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Coyle isn't a cherry chaser. A woman's virginity isn't the first thing that pops in his mind when he's looking for a bride-to-be. It's not a hobby. It's an afterthought. It's something that comes to him later. He likes virgins because it makes them naive, malleable, but it isn't an enforced rule. Just a slight preference. Though, that doesn't mean when he meets a virgin, he doesn't want to deflower them. It's quite the opposite. It's all he wants. Defiling a never-used cunt is every man's wet dream, and he's no different. It makes him itch for it. A weird buzz beneath his skin that could only be fixed by burying himself in a nice, wet cunt. Very much a sex before marriage guy, and every date you have with him is one step closer to peeling off your panties in his mind. He doesn't even pretend to be sweet when he's got you in his bed. He gives you so half-asleep reassurances and goes to town. Gets off on making it as uncomfortable as possible for you, very stingy with your orgasms. He'll make you cum once as a treat.
Mother Gooseberry is heavy-handed. She doesn't mean to be. Well, that's true most of the time. She's just is too eager to do certain things like maneuvering you into a good cuddling position. You have countless bruises from being dragged around and propped up however she pleases. She's too rough when she takes your makeup off too. She leaves your skin all raw and sensitive. Or she gets to into it and ends up hurting you. There's been a few times that a bath has lead to her dunking under water and holding you there. Sometimes, it's because she feels like all the soap and grim isn't coming off, but other times, it's like she does it simply because she can. She coos at you after, buttering you up with compliments and praise.
He's ubiquitous, intrusive, attaching himself to you like a tumor. He continuously inserts himself where is not wanted, forcing you to acknowledge him, urging you to accept him. Denial isn't a deterrent; it's a more of an inconvenience. A hurdle that he'll get over when you come to realize that denying him is to deny yourself. And when you realize, there's no if, because he knows you will. Seeing as there's very little in life that Moon-jo has wanted that he hasn't gotten. That's when he has won again, as he usually does.
There's a sense of dread when he backs you into a room, locking the door behind him—a vein of defeat permeating you.
He inches closer, slowly, staring into your eyes. Doesn't stop until your back is pressed against the wall. He lets you connect the dots, allowing you to concoct hypotheticals in your head, and watching them soon after disburse underneath reality.
You should fight him. You usually would. You don't. All the determination carefully excised from you in preparation for this—for Moon-jo to take what is his, not rightfully, but his nonetheless. He sneers, grinning, reaching out to touch. Goes for the neck first, lies his thumb flat on your Adam's apple; he presses hard enough that it's uncomfortable to swallow, drinking in your discomfort like those beers you always see him with.
Then, he goes upwards to hold your jaw, tilting your head in any direction he pleases. He sucks your split lip into his mouth to tear the scab. You ignore the sting, because your pain will only feed in this, into him—into whatever it is he's trying to do. You stifle your whine. You kill your wince.
It seems to enthrall him either way.
His knuckles dig into your stomach as he undoes your fly, and it hurts when he pushes in. The angle is awkward, hiking your leg up around waist is pulling at your muscles, and the stretch burns. You wonder if that's the point, or a piece of it. If this persistent ache is also a part of whatever it is he has planned for you. The gives way to pleasure quicker than you thought it would. The realization is like bile tickling your throat. Your stomach clenches, pulsing.
It feels good. He's good at it. He's good at everything you've come to notice. He keeps his thrusts steady, aimed, each one knocking the wind out of you. He doesn't bother to wrest reactions from you. He doesn't need to when he can feel it everywhere—anywhere he touches there's evidence: feeling your heart race through your neck, through your chest, the way you squeeze and flutter around him, and those shiny, spit-soaked lips.
It's not surprise when you cum, but he force you to look at him as it happens, giving a few firm pats to your cheek when they attempt to close. He wants you to see him. He wants you to know that he can do this to you, that you let him. That you like it. He'll stop if you disobey. There's no reward for those he can't follow simple instructions.
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Post Murkoff franco probably has to physically restrain himself from being violent with you, especially if you have no clue about where he’s been the last few years
Moon-jo is callous about sewing you back together. He's not rough, but he's far from gentle. He isn't clumsy. He's graceful but inconsiderate. He's good but he lacks the courtesies. He disregards your complaints about the sting from the alcohol, and he isn't exactly accommodating once he gets to stitching either—he neglects numbing and simply tells you he doesn't need it for this procedure, forcing you to go with it. Or you could deny his help and deal with the aftermath. Which, in your state, would automatically be out of the question.
Then, he tells you to find something to squeeze and power through it. (It would irritate him if you choose to wrinkle his coat/button up, but since he likes you he allows it.) It is so obvious he's enjoying your agony the entire way through, but who's going to stop him? Certainly not you, so nobody acknowledges it. He's earnest in making sure there's as little scarring possible. Although, that depends on where you've obtained the wounds. If it is his doing, he doesn't mind one bit if it scars. He'd prefer it actually.
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You're barely conscious, awareness teeters on the edge of the horizon. Ever-shifting and amorphous. Your eyes are at half-mast, eyelids laden with sleep adjacent. Your head is throbbing, pulsing, heartbeat bouncing off the walls of your skull. There's a deep ache behind your eyes. Moon-jo dances in your vision, oscillating between clear and misty. Two of himself syncing in and out of themselves, just slightly out of line.
Your tongue is heavy. It's too thick for your mouth. Blood gushes from the corner of your lip, and your tongue fails to wipe it up. It fails to do anything at all. Your entire body is rendered useless. Everything feels all wrong like someone has put all your limbs on backwards. You're on your knees between Moon-jo's legs. He looks so big, imposing. A shiver slugs up your spine.
"Jagi-ya," he utters, voice measured and dragged out like a body through steep mud. It's so loud. You groan in response, blinking slowly. His lips stretch into a knife-edged smile.
A hand—Moon-jo's hand—finds your jaw holding you in place. For a moment, he simply observes, admiring, his grin never wavering. Then, there are fingers prodding at your lips. His fingers press into your split lip, and move to smear old blood onto your chin. The pain is sharp, but you can do nothing but whine, low and murmured, too weak for much else.
They push past your lips, and he tastes like coagulated blood and sterile skin—bare skin. His skin. His gloves were discarded somewhere along the way. You don't recall seeing him remove them. Your eyes meet his when you manage to peel them open—weird, you don't remember closing them.
His eyes are so empty, two black holes that you sink endlessly in, so lifeless they seemingly suck up all light.
His fingers probe around your mouth with aimless precision, trawling over your molars one by one. Bottom set first before flipping over and doing the same with the top. His fingers stall to stroke your tongue, coating your mouth in him, in his touch. Then his fingers are trailing over your incisors, the top ones, and he lingers at your left canine, pushing his index into the point of it. Hard enough you can distantly tell it'll leave a mark.
His fingers withdraw from your mouth, and your eyes slowly but surely shut. You hear something rustle, things being moved, his body missing from in front of you. You're knocked out by the time he's lugging you up by the armpits.
Franco could cum from having his fingers sucked. It's embarrassing really. You wouldn't even have to touch his dick. You wouldn't even have to graze it. His imagination is so overactive and he's already perpetually pent-up. Feeling your warm, wet mouth enveloping his fingers. He can easily delude himself that it's actually his cock, and I'm someone under the impression that sometimes he thinks he can feel things like that through Lupara, so actually having your mouth somewhere on his body. He has about thirty seconds before he creams his pants.
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Mother Gooseberry can not be normal about your virginity. It's so cute. It makes you seem so innocent in her eyes, even more than before. You're just a child with no one to lead you, no one to teach you how adults play with each other. It becomes something she cherishes about you. A sign that you were meant to be taking care of by her because, you must need a trustworthy adult to show you those things. It makes the infantilization worse, because she will not believe you if you claim to have any knowledge of sex. There's no way someone so little would know anything about that stuff since Mother hasn't taught you, yet.
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