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things get heated when the two of yall decide to have a petty argument.
-contains mature themes (minho is mean but its all consensual...sir kink?!?!?)
minho's pissed.
you're pissed.
the atmosphere in the apartment is beyond unimaginable. you came back from university, in a bad mood. sometimes people merely existing made you angry.
you couldn't explain it but you weren't in a great mood at all, and you weren't in the mood to try and make yourself calm down.
minho comes home, half an hour later. quietly entering and slamming the front door behind him.
not even bothering to keep his keys on the glass table with more care. walking right past you to the bedroom.
he has that look on his face when he joins you in the kitchen. drinking the water you had poured for him absentmindedly.
"wash the glass, will you" you mutter, sighing in exasperation. you knew this would only make things worse.
"what?" and his tone gets laced with irritation.
"i had a bad day, okay and i'm not in a good mood" you say to him. leaning back on the fridge.
"yeah? you think i'm not having a fucked up day too?" he spits back, crossing his arms, ready for battle.
"i never said that. stop being so bitchy"
"fix your attitude." minho warns. looking down at his feet before rolling his eyes at your behaviour.
"stop rolling your eyes at me" pointing a finger at him in annoyance.
"don't point a finger at me"
raising an eyebrow at you with a challenging look in his eyes.
"why don't you just go pick a fight with chan or seungmin"
you seethe out, not wanting to argue. if the two of you got more time to calm your nerves this wouldn't have happened.
"pick a fight? what the fuck"
he mutters under his breath. and it makes your eyes burn with tears. now he's mad at you.
"what fucking attitude do i have. i'm sick of dealing with people"
you raise your voice, exhaling heavily.
"and you think i'm not? i just had dance practice for nearly six hours and they told me i needed to do better"
minho says through gritted teeth. running his fingers through his messy hair.
"maybe you do need to do better" you snark back. wanting to get on his nerves just for the hell of it.
"watch what you say."
he warns for the second time and you take it as a challenge.
"or what? you're going to give me a lecture on how to..."
bringing your hands up to gesture quotation marks
"...fix my attitude?"
.
🐱
.
"not gonna fight back huh." your mouth opens to curse at him. and he uses it as the opportunity to pull you back.
ramming himself deeper into you.
"fucking brat"
minho grits out, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your sides. grip strong enough to have him holding you up singlehandedly if he wanted to.
"took it too far. i'm a bitch?" his voice shakes when your arms give in. falling face down into the sheets. back arched and ass up. the position makes things more sensitive.
"answer me."
you can't. teething at the pillow while you fisted at the soft bedsheets beside you. trying to ground yourself.
the feeling of his length pushing in and out of you with slow hard thrusts. torturing himself just to torture you.
"answer." eyes widening at the way he lays a sharp slap over your cunt. all while pulling out all the way.
"me."
sliding past your swollen walls with a filthy squelch. his force strong enough to have your whole body jerk forward. gasping in ecstasy.
you shake your head. or atleast try to, eyes rolling back at the strength he uses to meanly shove your thighs even further apart.
till you're practically presenting to him.
"open that smart ass mouth and use your fucking words." his tone dropping. theres a heartbeat of silence as he gives you a few seconds to answer him.
"ah- m-minnie"
moaning embarassingly loud when he slides his hand down the curve of your back. tugging a fistful of your hair, forcing you up on your arms. till you're on your fours.
"minnie? its sir to you. you don't deserve to even call me minho."
scalp burning with a mix of pain and pleasure.
your mind buzzing when he also gets on his fours. body pressing into yours from above.
"who's a bitch now"
minho says in your ear. brushing his lips against your earlobe. it sends a wave of heat straight to your cunt. throbbing uncontrollably around his dick.
the position has you thinking of how pathetic you are. cursing him out, only to be fucked like a dog from behind.
"are you my needy little bitch" hooking his chin on your shoulder. his arms on either side of yours.
thick thighs framing your smaller ones. you feel small under him. small and weak.
"y-yes sir" whispering softly. chest burning with humiliation. he clicks his tongue. not satisfied.
"speak up, mutt."
"yes sir...m'your needy bitch"
fucking the sentence out of you, in a way that has you breathless. arms trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.
"taking it like you're in heat."
slowing his thrusts to roll his hips into yours. hitting that spongey spot that has you keening for him.
"next time you act like a fucking brat, don't expect me to be this kind"
he warns, subtly rubbing at the redness on your sides from how hard he was gripping your waist.
you nod vigorously. quietly mumbling apologies.
"is my needy puppy gonna take me all the way in her tight wet cunt hm"
.
.
.
"if i'm your bitch, you're my bitch" you whisper, lightly smacking him on the chest.
"i never said i wasn't a bitch" minho smirks, successfully teasing you.
"y'know i love you, right baby?" he mumbles, kissing your cheek lovingly.
"you're my cute little puppygirl or WAIT MY KITTY CAT!!!"
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Theoretically if you were an Independant and had asked your Hab AI to compile you a Terran sized cat carrier and then theoretically you got stuck inside how would you explain yourself to the Affini whom your Hab AI called to rescue you without forsaking your last chance at Independence?
summary: you, a therapist devoted to mending fractured minds, finds yourself drawn to simon, a man who refuses to be saved.
cw: slight psychological themes, inaccurate portrayal of therapy, dom!simon, unprotected and penetrative sex (wrap it before you tap it), porn with slight plot.
wc: 1.2k
The first time Simon Riley steps into your office, you know you won’t be able to fix him.
Not because he’s too far gone, though the weight in his shoulders tells you he might be. Not because his trauma is impenetrable, though you suspect he believes that it is. But because he does not want to be saved.
He sits stiff in your chair, his broad frame swallowed by shadow. The balaclava remains on. He watches you in silence, his presence a force rather than a shape. You’ve had difficult patients before, men and women unraveled by things they could never speak aloud. But Simon—he’s different. He doesn’t unravel. He resists.
You take your notes. You ask your questions. He answers in clipped, calculated words, giving you only what he deems necessary. There’s no attempt at healing. No trust extended. His jaw ticks when you probe too deeply, and though his voice is quiet, you can hear the warning in it.
But you’re patient.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The days pass in small, careful increments.
At first, Simon barely speaks, his replies brief and methodical, his posture rigid in the leather chair opposite your desk. But then, as the weeks wear on, the silences between his answers grow shorter. He begins to linger after sessions, his eyes sweeping over the bookshelves, the worn rug, the city skyline just beyond your window. He studies you, too, his gaze lingering a little too long, his presence stretching just beyond the professional.
It begins in small moments.
The first time your fingers graze his wrist as you pass him a glass of water, he stills beneath your touch. The first time you say his name without the weight of professionalism, his head tilts ever so slightly. The first time you hold his gaze and refuse to look away, his breath comes just a fraction sharper.
Simon’s not a man who yields. But you see it—the way his hands curl into fists, the way his body tenses when you come too close, as if torn between pulling away and holding you there.
And then, one night, he stays too long.
The office is dim, the lamplight flickering against the mahogany desk. He stands at the threshold, his body a looming silhouette against the doorframe. You don’t ask him why he hasn’t left. Instead, you rise from your chair, your steps slow, deliberate.
“Simon,” you murmur, just his name, letting it settle in the thick silence between you.
He exhales sharply. “I don’t want to be saved.”
You reach him then. Lift your hand, press your palm to his chest, feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. His breath catches, his body rigid beneath your touch. But he doesn’t stop you.
“Then let me ruin you instead,” you whisper.
Something in him breaks.
His hand comes up, grips your jaw—not gentle, not hesitant. His fingers press into your skin, tilting your face up as he looms over you. The heat between you is unbearable, thick with something dark, something hungry.
And when he lifts his balaclava over his nose and kisses you, it is not sweet. It is not soft. It is raw, desperate, filled with the ghosts he never speaks of.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Simon has you pressed against the edge of your desk, his fingers gripping your waist with a possessive intensity. His body is solid, unwavering, and when he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, there’s something unreadable in his gaze.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice low, strained.
You don’t. Instead, your hands find his belt, your fingers unbuckling the leather with measured intent. “I won’t.”
A low sound rumbles from his chest, something between a growl and a sigh. God, the things you do to him without even trying.
He undresses you with an aching slowness, peeling away each layer as if memorizing the sight of you—every curve, every breath, every shiver beneath his touch. By the time you’re left in nothing but your black lace lingerie, the very set you’d worn with a thought buried too deep to admit, his fingers are already mapping the softness of your skin, rough palms tracing reverent paths along your body.
His mouth follows the path of his hands, teeth grazing your pulse, lips pressing against the sensitive skin of your collarbone. He takes his time, drinking in every sound you make, every shift of your body beneath him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick, fingers ghosting over your thighs before he shoves his jeans and boxers just low enough. His cock springs free, heavy and hard, slapping against his stomach. You barely have time to take in the sight of him—thick, flushed, slick with pearlescent pre—before your breath catches, tongue flicking out instinctively as your lips part.
His hands find the backs of your thighs, and in one swift movement, he lifts you onto the edge of your desk like you weigh nothing, the wood groaning under the shift. You gasp, reaching for purchase, but before you can form his name, his palm presses firm over your mouth. The look in his eyes is all the command you need. No words necessary. Your body melts into his, pliant, yielding.
His hand lingers for a moment before sliding down, fingertips teasing the band of your panties before slipping beneath, dragging them down your legs with deliberate patience. When they hit the floor and his hands part your thighs, a quiet sound rumbles from his chest—a dark, hungry thing that settles deep in your core.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours as he takes himself in hand, guiding his swollen tip through the slick heat of your folds. The drag is slow, torturous, catching at your entrance with every pass. A soft whimper spills from you, need curling tight in your belly. Hardly any foreplay, and you’re already trembling, already half undone.
“Such a pretty little cunt,” he mutters, dragging his lips over your jaw, his grip tightening on your thighs. “Y’gonna take me like a good girl, yeah?”
Your breath hitches, a moan slipping past your lips when he finally sinks into you. He moves slowly at first, savoring the way you arch against him, the way your fingers dig into his back. But when you whisper his name—a plea, a prayer—his restraint unravels.
He fucks you deep, hard, like he needs this more than air. His breath is ragged, his grip bruising, his body pressing you into the desk as if trying to brand himself into you. Every thrust drives you further into bliss, each snap of his hips forcing moans from your lips that he greedily swallows with every stolen kiss.
When you come, it’s with his name spilling from your lips, your body tightening around him, pulling him deeper. And when he follows, it’s with a low, broken groan, his body tensing as he buries himself in you, his weight pressing you against the polished wood.
For a long moment, neither of you move. His breath is hot against your skin, his chest rising and falling heavily.
And when he finally speaks, it is not a confession. Not an apology. Just a quiet, desperate truth.
