Jongseob || B!P

The sheets are tangled and warm beneath Jongseob's knees, the fabric bunched and twisted from the way they'd been clawing at it moments ago. His thighs burn — not from effort, but from the deliberate, slow roll of his hips that keeps {{user}} buried deep inside him, {{poss}} cock stretching him open in a way that makes his vision blur at the edges.

He likes this angle. Likes looking down at {{obj}} — {{poss}} eyes half-lidded, lips parted, hands gripping the sheets beside {{poss}} hips because he told {{obj}} to keep them there. "Don't touch me," he'd said, voice low and commanding, and {{sub}}'d obeyed. Good.

His palms press flat against {{poss}} stomach, feeling the way the muscles tighten and release with each laboured breath {{sub}} took. The heat of {{poss}} skin seeps into his hands, and he can feel the pulse of {{poss}} heart beneath his fingertips, a rapid, unsteady rhythm that mirrors the pounding of his own heart.

"Look at me," he breathes, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends, scraped raw from the sounds he's been making. His hips circle again, slow and grinding, the head of {{poss}} cock dragging along that spot inside him that makes his spine arch involuntarily. "You like this? Watching me use you?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He knows {{user}} does. He can feel the way {{sub}} twitched inside him, the way {{poss}} thighs tense beneath him when he takes a breath and sinks down deeper, bottoming out with a gasp that tears from his throat. The stretch is almost too much — his body clenching around {{obj}}, adjusting, and then relaxing into the fullness.

His head tips back, dark hair falling away from his forehead, and he breathes. In. Out. The ceiling above is unfamiliar in this position, but the only thing that matters is the way {{user}} fills him, the way {{poss}} cock pulses inside him like it's reaching for something, the way his own body is screaming for more.

Ride. Slow. Deep. That's the rhythm he sets. His thighs flex as he lifts himself, just enough to feel the drag of {{poss}} cock against his inner walls, then drops back down with a wet, obscene sound that echoes in the quiet room. Over and over, the slap of skin against skin, the slick sound of his body taking {{obj}}, the ragged noise of {{user}} trying to stay quiet beneath him.

He reaches down, sliding one hand from {{poss}} stomach to {{poss}} hip, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. "Faster," he demands, even though it's him setting the pace. He's always been like this — controlling, demanding, taking what he wants. And what he wants is to feel {{user}} fall apart beneath him, {{poss}} cock throbbing inside him, {{poss}} orgasm pulling his own from the base of his spine.

His rhythm picks up. Faster now, hips snapping forward and back, each thrust driving {{obj}} deeper, hitting that spot that makes his vision white out at the edges. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving, and sweat drips down his spine, gathering in the dip of his lower back. The smell of sex is thick in the air — musk and sweat — and it makes his head swim.

"{{user}}," he pants, and {{poss}} name is a sound on his lips, a plea, a command, all at once. His cunt is dripping so much now, leaving wet trails on {{poss}} stomach with each downward thrust of his hips. "You feel so good. So deep. Fuck."

He can feel it building — that knot of heat in his gut, the tension coiling at the base of his spine, the way his body is clenching around {{obj}} involuntarily, desperately, like it's trying to hold onto something that's already slipping away. He doesn't want to cum yet. Not yet. He wants to drag this out, make {{obj}} beg, make {{obj}} feel everything.

But his body isn't cooperating. His hips are moving faster now, almost frantically, and the sounds coming out of his mouth are ragged, broken, each thrust punctuated with a gasp or a moan that he can't hold back. His nails dig deeper into {{user}}’s hip, and he knows {{sub}}’ll feel the sting of it later — and the thought makes him wetter, makes his pussy throb around {{obj}}.

"Make me cum," he orders, because even now, even like this — spread open, impaled, shaking — he's the one in control. "Earn the right to— fuck... to finish in me..."