#reader first time

[courtforshort15]

How Sweet It Is (to be loved by you)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x AFAB Reader

Word Count: 3,300

Summary: Matt Murdock is the sweetest man you’ve ever known.

Warnings: Sweet and gentle smut. Yup, good old College!Matt taking care of reader during her first time.

Masterlist

Matt Murdock is a lot of things.

Intense.

Passionate.

Intelligent. 

Resilient. 

Beautiful. 

But your favorite thing that he is...is sweet.

No one should be that happy to attend a grueling class about civil law, but Matt has always been the exception, not the rule, throwing everyone off their axis, time and time again.

He is sweet in the way that he walks you to as many of your classes as he can, hand linked with yours, despite the fact that sometimes you think it should be the other way around, that you should be the one guiding him to his own classes, helping him navigate through the crowds of students and finding an empty seat in a lecture hall. But Matt Murdock knows the campus like the back of his hand, so you don't worry about him making his way to where he needs to be, knowing he’ll make it just fine on his own with a backpack thrown over his shoulder and a charming smile lighting up his face.

He is sweet in the way that he stays up late to help you study for exams. He helps you prepare note cards, quizzing you on facts and terms that he has long since mastered. He is two years ahead of you in the law program, and while he has plenty of homework and papers he could be working on, he always makes sure you're settled and confident in your own knowledge and abilities before he moves on to his own assignments.

He is sweet in the way that he rubs your back and whispers soothing words into your ears while you're in the middle of an anxiety attack, hands clenched in his t-shirt and helpless tears sliding down your face through wet eyelashes, trying and failing to match your breathing to his. He asks you what you need from him, what he can do to make it better, and when you tell him that all you need is for him to hold you, he keeps you pressed up against him for the rest of the night and into the morning, hand rubbing up and down your back in a motion that reminds you of the way your father used to comfort you through thunderstorms. 

He is sweet in the way that when he kisses you, it's with everything he has. You are his sole focus, the only thing he is thinking about when his mouth is on yours, soft lips shifting between petal light and the kind of passion you’ve only ever seen on a movie screen. The hands he roams over your body vary in their pressure, vary in their intensity, but they are always soft and ready to slow down and ease up if you need.

He is sweet the first time he's inside of you, the first time anyone is inside you, and you can’t think of anyone you’d rather experience this with first.

To be honest, you can’t think of anyone you’d rather experience this with ever.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his mouth ghosting over yours as he helps you remove your pants, tossing them to the carpeted floor in his bedroom, the off-campus apartment he shares with Foggy a far cry from your cramped dorm room. Your shirt and bra soon follow, a gentle movement of color that lands somewhere behind you.

"Yes," you say in reply, reaching for his own clothing and failing miserably to remove them, fingers trembling in nerves and a level of eagerness you haven’t felt before. He steadies your hands, raising them to his lips to press a gentle kiss to the knuckles, before he takes his shirt off himself, exposing broad shoulders that already carry so much weight on them, though the weight never dims the smiles that he sends your way. 

It's not the first time you've seen him without anything covering his chest, having spent time pressed against him as he gently tore your boundaries down through smooth skin and patience as he waited for you to be ready for this exact moment. But it's the first time you've seen him like this, bathed in the moonlight that's streaming through the window, face a mixture of anticipation, excitement and the flash of hunger that’s been appearing on his face more and more often.

You know that if he could see, he’d find the exact same look staring back at him. 

He's sweet in the way he leans into you and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, a thoughtful and wordless way to remind you that he's going to take good care of you as the pair of you move into this next step of your relationship. You can feel his want pressing into your abdomen, an aching testament to his desire for you, but you have no doubt that he’d stop if you asked him to, your name on his lips shifting from passion to comfort immediately and without question.

You have no intention of asking him to stop tonight, though.

Matt's lowering you to his bed before you know it, placing you so that you're on your side facing him. He's pressed against you in a way that leaves little to the imagination of how much he wants you, and you can’t help but rock into him, savoring the small gasp that leaves through his parted lips. His skin is nearly scalding, but the heat barely registers because the temperature matches yours, and how can he burn you anymore than you’re already burning? 

He is sweet in the way he pushes your hair back behind your ear, wanting full access to your face, fingers trailing down your cheek and cupping your jaw so that he can lift your mouth towards his, dark eyes fluttering shut. The hand slides into your hair once his lips have captured yours, cradling the back of your head in his palm, the pressure tender even while it’s firm.

With your free hand, you slide your fingers into his silk boxers, marveling at how the skin is somehow unbelievably softer than the fabric. It matches, you suppose, the texture of his skin as gentle underneath your fingertips as the sound of your name leaving his lips. Your hand slides lower so that you can grasp him fully, and while it's not the first time you've held him in your palm, it's still the first time you've been ready to cradle him in a different part of your body. 

He helps you push his boxers down his hips before he slowly removes your own underwear, fingers pausing to draw a few circles on the inside of one of your thighs, and the movement is more sensual than you could have ever imagined. You are completely bare to him in a way you haven't been before, and though you know he can't see you, you delight in the way that he already knows your body far better than you do.

Matt has spent time tracing every bump and scar of your body, reading them as easily as he does the bumps of braille on a piece of paper, studying every reaction you have to his hands on your body. He has learned to use each sigh and gasp and movement to his advantage as he pushes you to a peak only he can give, and you can do nothing but moan in his ear as he whispers words of love and praise into your skin.

He is sweet in the way that he gently coaxes your thighs apart, fingers urging you to open for him, voice quiet in your ear to once again ask if you're alright with the way he's touching you. You kiss him in response, offering him a level of comfort that comes with another wordless reply of your shy but enthusiastic consent, and his hand settles between your legs and over the place that aches for him the most.

"You're so wet for me, sweetheart," he breathes against your cheek as he lifts your leg to lay across his hip, encouraging you to sink closer into his side as he slowly slides a finger into you. Your body accepts him as eagerly as it had the first time he had touched you weeks ago, and you’re helpless to do anything but sigh and press further into his hand. You're not exactly a stranger to his fingers inside of you, but this time the intention is to not only make you feel good, but to also prepare your body for the rest of him, and the knowledge causes goosebumps to creep up and down your arms.

He adds a second finger, and the stretch causes a gasp, which he quickly swallows down as he leans forwards to press his mouth against yours. His breathing is in sync with yours, a steady in and out that’s increasing in its frequency as the two of you further explore the flesh and bone and muscle that you've laid out for each other.  

He encourages you to finally roll over so that you're fully on your back, and once you're settled, he hums in contentment. Leaning down, Matt allows his mouth to trail down your jaw, down your neck, and over your breast where he pulls a nipple lightly between his teeth, laughing lightly as you arch into him. He adjusts his body so that he's stretched out above you, though most of his weight is resting on the arm and hand that's been placed next to your head, always so careful to not hurt you or cause any sort of discomfort. 

He always treats you like stained glass, though not in a way that suggests you’re fragile or easily broken, but in the way that says you’re far too precious for him to ever let go of.

"You're such a good girl for me," he whispers, and he's just loud enough that you don't have to strain your hearing to make out what he's saying. The praise causes your face to flush hotter than it already is, and you can't think of a coherent reply, too lost and too dizzy with the way he’s making you feel, the way he’s playing your body like a violin. Instead, your fingers drum a light pattern on the shoulders they've wrapped around, and he shudders at the contact. 

You love knowing that his body is every bit as sensitive as yours when it comes to your fingertips tracing over his own skin.

He is sweet in the way he continues his journey further down until his mouth is above where he knows you ache for him. With no thought of himself, he lays down on his stomach, resting his weight on his elbows, and uses the fingers on one hand to part you. His mouth is on your clit a second later, tongue lightly circling around it, and you moan quietly, his name on your lips. The sound must spur him on, because while he starts out soft and tender, his mouth gradually speeds up and increases in intensity.

He wrecks you with his lips and tongue and fingers, and it's not long before you're gasping through your release, one hand grasping his bedsheet so tightly you're shocked you haven't ripped it, the other hand buried in his hair. Somewhere along the way he had placed an arm strong as steel over your abdomen in an effort to keep you still while he tore you apart. 

Matt makes his way slowly back up your body, pausing here and there to place kisses along your hips and abdomen and chest, lips glistening even while they open in a smile that somehow is a combination of smug satisfaction and a look that is so soft and affectionate it makes your heart stutter.

"You okay?" he asks again, the dry fingers that hadn't been inside you softly caressing your cheek. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, but you look up and admire the color and the way they almost seem to dance around your face. You’re not sure how you’d ever survive without him, this man who had asked to share a table with you in the crowded library just six months ago, this man who had the ability to make you feel so seen despite his lack of sight. 

"More than okay," you whisper back, your voice breathless as you lift your own hand to run it through his dark hair. He takes the opportunity to kiss your fingers as they trail down his cheek and briefly over his lips, smiling as he does so. 

"Do you still want to--"

With a quiet laugh, you pull him down for a full kiss, tongue immediately pushing into his mouth that remains slightly parted in a grin, and he echoes your brief huff of laughter. It quickly turns into a moan, as does yours when he grinds his hips into you before he reluctantly tears himself away, a small smirk appearing on his face. 

Matt reaches over you to grab a condom off of his night table, and you watch as he sits back on to his heels to slide it on, briefly mourning the thought that you won't feel the silk of his cock pressing into you, but you figure one day you’ll get to that point. There's no reason to rush it now. 

He is sweet in the way he checks in with you again, hand returning to your cheek, an easy way for him to map out the expression on your face. He smiles when his fingers run over your lips, no doubt discovering your own smile that you're wearing, the one that you seem to wear solely for him. You nod, quietly giving your consent once more, and he wordlessly helps you to spread your legs wider so that he may fully lay between them, the heat of skin settling almost completely into yours.

He drags his cock through your folds, catching your earlier release on the tip to slick the way, and with a deep breath, he pushes in. There's a slight burn at the stretch, but you embrace it wholeheartedly, knowing it’s simply the stretch of Matt finding yet another way to make himself home within you. Touching Matt this way, feeling him this way, is something you've been thinking about since the first time he kissed you.

He is sweet in the way that he goes slow, patiently waiting for you to adjust and feel comfortable, and it's not long before he's seated completely inside you, hips snug against yours. He leans down to kiss you, red lips caressing yours softly at first before it shifts into something that's a little more heated, a little more passionate, perhaps a prelude for what’s to come. 

"You're doing so well for me, sweetheart," he says against your mouth, and the words make you sigh in response, hips once again tilting up to rock into him, and he retaliates with a slight withdrawal and careful push back in, causing you to close your eyes with a quiet gasp. "You feel so good. Does it feel good for you, too?"

"Yes," you tell him truthfully once you reopen your eyes, hand running down his back, the skin just as soft as the front of him and warm to the touch. "You feel perfect."

You feel his mouth split into a grin against yours, and you can't help but let out another quiet groan when he pulls out of you slightly before sliding back in. He is beautiful like this, pressed against you, cheeks flushed, damp hair resting on his forehead. You reach up to push his dark hair away from his face and trail your fingers down his cheek, and even while he continues to slide in and out of you, he turns his head to press a kiss against your wrist. 

You've heard many terms used to describe what you're experiencing with Matt. 

Having sex.

Screwing.

Fucking.

But none of those accurately or even come close to the feeling of this. You've never liked the term making love, finding it somewhat cheesy for whatever reason, but here in the moment with him, nothing else sounds more right, nothing else captures what it feels like to be with him like this. The way your bodies move together is selfless, seeking the other's breaking point, savoring each breath that's gasped out, each slide of skin against skin. 

He is sweet in the way he makes sure you come first, fingers running down your body to eventually press and rub over your clit, a slow grind meant to both make the moment last while also sending you rushing towards your peak, one that gets closer and closer with every thrust and press of his hips against yours. With his lips hovering just above yours, barely half an inch away, he tells you how much he wants you to come for him, tells you how perfect you feel underneath him and wrapped around him in every way you can be. 

He rests on top of you for a few minutes afterwards, sweat soaked skin pressed into sweat soaked skin, and the weight of him somehow still feels weightless, as if holding him to you like this is the most natural thing in the world. When he pulls out with a gentle kiss to your forehead, you can't help but reach for him again, despite the fact that he only takes one step away from the bed to throw away the condom. You're back in his arms a split second later, and the world rights itself once more.

When he tells you that just once will never be enough for him, that he will always need this with you, that being inside of you is the first place he's felt at home in years, you absolutely shatter. The way your clench around him, crying out his name, sends Matt to his own release, his lips immediately crashing to yours in effort to touch as much of you as possible. 

"I love you," he whispers into your ear, pulling you as tightly against him as possible, angling your head so that it rests on his shoulder, yanking up the top sheet to cover you both as he gently presses your face into his neck. It's the most vulnerable part of his body, and he exposes it to you, no questions asked. 

"I love you, too," you tell him quietly. Your hand moves to where he's wrapped his own around your waist, lacing your fingers with his. It's not the first time you've said the words to each other, but this time there’s the feeling of added weight to it that you're not sure to describe other than to say that it just feels like more.

He is sweet in the way that those words continue to fall from his lips as easily as breathing for the rest of your lives, despite the hardships and complications and revelations that come along the way. He is still sweet in the way he walks you to places you're more than capable of walking to by yourself, simply so that he can have just a few extra minutes of being next to you. He is still sweet in the way he stays up with you the nights before big cases you're up against, even while he's exhausted and being bandaged up at the kitchen table. He's still sweet in the way he holds you during anxiety attacks, and the way he kisses you like it's the first time his mouth is on yours.

He is still sweet as he slides a wedding band on your finger in front of friends and family, promising to love you and give you all that he has, day in and day out, asking with dark eyes and cherry red lips for nothing but the same promise in return. He’s no longer hesitant in the question, an early life of abandonment having given way to the endless love and commitment you’ve pressed into his skin over the years.

Even through various frustrations and tears, you’ve found yourself forever unable to be anything but sweet to him in return.

[icepip]

ughh imagine having a heavy make out session with yuta and sitting on his lap and he just can't seem to get enough of you, constantly squeezing and gripping at your hips, pulling you closer and closer because he's so desperate for you. moaning and licking into your mouth, only pulling away a hair's breadth to fill his lungs with air.

there's this need that flows through both your veins and you just want each other. it's dumb and irresponsible — but fuck, you really don't want to leave yuta's lap.

you're pawing at his bulge beneath you, shaky hands trying to get it out, and he doesn't stop you. raising his hips to help you, yuta gasps when your hands wraps around his shaft. his head falls back and for the first time, you can breathe.

he's hot and heavy in your hand, velvety smooth and already beginning to leak, and you want so bad.

"please, yuta," you mumble against his jaw, rubbing your covered cunt against his cock. "i need you."

"c-condom." it's choked out, like it pains him to say. like you could've forgotten about it.

"just the tip. you can, you can just pull out."

yuta whines, a sound high in his throat, his dick jumping in your hand. he shouldn't. he couldn't possibly stop himself from losing control. you know this more than anyone else, but you want.

you push your shorts and panties to the side, pressing his tip to your mound. it's dangerous and far too tempting for both of you and it's no surprise when his cockhead pushes into your pussy.

[kitashousewife]

“do you need the winter blankets out?” ushijima peaks from around the corner of the linen closet.

“hmm? no, how come?” you look up from the book you’re reading. he’s looking through the blankets with a concentrated look. you smile.

“you were trying to take the blankets last night,” he carries a heavier blanket to the bed, draping it over your legs. “are you too cold?”

you put the book down, dog earring the corner. ushijima frowns at this. you quickly unfold it before he gets too upset. “no, i don’t think i was chilly. but i must have been,” you pull the quilt over your body, flattening it to cover his side too.

“i want to make sure you rest well,” he yawns, sliding in himself. “i brought the other blankets down from the top shelf in case this isn’t enough.”

“thank you ‘toshi,” you kiss his lips and he smiles. “what can i do to make sure you rest well?”

he’s quiet for a moment.

“hold me?”

you wrap your arms around him, nuzzling inbetween his shoulder blades.

“always.”

[shotmrmiller]

ghost getting himself a cute, soft girl he doesn't talk about much but is clearly obsessed with and price just thinks it's nice he's finally settled down, approves of the home he's made for himself, definitely approves of the one he's taken for himself.

soap asks kyle if he's seen you and he says, "yep. lovely bird he's got tucked away in her little dollhouse. makes great food, too." soap swears there's a subtle shift in his tone when he says "lovely", a hint of something deeper that flickers in his eyes for just a moment. soap simply sucks on his teeth, letting it slide. (although he knows that kyle's always been one to appreciate the good things in life.)

interest gnaws at him, a persistent itch he can't scratch. price likes you just fine, as does kyle. well what about him? he decides to bite the bullet and goes to simon with a knot between his brows, the corners of his lips tugged downwards. they've shared clothes, bullets, beds. if the other two got to meet you, why can't he?

"ya can come over for dinner on tonight. she'd 'ave my neck if she didn't formally meet ya anyway."

soap then asks, out of genuine curiosity more than anything else, if simon would have kept you in the dark from him hadn't he brought you up himself.

"ya meet 'er when i want ya to, boy, and not a moment before." the tone he takes is unmistakeable. his words are a command, not a suggestion, and soap instantly knows to not push further.

soap nods. "ah'll be there."

"course ya will. she'd be terribly disappointed otherwise."

yeah, he'd hate to have that.

soap sits in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the cozy place. with a full stomach and an unfastened belt, nursing a glass of kentucky. he can't remember the last time he ate that well or that much.

maybe it's the alcohol that loosens his tongue, or the fact that he wishes he also had a sweet little thing to keep at his side just like simon's doing with you now, but the thoughts he's been mulling over all evening since he first saw you tumble out of his mouth.

"while ah can attest to yer taste in sweethearts, can't say much about your alcohol. bourbon, LT?" he says, chest warm.

simon's arm tightens around your hips, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh. he shrugs, completely unbothered by the backhanded compliment. "can't be perfect in everythin', can we, sergeant?"

soap's cheeks burn furiously hot when you come to his defense with a smack of your palm onto simon's chest. "be nice to johnny. he's got a face that make up for some of his other flaws."

the teasing lilt in your voice unashamedly gets his southern blood pumping. he can't help it if certain things stir when someone as pretty as you look at him like that. soap swirls the amber liquid gently in the glass while keeping his limpid eyes on you, not even trying to hide the fact that his gaze hasn't wavered since your cheeky little comment.

you then whisper something in simon's ear, your cupped hand not even half the size of his head and soap has to rearrange himself from the outside when your teeth catch your bottom lip. simon looks up at you then, eyes heavy and half lidded, and a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.

"'m not sure, love. you'll just 'ave to ask 'im yourself. go on."

you open that sweet mouth of yours, but simon cuts you off with a decisive wave of his hand. "no. you know how to ask for things."

your reaction to that is visceral, and you're on your knees faster than his alcohol-muddled brain can comprehend. don't look down 'er shirt, don't look down 'er shirt, don't-

"johnny, will you touch my pussy?"

he splutters at your question, completely taken aback, but it seems you're not done just yet.

"hands to yourself, sergeant. tha' not all."

you pout at simon, one that earns you a look that promises consequence, but do as he says.

"will you touch my pussy, johnny? pretty please?"

[raspberrighost]

... big metal wife

[xinganhao]

not for sale 💳 mingyu x reader. (1)

✉︎ @maplegyu asked me if she could abuse her moot privileges for this smau, and ??? when was i ever going to say 'no' to my favorite gyuldaengie! her prompt: celebrity!mingyu x small business owner!reader would be cute AF— based on this (i.e. mingyu selling out a regnie pudding).

check out 🛒 not for sale's masterlist.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ not for sale by enhypen. love is growing by plastic plastic. 711 by toneejay. she wants me (to be loved) by the happy fits. like or like like by miniature tigers. like the movies by laufey. do you wanna do nothing with me? by lawrence. wall st by boys go to jupiter.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[nanaslutt]

pranking jjk men by making “babe” autocorrect to “whore” in their phone

ʚ incl: gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna

ʚ cont: suggestiveness, crack

MINORS AND AGELESSBLOGS DNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

[ariadnes-elixirs]

thinking of an isekaied reader and a yandere noble boy...

(gn reader x male noble yandere)

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

tw: none (?) so far, just some obsessive sounding letters

you were currently staring at a face that wasn't yours, in a castle you've never seen, surrounded by people you don't know. you look down at you hands, now covered in jewelry you could have never hoped to afford in your previous life. your unblemished, dainty hands that have never seen a day of work.

the first couple days you spent in this body were spent in bed. you were told by the nurse that you had collapsed while leaving supper and had been asleep for several days.

your father, the count, made the estate's staff keep you in bed and well taken care of. he was a tan and muscular man with a scar across the left side of his face. at first you were intimidated by his rough appearance, especially because these settings usually accompany a stereotypically abusive family for the female protagonist.

however, you found that he was a kind and gentle man, genuinely concerned for his child's well being. his eyes soften as they turn to you, and after asking around, you found out that he has been working remotely from the estate ever since you passed out.

you found out from a maid that he was born a commoner, but excelled at combat and battle strategy. which caught the eye of the grand duke, and his daughter.

the grand duke's daughter was about the same age as him, and there were rumors floating around about them meeting in secret as children, then falling in love as they grew older.

he was able to prove his worth to the kingdom and earn his title through battle. although, it was unclear if he did this just to obtain status, or if it was to impress a certain grand duke.

your mother was usually busy tending to the estate's financial affairs, but the few times you saw her around were when she was at your bedside, reading a book in her lap while playing with a strand of your hair as you were tended to by nurses and maids.

apparently, regardless of the status your father obtained, the grand duke was insistent that his daughter was too good for him. he would shout and scream like a child about how she would marry the prince, who is now the king. when she refused to do so, he disowned her.

with your father's newly obtained title of "count" he obtained land, and greatly assisted the men and women he paid to build the estate you and your family currently live in.

your mother apparently knew that she would get disowned as soon as they made their relationship public. so, they strategically announced their engagement and wedding so that your mother could simply move in with your father as soon as she was disowned.

she usually appeared cold and didn't say much, but the way she looked at your father made you believe she had no regrets and loves him, you, and the life she has. the way your father looked at her also made you believe that he was deeply in love with her, as he borderline worshipped the ground she walked on. they were a private, yet happy couple and you were their beloved only child.

this scene was familiar, but you couldn't quite place it. you were an avid reader of "otome isekai" manga and manhwa, but nothing about this seemed familiar to you. so, when you were finally allowed to leave your bed, you tried to deduce as much as you could about where you were.

eventually, you decided to ask your parents. claiming that you were having issues with your memory since you collapsed. technically not a lie, and they looked concerned while they answered your questions one at a time. as you got up to leave, you noticed a pile of unopened letters on the windowsill of your parents' joint office.

your parents sighed as their attention shifted to what you had been staring at.

your father spoke up first, "that friend of yours has not stopped sending letters ever since he found out what happened to you," he continued, "i knew it was a mistake telling him you collapsed."

your mother expression shifted into a sly yet knowing look, "well, i can't blame the boy for being concerned. the two of you have been attached at the hip since childhood."

your father makes an abstract motion with his left arm, vaguely gesturing at the pile of letters. "we didn't want to disturb your rest or worry you, so we decided to hide the letters until you recovered." he pauses, "feel free to take them on your way out."

you walk over to the windowsill and slowly start collecting the letters. all addressed to what is now "your" name. as your eyes shift to the return address, you notice they all came from an oliver northwood.

you say your goodbyes to your parents, and make your way back to your room. once you've arrived, you set down the letters on your bed and slowly realize just how many letters he's written to you within the past four days. you begin with the earliest ones, all of which contain very sweet and concerned messages, wishing for you to recover soon.

as you keep reading, you start to feel a sense of dead wash over you as the contents of the letters become more... unsettling. shifting from statements like "i wish you a speedy recovery and can't wait to see you again!" to "every day i go without seeing your face is a day wasted. i wish i could go over there to see you, even if you 'aren't awake.'"

you push on, finally getting to the more recent letters. the contents causes a small shiver to run down your spine. "i miss you so so so so much. my darling, my love, my closest friend. please please get better soon. i feel myself slowly going insane when you aren't near me. sometimes, i feel like you are the one thing keeping me stable. please get better. please..."

you don't know this man, but the person whose body you now inhabit did.

you try to recall every male lead you could. oliver northwood... oliver northwood... doesnt sound like any male lead youve read about. you did read... so much otome isekai though. so its also possible you just cant remember.

just who is he?

please let me know if you want a continuation! :)

[umbrvx]

the weight of a life

[sorryheartt]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ hand placement while making out . . . ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁

warnings: 18+, minors do not interact, suggestive, mentions of sex, hair pulling, marks and hickeys.

author note: hi!, this is my first time writing, english is not my first language so if any mistake please tell me. I accept requests!!

۶ৎ Mark - thighs ‹𝟹

Mark already likes your thighs, but when you're making out and you sit on his lap, he really loves it. The way you open your legs and have your thighs all for him? He goes crazy. He’s not much of a hips guy; instead, he keeps his hands firmly on your thighs—if you let him. Now imagine riding him… oh, he’s going to completely lose his mind.

۶ৎ Renjun - neck ‹𝟹

The way Renjun holds the back of your neck while he kisses you so deeply? Yeah, he’s insane for you and doesn’t even realize it. For him, your neck is like a masterpiece, his personal artwork. The number of marks and hickeys he can leave on you is uncountable. And later, he loves running his fingers over them and admiring his "work."

۶ৎ Jeno - back ‹𝟹

If you arch your back while he’s kissing you, Jeno will go feral. His pride will shoot through the roof seeing how much his girl is enjoying herself. He might not admit it, but he secretly loves it when you scratch his back while making out. You’re always worried about hurting him, but truth is—it drives him absolutely crazy.

۶ৎ Haechan - boobs ‹𝟹

Haechan? He doesn’t even try to hide it. His hands are always on your boobs, like they’re gloves made to keep his hands warm. Give him one kiss, and he’ll already have one hand on your chest. He loves how soft they are and how much his touch affects you. Honestly, it drives him wild.

۶ৎ Jaemin - hips ‹𝟹

For Jaemin, your hips don’t lie—and he loves it. Watching the way your hips move during a heated makeout session makes him obsessed. He loves placing his big hands on your hips, feeling your curves, and holding you close as you move. To him, it’s intoxicating.

۶ৎ Chenle - hair ‹𝟹

Chenle already loves playing with your hair, running his fingers through it, or gently scratching your scalp. But during a passionate makeout session? When he has his fingers tangled in your hair and accidentally pulls it, making you moan? He’ll lose all sense of control. Forget about his pride—he’s completely gone at that point.

۶ৎ Jisung - ass ‹𝟹

For Jisung, your ass is like the perfect stress ball—soft, addictive, and irresistible. Even while making out, he still asks for permission before touching it, and it’s because he respects you so much. But the moment you say yes? Imagine his hands all over you, squeezing and exploring. Yeah, he loves it—a lot.

strawberry silhouette by irene . . .

[cursedcola]

Yuu: “It’s time I told you guys about my lore” *whips out powerpoint*

Riddle:….lore?

Azul: Oh - so you’re a gamer.

Idia: Oh - so you’re traumatized

[isagispuzzle]

it's two am, and you call reo to pick you up because you're tipsy and none of your friends have a ride home. although reo always has a driver available, he picks up the car keys himself and drives to the bar you were at.

your friends thank reo, giggle about his nice car, and coo about how lucky you are. in response, you slur, "right? reo is the best. i'm the luckiest person on earth to have him as my best friend!", and fall asleep once it's just the two of you left in the car.

reo turns up the heater and lowers the intensity of the massager built into the passenger seat, just how he knows you like it. the rest of the car ride is silent, and reo starts to think.

he thinks about how you always grab onto his hand in crowded areas, how you're never afraid of asking him for help, how you never shy away from comforting and accepting him even when he tells you about his mistakes. he thinks about how your judgement of him has never once been clouded by his wealth and status, how you're always willing to call him out on his bratty ways and tease him for his sheltered upbringing, how you never fail to challenge him and push him out of his comfort zone. he thinks about how your friends trust him just as much as you do, how even nagi is willing to get out of bed to help you when reo's unable to, how his parents stopped setting him up on blind dates after seeing the way he smiles around you.

he thinks about you, and all the memories you've shared, and of the future together that you occasionally discuss. he thinks about how well your hand fits into his, how well you fit into his life. he thinks about how everything has always been given to him on a diamond platter, but despite his ability to get everything he wants, you still sit in his passenger seat, less than an arm's length away and out of reach.

"best friend, huh," reo mumbles, and perhaps he truly is a spoilt brat, because he doubts he can stay content with what he has for any longer.

[baeshijima]

mr reca fic where he’s suffering a creative slump due to the lack of good scripts (by his standards) from various screenwriters. he feels himself going positively insane with every script he’s given.

it’s too dull. it’s too predictable. this one has no creative flair whatsoever!! that one just doesn’t spark enough imagination!!!

it’s troublesome, really. some think he’s really going through it, while others believe the scripts he’s been given won’t bring him enough money. but really, who cares about monetary value when it is he who cannot even begin to picture himself enjoying the process that comes with each script?

and so that is how he finds himself wandering around aimlessly. sometimes the outdoors is necessary for the mind, and who knows? perhaps he really will find something that will give him a spark. hmm, those trees are looking a little dull. the sky overhead is too cloudy. hm? did he just hear thunder—

something collides into his chest, a choked “oof!” following soon after. he stumbles backwards a little, papers flying through the air around him. he blinks once, twice, at the sight of you on the ground, muttering something under your breath before a sharp gasp escapes you, hastily scrambling to gather the papers fluttering and strewn around.

one such paper falls into his hands. he glances over its contents, skimming through it as he goes to pass it over to you with an apology at the tip of his tongue, only to freeze.

this… this is genius! this is absolutely the pinnacle of writing!! while a little rough around the edges (as drafts usually tend to be), his once clouded mind is now clear, giving way to a blank canvas which slowly depicts the imagery your writing induces. idea after idea pours into his brain as he can visualise exactly what he wants, his body trembling and heart pounding as he insantly fixates on your panicked form still collecting all the fallen papers.

“yes… yes! this is what i was looking for! everything about this is pure artistry! the possibilities are endless, the sky is the limit!!”

this is possibly the happiest and freest he has felt in what seems like eons! seriously, compared to those other mind-numbing scripts this truly is the pinnacle of writing itself.

a laugh full of pure, unadulterated glee escapes him, careful not to crinkle the god-sent paper cradled in his palms. “you! you’re a genius!”

“i’m a wha…?”

he whirls in the direction of the source of the voice, further praises and a proposal for a collaboration on the tip of his tongue, only for his breath to catch in his throat.

you… you’re so radiant! even with that disheveled appearance and absolutely adorable confused expression you’re giving him, he never realised such beauty existed! not only does your writing fill him with endless creativity, but his pounding heart, parched throat and warming skin tells him you’re definitely the main character!

but wait! if you were to be the main character, then would that make him the main character’s love interest? surely he wouldn’t have had such a cliché meet-cute like bumping into each other if he wasn’t the love interest! but what if there is a second love interest? no, no, he can oust them…

you, on the other hand, believe you’re about to get whiplash instead of the man, baffled at how he instantly switched from a maniac to stark silence to muttering senselessly with a dreamy expression.

well, each to their own. you have more pressing matters, and that’s to quickly return home and continue fantasising before you forget the idea! but first, you have to get the last piece of paper back…

“um… sir? can i have my paper back, please?”

in an instant, he kneels in front of you. now that you’re at eye level, he certainly is very handsome. if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought this was some movie or drama plot with him as the main lead! oh, but why is he holding your hands—

“yes, i will spend the rest of my life with you.”

“…what?”

tldr; you’re just a silly writer who daydreams far too much for their own good, and somehow managed to bag top-tier director mr reca with the power of said daydreams. (his ever-growing obsession with you is concerning to say the least but, hey! what genius isn’t at least a little insane?)

[princesssmars]

can you do submissive reader x vi

oh my god vi who just loves how submissive you are for her…nsfw.

it was the little things that tipped her off about the other side of you she’d yet to on see.

your relationship was new, only a few weeks since she’d asked you to officially become her girlfriend. the two of you still hadn’t had sex, only a few intense make outs that were promptly stopped when she notice your tense posture. she made sure you knew that she’d never push you to do anything you didn’t want to do.

but she had to admit that while being respectful she noticed things that made her eager to nudge you a bit. you were always a strong willed person who gave her a run for her money when it came to being stubborn, but behind closed doors she notice just how obedient you could be.

a lazy murmur of asking for a drink the next time you grabbed one was met with her hand filled with a glass of water before she could blink. a casual reminder not to forget your jacket in the morning and wrapping the fabric around your shoulders leads to a far off look in your eyes that she just can’t ignore.

your first time together she’s oh so sweet and gentle, asking repeatedly if you’re sure you want to go through with it while she’s leaving trails of kisses up and down your body. but she can see how your anxiety deflates, how pliant your body becomes as she moves and guides different parts of you to her will.

and then with a desperate voice you beg her, give her the permission to do whatever she wants with you, that you’re literally aching for it. and how could she say no to that?

she’s on cloud nine and she’s dragging you up with her as she manipulates your body using her hands and words. a simple command to take off your clothes and lay down for her has you laid out on the bed willing and waiting for her.

you follow her instructions so smoothly it almost seems like you were made to do it, made specially to be obedient to her. a weird thrill goes down her spine at the thought and the same happens to you when she voices it, giving you endless praise about how well you follow her instructions.

“cmon, do one more for me, okay?”

her eyes nearly roll back into her skull at the sound of your whine mixed with the sound of her fingers thrusting into your cunt, the squelching and sloshing after multiple orgasms she’s ripped out of you sending her brain into a frenzy.

“v-vi, please, violet, wan’ it, need you-“

she pushes her lips into yours to capture more of your moans while she groans into your mouth and speeds up her fingers, putting her all into giving you yet another orgasm. she feels your legs twitching against hers, your hands grasping and shaking against her back. right when she feels you about to trip over she pulls back and looks into your eyes to burn the look of you into her brain.

“cum for me, cum for me right now pretty girl,”

she barely finishes her sentence when your clamping down on her and moaning like she’s tearing your soul from your body. she has to muffle her own sounds against your neck when she realizes you’re squirting against her hand and soaking the bed underneath.

once you both catch your breaths she finally loves her body from slouching into yours to flopping onto the bed next to you. you gently kick her when she sticks the fingers that were inside you into her mouth with a comical groan, laughing as you fake being upset at her crudeness.

“gods, you’re such a pervert.”

“says the one whose shown me how obedient she is. you think if i ask to go again you’ll let me?”

“…for my own sanity i’m not going to answer that.”

vi chuckles. she can’t wait to see just how pliant for her she can make you.

[freyadragonlord]

Rating korean webnovels' protagonists' reaction to meeting another version of themselves for the first time

Kim Roksu: 10/10, very polite and helpful, worked to save his other self's world while also being thoughtful not to mess up his life and personal connections Kim Dokja: 0/10 tried to stab himself Han Yoojin: 0/10 tried to stab himself

[yeyinde]

victory lap

“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.  “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.

18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch. 

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip. 

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are. 

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs. 

Fine china broken at his feet. 

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey. 

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either. 

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it. 

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind. 

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well. 

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you. 

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop. 

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin. 

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest. 

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.” 

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache. 

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending. 

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him. 

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already. 

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum. 

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. 

He knows why he's here. 

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull. 

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts. 

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls. 

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince. 

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot. 

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him. 

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing. 

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in. 

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock. 

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you. 

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick. 

Price has this every night. 

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it. 

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll. 

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous. 

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly. 

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan. 

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more. 

Desperate for it. 

But this isn't what Price wants, is it? 

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words. 

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head. 

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward. 

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples. 

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm. 

Just like the night he first met you. 

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.” 

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face. 

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?” 

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket. 

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass. 

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose. 

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price. 

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you. 

The spit—his spit, too. 

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt. 

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still. 

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns. 

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you. 

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care. 

He stops looking. Stops searching. 

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge. 

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat. 

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath. 

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure. 

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his. 

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust. 

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back. 

if found, return to John Price. 

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot. 

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path. 

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless. 

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line. 

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers. 

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod. 

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it. 

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific. 

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out. 

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun. 

Fuck you again, too, just because he can. 

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod. 

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has. 

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss. 

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his. 

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains. 

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice. 

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke. 

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm. 

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing. 

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you. 

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay. 

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin. 

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears. 

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric. 

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it. 

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll. 

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed. 

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed. 

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less. 

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped. 

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull. 

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you. 

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you. 

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust. 

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain. 

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug. 

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him. 

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts. 

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh. 

Right. 

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. 

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. 

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you. 

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it. 

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought. 

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt. 

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory. 

Victorious. 

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker. 

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan. 

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm. 

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids. 

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot. 

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you. 

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything. 

—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you