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Manhandled

I just colored my old work

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i want to be overstimulated so bad. i want to have a cock still pumping in and out of me even though i'm already cumming. i want to have my clit get numb from being rubbed so much. i want to cum so many times i've already lost count and i'm crying so hard. i want to beg him to stop, but then he'll threaten to refuse me orgasms and edge me months if i don't cum for him right now.

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"see how well it fits? it's like you were made for me." 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

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Neighbors Alpha Ghost except he’s extremely polite for a man who is the biggest scariest alpha you’ve ever met. Alpha Ghost who’s lived beside you for years and has developed a rapport of trust with you, the sweet omega that lives next door. Ghost, who trusts you to watch over his place when he’s deployed and in return he helps you repair the various odds and ends in your place. Ghost who routinely asks you if you need anything from the store, and in return you give him baked sweets to take to base.

Ghost who’s gone for weeks at a time for work and you try not to entertain the idea that he may not come back, that one day you’ll wake up to your landlady emptying out his apartment and learning the hard way that you’ll never see him again. Ghost who always comes back, and feels a warm flush of fondness at the relief on your face when you see him again.

Ghost who once came home to find you cornered in the stairwell by an alpha you’d rejected, your face horrified at the things your would be suitor was snarling at you. Ghost who bodily hauled the smaller alpha down the stairs and threw him into the street with a snarled warning to never return, fangs bared beneath his mask. Ghost who returned to make sure you got home safe, and the next day helped you install a secure deadbolt for your safety.

Ghost who allowed himself a rare encounter that night when you hugged him in thanks, swallowing down tears and apologizing for the hassle. Ghost, who’s thought of the moment ever since, of how nice you smelled, how the feeling of you in his arms felt right.

Ghost, who hears you through the thin wall you two share a few weeks later, crying your eyes out. When you answer his gentle knock your face crumples. You confess that said rotten alpha showed up to your job and made a scene, and you were reluctantly let go because of the disturbance. Ghost, who for all his cold hearted demeanor and apathetic nature, feels only anger when you tell him this. Silently, Ghost vows to track down the fellow and discreetly ensure he’ll never hassle another omega again.

Ghost who stays at your request despite himself, allows you to put on old TV reruns and sniffle into his shoulder before you fall asleep there on the couch. Ghost, who’s instincts swell with pride at this omega who deems him safe enough to let into your den, to keep you safe while you rest against him.

Ghost who hears from you a week later, when you knock on his door embarrassed but standing strong with your fists clenched at your sides. Ghost, who is amused at your demeanor and listens as you tell him you have money for rent and groceries this month, but not for your suppressants. Ghost half expects you to ask for money, but is floored when you instead steel yourself and ask him to help you with your coming heat because you trust him. Ghost who freezes where he stands and finally tells you he’ll consider it, unable to shake your pleased smile for hours afterwards.

Ghost who sits on it for a few days, ignores the possessive, prowling thing in his chest as he weighs his options but agrees to help you. Ghost, who watches Price raise an eyebrow when he puts in for leave- his lieutenant who never seems to stop working, but approves it anyways. Ghost who researches what omegas need during heats, from nesting supplies to physical touch to…everything else and tries to remind himself it’s just a favor. It doesn’t mean anything, even if you asked him out of everyone else you know.

Ghost who gets a text on a lazy Sunday morning and is in your flat five minutes later willing but oddly nervous. He expects to find you in a state of debauchery but instead pads into your bedroom to find you curled under the covers sweating and glassy eyed, still coherent to smile and offer a weary thanks. Ghost who supplies a bag of scent laden clothes that has you curling into his familiar smell with a pleased whine. Ghost who tries his best at making you food while you arrange the clothes into a nest with sluggish limbs.

Ghost, who stiffly sits at your bedside and dabs at your sweaty brow, ignoring the flare of base instinct at the sweet, hypnotic smell of an omega in heat. His omega, his instincts purr. Just not yet. Ghost who cedes to your demands to cuddle, watching you go pliant and soft in his arms with a sigh, drinking in his scent as you drift off to sleep.

Ghost who wakes up hours later to you squirming and whining against him, panting and hazy eyed as the telltale scent of slick clouds his nose and draws an answering, primal growl from deep in his chest. Ghost who, with great restraint and gentleness works to prep you with large, calloused fingers, taking more time that he should just to make sure you’re ready. Ghost who firmly hushes your complaints and instead allows himself the selfish act of being completely involved in you, far beyond that of a clinical touch. Ghost who smears your tears of desperation with his thumb, murmurs a dark and heady “pretty omega” before finally, finally sinking into you.

Ghost, who maneuvers you as he pleases, watching the awareness fade from your eyes only to be replaced by heat-addled lust and your lips begging for more. Ghost who braces his full weight on you and rocks with slow, powerful motions that have you hiccup and writhe under him, pushing back onto his cock. Ghost who’s fangs pop out as he carefully refuses the instinct to bite the gland of the mewling, whimpering omega underneath him, but failing to restrain the instinctual growl of MINE that thunders in his chest.

Ghost who makes you come so slick dribbles down your thighs and you fist the sheets with a whimper of his name. Ghost who coos praises into your ear and grinds his cock into you so your eyes roll back into your head. Ghost who has you come twice more before he finally empties himself into you and silently feels the instinctual hope that it takes. Ghost who has no need to measure his stamina, ready to go again in minutes as you reach blindly for him, presenting oh so prettily for your alpha.

Ghost who takes all the time in the world for the days that follow, allowing himself to cave to the alpha instinct of providing, protecting, caring for the perfect little omega in his care. Ghost who watches you like shark as you fall asleep in the bath, sitting you in his lap after and making you eat before sinking you on his cock again. Ghost who coos at you as you go slack jawed and glassy eyed as he mounts you once more- ruining the sheets he just changed as you gush around him.

Ghost who wakes on the third day sore in all the best ways, noticing the way you cling to him like an octopus as you sleep. Ghost who pets at you fondly and noticed the scent of your heat finally ebbing away, blissfully shortened by his attentions. Ghost who watches your peaceful face and once more purrs happily at the thought that you’re his.

Ghost who can’t help but think about the next time he’s due to rut, about stretching you out on his knot and feeling the sensation of you clench down on him in climax. Ghost who reminds himself that it’s only one thing to look forward to, that courting is a careful process and that you deserve to be treated well in the duration of it. Ghost who now lays a palm on your scent gland and rumbles deep and primal, fulfilled at you being soaked in his scent, warding off any other alphas. Ghost who promises you and himself to do this right, to be the mate you need him to be.

Ghost who drifts back off thinking how beautiful his claiming bite might look against your throat.

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being talked through an orgasm >>>

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It occurs to me that there are people who weren’t on this website in 2012 and therefore never saw the magical gif that you can actually hear:

It’s been over five years and that still impresses the hell out of me.

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collection of posts for a very specific dynamic

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When you were selected as the Chosen One, you were showered with gifts, training, and a new cushy room in the castle. The Kingdom thought you would automatically be on their side, but the memories of your impoverished childhood will never fade.

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Did you get the video of Simon's doll

GOD I SURE FUCKING DID

Good lord that man has the thickest cock, and it's too bad your little doll version isn't made of that nice soft silicon. If he could push that monster into your tiny dolly cunt you might actually lose your mind. You already have to keep yourself from humping your chair every time you have a doll painting stream. You can already feel how thick the blunt head of him is as he rubs against the resin folds on your doll, and spreads your counterpart's legs wide to make room for himself. God if he pushed it inside of you you might try to bounce your empty cunt on the phantom feeling, at the very least you might sob from the stretch.

Those sweet little silicon bodies are tempting for Ghost, of course, but the appeal of the resin version is that it's you. You mentioned when you sculpted the doll that you had used yourself as a reference, so in his mind the little cunt he ruts against is yours. The silicon cunt he has doesn't look the same, and you don't make the same noises on stream when he licks it. No, the resin is perfect, looks just likes you.

That doesn't mean you don't open a dm request from a random string of numbers to watch a man fuck a little silicon body. You're eyes fix on the fat cock, absolutely enraptured by the way it bulges out the silicon. You don't even notice that the doll in the background looks like you until you've got your fingers shoved in your panties.

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mdni!

professor!simon that teaches college criminal justice classes and he can’t help but feel his cock chub up when he sees you looking so pretty for him—little skirts, crop tops, thongs that don’t leave anything to the imagination.

professor!simon who is so impressed with your grades—you’re so smart and your intelligence turns him on. can’t help but praise you every time he hands you a paper or a test back, and it makes your cheeks blush and your cunt throb.

professor!simon who holds you back after class to ask if you’d be interested in becoming his teacher’s assistant because he’s so flooded with papers to grade, but really it’s just an excuse to get you alone with him.

professor!simon who touches you a little more inappropriately every day—squeezing your hip, patting your knee and sliding his hand to your inner thigh, hand sliding down your back until it rests on the curve of your ass. it leaves you soaked every time, and he knows it.

professor!simon who eats your pussy from the back while you’re helping him grade papers, punishing you every time you stop to close your eyes or whine. in the end, he has you shaking around his tongue, eyes glazed over and drool dripping onto his desk.

professor!simon who lets you ride his fat cock while he’s typing emails, the door to his office unlocked. “anyone could come in and see how much of a little whore you are,” he murmurs to you—but that makes your cunt clench and you bounce on him harder until you’re creaming around his cock and he’s shooting his thick load inside of you, promising you that he’s gonna breed you every day, just like this.

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Husband Nikto / Acts of Service

Part 5 | Feed a Cold, Starve a Fever

“My poor Цветочек.” Nikto strokes your cheek softly with his rough knuckles, bottomless china blue gaze downturned with faux heart sickness. “You know, this might be fatal.”

You’re sitting at your kitchen table, head held awkwardly over a bowl of steaming eucalyptus essential oil, possibly the thickest head cold you’ve ever had radiating off you in waves of hot sweats. Your brow clammy, nose raw with too many sneezes and your eyes puffy from a lack of sleep.

“Joke all you want.” You scowl at him through the fog of moisture that hopefully will work its magic on your sinuses. “But you wont be laughing when you catch it.”

Nikto tilts his head, large palms spread over the table top, tendons contracting under the surface of beaten skin. They’re familiar to you now, those hands. Broad backed and solid, thick fingers with blunt and bitten nails. Masculine, useful looking, you know he’s very dexterous, using them for fixing fiddly little things around the house as well as carefully filling his tea infuser with dried herbs.

Those hands rarely betray him, you haven’t seen him rattled since the morning after he disappeared. Only occasionally when you’re close to him, do you recognise a tiny tremor in his fingertips, the most fleeting indication that Nikto is uncertain. Then it’s masked like the rest of him and you’re left wondering if you imagined the nerves.

Things have progressed between you at a snails pace, much to your secret chagrin. Nikto doesn’t bother with any DIY pretext now when he turns up at your door, the silences between you stretch comfortably each evening after a shared meal. Most nights you get a kiss on the cheek, occasionally a lingering one through his mask on your doorstep if he’s feeling particularly frisky.

You chalk it up partly to him being infuriatingly old fashioned, perhaps with some internalised insecurity about his savaged mouth mixed in. Still though, it would be nice if he played his role in your moonlit fantasies, pressed you against a wall with one of those clever paws around your throat, tasting the seams of your lips with animalistic intensity. Instead you get the Victorian gentleman, a chaste touch, a tongue-less kiss and a lingering feeling of frustration.

“I do not get sick.” Nikto interrupts, dragging you out of your fuzzy thoughts and back to the reality of your kitchen.

“Everyone gets sick from time to time.” You snap, stifling an enormous sneeze and furiously wiping your nose. “It’s inevitable.”

“Hardly, you are just delicate Moya Milaya.”

There’s something intensely playful in his crystalline gaze, eyes glittering as he watches you rage at that statement. Typical, today he wants to flirt when all you need is a nap and cough medicine.

“If you don’t have anything useful to contribute, please clear off? I’m not going to be great company today, if you haven’t guessed that already.”

Nikto snorts in his usual rasping way, mirth squeezed out of him reluctantly through a voice box far more used to silence.

“I am not leaving. I will be helpful da?” He folds two arms stubbornly across his chest. “Tell me what is useful to you little one, given you are at deaths door.”

You stare at him balefully, contemplating leaving him down here to gloat over his health while you curl up in bed. But reality unfortunately nudges at your shoulder, reminding you that no shopping has occurred over the last few days. Snacks and flu medication would really go down well in your current predicament.

Sighing, you snatch up an abandoned receipt, ready to make him a list.

“Well, as you’re feeling so vibrant…”

“Someone must make sure you do not wither away.” He replies, the fabric covering his mouth twitching with amusement, while you roll your eyes.

Nikto clutches the thin paper harshly in his gloved fingers, the collar of his jacket tucked high around his neck. People glance at him occasionally, he catches each look from the corner of his narrowed eyes. Usually, Nikto avoids heading into town when it’s likely to be densely populated, preferring to stick to early mornings and the fluttering blue shades of dusk. It’s quiet then, no awkward attention to deal with, he can move in the shadows where it feels cool and comfortable, frequent his few favourite spots without any hassle. The coffee shop with all the potted plants in it, the Russian supermarket and a hidden memorial garden where he surreptitiously sits to eat a soft pastry sometimes on a Sunday.

He absolutely despises the regular minimart on the corner of the high-street, hates it with a passion bleeding into intolerance. It’s too bright, fluorescent strip lights leave him feeling distinctly harassed. The shelves are depressing, full of over packaged brands he’s unfamiliar with, uniform stretches of them up long tedious aisles. There are always people hurrying about, not wanting to get caught too close to him browsing the fruits and vegetables. Cashiers try and make fruitless conversation, not understanding he’s in sensory hell.

The Russian supermarket is far superior, but some of the items you’ve asked for can’t be found there. He’ll have to visit the regular store. For you Nikto will do it. Even if it gives him the feeling of a migraine brewing at the base of his skull.

Migrating around the shop, adding things here and there to his basket, Nikto reflects. Without a doubt the last few weeks in your sunlit glow have been the best he can remember, maybe the happiest of his life. You kiss him without hesitation, brush your fingers on his knee or arm whenever you’re close, sitting on the sofa or at your little table. It’s so unbearably perfect, Nikto feels as if he could bite down and taste the beauty of your softness on his tongue. Honey spun, candied and delectable, you never flinch or cast wary eyes in his direction.

Nikto thinks you must know by now something is wrong with him, perhaps you can taste it too? Except his flavour is bound to be bitter, lingering on the tongue like tobacco. Nikto has never been sweet in his life, but you make him want to try. Improve himself so he secures the same devotion you’ve stirred in his soul, whatever is left of that ethereal part of him.

It’s a daily struggle not to pounce, to prevent his brain listening to the ache in his thighs or twitching crotch when your pretty gaze meets his. Nikto isn’t sure really what he’s waiting for, he’s fucked others without any regard for tenderness, plugged the occasional need to sink his dick into a soft pliable hole. It’s cruel to think of it that way he supposes, for pliable holes have feelings too. Yet still, they knew what they were getting into and you don’t yet.

More than that, as much as he’s disgusted by himself, Nikto wants it to be special with you. He wants to cup your face in the palms of his hands, show you nothing but pleasure in every moment you let him touch your unblemished body. He’s sure you’ll bring him to his knees, but he’d gladly stay there if it meant you allowed him to be more to you than a good lay.

Sickening. He’s definitely going soft. Unbelievable a thing like you could thaw harsh, frost coated tundra with just a glance. Nikto wouldn’t change it though, not for all the Russian caravan money could buy.

You hear Nikto’s key turn in the lock, the one you gave him shyly last week, in case of emergencies obviously. Tugging the quilt higher over your shoulders, you wait as his heavy footfalls begin to climb the stairs, wondering whether he’s still in his buoyant mood. Two Siamese blue eyes cautiously catch yours as he peers around the door, ever so slightly uneasy in your bedroom, it’s new terrain for you both.

“Are you still alive little one?”

“Yes. But I feel rubbish.”

Nikto hums, taking a few tentative steps forwards.

“I have treats for you.”

“I don’t feel that hungry Andre.” Lethargically you sniff as he slow blinks. “I’m not up for feeding myself either.”

“No trouble. I will feed you hm.”

He’s definitely still flirting then.

Nikto clatters around in the kitchen for at least a solid hour. Actually he’s gone so long that you drift off into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning in fevered sheets. He returns with a steaming bowl of something intensely savoury smelling, along with a small mug.

“Dumplings.” Nikto nods at his hand. “They are good for you. And tea.”

“I thought you said you bought treats!” Blearily you try and sit up, as he perches on the bed, having set down the mug on your side table.

“Da, these are treats.”The gelatinous, pale balls quiver as he slots a spoon under one. You’re unconvinced, trying hard not to let the sweat forming on your brows get into your eyes. It feels boiling in your bed, hot soupy substances wafted under your nose aren’t helping matters.

“Open.” Nikto commands, the utensil in his hand looks comically small between his thick fingers. When you don’t immediately obey, he huffs out a short exasperated sound. “Do I have to try one first? To show they are not poison?”

“You’re not making it sound appetising!” You dodge his marauding attempts to push the food between your lips. “What’s in them?!”

“Good things. Health.”

Unhelpfully, your mouth provides an unguarded target when you try and question that. A hot pocket of wrapped meat and juice overwhelms your senses as Nikto makes to feed you another. To his credit, the dumplings are delicious, herbs and spices working perfectly against the plain wrapper. A little happy noise escapes your chest and Nikto’s watchful gaze sparkles in response.

“See. Not poison.” He shovels the second one in quickly behind the first. “You look very cute with full cheeks.”

There’s a moment where you’re incapable of replying, because your throat is occupied by swallowing and Nikto seems to realise he’s said words you weren’t expecting. You can almost feel him cringe, while inwardly he curses. Stupid and soft, he stares at his hands, wondering if you’ll notice the blush rising on his visable skin.

“You’re cute too.”

The response issued from your lips takes him by surprise, quietly he savours those words.

“Eat.” Nikto rumbles, blissfully aiming another dumpling at your mouth.

Full and sleepy, you watch him roll up his mask and eat the final bite he couldn’t coax you to swallow. His lopsided mouth savours it, a thick pink tongue swiping over his scarred lips. He has surprisingly nice teeth, taking into account how viciously the rest of him seems to have been assaulted and fleetingly your befuddled brain speaks out of term.

“Do you wear the mask for other people? Or for yourself?”

Nikto pauses, evidently thinking.

“A little of both. Why do you ask this?”

“No reason.” You reply quickly. “I just wondered!”

“Does it bother you?” He speaks softly, putting the empty plate on the side and gently holding up a glass of water for you to sip. “I know am not a handsome man.”

“I like you just how you are. Well… maybe less bossy actually.”

Nikto barks out a laugh, teeth flashing as his scars pull taught and whiten momentarily.

“That is only because I care about you.”

“I know. No ones ever bought me food in bed before.” You shiver, a tremor of cold slipping into your aching bones. “Can you close the window please?”

“Are you cold moya milaya?” Nikto looks concerned as you shudder again, moving a little closer to press his hand to your face. “You feel hot still.”

Your lips wobble, fighting to hold in the chattering of your jaws.

“Freezing!”

His touch feels so wonderfully warm and comforting, the smell of spices and herbs that surrounds him makes you want to curl up in his lap like a little cat and snooze. Actually that sounds perfect. You lean into his touch, and Nikto makes a low and quickly stifled sound in his throat.

“You should go Andre, I don’t want you to get sick on my account.”

“I do not want to go.” He replies hoarsely, studying your face with careful eyes. The air seems to thicken, intensity burning at the seams of your skin and warming you slightly from the heat of it. Nikto looks caught between wanting to say something else and feeling he’s said too much. Then he seems to lose some hidden argument with himself.

He shucks off his boots, rounding the bed and sinking onto it beside you. Without asking, Nikto shifts you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest so you can feel his body heat on your goosebump covered skin, soothing through your thin pyjamas.

You lie there in silence for a few minutes, working your face around the wide eyed expression of shock and trying to compose it into something more natural. Nikto’s heart is thundering under yours, the pulse in his jawline moving so violently he’s worried you can feel it on your scalp. This is the most intimate you’ve been together.

“Comfortable?” He gruffs, voice vibrating while you sit cocooned against him. The covers are drawn around you both, sealing in the comfort of your position until your eyes truly begin to itch with tiredness.

“Very.” You sigh inhaling his scent, as his exhales ruffle your hair.

“Good. Now rest.”

“See. So bossy.”

Nikto smiles secretly into the top of your head, listening to a yawn cut off the sassy tone of that last statement.

Hear me out! I know I promised smut but the story just isn’t quite there yet! It is on it’s way. Sorry for being a TEASE!

@cutiecusp @murder-hobo @pxssygxblin @misshugs @141ce

Masterlist

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Alternately thinking about how I originally wanted to write this prompt.

You and Simon’s breakup is brutal. Break is the proper term for it. There is no slow wearing away of feelings, no clear descent from lovers into strangers. It is a brutal car crash of a thing with far too many feelings left on both sides.

Living together makes it worse. Simon starts keeping odd hours at work to avoid you, and every time the two of you pass, it is less like ships in the night and more like ghosts. You miss him so badly, and he’s right there, except he’s never really there—never emotionally present, and you can’t keep waiting around waiting for him to be.

It’s your friends who suggest that the best way to get over Simon is to get underneath someone else. Your heart isn’t in it, but you’re also desperate—desperate for something that’s going to make the pain lessen, desperate to feel good for even a moment.

During those odd hours Simon is at work, you dress yourself up, going through the motions. Your friends have set you up on a blind date and the guy is on his way now to the apartment. You’re rushing through the living room with one heel in your hand when Simon’s voice rings out:

“Got plans?”

He nearly scares you to death melting from the shadows of the living room. He’s been sitting on the couch in the quiet dark, though only God knows why.

Your instinct is to lie, but he already knows. He’s emotionally unavailable, not stupid. The expression on his face is its typical one: closed off, cool, but there something in the way his hands hang between his legs, elbows on his knees. The slope of his shoulders. Something.

There’s a knock at the door.

Simon stands, slow and quiet.

“I’ll get it. Shoe’s in the hallway closet.”

God it’s a nightmare. You rush to the hallway marveling at the telenovela your life has become. Sure enough, your other heel is in the closet, tricksy bastard. You are rushing back to the living room when the sound of voices catches your attention and you stop, skidding on stockinged-feet.

Treat her well, Simon is saying to your date, shaking the guy’s hand. She’s a good one. Few and far between.

You send your date out, telling him that you’ll meet him at the elevator, and whirl on Simon. “Why would you say that? You could have told him anything—you could have ruined my date before it started. Why—?”

“Really have been closed off,” he says, looking unbearably sad, mouth struggling to smile. “You don’t know me at all.”

He leans in and brushes his lips against your cheek and tells you to have a nice time and to be safe, like your heart isn’t cracked down the middle, like his own isn’t the same.

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current fan creation landscape is kinda like if you went to a party with a homemade cake and everyone takes a slice and silently thumbs up at you with no attempt to start a conversation except for occasionally some guy sits in the corner with a tape recorder critiquing the cake as though he was a restaurant critic and another guy is handing the cake to an uber driver like "yeah i need you to find a restaurant that makes cake like this so i can have more of it" and the only person that's talked to you in 30 minutes is a very sweet little guy who was like "hey i liked your cake" and then ran away apologizing for bothering you the moment you said thank you.

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"oh that's my pretty girl"

I have never blushed and came so hard at the same