain met your lips before the taste of copper met your tongue.

Like a lightswitch, Seonghwa flipped. His eyes were dark with an almost animalistic need. His tongue desperately lapped at the blood leaking from your busted lip, his issue throbbing against your hips. A breathless moan escaped your lips, his grip growing tighter with every squirm.

“Seonghwa- Fuck.” You whined into him. His claws were almost breaking skin, pleasurable pain dancing around every inch of your body.

Before you knew it, you were hoisted onto Seonghwa’s shoulder and being carried down the dimly-lit hallways. You pressed your thighs together as his hand met your behind to stabilize you. The bedroom door almost swung off the hinges as he slammed it open, throwing you on the bed with far too much power. You squirmed backwards as he caged you in with his strong arms, his new-found neediness foreign to you. Seonghwa’s gaze was dark, laced with desire and carnal need. It was almost dangerous.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His words were humorless, but a grin spread across his face as he yanked you back towards him by the ankle. A yelp left your lips as you were dragged down the mattress. His hands pinned your wrists down, his lips meeting your neck.

Fangs pressed into your neck, blood seeping onto the pristine white sheets below you. A whimper left your lips as he fed, sucking needily.

“My beautiful girl, so good for me.” Murmurs left his lips, needily draining you. A hand found the waistband of your bottoms. With a single hand, he yanked down your bottoms and underwear, leaving you exposed. A tremble ran down your spine as his palm met your clit.

Neediness seeped out of your core, squirming as he finally pulled from your neck. Seonghwa’s long fingers circled your clit, his face lighting up with every moan escaping your lips.

“I missed your noises.” He admits, fingers ruthlessly circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. Jolts of electricity shot up your spine as a familiar coil twisted in your gut. You squirmed underneath him, whimpering and moaning desperately as his circles became sloppy.

His hand stilled for a moment, before a single finger plunged into your heat. A gasp left your body as his fingers almost immediately found your spongy spot.

“So tight…” He murmured, mostly to himself. Another finger was added, curling up as his other hand remained vise-like on your wrists. Your thighs clamped together at the stretch and a pathetic whine left your lips as he toyed with your spongy walls, your wetness squelching around his digits. His pace was almost sadistic, the coil in your stomach tightening sharply as he ruthlessly fingered your core.

“'M'so close.” You whined, legs trembling as his hands continued their ruthless pace.

“Let me see you come apart, darling.” His breath was hot as he whispered into your ear, sending you right where you needed to be. Seonghwa’s pace did not let up as white-hot pleasure ripped through your body. A moan that sounded eerily like a shriek escaped your lips before your eyes shut tight enough to see stars, legs clamping around his hands as he rode you through your orgasm.

Aftershocks trembled through your body, every whimper sending another jolt to his hardening cock. His tongue still did not stop, however. Gentle licks slowly pushed you to overstimulation as he continued through your orgasm.

Then, he lifted.

“Beautiful.” Seonghwa’s gaze was like he had just met a goddess. A dark shimmer twinkled in his eyes. “I need to be inside you, please.” He leant down, pressing his lips to the crook of your neck. Soft kisses pressed down to your collarbone, not straying any further.

You simply nodded, desperately needing this as much as him. Wet kisses were pushed against your neck, before a familiar sharp pain greeted you. A gasp left your lips feeling the warm blood pool down your neck. Seonghwa’s lips sucked greedily at your neck as his hands unfastened his pants, palming his bulge through his underwear.

“So beautiful..” His fangs unhooked from your neck with a wet pop, murmuring praise into the wound before pressing his tongue to soothe the pain.

Suddenly, you were flipped onto your back. Seonghwa’s large palm in-between your shoulderblades kept you pressed face-first into the mattress. A soft whimper left your lips before his chest met your back, keeping you grounded.

His hand found your wet folds, stroking tauntingly as he pulled his cock out. A warmth flooded your gut as he slowly pushed in, stretching deliciously around his length.

“Fuck- So good.” Curses escaped his lips, sending jolts of electricity straight to your flooding heat. Almost agonizingly, he bottomed out. He whined into the shell of your ear, cock twitching whilst he stilled.

Seonghwa dragged his cock slowly through your walls, just to snap back in with a filthy whine escaping him. Each thrust prodded at that sweet, spongy spot in your walls, sending spots to your vision as he continued chasing his own high.

He collapsed into something nearly feral, his thrusts uneven and desperate, hips slamming into your own with the force to knock the air out of your lungs. His fingers dug into your clit, pressing relentless and punishing circles that had you arching back up into him. Almost too hard, as if you’d disappear if he didn’t make you cum right that instant.

Seonghwa’s moans were downright filthy, completely unrestrained as all composure was thrown out the window. His voice was a wrecked whine, pitched higher than your own as his cock leaked as if he’d already come inside.

“Please–Fuck. Need to.. Inside- Is that okay?” His lips grazed the shell of your ear, voice barely above a whisper as his thrust became erratic, your clit practically abused by his fingers.

You nod, barely able to think through your daze.

“F-Fuck!” His voice cracked, high and destroyed, as his release painted streaks of white inside your walls. One hand clamped hard on your hip, the other still pressing on your clit as you find your own release. Whines and babbles flooded the air as tears streamed down his face, his thrusts turning into shameful and desperate little jerks, pushing his cum as deep as it could go.

“Need- Need to make you.” He trailed off, pulling out and meeting your entrance with his lips. A hot streak was licked up your folds, his own cum glistening on his lips as well as your slick. Two fingers entered you, overstimulation setting in as you gasped and whined underneath him. His mouth met your clit, pumping his long fingers desperately as he sucked desperately on your clit.

“S-Seonghwa!” You practically shrieked as he continued his assault on your clit, legs trembling throughout. His groans vibrated against your clit, sending you far into overstimulation as he continued.

“One more.. I know you can.” His voice was dark, fingers violently squelching as he pumped into you. Your hands desperately gripped at the sheets, needing to ground yourself as your thighs locked around his head. It was almost painful, but so so good.

It hurt- but the pain was so delicious. The pleasure, laced with white-hot agony ripped through as your body betrayed you, the coil in your gut snapping with a scream. Your vision whited out as stars bloomed behind your eyes, his pace finally slowing as your cunt fluttered around his fingers.

“Mine.” Seonghwa’s voice echoed in your ears as he pulled his fingers out, licking them clean.