#feminism is important but so is my primal need to be objectified by nico

[capquinn]

Do It For Me | N. Hischier

summary: nico takes what he wants — needs — and you let him, soft and pliant beneath him, made to be used, made to be his. pairing: nico hischier x sub!reader content: MDNI 18+ only smut, p in v, overstimulation, dirty talk, unprotected sex, spanking, squirting, word count: 2.3k note: at this point if i'm posting smut, trust that filthy things are being said in the group chat ↪masterlist

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You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve come — how many times he’s pulled you over the edge, how many times he’s dragged another orgasm out of you like it’s nothing. Your body is spent, trembling, your legs shaking beneath him, but he doesn’t stop. Won’t stop. And you don't want him to.

Because it’s not about you — hasn’t been from the start. It's about him. About the way you’re still gasping for breath, the way your fingers weakly clutch at the sheets like you’re trying to ground yourself, the way your body gives itself to him, muscles loose, limbs boneless, completely at his mercy.

Nico groans, low and wrecked, a hand sliding up your spine, pressing down between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush against the bed. The shift makes you moan, makes your back arch, makes him sink even deeper, and fuck, he feels it — feels the way you shudder, feels the way your toes curl when he stays there, buried to the hilt, just grinding against you, making you take every inch.

"That’s it, baby," he mutters, his teeth scraping along the curve of your shoulder.

He likes you like this — half-gone, barely able to move, taking everything he gives you. The way you're so soft and pliant beneath him, letting him use you however he wants because you know that’s exactly what he needs.

His fingers slip down, skating over the mess between your thighs, feeling just how soaked you still are, and he smirks, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw as his other hand fists in the sheets beside your head, steadying himself.

"So fucking perfect for me," he breathes, snapping his hips forward again, chasing that familiar heat curling low in his stomach.

You whimper into the sheets, body twitching beneath him, but you don’t pull away. You never do. And that’s what drives him fucking insane. That he doesn’t have to ask. Doesn’t have to coax. You’re already there, already his, already so eager to let him take.

"You’re not even trying to stop me," he mutters, amused, voice thick with satisfaction. His hands slide over your body, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before skimming up your ribs, like he’s memorising every inch of you. "You just let me, huh?"

He takes his time, dragging it out, savouring the way your body gives to him, how you whimper into the sheets, how you shudder every time he sinks in deep and slow. His grip is firm, keeping you where he wants — folded beneath him, back arched, cheek pressed against the bed, your knees spread wide, open, ready for him. You don’t fight it, don’t push him away, don’t even try. Just let him fuck you like you were made for it, like this is the only thing you’re meant to do.

And fuck, you do it so well. So easily. Even when your body trembles, even when you’re already wrecked, already spent, skin damp with sweat, thighs shaking from the force of your last orgasm.

But that’s what makes it better. That’s what he loves most — seeing you like this, seeing how completely you give yourself to him over and over, how you let him have you. All of you.

And that’s what you love too. The way he needs this. The way he needs you. How his hands tighten on your hips like he can’t get enough, how he groans when you arch just a little more, offering yourself up for him, because you want to be wanted like this.

"That’s my girl," he mutters, dragging his teeth along your shoulder before pressing a kiss there, holy and filthy all at once.

You let out a soft, broken whimper, trying to squirm away, but there’s nowhere to go — nowhere you’d rather be, really — not when his hands tighten on your hips, not when his cock is still buried deep inside you, still dragging against every sensitive spot that has you begging for more and running away all at once.

He feels everything — the way you pulse around him, the way your breath hitches with every deep stroke, the way you squeeze him so fucking tight like you don’t really want him to stop. You’re perfect like this, letting him have you, letting him chase his pleasure without hesitation.

Like hell he’s letting you go. Not when you feel this good, not when your body is still so wet for him, still clenching down like you need him there.

He pushes himself up, chest peeling away from your back as he kneels between your spread thighs, never once slipping out, never once breaking his rhythm. The new angle has you gasping, has your hands fisting in the sheets until your knuckles turn white, has him watching the way you shudder under him, the way your body still gives even as you writhe beneath his hands. Even when you’re trying so hard to escape the overwhelming pleasure that’s got you teetering on the edge.

"No, schatzi," he groans, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you back onto his cock, guiding you into every deep stroke, letting you feel every inch, every pulse of him inside you. "You can take it, baby."

You sob into the sheets, thighs shaking, muscles twitching, but you don’t tell him to stop — can’t, not when you’re already this far gone, not when the pleasure has you dizzy, floating, wrecked.

And he knows. Knows your body better than you do, knows you’re right on the edge of another one, knows you like this. Like the way he doesn’t slow down, doesn’t let up, even when it’s too much.

"Feels so good when you’re like this," he mutters, voice thick, head tilting down to watch — to see himself stretching you, see the way you drip down onto his cock, see the way your thighs tremble but never close.

One hand smooths up your spine, tracing the sweat-slick curve of it, before pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you deeper into the mattress, angling your hips higher. The other smacks down across your ass, hard and fast, making you jolt, making your breath catch in a sharp, broken wail. The sting blooms hot beneath his palm, sending another sharp pulse of pleasure through you, making your walls flutter around him, making you squeeze him even tighter. Making every slow, deep drag of his cock through your soaking heat even filthier.

His head tips back, a low, guttural moan slipping from his lips because fuck, you’re still so warm, so tight, still gripping him even though he’s been fucking you open for so long.

"That’s it, baby, take it," he groans, slamming forward, grinding deep. He’s gone now, completely lost in the way you wrap around him, your body responding to him, offering more with every thrust.

And then you break.

A sharp, high-pitched whine catches in your throat, your body tensing beneath him before you come undone, overwhelmed, overstimulated, pleasure crashing over you in waves.

Your moans dissolve into soft, desperate sobs, hands clawing at the sheets, thighs trembling as another orgasm rips through you, dragging you under. It’s too much, too intense, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up — twisting, squirming, trying to turn over, trying to shift beneath him like you can escape the pleasure that’s got you spiralling.

But no fucking way is he letting you slip away from him.

Nico growls low in his throat, hands gripping you tight, and before you can even process what’s happening, he grabs your hips, pulls out just long enough to flip you onto your back, your body pliant, wrecked, barely able to move before he’s already pushing back in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, brutal thrust.

"I know, baby, I know," he coos, but it’s nothing but taunting and indulgent as he watches you shudder beneath him, still locked in your orgasm.

His hands slide down, grip behind your knees, pushing them up and apart, folding you open so he can get deeper. He groans, dropping his head, watching the way you spread for him, the way your cunt grips him, and it’s so fucking messy, slick and filthy, and fuck, he needs more.

One hand leaves your leg, moves between your bodies, fingers pressing against your soaked clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles as he fucks you through it, as he drags out your pleasure, as he forces another orgasm to build before you’ve even come down from the last one.

And then he feels it.

The way your body locks up beneath him, muscles tensing so hard it makes your breath hitch, your nails digging into his thighs as a sharp, broken cry rips from your throat. Your back arches, thighs twitching in his grip, and then — fuck.

A gush of wetness spills between you, sudden and overwhelming, soaking his cock, dripping onto his thighs, splashing warm against his abs. Nico falters — just for a second, his hips stilling, eyes flicking down in pure, stunned awe as he watches it happen, as he feels the way you gush for him, your swollen, pink cunt pulsing, fluttering, completely wrecked.

That’s it. That’s it.

A rough, wrecked groan spills from his lips, his grip tightening behind your knees as he snaps his hips forward, dragging out another slick, obscene sound as he fucks into you harder, faster, chasing the way you shudder, the way you moan beneath him.

"Holy fuck," he breathes, voice rough, his fingers digging into your skin, keeping you spread wide open, watching as you drip for him, as his cock grinds through the mess pooling between your thighs.

It’s obscene — the wet, slick drag of him, the way your body keeps giving, keeps offering him more, even though you’re already spent, already trembling beneath him.

His other hand slides to your lower belly, pressing down just enough to make you feel him, every deep stroke, every slow, devastating roll of his hips. To make sure you know how deep he is, how full he’s got you, how there’s nowhere to go — nowhere to run from the pleasure that’s wrecking you from the inside out.

"You feel that, baby?" he rasps, grinding into you, his rhythm messy now, frantic, desperate. His thumb finds your swollen, oversensitive clit, rubbing fast, cruel circles, dragging another broken sob from your lips. "Fuck... look at you."

But he doesn’t let you look. Doesn’t give you time to breathe. Doesn’t let you come down — not when you’re still soaking him, not when your body is still so fucking hot and wet around him.

Nope.

He needs more. Needs to feel you break again, needs to chase that wet, messy release all over again.

"That’s it, baby. Give me one more," he mutters, rolling his hips deep, dragging himself through your soaked heat, through the mess of it, through the wreckage of the last orgasms he’s already pulled from you. "I know you can. Do it for me."

And you do.

Your body shatters beneath him again, thighs trembling, trying to close, trying to run from the intensity, but Nico doesn’t let you. He leans in, chest pressing flush against yours, his weight sinking into you, his hips forcing your legs open, keeping you there, holding you still, making sure you take everything he gives.

"Nico."

Your cry of his name is wrecked, punched out of you as your body clenches tight around him, trembling, desperate. Your fingers twist in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as you yank him closer, thighs squeezing around his hips, locking him in, holding him exactly where you want him.

A rough, broken groan tears from his chest as his hips snap forward once last time, burying himself deep, grinding into you as his own pleasure breaks over him. His breath catches, his fingers tighten where they grip your waist, his whole body shaking as he comes, hot and thick, filling you up, making sure you take all of it.

His thrusts slow, turning into this slow, dragged-out grind, like he’s chasing the feeling, like he doesn’t want to pull away from you yet, doesn’t want to leave the heat of you wrapped around him. His body is heavy against yours, his breath hot, uneven, spilling across your skin as he presses his forehead to yours, lips parting like he wants to say something but can’t — too lost in the feeling, too wrecked, too fucking gone.

His hands move without thought, without hesitation, already easing into gentleness, sliding down your sides, smoothing over the slight tremors still running through you.

"Fuck, baby," he breathes, voice low, hushed, still thick with the remnants of pleasure, his body heavy against yours, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he lingers in the aftermath.

His lips find your temple first, then your cheek, then the curve of your jaw — soft, lingering kisses, slow and reverent, like he’s grounding himself in you, memorising the way you feel beneath him, under him. His. Just his. All his.

His hips keep moving in slow, lazy grinds like he’s soothing you, like he’s soothing himself, chasing that last bit of warmth, of connection, of you.

"So fucking good for me," he mutters against your skin, his hands slipping lower, smoothing over your thighs, massaging where his grip had been firm before.

He stays deep, buried inside you, unwilling to leave just yet, unwilling to let go of the warmth, the intimacy, the quiet hum of pleasure still pulsing between you.

"Took me so fucking perfectly, schatzi," he murmurs, lips pressed to your shoulder, voice softer now, lower, his weight pressing solid against you. "My sweet girl... My good girl."