HOLD ME THROUGH THE NIGHT - Anton [RIIZE]
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Warning:
Suggestive content • soft-dom anton • heavy intimacy • implied sexual content • soft dom dynamics • protected sex mention • emotional vulnerability • comfort themes • kissing • physical touch throughout • aftercare • very affectionate anton
Word Count: ~1k words
Author's Note: Only person in my biaslist that has a permanent place and never changesðŸ˜ðŸ’–
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The bedroom is dark except for the lamp on his nightstand, the one with the amber shade that casts everything in warm gold. Anton's already in bed, propped against the headboard, and he watches you undress without saying anything—just watches, the way he does, patient and certain. There's no rush in him. There never is.
You had a pretty harsh day, and now all you wanted was him to Hold You Through The Night.
You slip under the covers. He pulls you close, one arm settling around your waist, and you fit against his chest the way you always do. His skin is warm. He smells like soap and something that's just him. "Hi," he says into your hair, and you can hear the smile in it.
"Hi yourself."
His hand moves down your spine, slow and deliberate, fingers spreading wide across your lower back. He's not hurrying. This is the thing about Anton—he knows how to take his time. Knows that the best part isn't the destination; it's the way he makes you feel seen the entire journey there.
"Rough day?" he asks, and you nod against his shoulder. He responds by pressing a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple. His lips are soft. Everything about him is soft tonight, but there's something underneath it, and you know the difference. You always know.
His hand slides lower, and you shift to give him access. He takes it as permission—because with Anton, consent is a language you both speak fluently. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, and then he's pulling you closer, one leg sliding between yours. You can feel him already half-hard against your thigh, but he's not pushing. He's just… present.
"Come here," he murmurs, and it's not a command, exactly, but it's not quite a request either. It's something in between, and that's where Anton lives. That's where he makes you feel safe enough to let go. You shift your weight, and he guides you with a hand on your lower back—firm but not rough, directing but not forcing. He's good at this, at knowing exactly how much pressure to use, exactly when to be gentle and when to be something else. You end up straddling his lap, and he settles back against the pillows, hands on your waist.
"There," he says, like you've solved a puzzle he's been working on all day. "That's better."
You can feel his length against you now, and he lets out a low breath through his nose. His thumbs trace slow circles on your skin, and he's watching your face with that intensity he has, the one that makes you feel like you're the only thing worth looking at in the world.
"You're beautiful," he says, and he means it. You can always tell when Anton means something because he doesn't waste words. He says what he needs to say and nothing more.
You lean down to kiss him, and he lets you set the pace at first—soft kisses, unhurried, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. But then he takes over, just slightly, deepening the kiss, and you feel the shift in him, the moment he stops being patient and starts being present in a different way. His other hand grips your hip, and he's guiding you against him, and you're already breathing harder. "Easy," he whispers against your mouth, and it's not a warning—it's a promise.
He's got you. He always does.
He reaches over to the nightstand, and you hear the crinkle of a wrapper. He takes care of it with one hand while the other stays on you, grounding you, and then he's positioning you, and you're sinking down onto him slowly, so slowly, and he's making this low sound in his throat that goes straight through you.
"That's it," he says, his voice rough now, deeper. "Take your time." But you don't want to take your time. You want to move, want to feel him deeper, and he knows this. He lets you set the rhythm, but his hands are there, controlling the depth, the pace, keeping you from rushing into something that would end too fast. He's thinking about you—about how you feel, about what you need—even as his own breathing gets heavier.
"Look at me," he says, and you do. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something so intimate about it that you almost have to look away. But you don't. You hold his gaze while you move, while he moves with you, and it's like he's reading you, anticipating what you need before you need it.
His hand slides up your spine, and he pulls you down against his chest, one arm wrapped around your back, solid and sure. His other hand is in your hair, not pulling, just holding, and he's murmuring things against your ear—that's right, you feel so good, I've got you—and you believe him. You believe every word.
It builds slowly, the way he likes it, the way he makes sure it does. He's in control but he's not controlling, if that makes sense. He's guiding you toward something without forcing it, and when you finally come, it's not explosive—it's deep and rolling and complete, and he's right there with you, his breathing ragged, his grip on you tightening just for a moment before he softens again.
He holds you like that for a while, both of you breathing, cooling down, his hand still in your hair, his lips against your forehead. You're heavy in the best way, boneless, and he's still inside you but it doesn't matter because this part—the after—is almost better than the before.
"Okay?" he asks quietly, and you nod against his shoulder.
"More than okay."
He shifts just enough to slip out and take care of the condom, then pulls you back against him, and you settle into the space between his chest and the pillow. His arm comes around you again, and his breathing is already evening out. He's relaxed now, satisfied in that quiet way he has.
"Sleep," he says, pressing one last kiss to your hair.
"I'm right here."
And you do, because with Anton, that's always enough.
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THE END~~
Requests are open!! I’m like a ChatGPT. It feels difficult to work without a prompt. Feel free to gimme your suggestions.
Peace out!!
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