⛓️˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ Ruin Me - Part I Lee Know X F!reader

⛓️˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ ruin me - part I lee know x f!reader

In his dirtiest, deepest fantasies, you know exactly what he wants. You run your pretty fingers along his jaw, down his throat, letting your nails drag over his skin dangerously. You stare at him like you’re ready to devour him whole, and then you wrap your hand around his throat and squeeze until his vision fuzzes out at the edges. You force him onto the bed, rip his clothes off until he’s bared to you in all his desperation, maybe make him get on all fours, push his face into the sheets as you inspect his hole. And, God, he begs, begs until his throat is raw, promises you anything for just one touch. OR perv!bsf!minho finds your panties. temptation is too strong.

word count: 4k words

author's note: the second part of this is basically almost done and will be dropping in the next couple of days, but I needed to separate them for pacing reasons. the second part is ... long. for reasons that will become apparent at the end of this. also this is pretty filthy, so heed warnings!

warnings: this a perv!skz thing so Minho’s being weird and pushing boundaries, please don’t see this as a model of healthy behaviour; mention of food and being full in a sexy way because this may be perv!Minho but he’s still Minho; panty stealing; masturbation; male squirting; choking and breathplay by himself (DON'T!!!); fantasizing about degradation, praise, more choking, painplay; dacryphilia; one mention of breeding; implied butt stuff (m receiving)

link to part 2

skzms masterlist // ko-fi

Ten seconds. Ten seconds is all it took.

One, you disappearing into the bathroom to find your bracelet.

Two, Minho scuffing his foot into the plush carpet next to your bed and spotting something peeking out from under the bed frame.

Three, a single shift of his weight from one foot to the other, to see what it was.

Four, a realisation that made his mouth go dry and his heart skip a beat.

Five, six, seven, his body moving before his brain could stop him.

Eight, nine, clammy hands shoving the material into the pocket of his jeans, next to his traitorous cock that was already filling out.

Ten, you walking out of your bathroom, pretty and glowing like the main character in a movie as you slot your earring into place, shirt riding up enough to expose a sliver of soft waist, jeans digging into the pudge of your stomach in a way that makes Minho’s stomach lurch with need.

A few steps of your pretty socked feet on the hardwood, a smile up at him, looking at him through your lashes, offering him your wrist, your bracelet dangling between your fingers. Minho is glad he manages to hold your gaze, glad his fingers aren’t shaking, and his body doesn’t betray him when your chest keeps rising and falling, tits so close to his fingers that he could brush against them if he straightened them out. He takes a deep breath, is overwhelmed with the smell of you, your shampoo, your perfume. His cock is half hard, his guts pulsing with the same gut-wrenching desire you pull out of him all the time without even trying, only this time it’s made more deliciously maddening by the knowledge of what he’s hiding in his pocket.

Your panties. Black, simple, only a little lacy around the edges, crushed up in a ball in the left pocket of his blue jeans, burning a hole into his skin, a hole into his conscience, where guilt and unbearable desire swear to rob him off his sanity, as he struggles to be even half coherent as he flips the meat on the grill at your favourite KBBQ place.

Of course, he grills it for you. He would worship the ground you walk on, if he could – but you don’t know that, so he settles for grilling your meat and watching you eat well, preening at the happy, satiated grin on your face when you’re done, resisting the urge to reach across the table to wipe a smear of grease off the corner of your mouth or let his hand drag over your full, undoubtedly warm, soft belly to slip between your legs and caress a full-body orgasm out of your warm, –

He has to shake himself out of it, has to will his cock back to the half chub he’s been sporting all day that has only been controlled by his willpower and his willpower alone, has to force himself to put one foot in front of the other when the food and the two shots of soju have mellowed you into a clingy, sleepy version of you that holds on to his bicep as you walk, head resting against his shoulder in a way that he knows will leave the smell of your hair ingrained there for exactly two hours, long enough for two orgasms, rubbed out of his cock, burning with guilt and shame and so much desire it makes his world feels like it tilts on its axis and makes him sob into his pillow when the high fades …

He almost forgets about the panties, mind entirely elsewhere on the cold walk from your place to his after dropping you off, thinking about you, yes, but also Doongie’s birthday, as he toes off his shoes in the hallway, drops his coat on the hook, wonders whether cats feel their own age at all and if they know why humans give them presents and the good wet food once a year …

Until he stands in the middle of his bedroom, reaches into his pockets for his phone, his wallet, his keys, ready to peel off his pants and shove the shoulder of his sweater under his nose and finally take care of his half hard, aching cock when he reaches into his pocket and his fingertips meet cotton.

His hands are shaking when he pulls them out of his pocket, and it only takes him one look before he flings them onto his bed and takes a shaky few steps back, his heart thundering in his chest.

They’re not washed. They’re worn.

They’re worn

His cock pulses between his legs, his stomach coiling with so much desire it nearly makes him double over. He digs his fingers into the wood of the dresser behind him.

Somewhere deep within him, his conscience rebels, strikes the alarm. Tells him that he shouldn’t do this, that he should know that once he gets a taste of this, he won’t be able to go back. That he’s fucked in the head and that he knows it, that he’ll be digging through your dirty clothes hamper before the next week is up to get more, more, more, because he’ll wrap them around his cock and smear his release all over the residue of your pussy, and he’ll never be able to forget the taste of it once he has it on his tongue.

He wars with himself like that for what feels like hours, until the sun has sunk way past the horizon, shrouding his room in darkness until the offending material is nothing but a dark shadow on his bedsheets. Standing at the other end of his room, as far away from his bed as possible, gnawing at his bottom lip, but he knows he’s delaying the inevitable.

He knows his fate was sealed the moment he reached under the bed and stuffed the panties in his pocket.

His legs don’t feel like his own when he slowly walks over, sinks onto his bed. Blindly, he feels around for the thing that has been tormenting him. When his fingers find lace, he crushes the panties into his hand with an iron grip. His legs part slightly. His chest feels tight. Arousal makes his brain feel foggy, until everything fades, except the one thing that’s always there, in every waking thought — you.

In his more tame fantasies, he takes what he can get. He imagines kissing you, maybe, if he lets himself go where he shouldn’t, he imagines you kissing him. Shoving your pretty pink tongue that he’s only ever gotten greedy glimpses of when you were eating or taking a sip from your coffee, right into his mouth. He’d probably drool all over himself, but you’d like it. You’d climb into his lap and his hands would be shaking once he finally got to touch you. But touch you, he would. He would commit every inch of you to memory. He would push his fingers into you, rub an orgasm out of you, suck your juices off his fingers and not wash his hands just so he could rub them against his nose for the next 24 hours while he jerked his cock raw.

But here, in the darkness of his room, with the black lace of your panties crushed between his fingers, he lets himself venture where he doesn’t often let himself go, where it’s too dangerous. Because if he let himself believe that you could give him what he really wants, his hopes would get too strong to contend with reality, threatening to distort it and warp it until the tenuous grasp he has on his sanity, on his sick and twisted and unrequited love for you, slipped right through his fingers.

Because in his dirtiest, deepest fantasies, you know exactly what he wants. You run your pretty fingers along his jaw, down his throat, letting your nails drag over his skin dangerously. You stare at him like you’re ready to devour him whole, and then you wrap your hand around his throat and squeeze until his vision fuzzes out at the edges. You force him onto the bed, rip his clothes off until he’s bared to you in all his desperation, maybe make him get on all fours, push his face into the sheets as you inspect his hole. And, God, he begs, begs until his throat is raw, promises you anything for just one touch.

He likes to imagine, how you’d render every gram of muscle he’s worked so hard on in the gym useless. How you’d make him feel like he’s nothing. Smaller than small. Just a vehicle for your pleasure. Maybe you’d condescend to calling him pretty. Run your sweet, deadly fingers over the arch of his nose, stare down at his lips without touching until he’s shivering. Reduce him to tears with just one look of those eyes he has the privilege of being seen by, without ever truly being seen. He doesn’t want you to just see him. He wants you to see everything, wants to be bared to your intelligent eyes — he wants you to see him for what he is. Pathetic. Dirty. Perverted.

Wrong.

And he wants you to punish him for it.

He doesn’t know when he raised his hand, when he brought the balled up underwear in his hand to his face, but the first whiff of it is life-changing, earth-shattering, makes his world turn upside down and his eyes roll into back of his head, his back hitting the sheets as he shoves it against his nose so hard it almost hurts and inhales again.

It’s sweet. Tangy. A little sour, maybe, because you were probably wearing them all day. Maybe some sweat mixed in with the sweet slick from your pussy. The thought alone makes Minho’s hips jump off the bed pathetically, chasing the pressure of his own hand. He often wonders what your pussy looks like. He only saw the outline of it once, when you were wearing leggings, thoughtlessly leaning over the side of the sofa to grab your phone before you were heading out. Your ass, round and perfect, then, leading down, a little V. Two lips, and a little space in between, where the head of his cock could fit so prettily. He jacked off so often to the thought of filling that little space with his cum that his dick was chafed raw, and he could barely meet your eyes. But no matter what he imagines it to look like, he knows it wouldn’t matter to him – it would be as gorgeous as you are, no doubt, wet and glistening and hot, and he’d worship it, if he was just given the chance.

He takes a ragged breath, chest rising in barely controllable tremors, and lets go of the panties, lets them drop on the pillow next to his bed, in favour of torturously slowly trailing his free hand over his clothed chest – the depraved, limitless part of himself already slipping into a place where he can imagine it’s your hand instead of his – until his fingers find the cool metal of the necklace around his neck.

You gave him this necklace, almost a year ago now, for his birthday. It’s a simple thing, a sturdy, a thick chain, shining, real silver, long enough to rest just between his collarbones, a decorative closure, a little thin stick that is threaded through a ring to hold it in place. And Minho knows that’s all it is – a present, a thing you picked out because you thought it would go well with his oversized shirts and thick hoodies, short enough to not get in the way too much when dancing, not expensive enough to be too precious to wear.

But to Minho, it’s so much more. To Minho, the necklace isn’t as much of a necklace. It’s a collar. He wears it not for a fashion statement, but out of a devotion to you that only he knows about. He wears it every day, barely takes it off, his skin itching when he has to, at airport security, a hysterical kind of calm settling back into his bones when it’s back around his neck. He touches it when he sees your name light up his phone screen, or when he thinks of you while he’s out with his friends. But most often, he pulls at it when he’s right here, on his bed, one hand wrapped around his cock, tugging until the metal cuts into the back of his neck and he can feel his devotion to you with every sting of pain.

The necklace snags against his skin and the pain singes a path through his body, a light tremor that runs from the tips of his toes all the way to the crown of his head, makes his cock pulse with the neglect.

He’s been hard for so long that his cock hurts, where it’s confined in his jeans, and he feels his control slipping so fast it’s almost scary. His hand trails an absentminded path down his stomach, until his fingertips graze the bulge in his jeans, thick and hot, just how you’d like it, and the thought of you, makes him burn. You wouldn’t want him to give in so quickly. You’d make him wait.

He squeezes his cock so hard it hurts – his back arching, cock spurting more precum into his boxers, a sob tearing out his throat.

Oh, Minho.

Your voice, molten caramel crawling up his chest, coiling around the skin of his throat, a moan around a piece of meat becoming something entirely else here in the safety of his room. He digs his nails into the jean material of his bulge. Chokes out a ragged breath.

A soft giggle. Nobody does it like you. You’ve ruined me for everyone else.

He whimpers, blindly, desperately fumbles around his pillows until he finds the delicate material of your underwear again. He crushes them against his face and takes a greedy inhale, and the battle with his self-control is lost. His back arches off the bed again, his hand grinds down on his cock and the friction kicks him into motion.

He shoves his clothes off frantically, sits up only enough to rip his shirt and hoodie over his head at the same time, before flopping back down into the pillows. He drags a heavy, burning hand down until he can pop the button of his tight, tight, way too tight jeans, shucks them down, off, kicks them off the bed and then he’s finally naked.

He falls back. He’s exposed, body twitching and hot, every nerve ending on fire, just lying there on his bed, in the dark. The room is quiet except for his heaving chest. On the street, a car is passing. Minho shivers, whimpers into the darkness. He aches.

The cool air of the room makes goosebumps break out all over his body, but he doesn’t move to cover himself up. He lets them make another full-body tremor rack through him. His cock is heavy and hot and wet against his lower stomach, and he parts is legs, exposes himself further to the emptiness of his room, imagines it’s you he’s exposing himself to.

He shoves your underwear back to his nose and smoothes his hand down over his chest, first his palm, then the tip of his finger brushing over his sensitive nipple. The moan he lets out is dampened by the cotton, but the room is dead silent, and it slices through the darkness. It’s so loud, so needy, entirely humiliating. It’s perfect. He moans again.

His chest is sensitive, always has been. He came just from playing with it, once, cock entirely untouched, only his fingers brushing over his nipples until he nearly screamed with sensitivity. He wonders if you’d like it, that he’s sensitive. If you’d touch him there softly, brushing your fingers over him until he goes insane with pleasure. Or if you’d be mean, if you’d pinch them and twist them, laugh at him when he cries. His hand drags down his belly when he imagines your lips around his nipple, calling him your sweet, sensitive boy.

His hand curls around his cock when the you in his head bites his nipple and laughs at him. The pleasure of his hand finally curling around himself rockets pleasure through him and his cock spurts so much precum he thinks for a second that he already came – though when he pumps himself once, the hot, heavy weight of arousal in his guts tells him he hasn’t.

Already made such a mess, you purr, what are we going to do with such a needy little boy?

Minho sniffles into the silence of the room. And he is a mess already, his stomach covered in rapidly, uncomfortably cooling precum, the hand on his cock sliding with how wet it already is. It’s humiliating. He wishes you could see. Fuck, he wishes you were here.

What is heartache but a different kind of pain. He somehow manages to rip his hand from his cock, fisting it into the sheets, relishing in the way his whole body shakes, his knees knock together, try to create friction, and he howls into the room.

It’s like you’re a spectre. He can almost feel the weight of your body when he imagines you crawling over him, straddling his waist, can imagine it’s the plush of your ass when he pushes his cock up from his abdomen with his hands.Blindly, he scrambles for one of his

pillows, let’s go off the panties, only for long enough to fold the pillow in half and wrap it around his cock. The softness, the coolness of the material, they’re a relief on his burning, aching skin. He can’t help but think that this is what it would be like to touch you. Cool fingers, soothing the way his body burns. A salve on the open wound that is his desire for you.

A first tear rolls down his cheek, and he grinds his hips up and oh god he isn’t gonna last, he isn’t gonna last at all.

The wetness seeps into the pillows, and it’s slightly uncomfortable, only makes him sob with how much better he knows you’d feel. You, sitting on his cock, pussy snugly wrapped around him. He imagines the lips of them, rubbing against his shaft with every lift of your hips. The button of your clit, wet, glistening, red, little, and needy for his touch. The cream of you coating his cock. Spit pools in his mouth. He grips the pillow in one hand, brings the other back to his face so he can shove your underwear against his nose, and lets go.

It’s pathetic, so fucking pathetic, the way he starts humping the pillow, the way his back arches and his mattress squeaks with every thrust into the softness that doesn’t quite squeeze him the way he wants to be squeezed, sucked into your warm body, milked until he’s breeding you full of his cum.

He half screams, half sobs, his release so close he can almost taste it, when his heel slips on his sheets, makes his cock slip out of the pillow and his hips lose their rhythm. It’s devastating. His body screams for more, for friction, heat, a hole to sink his cock into. He inhales, feels the tart sweetness of your scent cover his tastebuds and somehow, he manages to flip himself over. The pillow is still below his hips, but the fold of it is long forgotten, his cock now just trapped between it and his abdomen.

He falls forward onto his elbow, black lace still clutched against his face, and he grinds his cock down hard.

The friction is so good, so much better than on his back, and he loses the last dregs of his dignity/ With his face buried in your underwear, his back hunched, he allows his hips to do what they need to, to chase the friction, no matter how fast and hard and uncoordinated, desperate whimpers torn from his lips with every drag of cotton against the sensitive head of his cock.

There are no scenarios playing in his head, any more, no words he wishes you were saying, only the heavy, unignorable sense, the presence of you that haunts him day and night, and the brutal, cold hard truth of him, in his dark room, furiously humping his pillow with your dirty underwear pressed to his nose, every inhale a desperate gasp, every exhale a pathetic moan.

His arm gives out, and he falls forwards into the sheets, panting desperately, his face buried in your panties, his free hand snaking between his legs, wrapping around his cock in a tight fist, the other reaching behind his head, taking a hold of the necklace and pulling, until he can feel it constrict his airways.

He comes two seconds later. With his face buried in your panties, his hand still wrapped around the necklace, his lungs fighting for air, every shaky inhale sending more of your smell through his system, he crashes over the edge with such an intensity that his vision whites out for a second. Distantly, he hears himself scream into his sheets, toes curling, body locking up as he spills, hot and wet, all over his hand, his pillow, his abdomen. And he keeps cumming, his cock spurting wetness all over himself until he seriously wonders if he’s peeing himself, and also if he’s about to pass out, until he realises he’s still holding the necklace in a vice grip. He lets go.

He rears up, gasps for air, gulps it down, his hand helplessly falling into the sheets, his sensitive cock still dripping, every brush of it against the pillow underneath him making little jolts run through his body.

And it takes him a good few minutes to come down, his consciousness floating somewhere five feet above his head. His lucidity comes back to him slowly, but still too painfully fast.

The first thing that becomes awfully clear is his posture. His body, hunched over the pillow that’s still bunched between his thighs, absolutely drenched in his cum. His chest, still heaving slightly, pressed into the sheets.

Then, he realises his face is still smushed into your panties. They’re right underneath his face, on his pillow.

Oh, and he’s drooling. Fuck.

He tries to get himself upright, but his arm nearly gives out, then his leg does, and he tumbles onto his side, cursing in pain when he tries to straighten his leg and a dull ache shoots through his body. He reaches down, past his wet, sticky abdomen, tries to massage feeling back into his calves, and he waits. He waits patiently for what he knows is the next step of the all too familiar process of coming down from one of his manic jerk-off sessions. The shame.

But before it can kick in, his phone rings. But it’s not his normal ringtone. No, it’s the one he set for you. You’re calling. The thought hits him like it’s the bell, and he’s pavlov’s dog.

He scrambles out of bed, his legs still aching and half asleep, and he almost faceplants straight into the floor, catches himself, and crawls over to where his phone is vibrating in the pockets of his jeans.

He rips it out of his pocket, hits accept, and lets himself thunk back onto the floor with a groan.

There’s silence on the other side of the phone. But he can hear you breathing. Steadily, in, out, in, out.

He’s cold. Shivering. The comedown is hitting him.

Finally, you speak.

“Something of mine has gone missing …”

The tone of your voice, the quiet, knowing rasp, makes Minho gasp out a desperate moan, so loud there’s no doubt in his mind that you heard. The knowledge makes his oversensitive body tremor.

“And if you’re a good boy and tell me where it’s gone, I won’t have to punish you.”

link to part 2

skzms masterlist // ko-fi

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