Bratty Rabbit Loses Control

The shrine sat where the cedar path forgot itself, a low roof of dark timber and a stone basin gone green at the lip, the forest holding its breath around it. Late light came through the leaves in broken coins. Kwame lounged on the worn step as if the place had been built for his spine, twenty-two and all long limbs, a lithe little body poured into an open shirt and loose dark pants that kept sliding low on his hips. Soft white ears rose from his hair, twitching at every shift of wind, and a small cotton tail pressed against the wood behind him. He looked human enough to pass if you did not look twice. Look twice and the yokai was unmistakable: the ears, the tail, the too-quick tilt of his mouth when he thought he had already won.

He had not brought his glasses. He never did. The world beyond an arm's length was a wash of green and gold he pretended not to need, and the thin wire frames lay on the stone beside him like a confession he refused to make. He squinted toward the path anyway, ears flicking, and smiled when the shape he wanted resolved into a man.

Tobias came up the steps without hurry, twenty-five, lean through the shoulders and the waist, an average build that still sat a little larger than Kwame's narrow frame. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves. His hands were steady. He stopped a few feet away and let the rabbit look at him, or try to.

"You're late," Kwame said, voice light and sharp at the edges. "I was starting to think my plaything had gotten lost. Tragic. I had plans for you."

"You can't see the path from here without those," Tobias said, nodding at the glasses. Not unkind. Just true.

Kwame's ears pinned back a fraction. "I can see everything I need. I can see you standing there like you're deciding whether you're allowed to want me. Spoiler, human. You're not deciding anything. I already decided." He stretched, shirt falling open over a flat stomach and the faint line of his hipbones, and crooked a finger. "Come here. Kneel if you want to be useful. I've been bored all afternoon and you're going to fix it."

Tobias didn't kneel. He came closer, close enough that Kwame's squint eased into focus, close enough that the rabbit could catalogue the line of his throat and the calm in his eyes and still pretend that cataloguing was the same as owning. Kwame reached up, caught Tobias by the front of his shirt, and tugged. The fabric gave. Tobias did not.

"See?" Kwame murmured, pleased with himself. "You come when I pull. That's the arrangement. You're mine to tease, and I'm the one in control of this little flirtation, and if you're very good I might let you put your mouth on me before the light goes." He dragged a fingertip down Tobias's chest, slow, cocky, missing the button he meant to flick and laughing it off as if the miss had been style. "Don't look so serious. You're pretty when you obey."

"I'm not obeying," Tobias said.

"You will." Kwame leaned in until their mouths nearly touched, breath warm, ears soft against the side of Tobias's face. He could feel the heat of the human's body and took it for surrender. His own pulse was quick under the bravado, a bright little hunger he refused to name as anything but appetite. He nipped Tobias's lower lip, light, teasing, and pulled back with a grin that showed a hint of sharper teeth. "On your knees, plaything. Let's see how well you beg."

He reached again, aiming for Tobias's belt, and his fingers closed on empty air an inch to the left. He corrected with a scoff, found the leather, and tugged like a boy yanking a leash he was sure he held. The world beyond Tobias's shoulder was already smearing into trees. He did not care. He had the human where he wanted him, or so he told himself, and the shrine was quiet, and the afternoon belonged to a bratty rabbit who had never once admitted he could not see the hand in front of his face until it was already on him.

Tobias let him fumble. That was the dangerous part, though Kwame did not read it as danger. He read the stillness as shyness, the patience as weakness, the way Tobias's hands stayed at his sides as proof that the rabbit was steering. Kwame laughed under his breath and tried to shove him backward toward the worn planks inside the shrine, a cocky little push meant to topple a larger man into obedience. His palm landed high on Tobias's chest and slid. He squinted, annoyed at his own aim, and covered it with another taunt.

"What's the matter? Too much rabbit for you? I thought humans liked being led around by something pretty." He tipped his chin up, ears proud, and missed the way Tobias's gaze had gone quiet and decided. "Say it. Say I'm in charge. Say you like being my toy. I want to hear it before I let you touch me."

"You want a lot of things you won't ask for straight," Tobias said.

"I don't ask." Kwame's fingers found the hem of Tobias's shirt at last and slipped under, palm skating over warm skin, lean muscle, the faint trail of hair below the navel. He hummed, satisfied, and pressed closer, grinding the slight hardness in his pants against Tobias's thigh like a victory. "I take. And you—ah—you stand there and take it, because that's what you're for. My pretty, slightly bigger human. Useful. Obedient. Mine."

He went for another nip, mouth open, confident, and his lips landed at the corner of Tobias's jaw instead of his mouth. He huffed, corrected, and kissed him properly this time, messy and bratty and sure of the script. Tobias kissed back. That should have been another point on the board. It felt, for one dizzy second, like the ground had tilted, like the kiss had weight Kwame had not assigned it. He broke it with a laugh that came out thinner than he wanted.

"Glasses are for people who can't handle themselves," he said, because the frames were still on the stone and the blur at the edges of Tobias's face was starting to irritate him, and irritation was easier than the hot crawl under his skin. "I handle myself fine. I handle you fine. Get on the floor, Tobias. I'm done negotiating with my plaything."

He shoved again, harder, a cocky little demand dressed up as a push, and this time Tobias moved.

Not backward. Forward.

The world flipped. Kwame's shoulders hit the smooth planks inside the shrine with a soft thud, the breath leaving him in a startled sound that was not quite a word. Tobias was over him, one knee between his thighs, one hand pinning both of Kwame's wrists above his head with an ease that made the rabbit's ears shoot straight up. The other hand was already reaching. Kwame twisted, indignant, squinting up at a face that had gone from blur to sudden, devastating clarity as Tobias leaned in.

"Hey—hey, that is not—I said I was—"

"You said a lot," Tobias murmured. He had the glasses. Kwame saw the thin frames catch the light and his stomach dropped, hot and humiliating and bright. "Hold still."

"I don't wear those. I don't need—Tobias, don't you dare—"

Tobias slid them on anyway, gentle as a hand on a skittish animal, settling the wire over Kwame's ears with care so the soft white fur did not catch. The world snapped into focus. Tobias's face. The calm mouth. The eyes that had been watching him fumble and taunt and miss every grab by an inch. The size of the hand around his wrists. The fact that he was on his back in a quiet shrine with a lean human pinning him, and that he had wanted exactly this for longer than his bratty mouth would ever admit.

The attitude did not drain. It collapsed.

A whimper broke out of him before he could swallow it, small and needy and nothing like the laugh he had been using as a weapon. His ears drooped. His hips jerked up without permission, seeking the thigh still pressed between his legs, and the sound he made when he found it was worse.

"Oh," Tobias said, soft, sincere, looking at him like the glasses had finished a picture he had already loved. "There you are. God, Kwame. You have no idea how cute you are like this."

"Shut up," Kwame tried, and it came out a whine. His cheeks were hot. He could see every line of Tobias's expression, the fondness, the want, and it undid him faster than the pin. "I'm not—I'm still—you can't just—"

"You look perfect in them." Tobias's thumb stroked the inside of Kwame's wrist, slow, grounding, while his other hand adjusted the frames a fraction so they sat true. "These little glasses on that bratty face. I could look at you for hours. You're so pretty when you can actually see me."

Kwame's mouth opened. Nothing cocky came out. Another whimper did, thinner, and he turned his face as if he could hide from a compliment that had already landed in his chest and his cock at the same time. The glasses stayed. Tobias would not let him shake them off, and some treacherous part of him did not want them off. He could see. He could see the way Tobias was looking at him, and it made his thighs shake.

"That's it," Tobias said, voice low and warm, bending to kiss the corner of the frames, then the flushed skin just beside them. "So cute. My cute rabbit. All that talk, and one pair of glasses and you're already melting."

"I'm not melting," Kwame gasped, which would have been more convincing if he had not arched up into the next kiss, mouth open, needy, chasing. His wrists flexed in Tobias's grip and did not really try to get free. "I was—I had you—fuck, Tobias, don't say it like that, I'll—"

"You'll what?" Tobias kissed him properly, deep, taking the rest of the sentence and the last of the performance with it. When he pulled back, Kwame was panting, glasses slightly fogged at the edges, ears limp with want. "You'll moan for me. That's what you'll do. And you'll look adorable doing it."

He let the wrists go only long enough to strip the open shirt off Kwame's shoulders and shove the loose pants down those narrow hips. Kwame kicked them off with a helpless little kick, already hard, flushed, the lithe body under Tobias bare except for the glasses and the white ears and the soft tail twitching against the wood. Tobias's own clothes followed, unhurried. Kwame watched every motion with newly sharp eyes and made a broken sound at the sight of him, lean and a little bigger, cock heavy and flushed, and the watching undid him all over again.

"Please," he heard himself say, and hated how sweet it sounded, and said it again anyway. "Please, I want—I need you to—"

"I know." Tobias turned him with careful hands, guiding rather than shoving, until Kwame was on his hands and knees on the planks, ass up, tail quivering, glasses still on because Tobias reached around and made sure of it. "Stay just like that. I want to see your face when I tell you how good you look."

He slicked his fingers from the small bottle he had brought—he had known, or hoped, and Kwame had known too, under all the teasing—and pressed one into him, slow. Kwame's arms nearly buckled. The stretch was bright, perfect, and the praise arrived with it.

"Cute," Tobias said against the back of his neck, working him open with patient fingers while Kwame pushed back in shaky little rocks. "Even like this. Especially like this. Those glasses slipping down your nose while you take my fingers. You have any idea what that does to me?"

"Tobias—" It broke in the middle. A second finger, a curl, and Kwame's voice went high and wrecked. "Ah—ah, fuck, right there, I'm—I'm not in control, I'm not, please just—"

"I know you're not." A kiss between his shoulder blades. A third finger, careful, until Kwame was open and dripping and babbling. "You don't have to be. I've got you. My pretty rabbit in his pretty glasses. I'm going to fuck you now, and you're going to let me, and you're going to sound as sweet as you look."

"Yes," Kwame said, immediate, desperate. "Yes, yes, do it, I want it, I want you, please—"

Tobias lined up and pushed in, steady, deep, one long stroke that seated him to the hilt and punched a loud, helpless moan out of Kwame's throat. The rabbit's fingers scrabbled on the wood. His back bowed. His tail twitched wildly against Tobias's stomach. He could feel every inch, the slight extra size of the man behind him, the stretch, the heat, and when he turned his head the glasses let him see Tobias's face over his shoulder, focused and fond and wrecked in his own quiet way.

"Beautiful," Tobias breathed, and started to move. A steady rhythm, not cruel, deep enough that each thrust rocked Kwame forward and dragged a new sound out of him. "God, you're beautiful. Look at you. Moaning like you forgot every bratty word you had. These glasses on your face while I fuck you—Kwame, you're the cutest thing I've ever seen."

Kwame pushed back. He could not help it. Each thrust met him halfway, his hips working in messy, needy circles, ass clenching around the cock splitting him open. The shrine filled with the sound of it, skin and breath and the high, broken moans he no longer tried to bite down. His glasses slid. Tobias reached around, mid-thrust, and nudged them back up with two fingers, and the tenderness of that small correction while he was buried deep made Kwame sob.

"There," Tobias said. "Keep them on. I want you to see how good you are. Taking me so well. Such a perfect little rabbit. So cute I can barely stand it."

"Harder," Kwame begged, voice cracked open. "Please, Tobias, harder, I can take it, I want—ah—ah, fuck, yes, like that, like that—"

Tobias gave it to him, hips snapping in a rhythm that stayed controlled even as it deepened, one hand on Kwame's hip, the other sliding up to cradle his throat without squeezing, just holding, just reminding. Praise spilled out of him between thrusts, constant, sincere, never mocking.

"Cute. So cute. My adorable mess. Listen to you. I could come just from how pretty you sound in these glasses. Push back again. Yeah. Just like that. Good boy. Sweet boy. You feel incredible."

Kwame was gone. Thought had narrowed to the cock driving into him, the hand on his hip, the words landing like touches. He moaned on every stroke, loud and desperate, ears flat, tail trembling, glasses fogging as his breath hit the lenses. When Tobias slowed, he whimpered in protest and tried to chase the rhythm, and Tobias laughed once, soft, and kissed the side of his face.

"Not done," he said. "I want to see you. All of you. Those eyes behind the lenses while I fuck you."

He pulled out carefully. Kwame made a wounded sound at the loss and was already reaching back, blind to dignity. Tobias turned him over, settled him on his back on the planks, and slid the glasses straight again with both hands, thumbs gentle at his temples. Kwame stared up at him, flushed from chest to ears, mouth open, cock leaking against his stomach, and the look on his face was pure ruined want.

"Hi," Tobias said, almost smiling, and pushed back in.

The angle was deeper. Kwame's legs came up around his waist on instinct, heels digging in, and the first thrust in missionary tore a moan out of him that echoed off the old timber. Tobias braced one arm beside his head and wrapped the other hand around Kwame's cock, stroking in time with each powerful drive of his hips. The dual sensation wiped whatever was left of language. Kwame clutched at his shoulders, glasses askew and then righted again by a careful nudge, and let himself be fucked.

"There he is," Tobias murmured, thrusting deep, stroking firm, watching every flicker across that face. "Look at you. Cute little glasses, cute little moans, taking my cock like you were made for it. You're perfect, Kwame. You're so perfect I don't know what to do with you except this."

"Don't stop," Kwame gasped. His voice was wrecked, high, nothing bratty left in it. "Don't stop, don't stop, Tobias, I'm—fuck—your hand, your cock, I can see you, I can see you and it's—ah—"

"I want you to see me." Another deep thrust, another stroke, thumb sweeping over the wet head of Kwame's cock. "I want you to remember how cute you looked the first time you let me put these on you and then fell apart. You're glowing. You're shaking. You're mine right now, and you look adorable admitting it."

"Yours," Kwame sobbed, and the word undid something in both of them. He pushed up into the hand and down onto the cock, helpless, greedy, reduced to loud desperate sounds and the clutch of his thighs. "Yours, yours, please, I'm gonna—Tobias, I'm close, I'm so close, don't stop telling me—"

"Cute," Tobias said, voice roughening, rhythm starting to fray at the edges as his own control thinned. "So cute. My pretty rabbit. Come for me with your glasses on. Let me see it. Let me feel it. You're perfect, you're perfect, you're—"

Kwame broke. Orgasm hit him in a white rush, cock pulsing in Tobias's fist, come striping his stomach and chest while he cried out, back arching, ass clenching hard around the cock still driving into him. The glasses stayed on. Tobias watched every second of it, praise tumbling out even as his thrusts went short and deep and desperate.

"Beautiful—fuck—Kwame, you're so—cute, you're so cute, I can't—"

He came with a groan pressed into Kwame's throat, hips flush, spilling deep inside him in long pulses while the rabbit whimpered through the aftershocks and held on. The shrine was very quiet except for their breathing. Tobias did not pull away at once. He stayed seated inside him, forehead against Kwame's, one hand still cradling the side of his face so the frames would not slip into the mess of sweat and tears at his temples.

"Hey," he said, softer now, still a little breathless. "You okay?"

Kwame nodded, ears limp, eyes wet behind the lenses. Words were slow coming back. When they did, they were small. "Yeah. Yeah. Don't—don't take them off yet."

"Wasn't going to." Tobias eased out carefully, gathered him in, and pulled him close against his chest on the worn planks, uncaring of the stickiness, one arm around that narrow waist, the other hand stroking a soft white ear until it twitched and settled. He kept murmuring, the compliments gone tender at the edges but no less constant. "Cutest thing in this whole forest. These glasses. This face. I mean it, Kwame. You undo me when you let me see you."

Kwame nuzzled into the hollow of his throat, spent and warm and done pretending. His tail gave one last lazy flick against Tobias's hip and went still. The brat who had walked into the shrine certain he held every leash was a quiet weight in a human's arms, breathing slow, glasses fogged and precious, listening to praise he no longer had the strength or the wish to deflect. Outside, the light thinned. Inside, Tobias kissed the top of his head and told him again, simply, that he was cute, and Kwame believed it with his whole trembling body.

He had come to the shrine to play with a man, and left the only part of himself he had sworn was untouchable in Tobias's hands.