He comes home around four in the morning. Adrenaline pumping hard from a good kill, and you’re already asleep. Snoring softly on your stomach- he just can’t resist.
He’ll tug the sheets down until they bunch below your hips, straddling you before he unbuckles his belt. He’s stroking himself against your ass, letting out an amused huff when you scoot your hips up by an inch.
Even stuck in dreamland, you’re still too sweet. Pliant, generous. He’ll rut himself onto your skin, smearing pre all over your underwear. Then he’s tugging the damp cotton to the side, sliding his tip between your slick folds. Your arousal collects on his cock head, and he nudges inside slowly.
Stretching you, he’ll bottom out with a low groan. Head tipped back while his lids grow heavy. “Oh, fuck.” He wets his lips, his inhales now shallow.
He’ll start rolling his hips, fucking you like it’s simply a leisurely pastime. Habit is mounted on you. His arms are braced by your head, his body caging you against the mattress. His teeth sink into your nape lightly, and he has you snagged by the scruff.
You wake up to the sticky sound of skin on skin. Wet smacks that sync with the pleasure licking up your spine and filling your gut. He’ll nip at your ear, teasing.
“Morning, sunshine. Sorry for wakin’ you’- but you promised you’d help me relax, right?” Breath warm against your shoulder, his cock is slipping in and out of you- short lazy thrusts that have you mewling.
“Feelin’ good? Yeah? You’re such a perfect bunny, y’know that?” His words are naturally condescending, but you can’t help twitching around him. Making him grunt when you push back into him.
“Trained you real well, huh?”
He’s so deep, and his presence always makes your body drop its guard. Combined with the lingering drowsiness, you’re completely boneless under him. Too comfortable to even move. You pant against the stuffing, eyes barely open as he breaches your cunt over and over.
You’re sleepy, and his cock just feels so good. It’s a muted, simmering heat, one that has you fighting against the slumber threatening to take over.
You fade in and out of consciousness. Coming to here and there, small black outs- before an extra rough grind makes you shiver. You hear him huff once in a while, rumbling praises that have your lips curving up, content. Habit is far more considerate when you’re tired, when he’s using your pussy selfishly, your brain halfway to REM. It’s why you don’t mind.
It’s never harsh. Not rushed or bruising like it is when he’s in a mood. Pounding you through the mattress, degrading and mocking you while you cry from overstimulation. Instead, it’s nearly calming.
The rock of his hips is deliberate, his canines not marking your skin- simply dragging over the surface, open mouthed pecks when you squirm a tad. It makes you feel safe, and his weight is like a blanket atop you.
“Gonna’ fill you up nice, sweethearts. I got ya’.” When his groans turn raspy, his nose buried in your shoulder. Inhaling deeply, eyes shut- his pace speeds up slightly.
The bedroom is quiet aside from the sticky plaps of his pelvis meeting your ass, soft grunts mingling with breathy whines. Intimately, with intention and fondness. Too loving for someone who claims to hate the sentimentality’s. “Take it so fucking pretty for me. You want it?” As he humps your cunt, brows furrowed. He’s toeing the line, twitching inside of you.
And when you nod blearily, he slips a hand under your stomach. Between your thighs, cupping your mound, with his other arm barred across your chest. Practically bear hugging you while he chases his own high. “Give it to me, bonbon.” Habit circles your clit, forcing you to gasp. Your walls tighten around him, and he spills against your cervix.
The ropes paint you hotly, so warm it makes you writhe. He’ll trail hickeys up your neck from behind, humming.
Habit lowk really fucking with soft sex when you’re sleepy is very important to me 💔
It’s a good way to get any leftover adrenaline out of his system, and since you’re so out of it, he doesn’t care if he goes overboard with praises.
It gives him a chance to indulge in scenting you. Weird wolf hybrid things- all that. You smell content, and even if he won’t admit it, it does bring that soft purring sound to the surface. Somno is surprisingly intimate to him.
Narcissistic and manipulative, yes. But you’re still under his care, pet or not. Your trust does hold weight, and it satisfies him being able to physically feel it. To see it in the way your body reacts even when you’re not conscious.
Shockingly loverboy-adjacent Habit you will forever be famous.
thinking about (biblically accurate) inexperienced obito in his first relationship with chubby!reader… (post-war obito lives au)
virgin!obito who’s in his thirties but hasn’t had time for dalliances. plotting, impersonating madara, attempting to overthrow the world order—none of these activities are conducive to losing his v-card. plus the trauma of losing rin, and growing up in a cave with his aging ancestor and talking plant-creature made it hard to find time to.
virgin!obito who’s jacked off, of course. but has never taken an actual lover.
virgin!obito who’s so touch-starved he’s overwhelmed by how much he craves physical touch when you first get together. he’s an adult now, but his traitorous body is like that of a teenager's. you hug him? he’s hard. you’re cuddling? he’s hard. it’s not even intentional; it’s like his body’s instinctive reaction after being deprived of it for so long. he does his best to hide it from you at first, embarrassed as he is. when you hug him, he hugs you back, angling you away from the growing tent in his pants. you’re cuddling—there’s suddenly a pillow between you. for your comfort, he says, all while hiding his throbbing erection.
virgin!obito who is also unprepared for just how sinful his dreams get. he’s used to nightmares of course, so he’s never slept well, but now his dreams are a series debauched fantasies. you panting his name, your breasts bouncing, the cute little pooch in your stomach as you’re on your back, him thrusting into you. more often than not after one of these dreams, he wakes up with his sheets tangled, his undergarments soaked with his seed.
virgin!obito who’s so so sensitive. grunting and rutting against you as you’re making out, clothes on. grip iron-clad on your hips as you rock against him, huffing out a “w-wait!” before throwing his head back and cursing as he comes in his pants.
virgin!obito who has no idea how intimidating the sheer size of him is until you tug his pants off and your jaw drops. he gets self-conscious, wondering if the boulder accident mangled something down there as well, until you say, “…i don’t even know if that’ll fit, ‘bito, what the fuck—”
virgin!obito who, when you do it for the first time and he’s fully buried inside you, has to hold himself still, eyes clenched shut, because holy fuck. his life has been marked by pain and suffering, so much so that he’s used to it—but this? feels heavenly. mind-numbing pleasure that shoots straight up his spine, his balls tight against your ass as pressure builds at the base of his cock. you clench around him once to reassure him that it’s okay to move and—oh fuck, he’s cumming.
virgin!obito who's so so so embarrassed that he came so fast. bottomed out inside you and he was gone. literally hides his face in your neck, won't even respond, just mumbling apologies until you laugh and tell him it was flattering and super sexy and—kami, he's getting hard again.
virgin!obito who finds out that while he's too sensitive and comes too fast, his refractory period is practically non-existent (something something about hashirama's cells and regeneration). he’s not sure. all he knows is that he’s not finished until you come at least twice.
nolongeravirgin!obito who humps pillows when you're gone. so so embarrassing and depraved, but he misses you. and they smell like you, and they're soft, like you, and, and—you wonder why your pillows are always freshly washed every time you get home.
nolongeravirgin!obito who you've opened up to a world of kink. he finds some his favorite to indulge in are: spanking, mutual masturbation (his eyes half-lidded as he watches you touch yourself, stroking his cock and telling you how fucking hard he is, already leaking pre-come, how he can't wait to come inside you, how you drive him crazy—maybe he's a little into dirty talk too; he just gets caught up in the moment and his freaky little fantasies run wild), boob jobs, sloppy makeouts with lots of petting and grinding.
nolongeravirgin!obito who has no experience eating you out, but he's hellbent on making you come. he's not skilled so much as he is intense about it, burying his face in your pussy, shoving his tongue inside you, nuzzling his nose into your folds. he nearly suffocates himself between your thighs. his sharingan capturing your blissful face on mid-orgasm so he can replay it over and over again later on, when it’s just him and his hand.
nolongeravirgin!obito who, when you’re giving him head, is caught between gripping your hair tight, slowly rocking his hips into your mouth, and using you versus being gentle with you, telling you how much he wants you and how good you’re being for him. eventually though the first urge wins out—he’s cursing and groaning your name loud as he unloads in your mouth.
nolongeravirgin!obito who, you can’t exactly call a sex fiend, but you’ve definitely awoken something in him. he can go several times a day, but for your sake, he keeps it to once a day. and he’s always so intense about it; he doesn’t do anything lightly. pounding into you, his mouth on your breast as he mutters how he’s going to fill you up, how you’re going to repopulate his clan. how pretty and cute you’d look swollen with his child. how he’s this hard only for you. how no one else gets him like this.
nolongeravirgin!obito who loves how soft you are, your curves. he’ll zone out in the shower, imagine your body beneath his—stomach pooch, plush thighs, and soft breasts—and his mouth goes dry. the blood pooling to his dick so fast he gets light-headed. has ethical dilemmas when he sees you wearing a loose shirt (on one hand, you’re so cute, the shirt swallowing you up—you look like you need his protection. on the other hand, he’s practically memorized your curves underneath, and his eyes glaze over as heat rolls through him).
nolongeravirgin!obito who’s so so loud in bed. he can’t help how fucking good it feels—your pussy gripping him tight, his balls slapping against your ass, the slick, wet squelch of him claiming you. while he starts off gripping your thighs, your waist, he eventually just has to brace himself against the bed frame or wall, so he can focus on pounding his hips into you. definitely the type to dig his fingers into the wall and rip out plaster when he comes hard. definitely has broken a bed before from fucking you too enthusiastically. and most definitely the entire apartment complex has heard him shout out your name as he came (the amount of noise complaints you two get…)
Synopsis: Feitan wants one thing. You want something else.
Word count: 2200ish
Notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, noncon
God, you’d kill for some books. Not even some. Just one. A single book to pass the time, to retreat into, and above all, to keep you from being so fucking bored.
You’d asked Feitan for some about two weeks ago. Laid out your case as carefully as anything, even written down a list of genres you like, or specific books if he wouldn’t mind, but you ended by affirming that you’d be happy to read anything that he felt like picking up.
He didn’t bother answering. He only stared at you until you left, feeling ashamed, stupid–and more bored than ever.
It’s amazing, really, how your brain eventually stops firing off all cylinders, stops being stuck in flight-or-fight-mode, after a while. Even a kidnapping can become ordinary. All it takes is a year or so–you don’t exactly have a calendar to keep track–of being kept in a few rotating dingy hideouts by a torturer with a penchant for basements to make you able to think of things other than is-he-going-to-kill-me-or-not.
Things like: what will Feitan do, if you ask him for a book again? Scoff? Make you beg? Or, perhaps the most likely, simply ignore you once again? He does his fair share of that, for all that he refuses to let you go.
Well.
There’s nothing to do but find out. Even that is a relief from boredom, trying something new: repeatedly asking your captor for some remnant of normality.
So, with a squirming stomach and an awful blend of worry-relief slick in your gut, you push off your mattress on the floor, hop up–
And run right smack into Feitan, who has chosen this exact moment to make his own surprise appearance into the room that has become your own. It startles you both and it’s only his own honed reflexes, you think, that keep him from copying your own startled trip as you almost stumble backwards right onto the dingy hardwood floor.
You catch yourself, without dignity; and it is without dignity that you manage the only verbal response you can, a shaky, uncertain:
“Um.”
Feitan stares at you. And then he huffs, which might be as close to an “um” as you might ever get from him.
But what little standoff there is between you folds easily. You back down first. Of course you do. Quite literally, you walk backwards, until you feel the firmness of your mattress behind your legs, and you sit down.
It’s best to sit, when Feitan wants something. You never know what it might be, after all.
“Did you…” You pull your knees up, prepared to be told to head into the basement at worst, or to make him something to eat, at best. “Did you need something?”
It’s his lack of response that clues you into something being strange first. Then it’s the fact that, as you dart your gaze towards his face, you can see a faint something about him–on his cheeks, maybe? They look a little flushed.
Maybe he’s sick. The thought of tending to a sick Feitan is not something you’d considered before. You’re not keen on considering it now, but what choice do you have?
“Are you sick?”
“What?”
The word is bitten out but it lacks the usual harshness in his tone. Instead he sounds–taken aback, maybe. Embarrassed, even, and that’s a bit more stomach-churning than annoyance. What would he have to feel embarrassed about?
“Sorry,” you reply, automatically, wanting to avoid being sent down to the basement again. “I just thought… because of your cheeks?”
His fingers do not fly to his cheeks. Instead, he slowly, deliberately, raises his hand to his cheek and brushes his knuckles over his skin.
It makes him hum–thoughtful. Quiet.
Completely unnerving.
And when he turns around and shuts your bedroom door, your thoughts begin to feel rootless. It’s a strange gesture. What would he shut the door for, anyway? No one else would see you. Even if he had someone chained up in the basement, they weren’t likely to get away.
The thoughts get swallowed down when he stands in front of you, arms crossed.
“I need something.” He pauses. “From you.”
You can’t bear to meet his gaze, so you stare down at your feet, picking at the frayed lace on your socks. “From… me?”
“From me?” He repeats, a mocking lilt just detectable in his tone.
Heat rises in your chest, and you stamp it down just as quickly. The days where you used to argue–and plead–and argue some more are gone. Mostly, anyway.
“What,” you swallow, “could you need from me?”
He hesitates. You think for a moment that he’ll simply leave, forgetting the matter entirely. Then he pulls at his cowl, revealing his face–mouth set in a frown–before he begins to pull at his coat. He shrugs it off like a robe and it drops to the floor without ceremony. Underneath, he’s wearing a slim tank top and trousers. Both are suspiciously stained, despite the dark fabric.
Still, he just stares at you, until you can’t take the silence any longer.
“Um,” you say, an echo from earlier.
This time, when he huffs, it’s less of an “um” and more of an implicit marker of your own stupidity.
“You wanting books?”
Oh.
That’s what this is about? The books. The books you wanted–needed, really, to get you through this newfound life. If you can call it that.
So you nod, slowly. Already not liking where it’s going, even though you’ve yet to find the destination.
Feitan’s lips quirk into something like a frown before he speaks. An uncertain little thing.
“Take off your clothes, then.”
Ah.
It’s–a trade.
A book for–well. That.
It’s not that you didn’t think it was coming, eventually. Perhaps you’ve always known that he’s going to have sex with you, one way or another. The only decision you have is in the little details. Will he pin your wrists down and take you screaming? Or will you submit and wind up on the bed of whatever free will you still possess?
You know which one ends with more pain, more tears. You know which one ends with tears, yes–but something you want, too. A book. Or two. Something to tide you over.
So–so you swallow and look up at him as firmly as you can and nod. It’s going to happen, so it might as well happen on your terms. Or what you can pretend are your terms, at least.
“Fine.”
He almost seems surprised, but he bites it back quickly as you hastily begin to shrug your clothing off. A flimsy tank top and thin leggings that were beginning to rip at the seams, but you didn’t feel like asking for a sewing kit or a new pair.
He stares down at your naked form and it’s only when you awkwardly pat the spot next to you on the mattress that he moves, almost jerking his body as he jerkily crawls down onto the bare mattress. It creaks underneath him, and you instinctively shift backwards, leaning your back against the pillow.
Let it just be over with then. Let him do what he wants–and you get your books, and that awful tension that’s been hovering since he took you can unravel.
Only he doesn’t simply crawl over you and begin fucking hard, satiating whatever lust that’s been built up inside him. Instead, he scoots himself until he’s laying above you, yes, but leaning down and… what? Looking at you. Expecting something. He leans down, his face closer, and it hits you.
He wants to kiss.
He doesn’t want just sex then, you think. He wants… more? He wants–wants… you? Yes–maybe? He wants you, in some way that he doesn’t have you yet. Even though he has you, literally, where he wants you; makes you do whatever he wants, controls what you eat and what you wear and when you sleep. When you shower, when you speak, often enough.
And now he wants whatever kissing him will give. It’s a shitty world, when you can’t keep anything for yourself. You could refuse. Could press your lips tight and turn away, make it harder on him.
Harder on yourself, too.
You swallow, and he follows the motion in your throat as he finally leans in closer, his chapped lips brushing against your own. Equally chapped, to be fair; lip balm wasn’t exactly a top priority for either of you.
“Open your mouth,” he says, and it’s almost softly. Almost like it’s not a command and is instead a request.
Well. If you’re going to do it, you might as well get something more.
“I want–I want a trilogy,” you murmur.
He stares at you, uncomprehending–until he gets it. You’re bartering. He snorts against your skin, but doesn’t disagree as he captures your parted mouth, shoving his tongue inside with little fanfare.
If he got what he wanted from the kiss, you don’t know, because by the time he’s practically breathing down your throat, you feel his hands part your naked thighs. And when he pulls away and positions himself to see what he’s revealed, his expression turns into something you’ve only seen him sport in the basement during particularly fulfilling torture sessions.
Satisfaction.
It’s almost flattering–fuck, something has to be, your naked back against the mattress as Feitan finally pulls his trousers down and positions himself at your entrance without any fanfare. Or preparation. Not that you were expecting it. Maybe, to him, the kiss should have been enough.
The ceiling has a stain on it–that’s what you’re thinking, as he thrusts inside you. It hurts, there’s a startling sort of burning and pressure, and you don’t have any time to be eased into things as he lets out a long sigh and begins to fuck you.
Your body shifts against the mattress with each thrust, and you think–is this going to be it?--before you feel a startling, uneven jolt of pleasure between your legs. When you glance down, you can see Feitan’s hand between your legs; it’s his thumb, you think, rubbing your clit almost haphazardly.
It’s enough to dull the sting, at least. Enough to make you gasp in something other than discomfort.
Maybe that gasp is why he leans down again, why his free hand grabs one of your wrists and pins it above your head. It’s to keep you still, you realize a moment later, as he begins to bite and lap against your neck. You’ll have hickeys, after.
It adds another layer of pleasure, something warmer, something that sends tingles down your stomach despite the discomfort of the situation.
“Feitan–”
“Hush,” he says, and you do, and you’re almost grateful for his words. It’s easier not to say his name, to bite down your gasps and sounds. Especially when saying his name merely made him rut harder against you, faster. It’s almost too much, the friction between your body and the mattress, your heart rate speeding up, the feeling of his thrust between your legs. It’s almost dizzying, making it harder to keep your thoughts straight.
Harder and faster, all because you said his name. Because it made him hornier–or because he wants to leave? The question lingers, caught between thrusts and the feeling of his mouth against his skin.
His thumb rubs harsher against your clit until you’re suddenly spasming, cumming as he’s still fucking you. He takes his hands away too quickly and it’s not an entirely satisfying orgasm but you’re in no position (literally) to complain about it. Instead you try to ride some lingering warmth between your legs as he reaches his own peak, abandoning your bruising shoulder and bruising your lips, instead, a kiss that’s part teeth and tongue.
He thrusts forward and goes still and makes an almost keening sound into your mouth as he finishes, and you feel the warmth spreading inside you. It’s not pleasant, but the feeling when he pulls out and some of it dribbles out is far less so.
Next time, you think, you’ll tell him to keep touching you when you come. So it feels better. Hell, next time, you’ll barter for something more than a book, too.
You expect him to stay against you, maybe even kiss you again, in the afterglow. Instead, he simply stands up without fanfare and begins to redress himself. Pulls his pants back up–you hope to whatever god there is that he washes his clothes soon–and begins to pull on his top and coat.
“What genre?”
You don’t register the question at first. You’re too fucked out, too guilty, lost, confused, hazy, to understand the question.
Maybe he sees all that, because before he throws his cowl back up, you see his smirk.
“For your books.”
Oh. Right.
“Fantasy,” you answer, without needing to think.
Above you, that ceiling is still stained, and now your mattress has new stains. It was the first time Feitan fucked you, but it won’t be the last, and what sort of Pandora’s box did you open today, anyway?
So yes, a fantasy trilogy is what you ask for, naked and bruising on your bed.
You’ll need something you can escape into every chance you get.
He sits down on the couch, his arms outstretched on either side of the back of it. His eyes glued to yours as you strattle his lap.
You watch his movements. He's tense. Every muscle in his body tight. You find it amusing, seeing him so nervous and he hates it. A mere human girl, having the upper hand on him.
But, he also wouldn't dare push you away.
You raise both hands, slowly inching them towards his face. "You don't have to but, when you kiss someone, it feels good to be held like this," you explain, cupping his face in your hands. His body jolts a little at your gentle and ever so soft touch.
And then, you lean in. Closer and closer. Slow, careful. Your lips melt into his.
Grimmjows heart never beat so fast.
And once he actually got a taste of you... that was it. That was all he needed to become completely addicted.
You pulled back with a deep flush in your cheeks. A whoosh of air brushes past your head as his hand shoots out, gripping the back of your neck.
"Wait, one more time."
You smile, leaning in again. This time a bit more deep. More intense. He's quick to understand, mimicking your movements. His lips copying yours as his grip tightens on the back of your neck. Unable to hold back, a moan accidentally slips from your mouth and Grimmjow perks up with curious eyes.
"S- sorry," you stutter. "I didn't mean-"
"Do that again."
You blink at him and this time, it's Grimmjow that pulls you in. His lips messily exoring yours, wet and hot.
"Wait," you pant out between kisses, hoping to grab his attention.
He pulls away, saliva connecting your lips. He cocks a brow. Your body heats up, as you lean in a bit more.
"Like this," Instead, you sensuously nibble and gently suck on his lip, giving him a tender surface lip kiss. Then, you start to set the pace for a more intense make-out using a shallow tongue and tenderly touch his face so it keeps you both at an intimate distance. If he starts to get overzealous, you seductively pull back and make your way to his ear as a segue to reset, giving his neck a wet trail of kisses.
He gets frustrated, sure, but his rock hard cock tells you he actually loves being teased and he never wants this to stop.
you know, whoever needs to hear it: you are so much better than AI.
no matter how insecure you feel about your writing, no matter how anxious you are about sharing it, you are so much more interesting, original, and brave than AI could ever be.
you don’t need it. the techbros wish you needed it, the same way Instagram wishes you felt bad about your face.
you can and should write your own WoD lore for your town/country and ignore canon by the way, you can do it better than the WoD writers I guarantee you
you have better context and knowledge of history, culture, myth, and politics, I love reading people's versions of their hometowns/countries
Do you guys remember how kidnap fantasies were popular on wattpad because young girls and queer teens were both made to feel shame at the thought of their own sexualities, so the fantasy of being kidnapped totally against their will was a way for them to engage with a romantic or sexual fantasy without feeling morally in the wrong for doing so? Added bonus that the fantasy involved being whisked away from repressive environments like home or school, right?
Finding out that Bram Stoker was in a sexless marriage and that scholars believe that he very likely was closeted gay puts the entire book into perspective as to WHY it reads EXACTLY like a self insert wattpad Dracula kidnap fic:
“I TOTALLY love my wife and would never do anything that an upstanding Good Straight Working Man wouldn’t do but oh nooo, big strong man with broad back and strong enough arms to carry me back to bed like a princess trapped me and claimed me as his, completely against my will 👉👈 But he protects me against the bad evil sexual women (who I assure you, I am TOTALLY sexually attracted to, as any straight man with a choice would be) but trust me, I do NOT want ANY of this. What’s that? The Count is not capable of feeling love? Would be a shame if I had the special ability to change tha-”
This is also the fantasy behind all those old bodice-ripper romances that people today like to mock or call problematic, by the way.
“Oh, my next forty years are going to consist of nothing but washing dishes and keeping house and bearing children for the disdainful man I married right out of high school because my parents said college was for men and I had no other obvious life path open to me? What if a pirate captain thought I was worth stealing away from it all? [what if I ran away but no-one could blame me for leaving]?”
#I read an article a long time ago about a woman who was raised in an incredibly repressive conservative christian community#where all that mattered was purity and virginity etc #She talked about how for a long time rape fantasies were the only way she could derive any pleasure from sex #because she couldn’t feel safe exploring the idea of wanting sex #it wasn’t really ABOUT rape or eroticizing assault or whatever #it was about creating a scenario where she was free from the shame associated with wanting #i think this is true of a lot of icky-seeming stuff in romance and erotica #it’s an imaginary scenario where nothing you don’t really want actually happens #but you can’t be blamed or feel guilty for it #you didn’t do anything wrong#anyway that article changed my perspective a lot #i think there’s also something to be said for people who have felt ugly and undesirable their whole lives #enjoying fictional scenarios where a hot alpha werewolf or whatever is so attracted to them he ‘cant help himself’ or whatever #because it can also be really shameful to want to be desired #when you feel like youre ugly and gross ( @headspace-hotel )
cloud’s hands are fisted in the sheets like he’s trying to tether himself to reality.
he’s flat on his back—gorgeous even like this, flushed and helpless, golden bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat, glossy lips parted around soft, desperate whimpers. you’re straddling his hips, dripping wet, riding him with that mean, devastating rhythm, slamming down on his cock over and over again while his brain short-circuits under you.
“f-fuck—s–slow down,” he gasps, voice high and cracking, his eyes wide and dazed. “you’re—too much—fuck, you’re so tight—”
you don’t slow down. you grin.
“can’t handle me, soldier?” you purr, dragging your nails down his chest. his abs flex under your touch, thighs twitching as you roll your hips down and grind, letting his cock drag along every inch of your walls. he whimpers again, biting his lip, chest heaving.
god, he’s so fucked. red in the face, pupils blown, every part of him tensed like he’s either gonna come or cry.
“you’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?” you whisper, leaning down, kissing just under his ear. “just from me riding you. like a good little—”
he growls.
and then he snaps.
in one brutal, fluid motion, cloud sits up—arms locking around your waist, face buried in your throat—and slams his hips up into you, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.
“ah—cloud—!”
“oh, now you’re whining?” he snarls, voice suddenly dark, thick with frustration and heat. “you wanna ride me like a fucking brat, huh? bounce up and down like you own it?”
he fucks up into you again—harder—deeper, and your whole body jolts. his grip on your waist is bruising now, holding you in place while he pistons his cock into you from below, the mattress shaking with every punishing thrust.
you’re not riding him anymore. he’s using you.
“feel that?” he hisses, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple. “that’s mine.”
you try to speak—try to moan, cry, something—but it’s all just broken gasps now. you’re drooling, eyes rolled back, clinging to his shoulders like you’ll fall apart if he stops.
“thought you were cocky,” he pants, slamming into you again, harder. “thought you could fuck me into the mattress? now look at you—fucking ruined.”
your orgasm hits like an explosion, pussy clenching around him so tight he grits his teeth and groans, fucking you through it with ragged, desperate thrusts, chasing his own release now. your body trembles in his arms, twitching, overstimulated, drooling and moaning as he fills you, hot cum spilling deep inside, his breath catching in your ear like a curse.
you go limp in his lap.
and cloud, flushed and panting, still pulsing inside you, just grins.
Sometimes the fanfic scenario you have in mind requires one of the characters involved to have a huge cock, and that's cool – but the way some writers go out of their way to make sure it's, like, thematic and shit which particular character has it often says more about the writer than it does about the character.
your new fic got me so down bad like what if you got isekaied into hsr and meet self aware!phainon?? how would he react??
okay let me set the stage for you anon ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
i isekai'ed into my favourite rpg game and the attractive deliverer is in love with me?! : featuring you know who
let's say, the newest patch of honkai: star rail just released and you— just like any other player—update your game and log in. but this time, the blinding light pass the loading screen is different. you aren't greeted with your phainon looking at you from the screen but instead, you are in said character's... arms?!
"dawnlight, you're awake!" he'd say, eyes glistening the moment yours slowly opened. you could barely adjust to your new surroundings without phainon gazing down at you, hearts replacing his pupils. he was holding you close to his chest tightly. too tight. like you'd disappear if he didn't grip your waist with his whole being.
and hoo BOY, you're in for a ride. you know this man will follow you around like a lost puppy, constantly at your tail. he brings you around to places you're somewhat familiar with (since u play the game ofc) such as: belebog, the xianzhou, penacony and of course, amphoreus. he introduces the areas to you, sharing his own findings from when he first discovered them. he especially spends most of his time with you in the fields of aedes elysiae, playing with your hair as you both lie down on the golden crops. whether it be sharing a bottle of soulglad in penacony or strolling through okhema's busy markets, his hand never leaves yours. his fingers intertwined with your own. when npcs mistake you two for a couple, he proudly grins and wraps his arm around your shoulder. not a hint of denial in that charming smile of his.
he caught you pleading herta to help you return home and yikes! you really should had been more sneaky...
"home? but this is home, dawnlight! with us! with me." he cups your cheek, eyes so tender yet darkening with each second. his smile more threatening than reassuring.
"home is wherever i am dawnlight. i've waited so long for you. and you're finally in my arms, as you belong."
...
oopies he kinda let his inner yandere show didnt he (ᵕ • ᴗ •)
cw!! - nsfw. dubcon. gender neutral! reader, somnophilia, dry + thigh humping, wet dream (reader is the one dreaming), chest groping, extremely whiney phainon, yandere! phainon, horrendously needy phainon, almost first kiss interrupted, phainon gets caught being down bad by reader, phainon is a cheeky bastard at the end, reader doesn't know whether to be turned on or scared, pet names (he calls you dawnlight and sweetheart) not proof read!!
a/n - second attempt at writing smut WOOO ngl im not super proud of this but self aware! phainon nation gotta eat so here it is! sorry if the ending is abrupt i kinda got writers block in the middle oopies (ᵕ • ᴗ •) btw this is based off an ask where phainon is able to enter ur dreams thanks to sunday's powers !
✰ woof, we want it! [self aware! phainon au]
you were never the type to be awakened easily.
once your body hits the comfort of your bed, you were completely knocked out for few good hours. so imagine your surprise when you woke up to the sound of pitiful whimpering in your ear. held back groans and desperate whines combined flooded your hearing, causing your body to slowly regain control from slumber. but that wasn't all, the sensation of something-... no, someone's hand gripping onto your waist for dear life and the constant rocking at your thigh made you jolt, eyes now fully opened.
"mmph- fuuuuuck... so good hah-! ♡ you feel sooo good, dawnlight."
your breath hitches at that nickname. no... it can't be. he's not- he's not real. your eyes slowly inch down, a mop of messy white hair covers your neck. a wet hot tongue traces patterns all over your exposed collarbone, sloppily sucking at the sensitive skin while at it.
'P' his tongue draws out the letter. you bite your inner cheek, attempting to suppress any sound you might make. what is he doing?!
'H' he kisses at a hickey he just made, the bruise blooming into your skin. he pants at it with pride. one of the many he had left on you. you maintain your composure, heart ready to jump out of your chest. what are you doing?
'A' his free hand sneaks under your shirt, icy cold fingers running up and down your stomach. oh so slowly making its way to your chest. you shut your eyes, feigning sleep. why are you letting this continue?
'I' he cups your chest, squeezing it in the process. his thumb finds your nipples, fully hardened. you can feel his smirk on your neck before a sharp bite hits you hard. it took all your willpower to not scream out from pain or pleasure. you weren't sure.
'N' his hips hump your thigh with reckless abandon. his clothed cock just aching to rut against you, raw. but he doesn't. instead, his teeth sink lower into your skin, grip tightening with each passing second. the heat burning between your thighs is unbearable. you're as filthy as he is.
'O' he's close. you can hear his whines get sharper. his thrusts becoming sloppier, the sound vibrating through your entire body. he hasn't said a single word since earlier but now? oh, all hell has broken loose. he's crying into your neck. "ah-! daaawnlight..." he babbles, tears staining your collarbone and some falling onto your pillow. "i'm so cloose! so close for you... pleaseee hah- let me cum on these pretty thighhhs... i need it so bad-!"
"i'll be a good boy for you-! ♡"
oh. oh.
you don't know what switched inside you but before phainon could even draw out the last letter of his name, you yanked his head back. he moans at it. it was a delicious melody that sent a jolt straight to the heat pooling in your stomach. he swallows, mouth drying instantly. he looks like a puppy whose been caught having one too many treats. "s-sweetheart! nngh- m' sorry, i was too loud ahah- didn't mean to wake you..." you stare at him, getting a proper look since this whole situation started. he looked so... real. he had the same shiny blue eyes, now with tears pouring out of them. he had the same white locks, now scattered and a mess beyond repair. he had the same face, the same one that always brought a smile to yours.
the same character you had an unhealthy obsession with, was jerking his cock against your thighs in your sleep.
phainon's chest heaves. heavily. oh, titans. your gaze is so scrutinising. he feels unbelievably small under it. you're judging him. you're judging him for being such such a nasty fool. but, dawnlight-! he just couldn't resist, he tried his best to constrain himself. he swears! he was finally next to you. you. his everything. all he wanted was just one small innocent touch. which led to another. and another. eventually, leading to phainon humping his hips into you without care in a world.
you lean in closer to him, your grip transitioning into a more gentle hold. you're scanning every inch of himself, unsure if you'll ever get this chance again. he's here. in your bed. alive and breathing the same air you are inhaling. you look at his lips, the lower half bruised by how much he bit into them. he notices. he knows. you know. phainon's body is trembling. his shaky breath adding to your arousal. you inch closer. and closer. and closer-
you jolt upright, the buzzing of your alarm ringing throughout the room. you grip the bedsheets, still recovering from whatever you just dreamed about. god, you were so fucked up. the fact your underwear was soaked isn't helping your case at all. how were you even going to face phainon the next time you opened honkai: star rail after all that?!
…
phainon spent the past 30 minutes, staring at the ceiling above him. a hysterical grin never leaving his face. his fingers rubbed against his lips, giggling. you were going to kiss him. his beloved was about to grant him their very first kiss. he was so close to tasting you. oh... you saint. after all he’s done? he doesn’t deserve it, dawnlight. the tent in his pants was still excruciatingly painful. aching and begging for release. but that can wait. phainon reached out for his phone, fingers typing away.
don’t fret, dawnlight. he remembers every single detail. <3
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