Feyd cockwarming 💡😈
i have so many thoughts about this.
whenever you’re in a particularly subby or small headspace, you love crawling into feyd’s lap and sinking down onto his thick cock. the stretch makes your brain buzz so nicely, makes you feel so floaty and good. feyd is big in all aspects, big cock, big hands, big legs, big everything. your thighs would perch on top of his, one of his hands wrapping itself possessively around your waist while the other rubs your ass. you’d burrow your head in his neck, sucking the skin there to mark him for everyone to see. feyd is big into marking, he likes bruising and biting your pretty skin, and adores it when you do the same. he’d smirk at how far under you are and how you periodically clench around him. it’s hard for feyd to stop himself from desperately fucking up into you. he gives you enough time to destress and relax whilst impaled on him before he goes completely animalistic.
on the other hand, feyd uses cockwarming as a punishment. say you’ve been bad today; you’ve been ignoring him, not listening, you’re touching up the guards more intimately than you have to. feyd doesn’t have a lot of patience, but when it comes to discipline? he can sit there and punish you for hours on end before he so much so as even thinks of fucking you. his favourite way to do it is to get you completely naked while he still has all his clothes on. it’s a humiliation tactic that works wonderfully on you. feyd would force you to sit on his lap, the real punishment being that you aren’t allowed to face him. he places you with your back to his chest, and pries your legs apart so he can force himself into you. he doesn’t prep you (why would he it’s your punishment) and it fucking hurts. on a good night where he’s spent hours dutifully spreading you open so you can take him somewhat comfortably, it still pinches when he slides in. on a night like this, feyd relishes your pained cries and how your legs jerk in his hold from the intrusion.
“stay still,” he’d hiss at you. if you so much so as clenched a little too hard he’d pull himself out and use his belt on you.
feyd would make you sit on his cock for hours. you’re leaking around him, dripping onto his balls and the bedsheets underneath. you’re crying too, you just want to look at him, want to see him. it feels so detached and isolating not being able to face him. no matter how much you cry or how much you plead and apologise, feyd wouldn’t give in. it would hurt him, to keep you in a position like this for so long, but discipline was discipline and if this was the only way to fix your behaviour then he would do it over and over again.
when he finally thinks you’ve had enough, he’d slip himself out, and you’d gush around nothing. he’s throughly split you open, your hole gaping with your arousal. feyd would pick you off his lap and lay you down on his bed. the second you see him again you start crying relieved tears. he’s rock hard and instead of fucking you like you think he will, he fists his cock over your body until he cums, using you as a literal cumdump.
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Not sure if this theory makes any sense at all but I'm starting to believe that there's no time skip between Wally's phone calls and what we see/hear in the show's Media/Merchandise. If we see the Toyland call being made before the Homewarming episode then it would make sense that Wally's expecting Barnaby to come over soon. As well as the Homewarming sketch from the prior update. (I don't know, still kind of brainstorming this perspective)
that theory Does make sense and i've been considering it! the "timeline" is such a nebulous thing right now because we still... don't really know! there are too many variables and too many Maybes for any solid answer.
maybe the reality that the neighbors live in exists outside of time like you say, and like half of me suspects. there's so much reality fuckery already present, but I'm also... unsure of how much merit this holds given what we know / can infer about how time passes in Home. i'm putting this theory on a low shelf to look at but not prioritize
maybe it really has been 50 years, and Barnaby is either still around / Wally is still in contact with him, or Barnaby... isn't there. who knows, maybe Wally was just verbalizing some Wishful Thinking. i mean, Wally is a bit of an unreliable narrator, isn't he? we can't assume that everything he says is entirely accurate or truthful. and i mean, if it's been 50 years it makes sense that Wally would be pushing for connection / to revive WH. who knows how long he's been trying.
hm... i mean. it could be a mix of that and the Outside Of Time theory. who knows, maybe W is receiving calls from different points in the timeline - Wally may have started out just calling, and has just graduated to invading the WH website / getting pushy with the envelopes and media that's been sent to the WHRP. maybe Wally got tired of waiting for W to respond before W was even born. who's to say!
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i did not sleep yay for me im still on my fuckshit but when i think of cc maria ( by extension also nosy maria but specifically noting the isolation aspect of cc );
can you imagine one day skimming the paper. its been a few weeks since all the commotion knowing your friends' had attempted to come find you but then were chased off. never actually heard or saw any of them, but you know they were around.
but you've been moved from the cells to a mattress upstairs. you're given more freedom, more wiggle room, you're allowed to do things - little hobby-type activities - you're given better foods, you're looked after by the older woman at the other house. the man who took you, who terrifies you still to some degree, slowly doesn't feel like such a stranger anymore, you're right to still be cautious around him but as the days, the weeks, pass by, there's simply a different air about him, and in the shack. lighter, in a sense.
you find yourself growing used to the new daily - the new routine. of waking to the sound of him getting ready for the day, of being left alone in there for hours sometimes, others trailing after him like a duckling, around the older womans' property, helping with an array of tasks. and you worry about upsetting her at first, unsure if doing so will earn a knife to the throat. you listen, you do as you're told, you find some kind of way to co-exist - all the while still, in the back of your mind, there's still a ray of hope,
that maybe, maybe, since the rest of them got away - that they're merely licking their wounds, that they'll get word out and even with all the silence since they had been on the property, there's that shred of hope that maybe? someone will waltz in, guns blazing so to speak, and you'll get out of this hell finally.
that is, until that day - that you're skimming through the paper, and you recognize yourself in a little column - and you realize you're staring at your own fucking obituary.
and in that moment everything seems solidified.
you're never getting away.
there's no point in it.
there's no one out there who are still trying to find you, get you back, bring you home, back to your mothers' arms, back to being an older sister, back to the circle of friends you loved so dearly.
you're dead.
not just to the world, but to those you loved - those who claimed to have loved you, too.
what else do you have at that point? where else do you go, even if you still tried to leave? who wouldn't look at you sideways for the blood that's already stained your hands? for the flesh caught between teeth?
who else is there, except the one murmuring encouragement and praise in your ear?
the only constant you've had in all these weeks? whose words rang true - clearly - that no one cared? that they abandoned you? left you there, didn't even care to make sure you were alive or not? only thought of themselves and got the fuck outta there without confirming if you were even still alive.
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