Please keep in mind that I am primarily an NSFW writer, so any SFW requests must be very specific. If your request doesn't clearly state the genre, I will automatically assume it is NSFW.
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Genres & Themes:
NSFW / Smut
Angst
Fluff
Hurt / Comfort
Romantic tension
Jealousy / Possessive themes
Dark or emotional themes (You can always ask for other genres!)
Formats:
One-shots
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Canon x Reader
OC x Canon
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This is a request, but I opted for this format so it would be cleaner and easier to search for. Enjoy!
Claudio does not fall in love easily; he is very distrustful and always puts his mission first. This changes when he meets you, and his growing love for you turns into a silent pain, overshadowed by the loneliness that his duty demands of him.
After missions, he stays a bit longer, making up excuses to be near you: he checks his equipment, offers to drive you, all with a tenderness that contrasts with his usual efficiency. You notice the small cracks in his composure: how his fingers brush against yours a moment too long, how his gaze softens when he thinks you are not looking. However, he never speaks of it, fearing that naming that feeling would turn it into a weakness he cannot hide.
Claudio will never explicitly say he is protecting you, but he will always appear in the places where you are without you having told him where you would go. When you ask him how he found you, he says something banal like "due to residues" and changes the subject.
The only way he expresses fear is through excessive orders: "Do not go out after dark," "Do not talk to strangers who give off 'wrong vibes,'" "Stay where I can see you." If you ask him why, he will say it is so as not to "complicate his exorcisms" or because "cleaning up your mess would be annoying."
Due to his work, he almost never cooks, but he shows up with food from exclusive restaurants or, if you are thirsty, he prepares "infusions that coincidentally happen to be your favorite flavor." It is a veiled love language; every act of care comes with a practical excuse, never a sentimental one.
For someone who denies emotional bonds, he is very jealous, but not in a vulgar or theatrical way. He places himself between you and the other person with his perfect exorcist posture, smiling with that arrogance of his, and simply talks about his achievements. In private, he never reproaches you, but he does ask questions if you are interested in that person; even if you tell him no, he does not relax.
I feel he is a bit paranoid; since he saw that demons can possess even the strongest, he performs a ritual to ensure no entity has touched you while you sleep. He does it with such elegance and feigned annoyance that it seems he is doing you a favor, but if you try to skip it one day, he becomes unbearably insistent.
He avoids touching you after using his abilities; he is convinced he could "contaminate" you with dark energy residues.
Claudio has recurring nightmares where he becomes what he vows to destroy, and in those dreams, you are always the one who has to stop him or run away from him. That is why he secretly trains you so you can defend yourself from him, and that is why he maintains a sometimes abrupt emotional distance: it is not contempt, it is genuine terror that his arrogance and power will consume him and you will become his first victim.
Obviously, he will not apologize, but you are not foolish enough not to realize he is protecting you, and you love him so deeply for that very reason.
NSFW
In bed, he is a totally different guy; he is raw and desperate to have you.
Claudio has a considerable thickness, slightly curved upward, and his width makes the initial stretch always a struggle that he enjoys watching.
He is completely clean-shaven, not out of vanity, but for hygiene and because he likes the feeling of skin against skin without barriers, plus it makes it easier for him to keep you clean of his fluids afterward.
His favorite position is not the typical doggy style. It is a deeper and more controlling variation; he places you on all fours at the edge of the bed, his study table, or his garden bench. He remains standing behind you but does not limit himself to holding you by the hips; one of his hands intertwines tightly in your hair or holds you by the scruff of your neck, forcing your head back or down against the surface, and his other hand slides down your chest or stomach, or grips your jaw to keep you at his desired angle.
Claudio is enormously turned on by the sound you make. Not just the moans, but the wet slapping of his thrusts, the dull thuds of his thighs against your skin, the creaking of the bed. Sometimes, he orders you to cover your mouth just so he can hear those other sounds more clearly.
His stamina is not just about lasting; it is about controlling your pleasure in a tortuous way—he is a master of edging. He will use his tongue, his skilled, gloved fingers to touch your sensitive spots, and his cock to bring you to the brink of orgasm over and over again, stopping at the very last microsecond. He can do this for what feels like an eternity, until your body shakes uncontrollably and your pleas turn into an incoherent babble.
Since he cannot speak freely about feelings and a life together, his final and absolute act of possession is that he does not use a condom, nor does he pull out; he comes inside you so deeply that you feel it escaping you.
They had already been acting like this since she was hired; she is insolent, and he loves dominating brats. I wanted to explore other facets, but I hope it doesn't seem too OOC.
Characters: Lee Chaolan x Reader!Personal Assistant.
Warnings: It is purely porn, oral, vaginal, and anal sex, humiliation, degradation, power dynamics. Es porno, mijx y ya.
The air conditioning hums so softly it's almost imperceptible as your fingers type on the mechanical keyboard at your desk. The rhythmic clack-clack blends with the distant murmur of calls on the neighboring executive floor. You’re wearing that tight burgundy dress—the one he ordered you to buy last week—with a neckline that barely contains your breasts each time you lean forward to reach for documents. The fabric clings to your thighs like a second skin when you cross your legs, and the internal corset tightens your waist, serving as a silent reminder of who decides how you breathe in this office.
Lee Chaolan’s office door swings open without warning, as always. He doesn’t ask permission to enter. You only hear the rhythmic click of his black Italian leather shoes on the polished marble. The scent of his cologne—Bleu de Chanel, blended with notes of black pepper, tobacco, and a hint of sandalwood only he can wear—floods the space before you even see him.
His steps are slow, calculated, with the feline elegance of a man who knows exactly where to place each foot to mark his territory. His platinum hair shines under the halogen light, and his dark eyes—cold, yet with that playful glint—pierce you before you manage to turn around in your chair.
“Where is the report on Violet’s subsidiary?” he says in a deep, grave voice, languidly drawing out the words with that cultivated Japanese accent that turns each syllable into both a caress and a threat. “The report should have been on my desk ten minutes ago. Or is your little head occupied with other matters?”
You hold his gaze, refusing to lower your eyes. You adjust the collar of your burgundy dress deliberately slowly, fully aware that the movement makes his eyes drop to your cleavage for a fraction of a second before returning to yours.
“The report is ready, Mr. Chaolan,” you reply, keeping your voice firm, without a trace of tremor, challenging that perfect composure he so loves to display. “I was waiting for you to finish your meeting with the board. I didn’t want to interrupt your... valuable minutes.”
A spark of amusement and annoyance crosses his eyes. He loves that you give him a fight, but he loathes that you challenge his control. He walks toward your desk, resting one of his gloved hands on the wood, cornering you in your own seat as he leans toward you.
“Une petite insolente...” he whispers close to your ear, his warm breath brushing against your skin. “I think you need to remember your place here. Bring the papers to my office. Now.”
You swallow hard. You know the report is complete and you sent it to his inbox twenty minutes ago. But today is not a day for logic; today is a day to play.
“It’s already in your inbox, Mr. Chaolan,” you reply too quickly, slowly turning in your chair to look him directly in the eyes. You squeeze your knees together and twist your fingers around the edge of the desk, trying to hide the slight tremor in your hands. “Copied to Legal and Accounting, just as you requested.”
He doesn’t even look at his tablet screen. He doesn’t take those dark, piercing eyes off your body. He stays there, motionless, as his gaze slowly traces the line of your hips as you rise from the chair.
The silence in the office thickens suddenly. You can hear the echo of your own pulse racing in your neck, and you feel a thin film of sweat forming along your neckline.
"What interesting priorities you have " he murmurs, stepping forward.
He closes the distance until the edge of his impeccable Armani jacket brushes against your arm.
"Twenty minutes. " His index finger twists a lock of your hair, pulling it back just enough to make your scalp burn" Do you know how much each minute of my time costs, ma chérie?
The French nickname falls like a silk veil over the edge of a blade. Your back straightens instinctively, and you purse your lips, refusing to show weakness at his provocation.
"I’m not your chérie " you spit out, though your voice trembles. Just a little, but enough for him to catch.
There it is. That dangerous glint in his eyes, like a predator that has just scented fresh blood. A slow, supremely arrogant smile curves his lips.
"No " he nods, releasing your hair only to slide the tip of his finger down your cheek, tracing your jawline until it stops in the hollow of your throat. His other hand digs firmly into your hip, sinking his fingers into your flesh through the thin fabric of your dress " You’re not. Not yet."
You don’t have time to react. With the superhuman speed of someone trained in the brutal hand-to-hand combat of the Mishima clan, he spins you around and forces you against the edge of his ebony desk. Your thighs hit the cold wood, and your hands desperately search for support as he looms over you, pinning you with his athletic, slender frame. The bulge in his trousers—hard, thick, and impossible to ignore—presses firmly against your belly, and a muffled moan escapes your lips before you can suppress it.
"Ah, there it is " he purrs, his hot breath ghosting against your ear; his voice is as soft as velvet, yet as sharp as a razor "The little office slut who’s been eyeing my cock for weeks as if it were her next raise."
"You… " you try to protest, but his hand tangles in your hair again, pulling back with surgical precision until your neck arches fully, exposed and vulnerable.
"Silence " he orders. The tone of his voice shifts completely—darker, denser. It is the Lee Chaolan that exists only when the doors are closed and there are no witnesses; the elegant monster hidden beneath five-thousand-dollar suits.
"I’m in charge here. And you’re going to learn your place, petite chienne."
His lips brush against your earlobe, nibbling just enough to send a shiver down your spine. His free hand slides beneath the hem of your dress; his cold fingers press into the warmth of your thigh, moving with the precision of a fighter who knows every pressure point of the human body.
"No… you can’t " you stammer, yet your treacherous body arches toward him, your hips lifting as his fingers graze the lace of your panties.
"I can’t? " he laughs, a sound low, cruel, and captivating " Of course I can. This building is mine, this office is mine; therefore, you are mine " he states bluntly.
"And you are going to stay perfectly still while I break you exactly as you deserve."
There is no warning. There is no preparation. Only the sound of his zipper sliding down, the rasp of his belt unbuckling, and then, my God, the sharp impact of his flesh against yours, his wide, throbbing cock pressing against your entrance. You are wet. Soaking. And he knows it. He can smell it. His nose buries itself in your neck, inhaling like an animal, yet with the elegance of an aristocrat tasting fine wine.
"Parfait " he murmurs " Look at what a good girl. Already dripping for me before I even touch you. " His free hand tangles in your hair again, pulling until tears sting your eyes " But you will not come. Not until I say so. Understood, jouet?"
"No " you let out a low, pathetic moan. You know deep down, in some dark place of your unconscious that you would never admit, that you want this. You want him to treat you like trash. You want him to use you like a toy.
He doesn't wait for an answer. With a brutal shove, he fills you; you feel him split you open. His cock is huge, thick, stretching you in a way that hurts and burns and, fuck, it feels so good that a broken moan escapes your lips. His hips crash against yours; the desk creaks under the impact and papers fly to the floor. But, unlike the first time, his thrusts are not chaotic. They are precise, calculated; each stroke seeks a different angle, each movement designed to tear a specific sound from you.
"Ah! " you let out an involuntary moan, your nails scratching the wood, searching for something to cling to while he thrusts over and over again, setting a hypnotic, relentless rhythm. In the office, there is only the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the wet sound of your cunt swallowing him, and the scent of sex hanging in the air.
"Magnifique " he gasps; his voice is an animalistic growl, yet without losing its elegant edge "Squeezing me like the cheap whore you are." His hand leaves your hair to grip your throat, not enough to choke you, but enough to remind you who controls your breath.
"Do you like it, chienne? Do you like your boss fucking your cunt on his desk like the slut you are?"
"No! " you managed to articulate, the words dying on your lips as you felt your body convulse around him; your wet, demanding cunt tightened firmly around his cock, desperately seeking more of that delicious friction. He let out a dark, deep laugh and knew in that instant that you were crumbling around him.
"You do like it." he murmured triumphantly, with that voice bristling with possessiveness that runs down your spine like a shiver.
His thrusts became deeper, more piercing, seeking with surgical precision to graze that point inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Don't you dare come. " he ordered.
His teeth sank into your shoulder, marking you with a precision that hurt exactly enough so that your body wouldn't collapse.
"If you do, I will tie you to this table and leave you here, with your legs spread, needy and with my semen dripping down your thighs, until the whole floor knows what kind of whore works for me."
"You… son of —
His hand struck the desk beside your head, the crack resounding like a gunshot in your head, his voice remaining a controlled whisper.
"Don't speak unless it is to beg, plead, or humiliate yourself, and you will not come. You will never come without my permission. Understood?"
His words were a knife, severing the last gram of your pride. You felt the orgasm approaching, an unbearable heat coiling in your belly, your thighs trembling, your breathing a broken gasp.
"Please… " you sobbed, a plea that barely escaped the knot in your throat "No… I can’t take anymore…"
Lee slowed his thrusts until he stopped almost completely, torturing you with every inch of his cock dragging out of you, grazing that sweet spot.
"You can't take anymore? " he whispered, feigning understanding "That is not what I asked of you."
With an inhumanly swift movement, he grabbed your hair and pulled it back, forcing you to look at him.
"Say it" he demanded, his fingers digging into your hip with such force that you knew there would be bruises tomorrow "Tell me what you need."
"Let me come, damn it!" you screamed, tears rolling down your cheeks, humiliation and desire mixing in a toxic cocktail "Please, Mr. Chaolan, I need…!"
He stopped cold; his cock was still inside you, throbbing but inert. His lips brushed your ear, his voice a lethal whisper.
"You need nothing." he sentenced cruelly. His hand slid between your legs, two fingers pressing against your swollen clitoris not seeking friction, only seeking to torture you
"I decide what you need, and right now, you need to remember your place."
A desperate moan escaped you as he withdrew his fingers and pulled away. You felt the chill of the air conditioning against your open cunt, empty, painfully exposed.
"No…" you whimpered, turning your head to follow him with your gaze. He was adjusting his clothes, his member still erect and glistening with your own fluids, as he buckled his belt with a calm that felt insulting
"No, please, don’t leave me like this…"
He sketched a smile, an expression that didn't reach his cold eyes but curved his lips with a cruel beauty.
"Of course not, chienne" he said, wiping his hands with a silk handkerchief he pulled from his pocket "Because this is not over."
Before you could react, his hand tangled in your hair again, dragging you to the floor with a strength that belied his slender frame. Your knees hit the thick carpet; the pain was sharp, but you barely registered it. Because you were in front of him now. In front of that. His member, large and reddened, still slick with your own arousal, stood just inches from your lips.
You weren't even conscious of the sound of metal yielding or the movement of his quick, expert fingers as he disposed of his belt.
"Ouvre " he ordered, the French word falling like a sharp caress.
And you obeyed. The will to resist dissolved, leaving only the salty taste of your own surrender on his skin. When he forced you to take him, all the way to the back, the impact hit the base of your throat, a total intrusion.
"Suce " he growled, his fingers gripping your nape, guiding your movements with the precision of an orchestra conductor "Like the whore in heat you are."
Your hands gripped his thighs, your nails digging into the fabric of his suit while your mouth worked without pause, saliva slipping over your lips, mixing with your tears. Lee let out a guttural sound, a noise you could barely catch as his member grew and tightened further inside you. His hips began to move in small, slow, tortuous circles.
"Parfait " he gasped "Like that. Take me as if I were the only thing that matters in the world."
His hand pulled your hair, forcing you to arch your back until your eyes met his.
"Because it is, right, chienne? Nothing else matters. Only my cock. Only me."
You nodded, as much as you could with his dick obstructing your throat. His eyes shone, triumphant.
"Bonne fille "he whispered, and then he pushed you back, pulling out of your warm mouth with a wet snap "Now get up and kneel on the armchair."
You did what he ordered. There was no other choice; deep down, you wanted to obey. Your legs trembled as you stood, your dress wrinkled, your makeup ruined by tears. You headed to the black leather armchair by the window, the same one where you signed your contract. Where he told you, for the first time, that you belonged to him.
"Hands on the backrest " he ordered; you obeyed, feeling the cold leather beneath your palms "Ass out."
The proximity of his warm body made a shiver run down your spine. This time there was no rush, no brutality. Only the tip of his member sliding between your buttocks, spreading your moisture from the entrance of your cunt to your tight anus.
"Détends-toi " he murmured, but it was an order, not a suggestion. When the first finger pressed against your rear entrance, you couldn't avoid the instinctive contraction.
"Ah! " you moaned, as your body shuddered on pure instinct.
"Chut " he whispered. His other hand traveled down your back, descending until a finger slid inside your cunt, moving in slow circles "You’re going to take me here too, slut. I am the only one who is going to fuck you like this. The only one who is going to break you until you can’t walk. Understand?"
"Y-yes " you whispered; it was the only absolute truth in that moment.
You felt the pressure. The unbearable stretching as he forced his way in, centimeter by centimeter, his huge cock opening you in a way that hurt and burned and—
"FUCK!" you screamed, your nails tearing into the leather of the armchair as he sank all the way to the hilt, filling you with a fullness you had never felt before.
"Magnifique" he gasped, his hands gripping your hips with such force that you knew you would have his marks tomorrow "Squeezing like the good whore you are."
He began to move, slow at first, then shifting to an implacable brutality, filling the office with the sounds of his flesh striking yours.
"No one is going to fuck you like I do " he growled into your ear, dictating a sentence "No one is going to break you like I do. You are mine. Only mine. And you are going to remember it every time you sit, every time you walk, every time you breathe."
His words were a poison that seeped into your blood, into your mind, nullifying any glimmer of rational thought. Your mind went blank, leaving only the thought of the lacerating pain and the perfect humiliation of being reduced to a simple toy, an object ready to be broken again and again.
When you felt the orgasm rising, when your muscles knotted involuntarily around his member demanding relief, he detected it instantly.
"Ne t'avise pas "he growled. His thrusts became erratic, a torture designed to destabilize you "You will not come. Not until I authorize it."
But it was too much. The tension coiled in your belly like a knot about to burst, an urgency that surpassed your will. You couldn't stop it. You couldn't—
"No " he roared. The impact of his hand against your buttock was a dry crack, a lash of pain that severed the pleasure at once "Je t'ai dit non. "
The climax evaporated, leaving you plunged into a painful void, an unsatisfied need that burned in your veins like a wildfire. It was then that he claimed his part. With a guttural growl, he sank in to the hilt, releasing his heat inside you, flooding you, marking you from within.
You felt the warmth expanding and, moments later, the thick trail escaping you, sliding down your thighs as he withdrew. You collapsed onto the leather, exhausted, broken. His.
He adjusted his clothes calmly, smoothing out his Armani jacket, ensuring every fold was perfect. As if he hadn't just destroyed you. As if he hadn't just claimed you in the most brutal way possible.
"Demain "he sentenced, while fastening the last button of his shirt with methodical neatness.
"And don't wash " he added, his voice stripped of any emotion, save that of absolute possession "I want to smell myself on you when you arrive."
And then he left. He left the door open. He left it so that anyone walking by could see you like this: undone, used, with his semen sliding between your legs.
And the worst of all was that, when you finally stood up...
You smiled.
༺═──────═༻
I'm not 100% proud of this. I've been a bit distracted by some things lately, but I sincerely hope you all like it. Kisses, bye!
I hope you like it! ( 〃▽〃) I wanted to practice my writing with your request, I hope you don't mind... (´,,•ω•,,)♡
King
The morning sun rarely catches him off guard. King is a profoundly early riser, always waking long before you do, driven not by a desire to boast, but by the quiet, unyielding discipline that governs his entire life. If you are the type to cling to the warmth of the blankets, you never have to worry. He moves through the house like a shadow, preparing breakfast with absolute dedication and in total silence, fiercely protective of your rest.
For him, visits to the orphanage are sacred. But now that you walk by his side, those afternoons carry a new, much heavier emotional weight. Watching the children instantly adopt you, seeing them cling to you with instinctive affection, brings a profound, radiant happiness to King’s heart.
In public, the jaguar mask never leaves his face. It isn't a matter of trust; it was his identity, his legacy, and the weight of the mantle he carries. Yet, when the world fades away and you are finally alone, the mask comes off. He leaves it carelessly close to you while he reads on the couch late into the night, or while he moves around the kitchen. You understand perfectly the unspoken gravity of that gesture the deep, raw intimacy it represents.
He is a man of physical presence and quiet affection. He casually drapes a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulls you close, laces his fingers through yours while watching something together, or affectionately messes up your hair if you cross his path. He never whispers an "I love you" with words; he prefers to let his actions speak for him, day after day.
Armor King
Armor King is a grumpy man, a force of nature so perpetually surly that you quickly have to learn to decipher the subtle nuances of his growls. You have to distinguish the rumble of genuine annoyance from his neutral, day-to-day low growl. Fortunately, whenever he is with you, it is almost always the latter. He prefers to answer your questions with subtle, guttural sounds, or with a simple, sharp nod or shake of his head instead of speaking.
Yet, beneath that gruff exterior lies an incredible intuition. You never have to explain things twice; the moment a request leaves your lips, he already anticipates and resolves it.
His discipline and routine are absolute and inflexible. He demands his coffee brewed in one highly specific way, his training at the exact same hour every day, and he always sleeps in a certain, unyielding position. Because of this, his greatest demonstration of affection is a quiet sacrifice: the moments he willingly alters his rigid order, allowing you to scatter your things and invade his personal space.
If someone ever bothers you or makes you feel uncomfortable, he doesn't make a dramatic entrance or cause a public scene. His protective instinct is silent, oppressive, and lethal. He simply steps in, placing his formidable frame firmly between you and the source of your discomfort. From behind his dark mask, he levels a stare so cold and heavy that the entire situation dissolves into thin air within seconds, suffocated by his sheer presence.
NSFW.
King
His rhythm in bed is a calculated, shifting tide: alternating between slow, incredibly deep thrusts meant to fill you completely, and sudden, rapid bursts of short strokes that closely mimic the frantic energy of a combat.
His absolute favorite position was the mating press. He hoists your legs over his broad shoulders and leans heavily forward, burying himself to the absolute root while anchoring you down with almost his entire body weight. In the heat of the moment, low, gravelly commands in Spanish escape his throat, growling words like «Aguanta» (Hold on) or «Todavía no termino» (I’m not done yet) against your skin.
King rarely, if ever, comes first. His control is legendary, practically superhuman; he can hold back his own climax for hours, deliberately dragging you over the edge into multiple, shattering orgasms before allowing himself to release.
When he finally climaxes, his release is a violent, earth shattering event. His entire body seizes up, his powerful claws dig deep into the bedsheets or bury themselves into the skin of your back, while a raw, primal roar vibrates directly against your chest. His release is thick and incredibly abundant, and a dark sense of satisfaction fills him as he watches it drip lazily over your chest or belly.
Armor King
Armor King does not make love; he possesses, dominates, and utterly destroys. His demeanor is that of an apex predator playing cruelly with his prey before finally devouring it.
He takes an almost sadistic pleasure in prolonging your agony, dragging you right to the absolute precipice of an orgasm over and over again, only to abruptly stop at the very last second. He listens to your frustrated whimper, letting out a low, dark chuckle at your desperation.
His favorite position is the prone bone. He forces you flat onto your stomach, mounting your back to immobilize you completely under his crushing weight, his teeth sinking firmly into the nape of your neck to hold you still.
The striking difference between King and Armor King lies in their mercy. Armor King has no interest in pacing himself or measuring his partner's endurance. Instead, he alternates rounds of brutal, unrelenting sex with brief, quiet pauses where he does nothing but slowly stroke your trembling, overwhelmed body.
When it comes to cumming, he usually goes first. He loves to ejaculate directly onto your face, all while maintaining a cold, unblinking, and locked visual contact through the slits of his mask. His seed is thick, hot, and bitter to the taste.
Yes including NSFW lol I'm having crazy ideas and drinking
Warnings right off the bat, because this came out darker than I expected…
His ideal that "power is everything" extends to his relationship dynamic; Heihachi would view the relationship as just another territory to acquire and, therefore, to hold under his absolute control.
He would justify his controlling behavior as "protection" toward you; he would constantly monitor where you go, who you talk to, and what you do.
As the CEO of the Mishima Zaibatsu, he would give you the most expensive and luxurious gifts, but always with a dual purpose. To him, gifts are not a genuine display of love; they are more like strategic investments.
Heihachi would use training as quality time. He doesn't care about your martial arts level (it’s actually better for him if you don't know much), since sharing his knowledge in combat is his only form of intimacy.
If he was capable of emotionally manipulating the members of his own bloodline, don't think for a single second that he wouldn't be capable of doing it to you. He would tell you biased and vulnerable anecdotes from his past and then alternate between indifference and coldness, creating an emotional dependency to guarantee your unconditional loyalty.
He is a very pragmatic man and doesn't talk openly about his plans, so every now and then he would drop little secrets about just how powerful he is, only to keep you intrigued or slightly intimidated by him.
NSFW
His dominance and control are inside the bedroom as well. He dictates the duration, the positions, and the pace; he does not let you take the initiative at any moment. He is brutally demanding, seeking to break you both mentally and physically. If you want something, you will have to ask for it with the right attitude or beg for it on your knees.
With that said, he prefers any position from behind that avoids direct eye contact but helps him maintain absolute control; such as holding you firmly by the shoulders, pulling your hair, spanking you, or leaving deep bite marks on your skin.
His age is no excuse when it comes to sexual intensity. He is not one to finish quickly (in fact, it could be said he hates quickies); his stamina is implacable, and he will leave you completely exhausted before he even thinks about stopping.
Heihachi speaks very little during sex, and not out of shyness; words simply seem redundant to him. He is a man of action, and his movements say it all. If he needs to command you to do something, he will do so in a low, raspy voice right against your ears, without softening a single thing. Commands like “Shut up,” “get on your knees,” or “move” are just a few of the phrases he uses to keep you submissive.
He does not use condoms (to him, it’s far too modern), so he cums deeply inside you. Furthermore, his control goes way beyond the act itself: he will not let you wash yourself immediately after sex. He enjoys watching you forced to walk or move around him with discomfort as you feel his essence leaking out, constantly reminding you who you belong to.
He is visually fascinated by the contrast when he intertwines his fingers with yours. He can get completely mesmerized just staring at his pale hand, calloused from battle, resting against the warmth of your dark skin. To him, you are the most beautiful sight in existence.
He adores you without filters. If you wear a bright color (like yellow, electric blue, or white) that makes your skin tone pop, he will just stare at you with absolute devotion. He is not a timid man; he will grab you by the waist, pull you flush against his chest, and whisper in your ear just how damn breathtaking you look, wearing a smile full of pride.
He loves running his large fingers through your curls (if you have textured, curly, or afro hair) while you both relax on the couch after a long day of missions. It relaxes him to touch textures that are completely different from his own.
He does not tolerate anyone looking at you sideways or disrespectfully; a single cold glare from his electric eyes is more than enough to intimidate anyone.
NSFW?: Though these are a bit sweeter, because he is such a good boy.
Lars has a total fixation with your body. He loves tracing the line of your neck, your shoulders, and your thighs with his lips. He will kiss every single inch of you with absolute devotion.
Degradation? Nonono! With Lars, everything is verbal affirmation. He will tell you how gorgeous you are, how much he loves the way your skin feels against his, and how sexy he finds the sound of your whimpers.
He is incredibly attentive: he will switch positions or slow down the pace if he notices you getting overwhelmed. But when you both hit that perfect synchronization, his military stamina and strength come to light to make you touch the sky.
hiii i love your work so much!! do you write for bryan fury? if so i would love to request some general headcanons for him, both sfw and nsfw!!
I question myself at night whether Bryan has a soft side... Mmm, nope?
Let's get one thing straight: Bryan is no knight in shining armor. If someone bothers you or disrespects you, he doesn't step in because of that, but rather because he is highly territorial. His logic is: “Nobody breaks my things except me.” The punishment for whoever bothers you will be disproportionate, violent, and loud, making it crystal clear to everyone.
I'm sorry, but there are no candlelit dates under the moonlight here. His "dates" involve violence: dragging you to an underground fight or making you watch him dismantle a criminal organization. The only way he includes you in his life and takes you into account is by making you a witness to his carnage.
When he's in the mood to have you close, his gestures are rough and lack any delicacy. He will grab you by the neck, the scruff, or the waist with way too much force, subconsciously measuring the fragility of your human bones compared to his modified body.
He enjoys feeling your racing heartbeat; it amuses him to know that he causes you both fear and arousal at the same time.
He can sit and stare at you intently for hours without saying a single word, with that maniacal grin plastered on his face. It’s an intimidating presence that constantly reminds you that you are sleeping with a monster.
NSFW You've got to be very careful around here, you've been warned. Could I have made it darker?
Yes.
Did I do it?
No, I'm a coward.
Good luck if you ever try to switch roles. Bryan will never, under any circumstances, take a submissive stance. He dictates the pace, the place, and the intensity. If you dare try to dominate him, he will laugh in your face before physically reminding you who's in control.
Orgasm denial is, by far, his favorite game. He enjoys bringing you to the edge over and over again, stopping right when you're about to lose your mind. He will force you to look him in the eyes and ask for his permission in a humiliating way just to be able to come. He enjoys seeing the conflict on your face: the struggle between your pride and the desperation for pleasure.
He loves to bite. He leaves deep marks on your shoulders, thighs, and the back of your neck to make it clear that he has claimed you. If you complain about the pain, instead of stopping, he will use that whimper as fuel to thrust with twice the force and roughness.
Forget about foreplay or him making sure you're ready. Bryan is rough; if he feels like it, he will shove you against the nearest wall, push your clothes out of the way, and force his way in, completely regardless of whether you're fully lubricated or not. He enjoys the initial friction and the resistance of your body adapting to his size.
Brace yourself for verbal and physical degradation. He will call you humiliating names, mock your tears, and treat you like his personal toy to use and toss aside until you're nothing but a mess of gasps and pleas. To Bryan, sex is an extension of violence, and you are the perfect canvas for his chaos.
can you give headcannnons for hwoarang x North Korean girl new fighter (I want her story to be kinda like sae beoyoks from squid game ( I spelt her name wrong ) and she’s fighting so she can ask for money in the end to pay for her grandpas way out of North Korean ( he stayed back) and he personality is very quiet and tries not to waste words but is very competitive and ignorant ( as in she doesn’t know Gen Z or modern things even using a proper phone or computer because she was restricted plus very very poor and living off of food rations( like she never had street food or corn dogs) but she didn’t wanna ask to seem as stupid
( so sorry if it’s a long one but I love your fics )
I absolutely love getting these requests, they make me so happy! Enjoy, and so sorry for the wait! <3
Note: I haven't watched Squid Game, so I'm going a bit blind regarding the character reference, but I wrote this out of the utmost respect for the people of North Korea and their reality. If there is any detail I can improve on, please let me know in the comments!
Let's start with first impressions: Hwoarang notices her because her fighting style isn't elegant, let alone polished by any master; it's pure, raw instinct. That’s the first thing that completely catches his attention.
Whenever he tries to throw a smug, teasing comment her way, it only makes her tilt her head as if she were looking at a total weirdo.
At first, Hwoarang thinks she’s just being cocky. That is until he catches her struggling with common things like the ticket vending machine or using the subway. Sometimes he even finds her staring in fascination at a bright, flashy neon sign, which he finds strange but intriguing.
Upon finding out about her situation (or intuiting it, since she would never ask for pity), Hwoarang's pride shifts gears. He wants to be a demanding opponent so she can grow stronger and win the prize money.
If Hwoarang sees her staring blankly at a map app without quite figuring out how to swipe the screen, he smoothly takes the phone from her hands and says: “This damn app always freezes. Let me set up your route for you.” He saves her from the frustration without making it obvious that she's struggling with it.
While Hwoarang floods their chats with emojis, stickers, memes, and internet slang, her replies are plain, perfectly punctuated, and formal. At first, he thinks she's mad at him, but then he understands that written communication has always been a serious, limited thing for her.
She isn't someone who gets intimidated by modern food; her body and habits are simply accustomed to survival and the austerity of her past.
She would rather say “I’m not hungry” with a straight back and a steady gaze than admit she doesn't understand the menu or can't afford it. Hwoarang, who is quite street-smart and observant, notices the subtle gleam of pride (and hunger) in her eyes.
To avoid hurting her pride or making her feel like a charity case, Hwoarang orders food "for himself" in ridiculously huge portions. He sits next to her, eats a little, and then pushes the plate toward her, saying: “I ordered way too much and I hate dealing with leftovers. Do me a favor and finish it off, will you?” She knows exactly what he’s doing, and even though she doesn't say it out loud, she deeply respects that he allows her to keep her dignity intact.
To Hwoarang, she is his equal. He treats her with the exact same toughness he uses with anyone else; he doesn't underestimate her because of her gender or her economic situation. If she misses a kick due to exhaustion, he barks at her to get back up. That rough, pity-free treatment is exactly what she needs to feel safe: inside the dojang, money or background don't matter only the strength of your legs.
I want to spice things up and write for some different characters. Since this is a purely NSFW blog, you already know the drill: things are definitely going to escalate in the worst (or best) way possible.
Forgot to share the results lol (シ. .)シ Don't lose hope, I've been getting prompts for the runner-up character too, so just be patient with me! (─‿‿─)♡
Sadistic and teasing he will do anything to get you to stroke his ego and one of those things is that he will turn you on to the point that you are begging for it.
He is BAD, don't expect vanilla things with him, he will degrade you until you are a mess.
Dominant, Good luck trying to trade him he will never be submissive.
The first time you saw his cock you almost choked, you were sure he wouldn't fit you.
"I'm so big and yet you're taking me so well, girl."
Any position and anywhere really doesn't matter to him, but if you run the risk of getting caught all the better.
He will breed you, he has a reproductive kink, so he will most likely always cum inside you.
Orgasm denial, it's his favorite game. You will have to ask his permission to cum.
His libido is quite high, he also has an incredible stamina for 3 to 5 rounds.
Your point was quickly found and he did not hesitate to make fun of you.
Again commissions are open, you can ask through my discord Reiden#3823 <3
I’m sorry I don’t have a master list for each character! You’re more than welcome to dig through my AO3, though. Just a heads-up: those are some of my earliest headcanons and stories, so they’re a bit dated compared to what I’m writing now
I want to spice things up and write for some different characters. Since this is a purely NSFW blog, you already know the drill: things are definitely going to escalate in the worst (or best) way possible.
