Thinking about yan men who say thank you when they cum vs men who make you say thank you.
The ones that thank you are truly grateful - they still can't believe that you're letting them touch you, that you're awake and aware and letting them fucking touch you, and so there's something reverant in the way their fingers brush against your skin. There's a sort of unfiltered, raw awe that blinds you as they grope and squeeze and knead with trembling fingers, hands moving so quickly it's as if they don't even know where to begin. They're the ones that are more likely to be warbling out declarations of love and devotion as they unsteadily thrust into you, their grip on you tight enough to make you wince. They're the ones who're begging in clipped, whiny pleas to please please please let them finish inside you, to give you everything they have to offer.
It's pathetic, really, but it strokes your ego in a way that's tough to ignore - every sniveled compliment and gasp about how good you feel goes right to your head. Every time they bury their face into the crook of your neck as their hips get more wild and untamed will leave you feeling more and more pleased with yourself, even if the man calling you a goddess in human form is the same man whose basement you're trapped in.
And, after he's finished emptying himself inside of you, cock still twitching and his breathing still wild, the murmuring starts. The chanted, over-and-over thank you thank you thank you falling from his lips as he stays curled around you, pressing himself against you as if he'll die if even a single inch of his skin isn't touching yours. And he's not stopping - he's thanking you for nearly ten whole minutes, pressing wet, tonguey kisses against your skin as he details each and every thing he's thankful for.
Thank you for fucking me. Thank you for kissing me. Thank you for letting me put the collar on you. Thank you for spitting in my mouth. Thank you for saying you love me. Thank you for using me like your personal sex toy. Thank you thank you thank you -
It's pathetic and weird, but perhaps you're a bit pathetic, too, because the way blood seems to rush between your legs at his admittance makes you just as guilty, too.
And then, of course, there are those who make you say thank you. They'll have you ass up and face down, one hand flat on your upper back to keep you pinned down while the other clutches at the pillow next to your head. He's grunting and groaning, little ngh ngh ngh sounds punctuating each thrust. Eyes maniacally scan over your exposed back and the curve of your ass, tongue lolling out to lick over his lips and taste the salt of his own sweat. Slapping sounds fill the room, along with his slurred, much-too-intense dirty talk.
It's all about possession with him - telling you that you're so damn tight, no else can fuck you like I can. Do you - fuck - do you hear me? Tell me you fucking hear me.
He's slapping your ass and pulling your hair, slipping two fingers inside your mouth to press heavily on your tongue as his thrusts pick up, not asking but rather telling you that your orgasm is getting closer and closer. You're going to come for me. You'll fucking come for me.
It's insistant and pathetic in its own way, sure, but when he's bullying his other hand between your legs and playing with your clit in such a frantic way, it's hard to remember that he's the pitiful one.
And when he finally does rip the orgasm out of you, he's keeping you right on the edge, licking at your tears as he tells you to thank me, show me how grateful you are that I'm making you feel good.
He's not satisfied until you're blabbering out your thanks, telling him that you're so in love with him and how you belong to him and only him. He's not satisfied until you're begging, promising all sorts of depraved things just because you're so damn close, and if he'd just angle his hips slightly higher and rub a few more circles over your clit...
Once he's had his fill, he'll lean in to deeply inhale your scent, nose pressed against your neck or between your breasts, before finally letting his hips and fingers hit the spots he knows you need. He wants you to keep saying your thanks, fingers squeezing and pinching at your clit, invading your senses and demanding your attention even in the throes of your pleasure.
And when, a few moments later, he lets out a particularly low groan and sends rope upon rope of hot, runny cum into you, he's expecting another thanks.
Short drabble because I was feeling oddly inspired
Tw: stalking, harassment, yucky online sexual harassment, slutshaming, allusions to assault, non-con photography, yucky yucky yucky and sort of incel-y
you’re so pretty
The comment interrupts your endless scrolling, the notification popping up from the top of your screen giving you pause. Your thumb hovers over the notification, tapping quickly and letting your most recent post fill the screen.
It’s nothing too terribly fancy – just a post detailing a hang-out at the park with your friends from last weekend. There’s some pretty photos of the autumn leaves and a photo of you smiling and sitting on the swing set – one that’s nearly too small for you now that you’re far from being a child. There’s another photo of you and your friend Erica on a picnic blanket, holding up the rather disastrous sandwich you’d cobbled together with the grossly limiting picnic supplies she’d packed.
You look pretty, you agree – you’re smiling big, the photo having been taken mid-laugh when your friend cracked a truly terrible joke. You’d felt good posting it, but the comment still makes you feel flattered, a warm feeling settling in your chest that makes you eagerly click on the user’s name.
You don’t follow him, and he’s not following you. He’s following no one, in fact.
Furrowing a brow, you shrug. Maybe it’s a bot, or maybe someone you actually do know in real life but just aren’t connected with on social media. The profile doesn’t have the user’s name, just a simple imtired123 and no profile photo. Probably a bot.
Sighing, you close out of the app, pressing the power button and hoisting yourself to your feet. You’re nearly late for work, anyways – your phone gets discarded into your purse and soon you’re out the front door, pulling your light jacket around yourself tighter in the crisp, cool autumn air.
nice
It’s a few weeks later when the next comment comes. Just like last time, it’s on a relatively nondescript post – one you’d made even before the autumn park photoshoot. It’s a photo of your pet, with some cute stickers and editing surrounding the animal’s face. It’s endearing, you think, but certainly not a masterpiece. The other photo in the post is a selfie of you and your pet, pressing a kiss to their cheek. Again, endearing – but nothing particularly groundbreaking.
It’s the same mystery account, and although it’s strikes you as odd that there’s so much space between the comments, you once again write it off as a bot. This comment’s less fun, though, so you’re quick to just shrug. Besides, your friend’s due to your apartment any minute now – and she gets crabby when you make her wait.
wear more blue
You roll over in bed, the buzzing noise from your phone making your eyes squint open. The alarm clock on your nightstand reads three in the morning, and you groan. Blearily, you check the notification, and only groan at the sight of the semi-familiar username commenting on a photo of you in a red shirt for a silly Halloween costume.
Weirdo, you grumble, unceremoniously shoving your phone back onto the nightstand with Do Not Disturb mode on. Maybe if you’re quick enough, you can get back to the dream you were having.
you make me so hard
It comes in the middle of brunch with your two closest friends. You don’t hear it at first, but the second time your phone buzzes you unconsciously reach for it. Your face sours up immediately, and Chelsea to your right notices.
“Everything okay?” She asks, wiping some ketchup from her eggs from the corner of her lips.
“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine, just some creep.” You respond, clicking on the account again. It’s the same user – still with zero followers, you see, and only following a single account. You’re about to click on the following list, but the waiter’s sudden appearance stops you.
“Anything I can get you ladies?” He asks, sending a small smile Erica’s way, to which she only flushes and clears her throat.
Chelsea grins. “We’re good,” she gestures to the two of you, “but Erica here has been saying how bad she wants to try your sweet cream. For her coffee. Could you get one for her, please?”
Chelsea’s words make Erica gasp, the waiter laugh, and your own snort fill the air. Erica’s indignant as the waiter winks and turns on his heel, and your phone lay forgotten in your purse as Chelsea defends herself from the onslaught of half-hearted slaps.
you’re mine
You’re starting to get tired of this. It’s been a week or so since the brunch incident, and the stranger’s comments are starting to feel a little too targeted to simply be a bot. You’re curled up on your couch, TV playing some mindless sitcom while the moon shines outside the apartment window, when you click back into the stranger’s account.
The comment had been left on a story you’d posted earlier in the day showing a short video of the scenery outside the train you commute to work on. The sunlight had been hitting the city skyscrapers in a pretty way, and you’d wanted to take a snapshot of the moment.
You’re mine… It makes your toes curl, unease settling in the pit of your stomach. A strange thing to comment, really, and with only the smallest moment of hesitation, you firmly press down on the block button. Closing out of the app, you place your phone on the other end of the couch, focusing in on the familiar jangle of the television show’s theme song. Bot or not, the shenanigans would stop.
greedy attention whore
The post is of your baby cousins. They’re young – four and six, to be exact, and the photos are just the aftermath of them eating chocolate cake for a birthday party. There’s frosting smeared across their cheeks and down the front of the pretty white dresses they’re wearing. It’s sweet, it’s innocent, it’s normal – even if the comment isn’t.
You swallow, pressing on the account’s profile. The little icon pops up reading ‘new’ below the imageless profile photo, no description present. The account’s entitled imtired132 this time, and you grit your teeth. This can’t be a bot, you’re sure – it’s too specific and frankly too hurtful. You don’t know this person, but you’re starting to wish you never will.
You block them again, rushing to delete the comment on the post for fear your cousin will see and worry.
show me your tits
Three days later. You block them again.
your justt a dumb whor
A day after that, with grammar so bad you almost don’t bother to decipher it.
why are you ignoring me
One week later, on the same post as the last time.
just came to the thought of you, want to see
Commented at four in the morning, then deleted, then reposted.
you’re so pretty it makes me want to die
Ten days later, with a separate comment only containing a pink heart.
fucking slut
It comes at a really bad time – there’s never really a good time, you suppose, but being stuck in the sketchy, dirty bathroom of a club with tears running down your cheeks alongside your mascara certainly isn’t a good time. The dress you’re wearing feels too tight and suddenly too short, and you wipe at your eye as you look at the comment.
You’re at a fucking wedding in this post. It’s nearly six years old – your cousin’s wedding, as a matter of fact. The one whose kids you’d watched for the birthday party, the one who had her bridesmaids dress in rather modest navy pantsuits to match the aesthetic of the event. Slut. In your full-coverage outfit? The only skin showing is your hands, neck and face. Your hands are trembling as you sniffle, not even bothering to check the account’s details before clicking on the profile and selecting the direct message option.
What the fuck is your problem? Leave me alone. Your message and short and simple, and you don’t read it over for grammatical correctness. You’re not sure that you could, given how thick your tears have become, the night’s events paired with the comment only making you feel worse. It’d sucked that your longtime crush – a friend of Chelsea’s, one that she’d been dying to set you up with – had ignored you all night, and to top it all off just left with another girl. It’s demoralizing, and the alcohol in your system has left you feeling bold and emotional.
Your comments are creepy, and there has to be a better way to spend your time. You send the text, block the account, and shove your phone into your purse. Chelsea knocks on the stall door again, worry evident in her tone, but you can only sniffle harder.
The next morning you wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a train. Your head hurts, the room is too bright, and your limbs feel heavy. The hangover is bad, and it’s not until late in the day you gather the courage to look at the bright, hypnotizing screen of your phone.
There’s fourteen unread direct messages on Instagram.
no better way to spend my time, always about you
don’t cry
crying just makes you hotter
would you cry for me, if i asked you to
if you cry 4 me i’ll nut 4 you
do you want that. i want you to want that
you’re so dirty
i knew it just from looking at u
An hour pause, then the rest.
i love you
i love you
i love you
i love you
i love you
i love you
You’re shaking by the time you finish reading, any trace of a headache gone as you swallow. This person is fucking insane – this is demented. You’ve blocked him how many times? How many times has he created a new account just to harass you?
You drop your phone onto your mattress, unable to move. It’s only the insistent buzz of an incoming call notification that brings you out of your reverie. A quick look at the caller ID shows an unknown number, and immediately you’re out of your bed, leaving the room and trying to ignore the sound of your ringtone.
It’s a good, long twenty minutes before you build up the nerve to listen to the voicemail the number left. It’s five minutes long, and it’s mostly heavy breathing. You think you hear something clicking and rhythmic in the background, but you can’t bring yourself to admit what it is. There’s a loud gasp, then ten seconds of silence, and then very quietly: check your messages.
There’s three of them.
don’t ignore me. why are you ignoring me? i hate it when you ignore me.
so beautiful
Attachment: 1 Image
The photo’s dark, but one glance is enough to show you that it’s you in the photo, fast asleep and entirely unaware of the pale, bloody hand resting on your hip in the photograph’s corner.
The vomit comes before you can help it. You’re shaking again, nearly hyperventilating as you grab your purse and run to the door of your apartment, fingers trembling so badly you can hardly type in the location of the nearest police station. It’s only a ten minute walk, and as you grasp onto the door handle and swing the door backwards, you yelp at the sight of a man in your doorway.
You’ve never seen him before, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your throat dry up, tears prickling at your eyes, a small, warbled little no falling from your lips.
“Hello beautiful,” he starts, one hand coming up to your doorframe. Fingers wrap slowly around the wooden frame, holding tight as he takes a single step towards you. “Ah-ah-ah, not so fast.”
You’re frozen, so shocked and terrified that you can’t will yourself to move, to take action, to do anything even as he steps closer and closer.
“Y’know, you’re much prettier in real life.”
The door slams shut behind him.
(This was not written for anyone in particular, but now after re-reading this is strongly feeling like Gyutaro, Shalnark, or maybe some flavor of Atsumu.)
Just a quick passing thought, but I think it's so interesting to know what different yanderes do right in the moment of their orgasm - do they freeze up? Do their hips keep plunging against yours, the movements strained and uneven? Or maybe they reach out and squeeze, needing something to ground themselves with while they whimper and gasp out your name over and over again?
Thinking about yanderes who freeze up and just stare as their orgasm washes over them. The ones who let out this choked gasp as they see white blurs in the edges of their vision, every muscle in their body going taut and freezing up and their jaw dropping wide open because fuck. You just feel too good and they can't help but stare down at your pretty body - naked and sweating and trembling all for them them them, your eyes glassy and wide and spit smeared across your lips from where they'd been kissing you. (More like eating you, really, with the vigor and amount of tongue, but it was passionate and sweet and only a little bit one-sided, so that's still kissing, right?) They're scared to move as their cock throbs and pulses inside of you, the feeling of your tight, warm walls making their head spin and honest to god tears well up in the corner of their eyes from the sensation of you.
You're just too much - if they were to move and feel friction against their oversensitive cock they'd let out this pathetic little whine, a sound that makes them flush bright red and avoid eye contact with you because it's just all so embarrassing and needy. So instead, they hover over you, abs clenching and balls noticeably pulsing against the curve of your ass as they feel each and every spurt of cum push into you, the sensation leaving them breathless and burying their face into your neck, little mantras and chants of your name filling your ears. Please come for me, please please please please - they tell you as the last few drops ooze out of them and directly into you.
Thinking of men who lose control of their hips as their orgasm hits them. As soon as the rushed, husky groan of 'm coming, take it, fuck take it slips out of them, the rest of it is a blur. They aren't in control of themselves - their hips move on their own, following some carnal, natural instinct to fuck into you deeper, harder, longer until he's absolutely spent. He's physically crushing you, his hips pounding into you so hard that you're moved further and further up the bed (or the floor, if they couldn't quite make it there), your body merely dead weight. It stems from this urge to fuck their cum into you as deeply as they can, an instinct to claim and mark and breed you overclouding their mind.
There's no moment of rest with them, even after they've given you everything they have - their hips still twitch, pushing forward ever so slightly and making them hiss in pain-twinged pleasure, the oversensitivity and the gooey, warm feeling of their cum coating your walls making them bare their teeth and practically glare at you. You just feel too good - they're an animal around you, truly, and it's only after they're spent that they'll swallow heavily, licking their lips and letting themselves really look at you. To see the way you're panting, how your eyes are all wide, to feel the stinging against their back where you've clawed at them. The afterglow makes them giddy, and even if they don't show it, you'll feel it - the way they slowly grow hard inside of you again is difficult to ignore, after all.
Thinking of men who have to reach out and grab something to ground themselves with as their high approaches. It feels like a tidal wave, like there's something warm and big and hot building up in their navel, the sensation making their toes curl and their eyes cross and their muscles spasm and a hand reach out blindly, feeling, squeezing, groping - It's their tether to Earth as the wave crashes and breaks, ropes of cum shooting from their swollen, sensitive tip, something vaguely resembling your name falling from their lips as they pant into your mouth. It's the only thing keeping them aware of their surroundings, of you, as the pleasure overwhelms them.
And they're not especially picky about where they're grabbing onto for support, either - anything that's fatty and nearby will do. Your thigh, your hips, your stomach, your breast, your arm, hell, even your neck will do. Thick fingers wrap around the flesh, squeezing hard enough to leave light, finger-shaped bruises on your skin, their muscles still twitching against you as they groan and grunt, hips occasionally bucking into yours but losing momentum. You can actually feel how their orgasm and your cunt are affecting them this way - the way they grasp onto you even tighter when you accidentally clench down on them, the hiss they let out through clenched teeth seeming to make that spurt shoot into you even harder. And their hand doesn't always stay idle, either - they're actively moving it around as their orgasm continues on, switching from your chest to your hip to your cheek and back against to settle heavily against your nipple, burying their face between your tits as they groan and pathetically hump at you. And while they'll feel a bit guilty for the marks the next day, they can't hide the tent forming in their pants or the way they have to clear their throat to avoid telling you that they needs to leave more.
Thinking of men who practically whimper during sex.
They’re above you, muscles taut and flexing as their hips roll into yours, stuttering and spasming with every thrust. Calling their pace sporadic would be generous – the thrusts are random, carnally snaping into you, as if he has no control over his own body. His breath is labored, deep pants that have hot breaths fanning across your lips, his eyes practically crossed as he stares heavy lidded down at you. There’s not an inch of space between your bodies – your nipples brush against his chest, pebbled and hard and driving him fucking crazy, his cock twitching inside you over and over again until you’re sure he'll come any moment. His forearms cage around your head, the heat radiating from his body making you dizzy as he picks up his pace, the feeling of your tight walls fluttering around him leaving his eyes rolling to the back of his head. It’s heaven, the coarse hairs right above his cock brushing against your sensitive bud with every thrust.
But oh – the sounds he makes are something sinful, downright unholy. They’re deep, starting as groans way down in his chest but slowly climbing to desperate little moans as they tumble past his lips, getting higher and thinner as he nears his end. He can’t look at you like this – he’s too embarrassed, the pleasure making his brain mush as he gasps and heaves out uneven, stuttered breaths.
But at a particularly tight clench around him, he’s suddenly falling forward, his face buried in your neck as he cries out your name, the syllables slurred and runny and god, is he chanting your name? It’s low, breathy, in time with every smack of his hips against yours, heavy balls clapping against your ass as you lick your lips and groan.
Soon your name becomes pleas, little begs that leave you scratching your nails down his back, surely leaving lines you know he’ll wear like trophies tomorrow.
F-fuck, oh fuck oh fuck, just like th-that baby, fuck!
Feels so, mmm o-oh, feels so good, ‘m gonna come s’fast baby, fuck it’s all your fault –
Please let me come, wanna come so – so fuckin’ bad, wanna come in you baby fuck please!
Let me come i-inside, wanna – wanna stuff you so fucking full, oh god ‘m so close –
He’s nearly crying, big fat tears welling in his because he needs you to give him permission to come in that tight cunt of yours, to send ropes of white spurting inside you. He needs you to tell him he’s a good boy, that he deserves to get you sticky and spent, your pussy all puffy and musky.
And when you tell him yes, he can fuck his cum into you, he’s gone.
Suddenly he’s blabbering out slurred thank you’s, his hips bucking into you as he moans and whimpers and chokes on his own gasps, the sounds ringing in your ears as he stiffens up, body going taut and every muscle contracting and oh fuck oh fuck it’s coming he’s coming here it comes –
The moan he lets out is high, almost pained, almost sounding like your name. His eyes are squeezed shut, face still tucked against your neck, and you can feel the spurts of warm, runny cum as his cock twitches, over and over as if he’s trying to get every last drop into you, wanting to make sure you’re good and properly stuffed full. Stuffed full of him.
He’s shaking, his shoulders heaving as he peppers wet, slobbery kisses against your neck, cries of thank you and I love you spilling past his lips as his hips slowly begin moving again, his cock still painfully hard.
‘m sorry, he gasps, need to give you everything…
And, twenty minutes later, the cum slowly dribbling out of your used cunt will be proof – along with the strangled, choked moan he lets out as he watches it.
Thinking of the men who love watching you touch yourself.
It’s dirty, sinful, taboo, but nothing gets them harder faster than seeing your legs spread, your little fingers buried knuckle deep in that tight cunt of yours.
They’ll tell you to lay back on the bed, pillows under your head as strong hands each grasp an ankle, licking his lips as he slowly, oh so slowly, brings your legs apart. He wants your legs spread as wide as they can go, pussy fully on display for his prying, predatory eyes.
He’ll tell you to prep yourself for him, to stretch yourself out, to get yourself soaking wet, dripping for him. His voice is low and husky, deep enough to send shivers down your spine. He’ll tell you to touch yourself like you’re imagining it’s him, like you’re putting on a show, like you want him to come untouched simply from looking at you.
(Not like it’s hard – he’s come untouched from the mere thought of you before, after all.)
He wants to see you play with yourself – touch your tits, squeezing and fondling at the soft fat. He wants to see you bite your lip and keen as you roll a nipple between your fingers, pulling lightly and watching as your thighs twitch. He wants to watch you trail a finger down your stomach, down over the pudge and right around your cute little clit. But no – you can’t touch it yet. No no, not yet, not until he’s given you permission – see, you’re his good girl, and good girls follow orders.
No, for now you’ve gotta rub around it – big, big circles that leave you wanting more, the phantom pleasure making your toes curl.
Everything is more intense under his watchful, observant gaze – and he’s watching, eyes boring into you so hard feel you’re on fire. His own hand lies on his knee, fingers twitching occasionally, fighting the urge to pin you down and just fuck you, to get you creaming around his cock and squeezing him like he knows you can. But no, this is about you – and he knows how much you love to wait.
Touch your little clit baby, slow circles.
You do as your told, fingers reaching down to draw slow circles on your sensitive bud, the sensation making your hips jolt forward. Small moans slip past your lips, the sounds making his cock visibly bob, the vein running along the side pronounced.
It hurts, not touching himself. Not touching you.
Faster baby, like how I do it.
You obey, fingers rubbing quickly, the circles tighter, and suddenly he can’t take it – he’s breathing heavily, his entire face flushed, the sight of you pleasuring yourself making every muscle in his body twitch with desperation. Your eyes are closed, letting the feeling sink over you, knowing he’s sitting on the edge of his seat simply watching you, precum dripping down his length and even onto his aching balls.
Does it feel good baby? As good as I do it?
Of course it doesn’t, you tell him. No one can do it as well as he can. He groans at that, gravelly and heavy, his self restraint barely hanging on.
Fuck yourself with your fingers baby, fuck – wanna see you make a mess all for me. Wanna hear it, let me hear how wet I make you.
You gasp airily as you slip a finger inside, the other hand taking over rubbing your clit in fervent, desperate circles. You curl your finer, brushing against that spongy spot that has your toes curling and your eyes sinking to the back of your head.
He licks his lips, eyes the way your tits bounce with every movement, the wet squelching sound as you play with your pussy driving him mad.
Tell me what it feels like baby.
You babble on about how it’s so good but not enough, how you don’t feel full, how you want him, how you need his cock, please need it so bad, feel so empty…
His nails dig into his thighs as he stares, his cock bright red and so heavy it’s sagging.
F-fuck, you know the rules, gotta come before you get my cock. Even saying it out loud hurts him.
You whine, shaking your head and interrupting yourself with a choked moan, your hips bucking upwards. You’re close, he can tell – can almost smell it.
Come for me.
And you do – with a long, drawn out moan and a desperate twitching of your hips. It’s intense, knowing he’s scrutinizing every spasm of your body, the way your lips part into that pretty ‘o’, your eyes squeezing shut and your back arching, forcing your tits into the air. He bites back the urge to lunge forward and suck one pert nipple into his mouth, to taste it, to taste you.
You’re gasping and heaving, and when you peel your eyes open to look at him, his resolve suddenly snaps.
He’s on you before you can breath, pinning your wrists above your head and blindly humping at your sensitive cunt, the sensation making you hiss and twitch. He groans, lips pushing against your own, the taste of you making his mind cloudy. A hand clumsily reaches between your bodies, grasping onto himself and lining up, pushing into you in one big, much too fast thrust and fuck –
He’s gasping and letting his mouth gape open, the pleasure so, so good as he thrusts in and out, in and out, your velvety walls sucking him in and milking him for all he’s worth. You’re so fucking pretty, all sensitive and needy for him, and as he bends his head down to suck at a bouncing nipple, he finds himself thanking anything that’s listening that he switched out those birth control pills you insisted on taking with sugar.
And when you’re leaking his cum five minutes later, he can’t help but grin – you’ll be such a pretty mommy, and now you’ll never, ever want to leave him. Perfect.
Tw: praise, Uvogin has a big dick but don't worry he believes in prep and foreplay, brief mentions of gender roles, slight predator/prey dynamic, Stockholm syndrome, fem reader, MDNI
The way Uvogin talks to you in bed is downright fucking filthy.
He's an animal when your clothing comes off, and the way he fucks you is no different.
He's gentle, at least in the beginning, and prepares you exceedingly well to take what he knows is a very, very sizeable cock. He's rubbing your clit for what feels like hours, his mouth pressing kisses against your neck and collarbones and nipples while he groans and tells you that you're so damn pretty, baby, my ideal woman.
He'll finger you and cock a brow when you gasp and throw your head back, his teeth nipping at your shoulders while he tells you that you look good with your mouth open, princess, makes me wanna fill it up for you.
He'll ease into you slowly, carefully, fighting back the urge to slam into you and absolutely annihilate you, instead telling you in a strained voice that you're so damn tight, fuck, how are you still so fucking tight -
He lets you control the pace, perching you in his lap while he lays back with his hands behind his head, a smirk plastered across his lips as he watches you slowly lift yourself up and down, your cute little cunt struggling to fit him even three quarters of the way inside.
You're endearing, of course, and Uvogin can't help but comment - he's always complimenting you, praises falling from his lips along with growls and groans and deep, low timbres of shit babe, do that again.
But really, the thing that makes his dirty talk so provocative and arousing is the actual sound of his voice. It's sin when he's talking to you, all gruff and raspy and warm when he's telling you that you're so damn tight baby, am I stretchin' you out? Bet you're feeling so full of me, god this pussy was made for me.
His voice gets you gushing slick around him, your nerves standing on edge because god, he just dominates the room, even if you're the one on top.
He's resting one large hand on your hip, fingers groping and squeezing and kneading, helping move you up and down when he notices you're getting tired, his words a mix of a moan, a gasp, and a low growl when he sits up to groan against your neck that you're doing so well for me princess, I'll have to reward you after - I'm thinking I make you come on my tongue a few times, how does four sound?
It's just so deep and low and undeniably, overwhelmingly masculine that it drives you crazy, his presence and the feeling of him touching you and being inside you only makes it worse, your mind scrambling because god, he sounds like the stuff of your fantasies. (And, the longer you're with him, the more you'll realize maybe this is your fantasy - your big, strong, doting, suffocating captor stuffing you full of his cock, whispering into your ear about how you're so good and soft and fitting me like a fucking glove, you must've been for me, huh? My own little hole to fuck and warm and love - shit, isn't that romantic babe?)
And there's something about it that just feels right; the way he makes you feel all feminine and small and soft, like he's your big, strong man, the one who protects you and loves you, only asking for you to spread your legs for him in exchange.
Uvogin has this way of making you go brain dead when he's touching you, his voice sounding like sweet honey in your ears because everything he says just makes you wetter, his breath against your skin just makes you shiver, the sound of his low, rumbling laugh making you clench down when you squirm and tell him that it's too embarrassing, it's too much, I can't take any more!
He's just big and domineering and talks like he's hunting you in a weirdly sexy, strange way - like you're his prey, like he's pouncing on you and will consume you in every way possible.
It's exciting, you'll find. It makes you feel good, wanted, desired, and his booming voice will only further the feeling of being a little lamb trapped in the big bad wolf's jaws - and you're oh so excited to see what your punishment is for getting caught by such a monster.
(Frankly, it'll get to the point where even not in the bedroom, you'll still get aroused just from hearing the simplest, most innocent phrases fall from his lips - exactly what Uvogin wants. You're just too cute and sexy and your cunt fits him just too perfectly.)
I’m here to share. Uvo definitely loves face riding and would complain if you didn’t sit all the way down. I can’t be told otherwise.
Tw: dub-con oral, manhandling, implied that you're insecure about your weight but no actual physical descriptors used so anyone of any size can read, fem reader, MDNI
Oh absolutely.
To be honest, most of the time you won't even really have the chance to not put all your weight on him - the moment he decides he wants your thighs around his head, your cunt snug against his mouth, and your pretty tummy in perfect view, you're being manhandled and situated into how he wants. His hands are like iron as he grips you and pulls you flush against his face, the loud sniffing noise he makes and the groan that gets muffled against your folds making embarrassment creep up your spine. He's in heaven, truly, and while he wants to pleasure you and taste you, he'd almost be content to just lay there, smelling your musky, natural scent, and feeling all your weight pressing against him.
(He might even come from that - though you'd probably have to reach back and help him a bit. Don't worry, though - he'll do all the thrusting, you just have to make your hand into a pretty little hole - not nearly as pretty as your little hole, though.)
But for the sake of imagination, let's say you're in a situation where Uvogin isn't letting excitement get the better of him, and you have actual control over your body.
Firstly, while Uvogin doesn't force you into actual, penetrative sex, he does force oral onto you. Frequently. He just can't help it; you're so pretty and sweet and sexy, and he has a good sense of smell - good enough to almost, almost, be able to smell when you're aroused.
Even outside of getting to see your face screw up in pleasure and feel your body tremble and shake and writhe for him, he likes eating you out because it feels intimate, loving, and it's something he'd never do for a random hook up - or, at least, not to the extent, enthusiasm, or finesse with which he eats you. So it's an act driven by lust, yes, but equal parts love - which is why he's absolutely not letting you get away with harboring any insecurities.
He likes going down on you in other positions, but having you sit on his face is his favorite by far. When the mood strikes him (or he catches a whiff of something sweet, something heavy, something needy), he'll lick his lips, sending you that familiar grin while his eyes get a bit lidded, his voice low and sultry as he asks if you're feeling a little lonely over there, babe?
It doesn't really matter how you respond - he'll drop whatever he's doing, strip bare and plop himself down onto the bed, the couch, hell, even the floor, that same grin on his face as he tells you c'mere, I'm starving.
He's not very subtle when he brushes all his hair out of his face, getting comfortable and making sure his lips are wet, running his tongue over his teeth in anticipation because he can nearly taste you already.
And if you hesitate? Well, Uvogin's smile will falter a bit, his brow twitching, his voice just slightly more serious when you tells you to get that cute little ass over here, don't make come get you.
That'll get you edging over to him, standing above him and staring, playing with the hem of your shirt nervously because you know what he wants, but it still makes you a little unsure, a little apprehensive, a little insecure.
Uvogin's having none of it, rolling his eyes and pointing to his face, his smirk coming back in full force. Sit right here babe, you just sit down and look pretty and I'll do all the work.
Eventually, with a warning look sent your way, you'll relent, slipping down the shorts and panties over your knees and off your ankles, the warmth of the fireplace nearby making your skin tingle. You'll kneel down and carefully slot your thighs onto either side of his head, his hair brushes against your inner thighs and knees and tickling ever so slightly.
He's watching you the whole time as you shimmey upwards, those dark, smoldering eyes locking onto yours as your folds get closer and closer to his lips, spit already glistening on them as Uvogin's tongue runs over them again. You're barely even hovering four inches above him at this point and he's already practically salivating because he can already smell you, already see you and feel the warmth coming from between those lovely, soft thighs of yours.
Eventually you'll lower yourself down, feeling his breath (a little heavier than normal) blowing against your sensitive skin, your hands coming to rest awkwardly on top of your thighs. Uvogin hums below you, a hand coming up to squeeze and lightly grope at your ass, his fingers big and calloused as the rub against you.
Soon you'll feel him, his tongue running a teasing lick up your folds, the sensation making you suck in a breath and avert your eyes - he's still looking at you, forcing you to maintain eye contact, even though it's a little difficult to see him from this angle.
Those kitten licks turn into him lapping at you, his tongue wide and wet and warm, alternating between large, flat licks over the expanse of your slit, then dipping in between your folds to lightly thrust into you. His lips press against you, adding extra sensation and stimulation, and as he wanders further up, they latch around your clit while he suckles and licks circles over the little bud, making your breath hitch and your balance momentarily falter, your hands moving forward to catch you as your hips tremble.
You're so damn pretty, and with this new, slight angle change Uvogin gets an eye full of your tits, your nipples already swollen and hard, practically begging to be pinched and played with. His eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, and then he's pulling back ever so slightly, an ass cheek in each hand as he pulls and gropes. His voice is a little hoarse as he tells you with a twinkle in his eye to play with those tits babe, y'know I love when you make yourself feel good.
And you do - one hand comes up to lightly pinch at a nipple as he dives back into you, the hands on your ass pulling you down to meet him. The feeling of his tongue swirling along your clit and his chin rubbing against your folds makes you melt, but you're brought out of your reverie when you realize that he's pulling you down, and now nearly all your weight is resting on him.
Immediately you're trying to lift up a bit, to alleviate some of the pressure, but Uvogin only growls, tongue working at you with more fervor as he pulls down again, your hips effectively becoming a tug of war as you each pull.
Eventually he gets fed up, angry that you're distracting him from the lovely taste of you, and he pulls off your clit with a wet, suctioning pop noise that makes you bristle.
What the fuck, babe? What are you doing?
It's embarrassing to admit, but as he stares at you, one large hand moves from your ass to your chin, forcing your head to stay in place and maintain eye contact.
Your voice is small, unsure, ashamed as you tell him that you're too heavy, I don't want to crush you or suffocate you -
He cuts you off then, his grip on your chin tightening and an honest to god angry look settling into those dark eyes. What. The. Fuck?
You don't know how to respond to that, so instead you just bite your lip, your hand leaving your breast in favor of twiddling your fingers just to keep yourself busy.
Uvogin, meanwhile, can only stare at you incredulously. Are you kidding? You're worried about crushing him? Him, who's a whole head - at least - taller than you, easily weighing three times your body weight, and capable of lifting entire semi-trucks with ease? Are you kidding?
Shit, stop it. Stop looking like that. You're not gonna crush me. I can still breath, trust me, and even if I can't I'll let you know. Not that I would mind, though, suffocating on this pussy would be the perfect way to go.
His free hand smacks your ass at that, and you jump a bit, accidentally grinding your clit against the tip of his nose. He groans.
So quit it. Stop holding back. Sit down on my face, all the way. No more of this 'too heavy' shit - if I feel you pull back against I'll force you to stay down.
You can feel him grin against your folds. Even if the overstimulation makes you beg.
And with that, he's pulling you down again, forcing your weight down onto him and holding you steady, before moving his hands away from your ass to instead grope at your tits.
With some slight, short lived hesitation, you don't pull up, instead letting yourself put your full weight on him, and literally feeling the growl he lets out at that, the vibrations seeming to run from your toes to your fingertips.
Uvogin's good with his tongue - he's licking and slurping and sucking, the noises lewd and wet and vulgar, your cries and his hums and groans making your head spin. Soon the pleasure is making you throw caution to the wind, your full weight still on him as you grind yourself against his tongue, the wet muscle thrusting into you almost as deep as your own fingers can reach, your clit rubbing against his nose in a rhythmic, steady pace.
Uvogin brows cock up a bit - you're close, he can tell. With a renewed vigor, he works at that spot inside you again and again, careful to keep the pace the same but the pressure and precision higher, anything to get you screaming his name and feeling those thighs tense up around his head.
Everything smells like you you you - all he can breath in is your scent, and all the can see and hear and taste and feel is you, and Uvogin thinks he might ascend, your presence clouding all of his senses and making heat swell up between his legs and his muscles clench and his eyes water and oh fuck -
You cry out his name and clench down on his tongue just as something warm and wet sprays onto your ass. You're gasping and clutching at his hair, your orgasm overwhelming as he keeps up his movements, though they're a little strained and uneven as his own pleasure becomes unbearable.
Soon the high fades and oversensitivity takes its place, making you squirm and bite your lip, hips shaking and your thighs clenching over and over around his head.
But Uvogin can only stare - he's covered in your slick and cum all over his chin, cheeks and neck, but it just tastes too good to stop now - plus, you're looking at him with teary eyes and your chest heaving, and how can he stop now? He can't, not when you look this good, not when you taste this fucking delicious.
He'll keep at it for another two or three rounds, just long enough until he's temporarily satisfied, just long enough until you'll need his help to stand up on your own to feet. Just long enough until he's proven that you could never crush him - sometimes he can't help but wonder just where you get these stupid, impossible little worries.
He'll crush all those other insecurities while he's at it - it's his job as your partner, after all.
I AM THINKING SO MANY THOUGHTS RN WHO DO YOU THINK WOULD MAKE YOU COCKWARM THEM WHILE YOU STUDY/DO HOMEWORK
He says it helps you focus, but you have your doubts.
It stimulates your brain, he says, and yet the only thing you can focus on is the way his fingertips dig into your sides, pressing against your soft skin just a bit too tightly. He’s holding you in place, but there’s something about the way he’s touching you that makes you think he’s trying to keep you from moving less because you want to, and more because he needs you to stay.
And with the way his breath hitches ever so slightly as you shift in his lap, you’re starting to think you’re right.
His breath is hot against your neck, words airily whispered and growled against your skin as you stare down at the papers sprawled across the desk before you. The black ink is hard to read, but then again everything is hard when he’s got you practically impaled on him, his girth stretching you out and making you squirm.
It’s all so unbearably warm – the swirling in your lower stomach, his breath, the way warm precum slowly oozes out of him and into you with each accidental clench around him. (The latter is accompanied by a small groan as well as the tiniest, oh so jerky buck of his hips upwards, trying to get deeper inside you, to fill you up more and more.)
He says it helps you to get your work done when he’s got you warming his cock, because it serves as motivation to work faster, harder, more efficiently – ironically, it seems to be doing just the opposite. Every thought is taken up by him him him, with the way he’s clutching onto you, his thighs occasionally twitching, his Adam’s Apple bobbing against your head as he shakily swallows.
C’mon, he tells you, his voice seemingly calm, though you can hear the slightest undertone of something hidden in his words. You know this – Professor went over it last week.
You gulp, willing yourself to ignore the way his hand slowly wanders upwards, fingers trailing over the sensitive skin of your sides.
I don’t remember… You mutter, biting your lip as his hand slows to a stop, right underneath your breast.
It’s silent for a moment, before he sighs softly, resting his forehead against the back of your head. Think hard – how much energy is used in this bond…
He’s talking, you know, but you can’t focus – not with the way he shifts you in his lap, trying to get a better view of the paper. You yelp slightly, the sudden bout of pleasure not going unnoticed by him.
His cock twitches inside you.
Now, we calculate… He whispers, and suddenly his hand is moving again, sliding up up up, over your breast and squeezing, your lower lip sitting between your teeth. A slender finger moves to lightly toy at your nipple through the thin material of your tshirt. He audibly gulps behind you.
Just like that, that’s it. He encourages, watching as you drag the pencil across the paper, your movements sluggish and weak. It makes him feel good, watching the way you struggle – all because of him.
Almost done, finish baby. Please, please finish. He tells you, and you’re finally able to put your finger on the underlying tone in his voice – desperation.
You can’t help the way your pussy clamps down, making his hips snap upwards, a small shudder racking his body. You can feel the muscles underneath the tshirt he wears tense, moving his body to press flush against your back. Fuck. He grips your tit particularly hard, harshly hissing between his teeth at the pressure of your velvety walls around him.
The air in the room is thick with desire, his fingers impatiently pressing at you, his thighs flexing with the strain of controlling himself. It’d be so, so easy to pin you down to the desk – your pants are already off, your pretty hole sucking him in like you need him, and with how wet you are around him, he’s sure you want this just as badly as he does.
He licks his lips, watching as you scribble the last few numbers – 3, 2, 1…
You finish with a sigh, letting the pencil clatter to the ground, and suddenly your whole world is turning upside down as he groans and grasps your waist once more, spinning you around so that you’re facing him, a leg on either side of his body. You steady yourself with two hands on his chest but it’s too late – he’s bouncing you up and down before you have a chance to even breathe.
F-fuck baby, so smart! He moans, his head lolling back slightly, eyes shut tightly. His lips part, uneven breaths spilling past them as he moves you up and down, faster and faster and faster, his own hips driving upwards to meet you.
He’s fucking you so deep, his tip rubbing right against the spot that has you seeing stars. You can’t even try to hold back the whines that bubble in your throat, but he doesn’t care. He wants to hear you, and as encouragement, a hand moves down to slap at your ass.
‘m so – so damn proud, my smart baby, fuck fuck fuck – He’s blabbering, incoherent as he struggles to hold off his orgasm. The pleasure is mounting and mounting, but he’ll be damned if he comes before you. You were so good, working so hard and diligently, and you kept him all nice and warm and wet and fuck how are you still so goddamn tight –
He’s gripping you even tighter than before, your poor tits bouncing in every direction as he uses you like his personal sex toy. It’s carnal, the way his hips snap into yours, balls clapping against your ass over and over. He lets out a particularly loud gasp, head falling forward and letting his teeth lightly sink into your shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut as his abs contract and tighten and ache –
Come for me come for me come for me, he begs, his voice thin and uneven, the desperation clouding his every thought. Fingers clumsily find their way to your clit, rubbing in circles that make you gasp and shudder.
Soon it’s all too much, your orgasm hitting and fuck, the way your walls flutter and massage his length makes him lose his fucking mind, the pleasure so intense. He’s nearly sobbing as he cries out your name, clutching you against his chest and moving to wrap his arms around you. He’s fully fucking into you now, his hips snapping up into yours hard enough to leave you physically bouncing, and the choked, gasping sounds falling past his lips as he comes leave your head spinning.
There’s just so much of it – runny and off-white, spilling down around his cock and running down your thighs, dripping down onto his balls and he shudders and heaves, still fucking up into you like you’re some kind of personal drug. It’s euphoric; he doesn’t want the moment to end, feeling you in his arms, clinging onto him and murmuring his name. It’s perfection, but all too soon your wet, spongy walls are too much for him, the oversensitivity leaving his brain scrambled.
He slows to a stop, chest heaving as he keeps you tucked against his chest, sweat formed at his temples as he murmurs your name. Over and over, like it’s some sort of prayer – and to him, maybe it is.
Your homework, complete and neatly filled out, lays forgotten as he hugs you tighter, burying his face into your neck. Declarations of love slip past his lips, slurred and so grandiose it almost scares you. You’re just classmates, both attending the same university – nothing close to actual lovers, and certainly not in love. He’s just a classmate who offered to help tutor you. And yet, as he slowly, oh so fucking slowly, pulls out of you some twenty minutes later, you can’t find it in yourself to care.
He does help you keep up your grades in the class, and you really can’t fail this chemistry class, can you? It’s worth it to sit through the sappy, somewhat deranged confessions of how he wants to keep you with him forever and ever.
(Honorary mention to those who have you cockwarm them so they can focus – you’re sat in their lap, with your head resting in the crook of his neck. One hand sits comfortably on your ass, the other scribbling across the paper or highlighting the textbook. His lips are wet from licking them, his heart rate so damn high as he tries to ignore the way your pretty body feels against his, your pussy all warm and wet and snug against the sensitive skin of his cock. He twitches, shudders, his whole body desperate to just move, to fuck that pretty cunt of yours that all spread out on him.
It's an accountability thing, more than anything – with each problem he finishes, he allows himself three good, solid thrusts into you. It’s a slow, methodical fucking, one that makes him all the more needy for you. He likes the delayed gratification of it all – the way he has to physically pause and count to ten before he starts his work again, trying to focus on literally anything but the way you sound moaning his name, how your nails feel against his back, how your thighs clench around his abdomen. He tries to focus on anything but the way he wants to stuff you so full of his cock that you’re crying, blabbering and dependent on him to even think.
And once he finishes his work? Oh – it’s over for you, and your poor, perfect little cunt.
