Bratty Rabbit Yielding to Control

Wesley’s apartment smelled like clean cotton and the citrus soap he always used after a shift at the clinic. The lamp by the couch threw a warm pool of light across the rug, and Tariq stood in the middle of it like he owned the floor. Twenty-one, all long limbs and narrow hips, rabbit ears tipped forward in a cocky slant, a small white tail twitching under the hem of his borrowed T-shirt. He was a yokai, and he never let anyone forget it. Wesley, twenty-three and only a little broader through the shoulders, leaned against the kitchen counter with his sleeves rolled, watching.

“You’re staring,” Tariq said, mouth tilted. He stepped closer, bare feet silent on the wood. “Good. I like when you look. Means you already know who’s running this.”

“I invited you over,” Wesley said. His voice stayed even. “You said you wanted to be handled. Those were your words.”

Tariq scoffed and flicked one long ear. The world beyond arm’s length was a soft blur to him, shapes without edges, and he hated admitting it. His glasses sat forgotten on the side table where he’d dropped them the second he walked in. “I said I wanted a hookup. I didn’t say I was handing you the reins. I decide how this goes. You just get to enjoy being useful.”

He crowded Wesley’s space, palms flat on the lean chest, pushing until Wesley’s back met the counter. Tariq’s fingers were cool. He rose onto his toes and kissed him hard, all teeth and bratty confidence, like he could bite the argument out of the air. Wesley kissed back, steady, one hand settling at Tariq’s waist. The yokai made a pleased little sound and ground forward, slim against solid, chasing friction.

“See?” Tariq breathed against his mouth. “You’re already following. Keep your hands where I put them.”

Wesley’s thumb stroked once over the thin cotton. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.” Tariq’s ears flicked. He couldn’t quite read Wesley’s expression from this close either, not really—near was better than far, but fine detail still smeared—so he covered it with swagger. “I’m in complete control. You’re bigger, sure. Barely. Doesn’t matter. I say when you touch, where you touch, how deep you get to go. If I decide you don’t get to come, you don’t.”

He tugged Wesley toward the bedroom by the front of his shirt, missing the doorframe by an inch and correcting with a sharp little laugh like he’d meant to brush it. The bed was made. Wesley’s place always was. Tariq shoved him down onto the edge and climbed into his lap, knees bracketing lean thighs, tail brushing Wesley’s wrist.

“Stay,” he ordered, and rolled his hips. The contact dragged a low sound out of both of them. Tariq grinned, bright and mean with it. “That’s better. You feel that? That’s me deciding you get to be hard. Say thank you.”

Wesley’s hands stayed light on his hips. “Thank you.”

The easy agreement should have felt like a win. It prickled instead. Tariq kissed him again to drown the feeling, fingers in Wesley’s hair, ears flattened back in concentration. He fumbled for the hem of Wesley’s shirt and got it halfway up before the fabric twisted wrong. He yanked harder. Wesley helped, calm, and the shirt came off. Under it he was exactly what Tariq had clocked the first night they met at the late market: lean, average, a little more muscle than the rabbit’s own spare frame, warm skin, nothing showy. Tariq liked that he was slightly bigger. He liked pretending it didn’t matter.

“On your back,” Tariq said, pushing at Wesley’s shoulders.

Wesley went, because he chose to. Tariq straddled him and dragged his own shirt off, tossing it somewhere he wouldn’t be able to find later. His chest was smooth, ribs faint under the skin, stomach taut. The tail at the base of his spine flicked when Wesley’s palms slid up his sides.

“Hands,” Tariq snapped, catching Wesley’s wrists and pinning them above his head. He had to lean far to do it, and his balance wobbled. “I said I’m in control. You don’t get to grope until I—”

His knee slipped on the sheet. He caught himself on Wesley’s chest, ears shooting upright, face hot. For a second the room swam, lamp-blur and curtain-blur and the vague shape of the man under him. He hated the blur. He hated the glasses more. Glasses made him look soft. Glasses made people coo. He was a yokai. He was the one who decided.

“Don’t,” he said, before Wesley could speak. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Wesley’s wrists flexed once under Tariq’s grip, testing, not fighting. “You’re cute when you pretend you can see the headboard.”

“I can see it.” He couldn’t. It was a brown smear. “Shut up and let me ride you. That’s the plan. I stay on top. I set the pace. You lie there and take what I give you. Agreed?”

Wesley looked up at him, patient in a way that made Tariq’s stomach flip. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” Tariq reached between them, palming Wesley through his pants, smug when the lean body answered. “Feel that? Mine. Tonight you’re mine to use. Say it.”

“I’m yours to use,” Wesley said, and the words landed wrong—too willing, too calm, like a door left open on purpose.

Tariq stripped them both with more bravado than grace, nearly elbowing Wesley in the ribs, nearly sitting on his own tail. Naked, he was all sharp lines and flushed skin, cock already hard against his stomach, ears trembling with the effort of looking unruffled. He slicked his fingers from the bottle on the nightstand—he knew where that was, at least, because he’d put it there himself last time—and reached back, putting on a show.

“Watch,” he ordered. “This is me getting ready so I can take you. Not because I need you. Because I want the stretch. There’s a difference.”

Wesley watched. His hands stayed where Tariq had left them, loose above his head, and that obedience should have felt like power. Tariq worked two fingers into himself and bit his lip, tail twitching hard. The angle was awkward. He kept missing the spot he wanted and refusing to adjust in a way that looked like asking for help.

“Faster,” he muttered at himself, then at Wesley. “When I get on you, you don’t thrust until I say. You don’t grab. You don’t flip me. Understand?”

“I understand what you’re asking.”

“That’s not—Wesley.” Tariq glared down, or in the direction of Wesley’s face. “Say you understand.”

“I understand,” Wesley said. His eyes had gone darker. One hand lifted, slow enough that Tariq could have stopped it, and settled on the rabbit’s thigh. The touch was warm. Grounding. Tariq’s ears betrayed him with a shiver.

He lined himself up anyway, bratty to the last, and sank down an inch. The head of Wesley’s cock pressed at him, thick enough to make his breath catch. Control. He had control. He would take it at his pace, make Wesley beg, keep the glasses off and the upper hand on.

His thigh cramped. He shifted, lost the angle, and the blunt pressure slid uselessly along his rim instead of in. Frustration flashed hot across his face.

“Stay still,” he snapped, though Wesley hadn’t moved. “I’m doing it. I don’t need—”

Wesley sat up in one smooth motion. The world tilted. Tariq’s hands flew to his shoulders for balance, and suddenly he wasn’t the one on top of the moment anymore. Wesley’s arm locked around his waist, solid, not rough, and the other hand reached past him toward the nightstand’s far edge—no. Toward the side table in the main room? No, Wesley had brought them in. Tariq blinked, squinting, and realized the slim dark shape on the dresser was his glasses. Wesley must have carried them when Tariq wasn’t looking. Of course he had.

“Hey,” Tariq said, ears pinning. “Don’t you—”

Wesley slid the frames onto his face with careful fingers, settling the arms behind his ears, nudging the bridge until it sat right. The room snapped into focus so fast Tariq’s stomach dropped. Wesley’s face was right there: calm mouth, focused eyes, the faint line between his brows when he concentrated. The headboard had grain. The lamp had a hairline crack in the shade. Tariq could see all of it, and he could see himself reflected, tiny, in Wesley’s pupils—flushed, ears high, glasses on.

“There,” Wesley said, soft and certain. “God, you’re adorable like this.”

“Take them off.”

“No.” Wesley’s thumb brushed the hinge, gentle. “You look so cute with your glasses on. I’ve been wanting to say it since you walked in and pretended the hallway was a suggestion.”

Tariq’s face burned. His ears shot straight up, then twitched, helpless, the left one flicking twice the way it always did when he was flustered and trying not to be. Wesley’s smile went warmer.

“That,” he murmured. “Your ears do that little twitch when you’re embarrassed. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Look at you. Pretty rabbit. Pretty face. Those glasses make your eyes huge.”

“I’m not—Wesley, I’m in control, I said—”

“You said.” Wesley kissed the corner of his mouth, then the hinge of the glasses, then the hot curve of one ear. Tariq’s whole body jolted. “And you were cute saying it. But you’re shaking, and you can’t find the angle, and you keep squinting at my mouth like you’re mad at it. Let me.”

Desire surged up so fast it felt like a shove from inside. Tariq’s cock jerked against Wesley’s stomach. He opened his mouth for another bratty line and what came out was a thin, startled sound when Wesley rolled them. The mattress took Tariq’s back. Wesley’s weight settled over him, lean and sure, slightly bigger in all the ways that suddenly mattered: broader palms pinning Tariq’s wrists, longer reach, the steady press of hips between slim thighs. Not crushing. Claiming. Tariq could have shoved. He didn’t. His glasses had slipped a fraction; Wesley fixed them with two fingers and looked at him like the view was a gift.

“Hi,” Wesley said. “There you are. I can see your eyes now. They’re so bright when you’re not pretending.”

“Fuck you,” Tariq whispered, and it came out wrecked.

“That’s the idea.” Wesley kissed him deep, swallowing the next protest, and Tariq’s legs fell open on instinct. The bratty posture cracked straight down the middle. He could see everything—Wesley’s throat working, the focus in his face, the way his own hands looked small where they were held. It was unbearable. It was perfect. He arched, chasing, and a moan broke out of him before he could dress it up as anything else.

“There it is,” Wesley said against his jaw. “That sound. Do it again. You look so cute making it with your glasses on.”

He slicked his fingers properly this time, watching Tariq’s face the whole way, and pressed two in with a slow, sure push. Tariq’s head tipped back. The stretch was better immediately, angled right, and his ears flattened to the pillow in a helpless sweep. He tried to say something sharp. Wesley curled his fingers and the words turned into a whimper.

“Wesley—”

“I’ve got you.” A kiss to the bridge of the glasses. “You’re gorgeous like this. Flustered. Open. Let me hear you.”

He worked Tariq open until the yokai was panting, tail trapped and twitching under his own hips, cock leaking onto his stomach. Every time Tariq tried to reclaim the pace—bucking, ordering, grabbing—Wesley pinned him flatter and praised him until the order dissolved.

“So cute,” Wesley kept saying, like a litany. “These glasses. This blush. Your ears won’t stay still. I could look at you all night.”

“Stop talking and—ah—” Tariq’s voice cracked. “Please.”

The please surprised both of them. Wesley’s eyes went soft and hot at once. He withdrew his fingers, lined up, and pushed in with one long, controlled thrust that seated him deep. Tariq’s mouth fell open. The fullness knocked the last of the performance out of him. He could see Wesley’s face clearly, the concentration, the awe, and it undid him worse than the stretch.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck, that’s—Wesley, that’s deep—”

“I know.” Wesley held still, letting him adjust, one hand cupping Tariq’s cheek so the glasses wouldn’t slip. “You take me so well. Look at you. Cute little rabbit with his glasses on, stuffed full and already shaking. You’re perfect.”

He drew back and thrust again, missionary, deep and deliberate. Tariq’s legs wrapped around his waist on their own, heels digging in, pulling him closer. The brat was gone. What was left was heat and noise and the shocking relief of not having to steer. Wesley set a rhythm that didn’t ask permission and didn’t need to—Tariq was meeting every stroke, moaning on each one, glasses fogging faintly at the edges when his breath hit them.

“That’s it,” Wesley murmured, fucking him steady. “Let me hear those needy sounds. God, they’re perfect. You sound so sweet when you stop performing. Cute. So cute. I love how your eyes go wide behind the lenses when I hit it.”

He shifted his hips and did exactly that. Tariq cried out, high and broken, fingers scrambling at Wesley’s shoulders. “There—there, don’t stop, don’t—Wesley, please, harder, I can’t—”

“You can.” Wesley’s voice stayed warm even as his thrusts grew rougher, the lean body working, sweat starting at his throat. “I’ve got you. Look at me. I want to see your face. Those glasses stay on. You look adorable wrecked in them. Say you like them.”

“I—I like—” Tariq’s ears twitched wildly. A particularly deep stroke punched the rest of the sentence into a moan. “I like them, fuck, I like how you look at me, I can’t think—”

“You don’t have to think.” Wesley kissed him, messy, praising between breaths. “Just feel it. Just take it. Pretty rabbit. Pretty moans. You’re so tight around me. Every time I say you’re cute you clench. Did you know that?”

Tariq made a mortified, desperate sound and clenched again, proving it. Wesley groaned, pace faltering for a second, then drove in harder. The bed answered. Tariq’s glasses bounced with the rhythm until Wesley pinned his hip with one hand and steadied the frames with the other, absurd and tender in the middle of fucking him senseless.

“Stay with me,” Wesley said. “I want you clear-eyed for this. I want you to see how good you look taking my cock. Blushing all the way down. Ears back. Tail trying to wag even though you’re on it. You’re the cutest thing I’ve ever had under me.”

“Wesley—Wesley, I’m—don’t stop complimenting, I’ll lose it, I—” Tariq was babbling, a moaning mess, words slurring into whimpers. His cock dragged against Wesley’s stomach on every thrust, slick and neglected and perfect. “More. Please more. I yield, I yield, just—fuck me, keep talking, tell me—”

“You’re beautiful,” Wesley said, and meant it so plainly that Tariq’s eyes stung behind the lenses. “With the glasses. Without them. Right now especially. My bratty rabbit, all soft and loud. Listen to yourself. Those whimpers. I could come just from how cute they are.”

He fucked him through another wave of it, deep and relentless, until Tariq was shaking apart and not quite there, hovering on the edge and whining when Wesley slowed.

“Not yet,” Wesley said, kissing the tip of one trembling ear. “I want you another way. Can I flip you?”

“Yes,” Tariq gasped, immediate, no performance left. “Yes, please, do it, I want—”

Wesley pulled out carefully. The loss made Tariq sob a complaint. Then strong hands turned him, guided him onto his knees, chest down, ass up. The fluffy tail stood ridiculous and perfect above the curve of him. Wesley smoothed a palm over it, gentle, and Tariq’s whole body shuddered.

“Look at this,” Wesley said, wonder in it. “Your tail. Soft. Fluffed up because you’re so worked up. And your face—” He reached under, turned Tariq’s chin so the rabbit had to glance back. The glasses were slightly askew. Wesley fixed them again, thumb stroking the flushed cheek. “There. Blushing so hard I can see it from here. Cute. Unbelievably cute. Keep looking at me if you can.”

He pushed back in from behind in one smooth stroke, deeper at this angle, and Tariq’s arms nearly gave out. The moan that tore out of him was raw, no brat left in it at all. Wesley folded over his back, one arm braced, the other hand splayed on Tariq’s stomach, and started to pound him in earnest—rougher now, the rhythm they’d both been chasing, hips snapping, the sound of skin and slick and Tariq’s broken voice filling the small bedroom.

“That’s it,” Wesley murmured against his ear, constant, praising even as he fucked him hard. “Take it. You feel so good. This fluffy tail against my stomach—God, Tariq, you’re perfect. Your face in the pillow, glasses still on, blushing like you can’t stand how much you love this. I see you. I see all of you. Cute ears. Cute sounds. My moaning mess.”

“Yours,” Tariq sobbed, pushing back to meet him, glasses knocking the sheet until Wesley’s hand came up to cradle his jaw and hold his head steady. “Yours, yours, don’t stop, I’m gonna—Wesley, I’m so close, please—”

“Me too.” Wesley’s voice finally frayed. He reached around, wrapped a fist around Tariq’s cock, and stroked in time with the rough thrusts. “Come with me. Let me see it. Let me hear it. You’re so beautiful like this. Glasses and all. Especially the glasses. Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

The pet name and the praise and the deep, perfect grind hit at once. Tariq came with a cry that cracked in the middle, spilling over Wesley’s fingers, hole clenching in hard rhythmic pulses. Wesley groaned like he’d been struck, buried himself to the hilt, and followed—hot, pulsing, holding Tariq through it, murmuring fragments even as he shook.

“Cute—so cute—that’s it—I’ve got you—look at you—”

They stayed locked together while the aftershocks rolled through, Wesley’s forehead between Tariq’s shoulder blades, both of them breathing like they’d run. Tariq’s ears lay soft and spent. His glasses were fogged and crooked and still on. When Wesley eased out, Tariq whimpered at the emptiness and didn’t try to hide it.

Wesley didn’t rush. He fetched a warm cloth, cleaned Tariq with slow careful passes, murmuring that he was good, that he’d done so well, that the blush still on his face was unfairly sweet. He wiped his own hands, tossed the cloth, and only then reached for the frames.

“May I?” he asked, quiet.

Tariq nodded, pliant, blissed-out, words gone. Wesley slid the glasses off as gently as he’d put them on and set them on the nightstand where they’d be easy to find. The world softened at the edges again. It didn’t matter. Wesley was close enough to see.

He gathered the yokai into his arms, chest to chest, one hand stroking the limp curve of an ear, the other resting over the small of Tariq’s back just above the tail. Tariq tucked his face into Wesley’s throat and breathed.

“Breathtaking,” Wesley said, soft, the compliments continuing like he didn’t know how to stop and didn’t want to. “With them. Without them. Right now, worn out and quiet in my arms—you’re the most beautiful thing in this apartment. Those glasses just let me see it clearer. Your eyes. Your ears. All of you.”

Tariq made a small sound, not a protest. His fingers curled against Wesley’s ribs. Their breathing slowed together, sweat cooling, the lamp still on in the other room, the city a distant hush beyond the glass.

Wesley pressed one last kiss to Tariq’s hair and didn’t speak again.

The room held them.

Silence.