Work Text:
Kim Soleum was already half gone by the time he dragged the rabbit plush—Braun, endlessly cute, ears flopped, pink stitching soft as a secret—between his thighs; he was stretched out across his mattress, hair touseled, shirt rucked up, the sheets creased and bitten where he’d messed them up too hard earlier, breath coming shallow and warm as he pressed the plush down directly against his clit and exhaled, long and trembling, like the release had been waiting in his lungs all day.
The plush was absurdly soft; too soft; the kind of softness that made his hips move automatically, a small startled roll at first, then a longer stroke, then a greedy one, dragging the stuffed rabbit’s rounded head up along the slick seam of him until the damp began to cling to the faux fur, darkening it, marking it, making it his. He let out a little noise—barely a sound, more a caught breath, a bitten-off whimper—but it made his whole body tighten, thighs clenching around the toy as he rocked down again, harder, slower, the plush sinking into the wet heat of him as though it belonged there.
He curled one hand around the rabbit’s torso, using it like a handle, grinding its soft belly against his clit in slow, steady circles; the pressure too gentle and too much at the same time, unbearably sweet, building in small stuttering increments that made his legs shake. The other hand fisted in his sheets, knuckles white, nails catching on the fabric as he rode the plush with a kind of desperate delicacy, hips trembling even as he tried to keep them steady, as though he wanted to savor the burn instead of rushing toward it.
“Braun…” he whispered, pressing the plush closer, dragging the soft fur up between his folds until it slipped perfectly against the swollen bud, making his back arch sharply, throat tightening around a gasp. “You’re so soft… god.”
He shifted up onto his elbows, grinding down in small, frantic pulses now, the plush’s face disappearing beneath him, buried in the slick mess of his need; his clit throbbed against the fur, overstimulated, begging, pulsing with each desperate stroke. Every time the plush’s seam caught him just right, his breath broke in a thin, ruined mewl he would deny making later.
He lowered himself again, chest to mattress, hips rising, presenting as he worked the rabbit between his thighs, rutting against it without grace now, heat spiraling tight and fast, clit dragging over the dampened fur in frantic little circles; his eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open around a sound that was all tremor and plea.
When he finally came, it was with a shudder that wracked him from spine to knees, grinding helplessly through the pulse of it, soaking the plush thoroughly; he pushed down on it even as his thighs trembled uncontrollably, riding out the aftershocks with small, broken whimpers.
He collapsed forward, cheek pressed to the sheets, breath shaking—
—and the rabbit plush was drenched, sticky, smelling like him, marked all down to the seams.