#filth! filth!! filth!!! filth!!!!!! filth!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluemerakis · 1 day ago

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───────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ memory foam ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem!reader

synopsis ─ soldier boy teaches you how to roll a blunt and then makes you hold it between your lips while he fucks you into insanity. just filth honestly bc this man is filthy and i love it

warnings .ᐟ cussing, light misogyny throughout (i mean,, come on), v light dirty talk, masturbation f receiving, hair-pulling, grinding, edging/overstimulation, spanking, fingering, unprotected sex p in v. i feel like these warnings have y’all opening this fic with a therapist on speed dial. if i forgot anything pls lmk!

word count ~ 7.3k (this was supposed to be a drabble 😀)

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Lithe trails of smoke crept over the horizon of your laptop screen, which called your attention toward Ben’s seated figure at the small, rounded table near the kitchen. You reached to lower your laptop screen an inch—just enough to properly reveal the schemes unravelling beneath your boyfriend’s hunched over frame. You didn’t doubt that he was currently unravelling some recent haul of self-indulgent narcotics because as much as you loved your severely traumatised, addict boyfriend, he didn’t have any other tasteful way to pass time. Well, when he wasn’t ploughing you into the mattress and pummelling your senses into an otherworldly abyss of pleasure, of course.

Ben had slipped into the apartment an hour ago with that dubious, white plastic bag in clutch—no print to identify any luxurious takeaway you’d have killed to plunge into your gurgling stomach. You’d been tempted to ask about it then, but he’d entered with such a thick swathe of broodiness cramping his brows that you’d laid off the interrogation entirely. Though, just by stealing a single glance of the bag in its own, unassuming simplicity, it could have branded itself as some sketchy stash of drugs he’d picked up from one of his regular dealers on the way home.

You honed in on the man of the hour, your unflattering nosiness taking the cake on the mental debate of whether or not you should interfere with Ben’s activities. It was a debate that had never happened to begin with because meddling in anything and everything that he did was practically your brand—no questions asked. You’d once called it a loving obsession, but Ben had called it a hounding cock block on his highs. You’d been quick to rebrand your pestering of him as your own guilty addiction, and he hadn’t had much to say in response to that. He had his addictions, and you had yours—him. Oh, he so must’ve regretted accommodating you into his life.

Your boyfriend’s sharp features were currently kneaded into a focused frown, his head tilted down to where he emptied out the plastic packet onto the table. Your chin perked with sly interest, no further surprise to be unwrapped when you glimpsed a sprawl of paper and herbs. Drugs, as expected, but nothing nearly as hard as his usual indulgences. Your attention flickered up to the blunt currently clutched between his lips—the bane of your existence—before you lowered your focus back down to the table, where his busy hands alternated between segregating the devious mess and popping out his smoking stick to dispel a pull.

You didn’t need to squint hard to confidently label said herbs as weed—once the distinct scent left his lips to shroud the modest apartment and assault your sensitive nose, it was a dead giveaway. You’d never been much of a fan of smoking to begin with, and weed might’ve been the rankest pick of it all, but it’s something you’d gradually grown tolerant of. It’s not like you had much of a say in the matter, anyway, given that your boyfriend had his lips wrapped around a cig almost as often as he had them wrapped around you. It was a relationship that had existed long before yours, so who were you to complain, really?

Besides, this was his apartment, which meant that his guilty pleasures were anything but your business. And you doubted that your complaint would manage a graze of his ears before his cock would plug your lips to shut you the hell up about it. He didn’t much like when you had an attitude about his aforementioned hobbies.

“Ah, shit!” Ben exclaimed angrily around the blunt’s body—a muffled sound that banished smoke from his pursed lips. You watched as he tossed aside the plastic packet, seizing his tempter by the throat as he thudded his palm against the table. “Fuckin’ dickless prick sold me short,” he grumbled to nobody in particular, releasing the blunt for a disgruntled exhale before his lips took to it once more like his next, dire breath.

You plugged your lips at his temper tantrum, throttling a chuckle you knew would be severely misplaced during this fit of his. You couldn’t help it, though. Ben loved to pretend that he was ‘man enough’ to be unbothered by trivial things, but it never took much to get under his skin. The irony was so palpable that you could’ve poked and prodded at it with ridicule. “What’re you doing?” You called to him with an accentuated chirp to your tone—you’re curious, oblivious, not probing.

Ben’s eyes lifted from the table for a second to glance in your direction, where you sat comfortably cushioned against the headboard of his bed. His glare hovered for a few measly seconds, holding no adoration at this particular time. It made you utter a mental damn. At most, he’d give you a wink or a scheming narrowing of his eyes that spoke all sorts of dirty he’d have loved to work you through. But he merely turned back to the task at hand, freeing the blunt from his tightly-wrung lips.

Yeah, women are the moody ones, you remarked mentally. What a chuckle-fest.

The supe gave a hefty exhale, smoke streaming out in a slow gust that told you a somber story of a shit-filled day. His whole demeanour was off-put. A good girlfriend would’ve asked him about it, but a smarter one—like yourself—knew err on the side of caution. You’d long since learned not to pester him about his emotions because, to quote Ben: ‘only pussies hold hands and waste daylight wailin’ about this ‘nd that. Me? I ain’t strokin’ anybody’s cock with some me too bullshit. You gotta act the man and suck it up.’

Yeah, you weren’t going to open that can of worms again.

Without sparing you another glance, Ben jerked his head in your direction. “Get over here,” he demanded distractedly. “It’s ‘bout time I teach ya the hustle o’ this shit.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll leave the lung cancer to you,” you poked light-heartedly, but you shifted your laptop aside to scamper across the mattress regardless. Unfortunately, you were the type to spend any given chance at your boyfriend’s side, and it didn’t matter how trivial the activity was—it was all about the quality time. Ben was overly tolerant of your clinginess, so much so that you almost thought he enjoyed the attention more than you did. But that wasn’t anything he’d ever admit to, were it true to begin with.

You ambled across the open-plan apartment towards his smoke-enveloped figure, and upon reaching the table, you pulled out the chair opposite him to take up his company. All the while, Ben’s attention remained fixed on his concoctions, never once straying from the table to acknowledge that you’d joined him.

“Why would I need to know how to do any of this, anyway? You know I don’t smoke,” you asked once you sat yourself down, hand swivelling through the air to disperse the suffocating haze of the weed, lingering under your nose like an intoxicating fart. You watched his free hand sort the dried and shredded weed into evenly-sized piles with one of your ancient loyalty cards—a card you’d lost a few weeks back. The bastard must’ve nicked it from your purse. And knowing him, he’d probably used it for plenty more than sorting weed.

“No,” he agreed, “but I do. Besides, it’s somethin’ every fine woman such as yourself oughta know. It’s not usually what women waste their time learnin’, but I’m sure I could have ya mastering this shit in no time. You’re a surprisingly quickly learner,” he murmured busily, pausing only to secure the blunt between his lips once more.

You didn’t know whether to feel offended at that observation, or to accept it with the knowledge that Ben didn’t usually hand out compliments—even backhanded ones—outside of, well, being inside of you. You dismissed the thought with a flick of your eyes, but soon, you were drawn to his face once more. You could have grown jealous with the amount of time his lips spent wrapped around that paper-wrapped crap, but you’d long since laid off the visuals. He enjoyed your pouting way too much—always finding a way to ridicule you for it.

“Why the sudden insistence that I learn this crap?” You asked.

After a deep pull, Ben retrohaled the smoke off to the side, conscious not to direct it onto your intolerant senses. “Cause it sure hits the spot when your girl can slip you a win after the day’s been a fuckin’ ball-buster,” he mumbled.

“Or,” you countered, head tilting with a pretence of consideration as you watched him sort the piles of weed into small plastic bags. “Here’s a thought—and just humour me, would you? You could make yourself one,” you finished, hands coming forward to fold onto the table as your eyes flickered up to Ben expectantly.

He lifted his head to fix you with peeved eyes, the card’s rim stilling against the last herded pile of weed as his free hand plucked the stick from his lips. “The hell you think I been doin’ all this time?” He challenged pointedly. The blunt’s ignited end pulsed with heat—as if to emphasise his words. “Is it too much to ask that you fix me a goddamn escape after a long fuckin’ day?”

“It is in that tone, Mister,” you scoffed, leaning yourself across the table in an attempt to pluck the blunt from his fingers, but he was quick to catch you at the wrist. Your lip quirked at the force with which he restrained you, your eyes slurring up to his with a heavy, seductive whisk of your lashes.

Ben always caught the intention behind your every act of defiance. He enjoyed it, even, despite the permanent hint of dour in his expression. “Hands off my shit,” he warned, his pretty green eyes drilling into yours to emphasise his point. “Don’t make me fuck the nerve right outta you—you know better.”

You took your lower lip into an amused bite, enjoying the way you so easily seemed to rile him up. Yeah, your boyfriend was a Supe, but it was moments like this that made you feel like you held all the power—and you revelled in it. ‘Nobody controls me’, your ass. You had Ben wrapped around your finger. He knew it, too, he just wouldn’t admit it because what man wants to admit that he’s pussy-whipped? No, he’d rather bathe in denial by fucking you senseless each night, smothering your head into the sheets and coaxing his name from your foul lips so that he felt he had some semblance of control over the way you made him feel.

You succumbed to his possessive grasp, leaning your body further across the table as your head tilted in cheek. “Do I know better?” You absolutely did, and so did he. But part of the fun—part of what made this dynamic between the two of you so riveting, is that you pretended to act stupid, and Ben eagerly indulged it as an opportunity to condescend you and further inflate his toxic ego. And something more.

The supe’s lip quirked in amusement as he glared you down, but the sentiment didn’t reach high enough to mould his eyes into kindness. “Gonna play it like that, hm?” he murmured, bringing the blunt back to his lips before he leaned further into your proximity, his lips brushing against yours with the tease of a kiss. But he didn’t follow through with his unspoken promise. Instead, his lips parted only to huff the smoke directly into your face.

Your nose scrunched at the scent, your free hand lifting from the table to shoo away the smoke. “Ben!” You protested, but his grip on you didn’t budge until the intrusive fog thinned out into the rest of the room. You gave a light cough at being a forced second party to his smoking, and that’s when he finally released your wrist—more like discarded it in a careless toss. You retreated with a huff and sat yourself back down. “Dick!”

“Pussy,” he retorted through a shit-eating smirk, but he quickly came to realise that the amusement was wholly one-sided when he glimpsed your ruffled brows. There were very few times you could have convinced him that his actions weren’t funny. “Ah, come on,” he drawled, attention lowering back to the weed as he suckled on the smoking stick once more. “You know ya love it,” he mumbled.

“Oh, bite me,” you murmured lightly, crossing your arms as you watched him continue his work. You could have chosen to pout a little longer, but you’d have been naive to settle down with somebody like Ben and not expect him to pull a nasty stunt now and again. Besides, you did like him mean. The subtle glow that beamed briefly within the crook of your thighs was testament to that.

“You ever roll a blunt before?” Ben muttered, eyes downturned to where his hands began prepping an irregularly squared piece of paper. The question was sheer stupidity—so much so that you felt the the weight of the frown on your brows as you parted your lips to answer him with far too much eager spunk. But Ben pulled the cancer stick from his lips and interjected without missing a breath.

“Just pullin’ your leg—‘course ya haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the fuckin’ Mother Reverend of the Church of Holy Smokes.” At that jab, his eyes lifted to yours with a smugness that wound his lips thin.

You gave a dismissive roll of your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you hummed, your arms unfolding to rest your hands against the table. “You can keep shitting on me, Benjamin, but let’s not forget just how ancient you are. Once your light’s snuffed out, old man, maybe—just maybe, I’ll consider learning how to smoke, and it’ll be your ashes I probe in that damn ashtray.” Oh, how the roles would reverse.

Ben neglected the piece of paper he’d been gripping and straightened himself from the table. He leaned back into his chair with a gruff chuckle, his gaze raking you over with a light air of amusement. He plucked the blunt from his lips and hovered over the table as he gave a compliant cock of his head—a gesture that said, yeah, I could get behind that.

“Just make sure you put the tray somewhere I can get a good view of your ass,” he retorted with a brisk wink before he pressed the cigar’s inflamed nose into the ashtray loitering beside his hand. “And the tray better not be this ugly fuckin’ thing. Get me somethin’. . . quaint—none o’ this modern day lifeless shit and a half that’s got fuckin’ pussy power or some ball-less, feministic propo shit like that scribbled on the side.”

You narrowed your eyes mischievously. “Only you will demand everything your way even in death,” you chuckled, then you tilted your head inquisitively. “So you’re telling me that if I had to get my breasts casted with clay to make two matching bowls for your ashes, you’d have a problem with that? Is it too modern for you?”

Ben’s brows hoisted up a look of consideration, then his lips pursed with content acceptance. “Baby,” he drawled. “You do that and I’ll be back to fuck you in your dreams every. goddamn. night,” he promised.

“I guess that might help me not to forget you,” you retorted cheekily.

“Damn right,” he mumbled cockily. “Can’t forget a dick as givin’ as this one, anyway—and you’d be kiddin’ yourself otherwise. Little cock-slut like you? You were made to memorise every inch of my dick like a butt-print in a shitty velvet sofa.” He birthed a grin so condescending that it barely left room for you to breathe.

Smug, obscene asshole, you scoffed silently, but you couldn’t deny the truth behind his claim, and you had countless memories to serve as evidence. Ben knew that—it was the singular thing that warranted his sheer audacity to boast. For lack of better words, you flashed him the finger before bundling yourself back up, arms crossed against your chest as a ruffled gesture for him to continue his little project.

He made an amused noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before shifting in his seat and guiding his hands back to the concoction before him. “C‘mon, take a look,” he urged, plucking up some of the shredded weed between his fingers and gingerly placing it onto the squared paper. He took a moment to prod along the scattered herbs until a coherent line was formed atop the material. “This right here,” he said, prodding the paper, “s’called rollin’ paper. Gotta wrap it around the weed real nice and tight, like the foreskin of a sexually-abstained father of the church. Or some creakin’, ol’ geezer.”

“So like you, then?” You interjected, and you could’ve sworn you heard the snap of his neck as his eyes darted up to scorn you.

“Callin’ me old when you’re the one who can’t walk after one night in my bed is a li’l comical, don’tcha think?” He retorted, eyes lowering to where he rolled his thumb along the ball of his index finger to dislodge the clinging weed scraps. “Man,” he laughed in disbelief. “You got helluva mouth on ya.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called?” You chirped sarcastically, rubbing your lips together as though smearing some chapstick along the edges. You knew it was a stupid, bratty punch to throw, but you thought it worth it if it would coax any sort of reaction from Ben—and it did.

He glanced up at you from beneath hitched brows, pushing out a chuckle so forced, it could’ve starred the backtrack of some poorly made sitcom. But the faux amusement in his expression was dropped in an instant, his chin making an impatient jut in your direction—like the firm finger of a mother’s chide. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Your eyes widened in mock as you muttered a “yes, sir,” and turned your attention back to the table, your heading craning with far too much curiosity for your liking. Your eyes trailed every whisk and wander of his skilled fingers as he prepped another paper like the last. “Does it matter how much weed’s in a single blunt?”

Cautiously, Ben moved back to the first paper, his lips subconsciously jutting into a focused pout. It was something he did often without a notice, and you couldn’t help but savour the scene with a subtle grin. It was adorable, but for the sake of preserving the clueless tradition, you never said anything about it. You knew he’d find some way to get butt-hurt over you pointing it out, and then you’d be stuck with him forging some permanent, stoic expression to fend off the horrors of being called adorable.

He anchored the topmost corners of the rolling paper with his middle fingers before grabbing the bottom corners between his thumb and index finger, finally folding the square in half. “‘Bout a gram or two’ll do,” he finally replied. ��But the paper’s already sized, so it’s just gotta be enough to fit in it. . .” he murmured busily, trailing off as he focused his attention onto carefully lifting the assembly from the table—determined not to spill any of the contents and further rob himself of the stock he’d been sold short on.

“Now,” Ben cleared his throat with utmost enthusiasm, his eyes momentarily lingering on the wrap before they flickered over to you with a scheme glinting in their green depths. Just what the hell was he up to now? “We gotta wet this baby real good, so why don’tcha stick out that tongue o’ yours for me, yeah? Lend an old man a helpin’ hand once in a while.”

He held the makeshift blunt tenderly between his thumbs and index fingers as he presented it in your direction with an annoyingly smug furnish to his handsome features.

Your eyes widened in surprise at his request. “You do it,” you told him through a chuckle, pressing your index finger against his nearest hand to gently nudge the dissembled blunt back in his direction. “You’re the pro of the fucking cancer sticks, so you show me how it’s done. Like you said.”

Ben cocked his head in slight disappointment, a smirk pitching up the corner of his lips as he withdrew the blunt with a light huff. “To think you’re usually all I can do it myself, Ben, I don’t need your help, Ben,” he mocked deeply, which caused your face to contort with a hint of offence.

“I don’t sound like th—“

“Yeah, you do,” he cut you short, the smirk on his lips playing into a full-blown grin as he drank in your affronted pout. “You and your fuckin’ feminist high,” he scoffed, bringing the paper up to his lips. “Now, stuff it and watch, ‘cause I’m only gonna show you once—and I expect ya to nail it off the fuckin’ bat.”

You hitched a brow at his subtle threat. “Or what?” You challenged.

He left that question unanswered—verbally, at least. But he fixed you with an intense glare as his tongue slipped past his lips to drag a slow, accentuated line along the edge of the paper, and you knew that to be answer enough. A promise—and hardly one of a good time when he was calling all the shots with the intent to punish you. Still, you felt your core jolt at that singular gesture, your thighs discreetly pressing together with the memory of that very movement that must’ve become etched into your folds by now. That teasing bastard, getting you all hot and bothered just for the sake of it.

When he reached the end of the jagged material, he drew the line back up one more time before his tongue retreated back to the concealment behind his lips. He lowered the concoction to the table, gaze still trained on you. Then, with a beckoning gesture of his chin, he said, “get over here.”

You obliged silently, quickly—guided by your arousal more than your own will, if you were being honest. Your chair screeched in protest as you pushed yourself up from your seat and slipped around the circumference of the table towards Ben’s seated frame. You’d barely reached his side when he freed a hand to eagerly outstretch and receive you, his large palm snaking along the small of your back to hook around your waist. He pulled you into his lap, legs spread in a wide v to comfortably accommodate your frame onto his.

As you settled yourself onto his lap, you made a point to dramatically shimmy your ass into the crook of his legs, causing him to grunt as you ground yourself against his prominent manhood. His free hand snaked over your thigh to settle at the tender, inner skin with a warning squeeze, his lips coming to press against your ear.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured lowly—a gruff sound that sent a jolt directly to your already-compromised core. And it was hard to ignore your arousal with the added stimulation of his stubbled jaw grating the sensitive skin of your cheek.

You turned your jaw partially, causing his soft lips to trace a seductive line along your cheekbone. “Always am,” you murmured in return, a cheeky grin beaming through as your gaze flickered down to his lips. Those darn lips. A taste you’d never get sick of, despite your tendency to grow bored of things rather quickly. Maybe you were no better than Ben—a shameless addict infatuated with the highs, only, your highs were being fondled by him.

For a moment, Ben entertained your play with a second of silence, and you were almost hopeful to feel his lips snag onto yours, but instead, they retreated from your jaw and left you in a state of hot disappointment.

“Pay attention,” he ordered, removing the hand he’d burrowed at your thigh to frame your jaw firmly. He turned your head forward and downwards, forcing your attention onto the makeshift blunt gripped in his other hand. His thumb trailed to your lips, kneading the tender skin aimlessly before slipping his hand from your jaw entirely. “Stick your tongue out.”

Obediently, you did as told, your tongue slipping through until you felt too ridiculous to go further.

“Atta girl,” he praised, your waist now straddled by both his arms as he held the corners of the makeshift blunt in his fingers and lifted it to your dangling tongue. “Now, I want you to lick it, just like I showed ya—and don’t crap out on showin’ it a good time, yeah?”

You gave a small nod and leaned your head down to meet the paper with your tongue, starting at the left corner. When the tip of your tongue made contact with the sheet, you could feel the cool, lingering trace of Ben’s saliva. It felt so primal, but you knew that he was enjoying every second of it—you lapping up his taste like an eager mutt, so you decided to give him one hell of a show.

You pressed your tongue against the paper more firmly now, and you began to drag a slow, sensual line toward the other corner, making sure to deliver a quick flick over Ben’s waiting thumbnail. He made a hald-amused, half-entertained noise, but waited patiently as you retraced the line back to the starting point.

Pulling back your tongue, you smacked your lips triumphantly. “All wet now,” you said.

“Bet you are,” he chuckled lazily, fingers moving to seal the paper and twist the ends into a reputable blunt. He brought the finished product up to your lips, urging the nozzle between them. “Be a good girl and hold onto that for me.”

You pulled your lips inward to deny the entrance of the blunt, turning your jaw to reject the offer. “No, thanks,” you said, but Ben wasn’t having it.

You felt his hand stroke up the curve of your thigh before forcing way beneath the hem of your shorts and underwear, where his fingers stroked a rough line through your folds. You gasped at the feel of his cool fingers playing at your hot core, and before you could process his foul play, his other hand was quick to push the fresh blunt between your parted lips.

“You talk too fuckin’ much,” he murmured against your ear, delivering a harsh squeeze to your clit. Your lips tightened around the blunt and you moaned into the smoking stick, eyes screwing shut as your head collapsed back into the crook of his neck. He pressed a hasty kiss to your temple, and you knew that it was more of a branding than a gesture of adoration. You were his to cherish, exploit and discard, all at once.

“What, you gonna tell me you didn’t see that comin’?” he chuckled lowly, the mocking sound vibrating against the crown of your head. “Been actin’ the brat this entire time, just hopin’ I’ll shut you the fuck up, huh? Yeah, I heard ya—loud and clear, baby.”

Your lips tightened around the blunt as Ben brutalised the pace of his fingers between your folds, vigorously toying with your clit like it were the worn strings of the guitar he couldn’t seem to master the tuning of. Your lips tightened around the blunt as his finger prodded at just the right spot, an explosion of pleasure slinging your thighs into a weakened and sprawled mess. All control over your body seemed to retreat as you slumped further into his strong frame, which cocooned you like it were your last hope at survival. Oh, you were done for, all right.

“You like that, huh?” Ben cooed into your ear, his free hand sliding beneath your tank to grab ahold of your breasts. He palmed both in a rough, careless motion, then settled on one with a teasing pinch to your nipple. The combined stimulation of his toying at both ends rendered you so speechless that you couldn’t even salvage a coherent moan, so you laid there in complete arrest, succumbing fully to your boyfriend’s mean ministrations. “What, nothin’ to say now? Not even a fuckin’ please or thank you? I know chivalry died when I was buried on ice, but I didn’t think the women had lost their manners, too.”

In all honesty, you could barely comprehend your boyfriend’s words through your numbed haze. Your vision slurred into darkness as your eyes fluttered closed, your saliva beginning to seep into the blunt’s contents as your lips clutched it like a lifeline. Ben released your breast, but the weaving of his fingers down below didn’t stutter. You felt his free fingers graze both your temples in sequence, where his knuckle pushed back the foremost strands of hair that had slipped the keep of your ears. Your heart fluttered an inch at what you thought to be an intimate gesture—which he gifted very few and far between. But knowing the type of man Ben was should have clipped your wings of hope and had you grounded from the get-go.

Suddenly, his hand trailed through your hair and fastened through as many strands as he could collect. Then, with a smooth roll of his wrist, he twined it into a harsh grip, your neck arching at an angle you couldn’t have achieved out of free-will. A weak protest slurred within your throat, which made Ben utter a sound half way between a low laugh and a scoff—the sound so demeaning it flushed your cheeks red. His exploitation hurt—but at the same time, it felt so good, so much so that your body did anything but pull away from his touch.

“Now this is a view I can get behind—you, all pretty and practically fallin’ apart on my fingers,” Ben murmured, his head lowering to your ear so that the sharp button of his nose nuzzled at your temple. “Fuck, I could take you right here, right now,” he continued sultrily. “You want that, sweetheart? Want me to give you exactly what you’ve been cravin’ all fuckin’ day? All you gotta do is ask. Nicely, you know, stroke my cock with your good-doer attitude. That achievable for a brat like you, hm?”

For all the questions asked, you couldn’t offer one damn answer—not with your lips plugged by Ben’s newest fix. You moved a hand to reach for the blunt, eager to pave way for the word that would lay your urges to rest for the night, but the hand he’d buried between your legs were quick to come up and seize your wrist in disapproval. A hot, disgruntled tut from Ben streamlined your ear, but all you could focus on was the sudden barrenness between your legs, a cold neglect left in the wake of his hand.

You weren’t afforded the opportunity to mourn that loss for long before he had both your palms pinned flat onto the table in front of you, the hand in your hair tugging further so that your upper body became suspended within a ruthless game of tug and war. Only, the two contestants—both his hands—were playing for the same team. Ben’s. The advantage was far from yours.

“Dirty stunt,” he hummed almost admirably, his nose tracing your jaw to place a single, devouring kiss over the arch of your neck. You felt the way his lips lapped at your skin in a large motion, like he craved to garner every inch of you in that single touch. He solidified that point with a harsh nibble, the sort that would pucker your skin for a good few minutes, before he brought himself back to your ear. “You don’t get to use your words for this, baby. Your right to an opinion has been worn out for the day, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough of all your fuckin’ chitchat. You wanna get fucked, you’re gonna show me just how much y’want it,” he husked with a dramatic pause, then added in a low murmur, “with your body. Got that?”

With your head practically immobilised by his grip, you echoed a muffled mhm. Your response seemed to be satisfactory enough because he relented his hold—just enough to relieve your pipes so that breathing came with a little more ease.

“Atta girl. It’s gets my dick salutin’ when you’re all obedient,” he praised. His claim was firmly backed by the bulge you felt growing beneath you. It pressed between your thighs like a brash beckoning, and it was enough to cause all the heat that had dissipated between your folds to re-emerge in full force. “Well? The hell you waitin’ for?” He asked in a tone a lot louder—and firmer—this time around.

You pushed out a clueless noise, which made Ben shift a thigh beneath you. Suddenly, the bulk of his leg was hoisted up between your own, the blunt force striking your core at just the right angle that sent a jolt up your body. You gasped a breathless sound into the blunt, your teeth burrowing into the softening paper, and your eyes screwed shut with the pleasure currently coursing your entire being.

“Get that body o’ yours movin’, or we can call it a disappointin’ night,” he instructed. God, you couldn’t come up short after all you’d endured thus far, so instinctually, your hips began to roll against his thigh at a jagged pace, seeking out the only stimulation you could manage in your stilted position. “Yeah, that’s it,” he cooed. “All yours for the takin’, if you’ll hold out long enough to see fuckin’ rainbows. A lot like bein’ on a high, ain’t it? Got my own li’l addict in the makin’.”

He was right. Actually, you thought this felt a whole lot greater than sniffing a line that would simultaneously have you losing your sanity for a few hours. Desperate whimpers began to stew in your chest, polished with so much passion that the sounds felt saturated, almost animated. And Ben, he was devouring every second of it. You couldn’t glimpse enough of his face to say that, but going off of everything you knew about him, and how mean he liked to get with you, you absolutely knew that you were something akin to his own personal heaven right about now. Oh, he’d forsake every personal belief to follow the religion that was you—your undoing.

Almost as though your body had grown frustrated with all the prolonged teasing, your high came on at a rapid pace that made you chest heave in desperation. You felt the arousal bundle into a tightly-knit ball, just yearning to be yanked at by the singular thread that would make it come undone. But the satisfaction was plucked out of reach within seconds when Ben released the grip on your hair to grab at your thigh, forcing your hips to still against his leg. And just like that, the fire within was snuffed out.

Your lips fell loose in exhaustion, the blunt you’d been so loyal to finally making an escape and toppling into your lap. “Ben,” you pushed out frailly, the disappointment heavy on your brows.

“The nerve o’ you,” Ben scoffed, utterly dismissive of your feeble protest. He released your thigh to dip into your lap, and shortly after, he pulled up with the blunt in clutch, wasting no time in pressing it back between your lips. You fumbled with the paper for a few seconds before you finally took it in, but you knew your boyfriend would have something to show for your disobedience. “Yeah, you are a brat,” he said, the hand pinning your wrists suddenly tightening as he pulled your arms to one side, his other hand hooking around your inner thigh.

In one large and effortless motion, he managed to sling you over his lap, releasing your wrists so that you were able to grasp the legs of his chair for support. You clutched the blunt between your lips a little tighter, fighting the villainous pull of gravity, and stifled a moan at the sudden spank that struck the curves of your ass. The aftermath of that contact had your body contracted with a mixture of shock and painful arousal, air blowing from your nostrils like harsh gusts.

“Fuckin’ quiverin’ already?” He chuckled, his large palm smoothing up the fabric of your shorts until you felt every inch of your ass dimple under the cool air of the room. You felt utterly exposed. “Baby, I’m just gettin’ started with you.”

Oh, you were so fucked.

His palm came down for another assault, this time louder than the last. The raw contact echoed through the apartment, narcissistically suffocating the whimper that rattled your chest. Tears began to hoard along the rims of your eyes, but you blinked enough to scatter the moisture. You didn’t need to give him another kick out of this—some lingering stubbornness wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck, all that noise o’ yours is makin’ me lose count,” Ben scoffed. He rubbed soothing circles over your aching skin, which no doubt glowered an angry red that should have made your boyfriend feel some ounce of sympathy. But then the next words left his mouth, and you knew then that the Supe had no concept of remorse. “Guess I gotta start right at the beginning.”

You braved yourself against the rest of his spanks, your legs drawing together more and more with each touch—not from a place of pain, but from hot, embarrassing enjoyment. The slick within your folds was hard to ignore now, and it seemed to have snagged Ben’s attention because he let up on the harsh punishment, his fingers finding way beneath your shorts and drenched undies. You felt his fingers play at your slick, dragging a line all the way down to your yearning entrance.

“It’s a damn oil slick up in here,” he chuckled, his thumb teasing circles at your hypersensitive clit. “Whaddya say I give her some love, hm?” His finger dipped an inch into your entrance, as if offering a measly taste of his proposal. You rocked your hips back into him as a reply, urgently seeking out the length of his fingers. He gave a low chuckle, and to your shock, actually indulged your plea. Maybe it was your reward for finally playing by his rules.

You weren’t going to fucking question it.

Your back arched by instinct as you felt his fingers prowl into your entrance, your hands clutching the wooden legs of his chair as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The full force of multiple of his fingers should have coaxed forward some fleeting sense of pain, but you’d been so incredibly aroused for so incredibly long that your entrance welcomed him in like an open-house party. He pumped into you as deep as he could, an appreciative grunt leaving his lips as he revelled in your velvety warmth. His other hand came to wrap around the front of your neck, offering some much needed support as your strength began to collapse with each pump of his fingers.

Your whimpers became more frequent and dishevelled as he picked up the pace, his fingers curling at just the right angle. Every. Fucking. Time. Ben knew how to do the job well—a tactic that had you coming back time and time again, begging for more.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good f’me,” he husked out, his own voice slightly abraded by exertion. The subtle breathlessness woven through his words spurred you on even further, making you feel some type of special with the knowledge that he was giving you his all. Just to see you break. Just so that he could put you back together with cherishing kisses.

It only took a few more pumps of his fingers to have your eyes clenching in wait, your lips throttling the blunt as his fingers curled right into your blooming bundle of pleasure. And then he struck it head on, causing an explosion of colour to invade your vision. For a few seconds, you couldn’t comprehend anything beyond your own ragged breaths, your ears ringing with the overwhelming aftermath of your high. You felt your juices trickle from your entrance, and you heard the squelching as Ben slowly retreated from your entrance.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he chuckled with a minuscule, congratulatory pat to your ass. “That was one o’ your best runs yet. Think ya can handle one more round?” Ben murmured, releasing your neck to rub a soothing line down your back. You didn’t honestly think you could, and you felt the way every inch of your body ached in an answering protest, but something else tugged your chin into that subtle permission, and then the Supe had you hoisted up in his arms bridal style as he carried you to the bed.

He laid you onto the mattress rather gently, but the caution was instantly discarded as he flipped you over and tugged your hips sky-high. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shorts and undies, and he couldn’t have yanked them over the curves of your ass at a faster pace. Your garments were tossed to some other corner of the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as Ben freed his stoic erection. You heard him huff a breath of relief, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him whisk across his shaft with a hasty pump.

You met his eye patiently, making a point to pout around the blunt so that he couldn’t miss the visual image of your dedication to this wretched thing. It made him smirk with satisfaction, a hand coming forward to hook around your pelvis and tug you back an inch. You grunted at the rough yank, turning your head forward as you settled yourself into your folded arms. You felt his tip nestle between your ass before dipping down to glide with ease into your slicked entrance. Both his hands took up firm grip at your pelvis, his large palms fanning across your navel as he pummelled into you with a guttural noise.

“Fuck,” he spat, his length retreating only to return with a force more brutal than a last. His hands shifted across your ass, delivering a hard spank before they slunk up to the small of your back. There, he pushed your stomach into the mattress, and you burrowed further into the material with every possessive thrust of his hips. “You’re just the fuckin’ release I needed after this shitty day—and god, you never disappoint,” he breathed out.

You whimpered in response, pressing your forehead into the sheets as your fingers curled into the bedding. God, this man was overstimulating—he seemed to forget that your frail body was no match for his super-abled one. Or, he simply revelled in that fact. Either way, you were done for.

The blunt’s body quirked against your lips as you practically smothered it against the mattress, but you could hardly be arsed about that now. Ben’s figure came to hover over you, his clothed chest pressing into your back. His hands came up beside your head, frantically searching for yours, and once he found them, his fingers threaded between yours. He held you firmly as he spread your hands out in front of you, trapping you below him as he continued to drive you into the bed. The worn bed frame was creaking so loud that it was almost absurd, and you half expected one of the neighbours to blare a shut the hell up from the top of their lungs. But the only noises to be heard were the gruff moans spewing from Ben’s lips, and your own muffled whining.

The mattress wasn’t anything as fancy as memory foam, but you were sure that by now—with how brutalised Ben’s pace within you was—that the mattress would never forget. You supposed you both had that in common.

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a/n — i’m not gonna lie, i was starting to think this piece would NEVER see the light of day good gawd i think i have commitment issues. anyhoo, if you are a pro at making blunts, mind your business! 😭 i did a quick google search and rolled with it (pun unintended), so if something’s inaccurate you can blame google pls and ty LMAO. i’m just a non smoker girly trying to bring the drug-addled fantasies of loving soldier boy to life, as best as i possibly and very limitedly can. if this fic traumatised you im sorry (also you’re welcome). y’all know the drill, it’s 2 am—if there are typos; no there’s not.

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts

other works — the boys masterlist

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 2 days ago

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Devout

Guardian Angel alternative POV, or Jason Todd is the Arkham Knight, and he can't stop himself from watching you, from clawing his way into the cracks of your life in a twisted, mangled mirror of what he used to be ~3.5k words

CW: Jason commits a few murders, some gore, stalking, some religious imagery for fun

Jason Todd shouldn't be watching you. He knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be perched on the shadowy rooftop across from your apartment building, staring intently into your windows.

He knows. He knows. But he's doing it anyway– been doing it for weeks.

You haven't noticed once, so wrapped up in your own life, your peace of mind that no one would break the sanctity of your own home that you don't even consider closing your blinds.

He thinks you should know better. Gotham is tainted– he is tainted– yet you never spare a glance over your shoulder when he follows you down the street, never linger on that sixth sense that screams that you're being watched.

You pick up on his presence on the rare occasion, he thinks. The days you walk home quicker or the nights you actually slam your blinds shut makes him wonder if you do know you're being watched. But then you go back to normal, brush off every sign and every lingering feeling that something isn't right.

It almost makes him angry, sometimes, that you'd be so careless with your safety. But everything makes him angry now. It's a constant, tight grasp in his chest, the righteous fury he has against the world, against the city and its filth, against Batman.

The anger makes him reckless, or maybe he's just cocky. Maybe he wants you to know he's there. Jason doesn't let himself wonder why he does it. He might just be a masochist. He might just miss you. But he opens the faulty window to your living room that he knows squeaks and never quite locks right.

The first time he breaks into– visits your apartment while you're asleep, he doesn't touch a thing. He just takes in everything that's you, cleanses his fractured soul in the space he used to know like the back of his hand. The trinkets that sit on your counters. The paintings on the wall. The color of the blankets thrown over your couch.

He doesn't touch anything the second time, either. Or the third. The fourth time, though, he picks over the photos you keep on your shelves, the books you leave lying around. He moves them, just slightly. Just to see if you'll notice.

You don't. Not really. Not until the eighth time. He doesn't know why he does this either. He just does. He picks up your keys from where you usually keep them and moves them. It's something you can't deny. Something tangible and real and clear, an unyielding truth. He was here. He exists, and he can affect your life, change it with his hands.

(It's the first time he feels like he's truly alive since the asylum, the first time there's more than just revenge and watching you from afar, even if he feels like he's corrupting something that's only meant to be seen and not touched by impure, broken hands)

If your keys being displaced affects you, well, you don't show it for more than a few moments. And that bothers him. You might not know he's here– alive– and maybe he's not ready for you to, but he's still a part of your life, isn't he?

So he gets bolder. He doesn't want to scare you, not really. But he can't help but dig his nails into the parts of your life he can change. It starts simple, innocent. You were annoyed when you left your kitchen, out of sugar, just another thing on top of everything else you have to deal with.

And he wanted to help. Like he used to. It was easy to get a bag of sugar, even easier to sneak into your kitchen. He leaves just enough for a few days, just enough to get you through the week, enough that you'll think you misremembered how much was left.

And he should have left it at that. But he's never been good at doing things halfway, especially when it comes to you. So he fixes your apartment up while you're at work. Makes sure your window doesn't squeak, your shower doesn't rattle, your oven actually heats up. All things he's heard you try to get your landlord to fix.

He makes a note to give your landlord a visit as he's looping the footage in your cameras over, effectively erasing any evidence of who he is.

Honestly, he's proud of you for finally doing something about him, it's just a shame he has the skills to outmatch your attempts to figure out his identity. Not that any pictures of him would do any good. He's still nameless in Gotham as the Arkham Knight, and if he's not wearing a mask while he's easily picking the new lock on your apartment window, his hood and ballcap do the job of hiding his face just as well.

He thinks he could let it go on like this forever, just doing things for you in the shadows, never revealing himself. At least until he's routinely following you home from work one night, and he sees you get tugged into a dark, lonely alley. He recognizes the man that hauls you off the faux safety of the streets, the one that's lifting a shaky hand and a gun to wave it, demanding your possessions.

Murphy is a nobody in Gotham, just another gambling addicted alcoholic that takes work from whatever rouge is paying the most that week. Jason more or less only recognizes him because he lives on the third floor of your apartment building, but it's clear you don't know who the man snatching your things is.

The Arkham Knight resigns himself to stealing your wallet and phone back after you've gotten home, to keep himself out of your sights for as long as he can. That was the plan.

But there's a flicker in Murphy's eyes, a consideration– a passing thought that Jason can't ignore, one he's seen a million times. Maybe it's the idea that he could get more from you, or maybe he's realizing you've seen his face and wants to get rid of any witnesses, whatever it is, Jason isn't going to let it happen.

The Arkham Knight doesn't hesitate to drop himself between you and the gun. He breaks Murphy's arm without even thinking about it, effectively disarming him as he kicks the gun away from him. The sound of his bones breaking is loud, but Jason doesn't register it as something to be sickened by until he turns and sees the nausea and horror written plainly on your face.

Honestly, maybe he should be more disgusted with himself. He's just sent a man into shock, revealed himself to you in a way that's not at all comforting. But he doesn't care. No one was going to save you. No one but him. He protected you, and it's not like Bruce Batman– it's not like broken bones are uncommon in Gotham.

You take a step back. He steps towards you, drawn to you. He can't help it. He shouldn't. But his head is spinning, and he hasn't been this close to you since before the asylum. You look tired, older, but no less beautiful than he remembers.

"Who are you? What do you want," You snap at him.

Jason wants to praise you for your bravery, as fake as it is. It's a good tactic, to try and get him talking. He doesn't understand why you look so uneasy of him, though. He got you out of a bad situation, even if he's wearing military-grade armor and a mask that glows in the darkness of the alley, shouldn't you feel grateful? Safe? Happy?

He tilts his head, trying to read you. Would you feel better if he offered to walk you home? "I saved you," he tries, the modulator making his voice sound flatter than he intends to. The Arkham Knight silently curses himself. He should just leave. Should have shot your attacker from the roof without you ever seeing him. He's being emotional now, irrational under your gaze.

"You've been following me. You're the one who's been in my apartment," you accuse, eyes darting like you're trying to find an escape in the dead end alley.

He stiffens. Huh. Clever thing. You've always been too smart for your own good. A part of him wants to deny it, pretend he's just some passing good doer in a mask, pretend that he's some kind of knight, an angel here to shield you from harm.

The notion almost makes him laugh, "Have I," he prompts instead with all the air nonchalance. He wonders if you'll drop it then, actually thank him for stepping in and helping you. You don't.

"Yes," You say instead, voice low like it's a secret– a confession, "You have."

Jason finds himself impressed at your stubbornness, if not a little unnerved by your recklessness in confronting the supposed stranger you believe is breaking into your home alone. He has to give you credit for piecing it together, but who else, if not a freak in body armor, would be letting themselves into your apartment without a word just to fix what's broken?

He nods, unsure of what to do. You weren't supposed to figure it out, but you have. And now there's consequences.

The Arkham Knight turns his back to you, making a show of gathering your phone and wallet before standing and facing you again. He walks closer to you, each step measured and calculated. He holds your belongings out to you, a twisted, mirrored version of some kind of sacred offering.

He studies you as you grab at them, trying to tug them from his unyielding grip. There's bags under your eyes. He can practically see your pulse jumping under your skin.

You're less than a foot away, and Jason basks in that distance, how light he feels now that you're only an arm's reach away. He could brush his knuckles over your cheek, dip his head to take in the scent of your hair, kiss the hollow of your throat the same way he used to.

He does none of those things. Because you don't see Jason Todd. You only see a threat, a monster, some kind of demon that clawed their way out of the shadows and cracks that litter Gothams hallowed corners.

He cocks his head, letting go of your wallet and phone while greedily drinking down the color of your eyes in the dim light of the alley, "And if I have?"

"I'll go to the police," You tell him, defensive, and he wants to laugh as you shove your wallet and phone back into your pocket.

"They can't help you," he grits out, and it's the truth. No one knows who he is yet, what his plans are. Even if you told someone, whatever description you give won't be enough to find him.

"They can contact Batman," you bite out, and that does earn you a laugh. You really think Bruce can do anything? That Batman has any chance of standing between him and you? Batman couldn't even find– couldn't even save–

"He can't help you either," The Arkham Knight tells you. He gives into his desire to touch you then, partly in anger that you still believe in Batman and partly because he just misses you. He pats your cheek, but doesn't let himself linger. "Get home," is all he says before he grapples into the night.

He follows you back to your apartment from the rooftops and notes how you avoid getting too close to any more alleys. But, it's not until you're safe in your bed that he goes looking for Murphy– that he goes to finish the job.

The creep's nursing his broken arm in his dingy apartment when The Arkham Knight gets to him. He doesn't make it quick, but it is quiet. (It's difficult to scream when you're choking on your own severed tongue, after all) He brings down fire and fury and vengeance for daring to lay a hand on you and leaves nothing behind but a corpse.

Murphy's brutal death is swept under the rug by the GCPD, which Jason shouldn't be surprised by. Just another mob death, the tiny obituary in the paper reports. You don't even register the death in your apartment building. He doesn't blame you for that. Not when he knows he's scaring you.

He's getting careless, sloppy. He wants you to catch glimpses of him now, he wants you to know he's watching. It's sick. He knows that, knows it so well that it claws in the back of his throat when he breaks into your apartment to fix your fan.

He's guilty about it, sometimes. It's a pressing weight on his shoulder even when he's trying to help. So, he redoubles his efforts.

He sneaks into your room and stuffs six hundred dollars into the emergency fund you keep under your bed. He sends you flowers, fills your gas tank, finally visits your landlord, and pays off your rent for the next six months. (He's already bought you a better, newer apartment, he just hasn't figured out how to tell you that)

He knows it's all wrong, but sometimes, he doesn't feel guilty at all. He wants to do things for you, that's not a lie. He wants to do everything and anything you could ever want or ask for.

He starts letting you catch flashes of him outside your window, moves your things around just out of the sheer curiosity of what you'll do. He can't justify that, because it does nothing to protect you. But he does it anyway. The Arkham Knight needs you to know he holds a spot in your life, even if it's not as Jason Todd anymore.

He's getting bolder, much too comfortable. There's times you almost walk into your apartment as he's leaving gifts on your counter, times when you wake up and walk into your kitchen just seconds after he forces himself out your window.

He's going to get caught if it keeps going on like this. But he can't bring himself to worry or care. His plans are coming together, and while he doesn't exactly know where you fit into them yet, he knows he doesn't trust anything or anyone enough to leave you to your own devices once he unleashes his legions upon Gotham and her failure of a saviour.

He never seems to do the right thing when it comes to you, at least not since he came back. But saving you– guarding you against the vile filth of the world– that can't be wrong. He'd do anything to keep you as you are, untouched by all the cruelties Gotham has to offer. It's an unwavering, righteous mission he has commanded unto himself.

It's why he reacts the way he does when three men break into your apartment.

He was late. He always seems to be late when you're involved. He had just finished overseeing the arrival of tanks and men into Miagani Tunnel, just dragged himself halfway across the city for the slightest chance to catch a glimpse of you in your apartment, when he catches sight of it.

Your window– open. You never keep it open. Dread washes down his spine, and when he gets close enough to see the man pointing a gun towards the floor– towards you– he just reacts.

He shuts down, becomes nothing but instinct, and he brings hell on to Earth in your name.

He's clinical. He doesn't hesitate to shoot the man aiming a gun to your head through his temple. If the man were alone, he would have shot the gun out of his hand, but there's two other targets, and he needs to eliminate any threats to your life first.

He climbs through your window with the ease of a man who's done it hundreds– thousands of times. You haven't moved to get up. It concerns him, but he's angry right now, so, so angry he doesn't even consider ending this quickly.

Everyone tries to take something from him. He keeps losing. If he didn't come to watch– see you tonight, he would have lost you too. The very thought makes his vision blur red, his ears ring.

It's not a fight, what happens next. It's a death penalty. The Arkham Knight is a weapon, and he proves it with each hit. He's efficient, brutal, and purposeful with each movement. He doesn't flinch at the blood that splatters on his armor, doesn't stop even when fluids and flesh start to stick to the knuckles of his gloves.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, until the only hearts left beating in your desecrated apartment are his and yours.

Then, and only then, does the blood pounding through his veins start to cool. It's only then, does he turn to look at you. He expects to meet your terrified gaze, but you haven't moved, still laying on the floor. It makes his heart clench. What's wrong with him? He just– while you–

He shakes his head, slowly tugging his gloves off and stuffing them into his belt. He walks over to you, kneels carefully to your side, and watches you breathe. He matches the slow rhythm of your shoulders rising and falling, and then he helps you sit up.

You're responsive to that, at least. The Arkham Knight presses his hands to your face, waiting for something. He doesn't know what, just anything. Some kind of sign. A message of what he's supposed to do. How he can make this all better.

When you finally open your eyes, they're hazy, not quite reactive. It makes him angry all over again. You got hurt. He wasn't here.

"Saved me again," you murmur, and his throat tightens. He failed you. Yet here you are, spouting words that make it sound like he's done something good.

He runs his thumb over your cheek, savoring the feel of your skin, soothing himself and you as he reassures himself that you're still here– still alive. But you aren't safe.

It's all he can think about. He saved you, but how long until you're in danger again? What if he's not quick enough this time? What if he's not there? What if– what if– haunts him. It weighs heavier than the nightmares that plague him when he finally has to succumb to sleep.

He makes the decision then and there to take you away from here, away from the rot and the fester to some place where it can never touch you again.

He picks you up, cradles you to his chest like you're made of shattered, stained glass and tarnishing silver, but nonetheless precious. You're talking, and he's answering, but he hardly registers what either of you are saying. His mind is working over plans, where he's going to take you, the guards he'll need to recruit to watch over you when he can't, which ones he trusts the most.

Jason only tunes back in when you point out that he could hurt you. It's funny, in a way. After everything he used to be to you, after everything he's done for you, he could still hurt you. He tips his head down to really look at you, the cloudy, exhausted look on your face, the heaviness of your eyes as you struggle to keep watching him.

He can't find it in himself to lie, so, he tells you, maybe he could hurt you. He tells you that he wouldn't like it. (And it's the truth)

Maybe you recognize that, because you drop your head to his shoulder and let your eyes fall shut. The Arkham Knight never wavers in his steps, mapping the path to the apartment he'd purchased in your name in his head. It's not perfect, not filled with everything you deserve quite yet, but it'll do the job for now.

Something in him simultaneously softens and hardens when your breathing goes even and slow against him, and he curls his fingers tighter into your skin. You're weak. Weaker than him. Too naive and too soft for what's going to come.

There's no other fate for you than this now. He'll have to take care of you, protect you from it all, from all the evil that festers in Gotham, even if that includes him.

He lets the mission engrave itself into his heart– into the fabric of his very soul and right next to his revenge. You're going to be safe. He is going to keep you safe, and he'll throw himself into fire to see it done.

#arkham knight x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you

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sensationallysangwoo · 2 days ago

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𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝒮𝓊𝒷!𝒞𝒽𝑜 𝒮𝒶𝓃𝑔 𝒲𝑜𝑜 𝓍 𝐹!𝒟𝑜𝓂!𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒮𝓂𝓊𝓉

𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝓊𝓈𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒹. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝒷𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝑒𝓃𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝑜 𝒶𝒸𝓉 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝒻𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓎. 𝒰𝓃𝒷𝑒𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓈𝑜 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓎.

𝒲𝒜𝑅𝒩𝐼𝒩𝒢𝒮: 𝑀𝒟𝒩𝐼!!! 𝒞𝒽𝑜𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔/𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎, 𝒹𝑜𝓂/𝓈𝓊𝒷 𝒹𝓎𝓃𝒶𝓂𝒾𝒸, 𝒶𝒹𝓊𝓁𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉, 𝓈𝓁𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒮𝒶𝓃𝑔 𝒲𝑜𝑜 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝓁𝑜𝓉 𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒴𝒪𝒰 𝒜𝑅𝐸 𝒪𝐹 𝐿𝐸𝒢𝒜𝐿 𝒜𝒢𝐸

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

You sighed kicking your shoes off after entering the front door. Between listening to those fake bitches at work pretending to like each other and rude customers in your face all day, you had just about had it.

You checked the time. 4:30. About a half an hour before Sang Woo comes home from work. You can’t wait to see him, feel him, touch him, taste his lips. Rant to him about your day and receive that oh so familiar princess treatment you get every second of every day.

You got in the shower and as soon as the warm water hit your skin you felt all of your worries melt away. The smell of your favorite soap added to the relaxation of it all.

You stepped out of the shower and dried off and put your fluffy robe on.

Sang Woo’s footsteps thudded up the stairs and your heart skipped a beat. You’re so in love with him that he still makes you as nervous as the day you went on your first date together.

“Princess. I’m home. Are you up here?” He called out, his deep voice echoing through the upstairs hallway.

“In here baby! I just got a shower.”

Sang Woo enters the humid bathroom and sees you brushing your hair in front of the mirror. You turn around and crane your neck up to give the tall man a kiss on the lips.

The feeling of his soft lips on yours sends a shock of electricity to your heart and well….your pussy. God he’s so fucking handsome. The smell of his cologne mixed with cigarettes drove you wild.

“I missed you so much today.” You purred, looking up at him.

“I missed you too, my love.” He replies, looking down at you. You felt his eyes wandering and your cheeks burn. He smirked. His eyes began to develop that hungry look he gets when he’s excited.

His large hand strokes your cheek, then trails down your neck, to your chest.

“May I, princess?”

“Go ahead baby.”

He carcasses your breasts with one hand inside your robe, the other tugging at the sash.

His lips meet yours once more, kissing you deeply. His tongue pokes at your bottom lip and you let him in. You savor the head rush of kissing the man you love more than anything. The man who makes your insides burn with passion and desire. The man who makes you drip down your thighs and think about the most filthy obscene things a human mind can think of.

After kissing him deeply for a few minutes you let go. You tug at his crisp white shirt collar. Suddenly an idea fills your mind. Your lips curl into a smile. A wide smile.

“Take this off for me, whore.”

Sang Woo freezes. His eyes widen.

“Whore?”

“I said what I said. Take it off.”

Sang Woo had never ever submit to you. Or anyone. Ever. But alas, there is a first time for everything. You dreamed of dominating him and using him as your own personal fucktoy. The evenings that he would work overtime, you would desparately cram your fingers into yourself on the bed, thinking about him coming undone underneath you like some sort of whore.

You want to see that calm, cold demeanor crack. You want to make this way older man your bitch. This tall, strong, stoic, prestigious businessman, a moaning, whimpering bitch underneath you.

Sang Woo grows painfully hard at the crude nickname. He wants this too.

“Y-yes Y/N.” He stammers, taking off his shirt.

You both move to the bed and you push him down. Climbing on top of him, you grind yourself down on his nice dress pants, your wetness seeping into the fabric.

His breath hitches and he watches you through half hooded eyes.

“You gonna be a good boy for me, Sang Woo?”

Still speechless, he nods as you grind down harder on the huge bulge through his pants.

“Use your words, bitch.” Your hand reaches up to his throat, wrapping your fingers around it and squeezing gently.

“P-Please Y/N, a-ah let me…fuck you.” He’s blinded by the pressure of your wet hot pussy on him. The layers of clothing providing the worst most inconvenient barrier ever.

You stop grinding. You look him deep in the eyes. “What did I say? I asked you a question. Now answer it.” You command through gritted teeth.

“Y-yes I’ll be good for you Y/N. Just please do something please.” He whined.

If you were strong enough to rip his pants off, you would have. However you undid his belt, slid it out of the loops and folded it twice over and kept it in your hand. That doe eyed look dawned on Sang Woo’s face once more.

You slid his pants down , then his underwear, and finally his dick could be free. Swollen and red, absolutely gushing clear pre cum.

You barely, just barely graze the folded belt up and down his hard cock. His expression of fear made your pussy ache.

“What does my dirty little slut want me to do to him first hm?”

“S-Suck it please. Please Y/N I need it so bad. I need you so bad I’ve been—“ he begins to babble.

“Shut the fuck up.” You replied coldly.

You bring the belt down onto his thighs. You hit him, but not hard enough to break skin. He gasps. More pre cum oozes from the tip of his dick.

He fucking loves this. For some reason in the deep dark depths of his mind, he always wanted to be treated like property. It was his sickest most fucked up fantasy that he would never ever tell a soul.

His chest is rising and falling rapidly and his cheeks are flushed pink. He needs something, anything. You bring the belt down again, the soft flesh of his thigh ripping under the blow.

“You look like you’re gonna fucking cum just from me beating the shit out of you. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Not even Sang Woo can answer that question. And yes, he felt his orgasm building already. What the fuck is wrong with him?

You lean down and lick a stripe from the base of his cock to the tip. His whole entire body shivers. He moans for the first time ever in front of you. And it’s loud.

You gently take just the tip of it in your mouth and he forcefully grabs your hair, shoving you down onto his dick and gagging you. Immediately you shut that shit down. Your head snaps up. You bring your face to his and grab a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.”What the fuck was that? Keep your fucking hands off of me brat.”

He nods obediently.

“Because of that little stunt I’m not even going to suck your cock. Too bad.”

Instead you slam yourself down on his cock as hard as you possibly can without breaking it.

Another deliciously loud moan from Sang Woo’s mouth fills the room. You start bouncing up and down on it, the slapping of skin and the squelching of your juices mixing with his fills the room.

You grab his hair again, pulling his head back and looking in his eyes again as you slam all your weight down on him and his cock. “You like this you little bitch? If only you could see yourself right now. What would your friends think of you being fucked like a bitch at home?” You bring your hand down on his beautiful face, lightly slapping him.

“T-they’d think I’m a filthy whore. I’m yours Y/N. I-I’m your filthy fucking whore.” He barely gets the sentence out in between moans.

You wrap the belt around his neck and pound him some more. His dick is hitting all the right places inside you. You can literally feel him in your stomach.

“Sang Woo…cum for me…cum for me right now.” You demand. Your moans are growing louder as well.

His eyes roll back and every muscle in his body tightens immediately.

You feel yourself clench around him, pleasure ripping through your whole entire body as you cum all over his dick. You feel the comforting warmth of his huge load shooting inside of you too. He came so much it was dribbling out of you onto his own balls.

Sang Woo is visibly trembling after his orgasm. That was the biggest one he’s ever had in his whole entire 46 years of life. Panting filled the room. You didn’t want to get off of him but he was softening inside you quickly. He looked up at you gently, a sheen of sweat coating his perfect features and his jet black hair clinging to his forehead. You lean down and kiss your husband deeply on his lips.

“That was fucking amazing.” He mumbles between breaths. “Thank you Y/N. I’ve always wanted you to take control like that. That was the hottest experience ever.”

You chuckled. “You’re welcome my angel.” He looked so dopey and fucked out. He was drunk on you and you ate that up. You love him with all of your heart as he does you.

“Come on, let’s get you all cleaned up and I’ll get you fed.” You say to him sweetly. He smiles his signature shy smile. “I Love You Y/N. I really, really do.”

He says those three words very rarely, but when he does, you know he means it sincerely.

“I Love You too Sang Woo.”

#cho sang woo #squid game #squid game 2 #cho sang woo x y/n #cho sang woo x reader smut #cho sang woo x reader #squid game fanfiction #squid game fanfic #squid game smut #filth #sang woo being a bottom

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nosferatuv · 10 hours ago

Note

amab sevika making you gag and almost throw up on her dick and making fun of you when you get embarrassed bc of it

cw ! amab sevika. blowjob. emetophobia warning! threats of violence. degradation. this is gross

you were the depiction of filth every time sevika was finished with you. didn't matter the roughness or pace she went at, you would be left ruined and spent by the time she had her fill.

this time was no different. after a shitty day, she dragged you onto the bed and laid you down, your head tilted back off the edge. you looked gross, point blank; spit, tears and snot dribbling down your face and matting in your hair.

sevika was stood above you, one of her hands holding your wrists against your abdomen and the other reaching down to wrap around her thick cock, guiding herself back into your mouth and down your throat.

there was much less resistance from your body now as she fucked your throat raw, slobbering and gagging each time she stuffed your esophagus. she was really testing your limits tonight, not caring about your discomfort if it meant she was able to release the pent up aggression from the demanding chembarons.

you were trying to be good, bless your soul, but you were starting to struggle. your nails dig into your palms as you gag around her again, the force of the action making your body jolt upwards and inevitably take more of her in your mouth.

she easily thrusted in and out, abusing and bruising your airway. you could barely breathe, you were lightheaded from being upside down and yet you don't tap out. you lay there and take it like you know she wants.

your gagging gets more frequent, stomach flexing and tears leaking down your face as her hips continue to slam into you, her pelvis nudging your chin and her balls pressing against your nose forcing you to inhale her scent.

her hand not holding your wrists comes down to your throat as it contracts around her dick, your neck bulging with her imprint. her fingers wrap around your neck, groaning at the sudden tightness.

she watches you start to writhe, your legs kicking a little as you feel a rise in your stomach. sevika knows as well as you do that you're about to throw up, but she debates whether or not to let it happen just to humiliate you further.

"you throw up on my dick, i'll beat your ass."

her voice, no less than a growl, puts the fear of god in you. you swallow as best as you could as she fucks your face, your legs still squirming as you desperately try not to throw up.

sevika tsk's and pulls out, her cock dripping with saliva as it hangs heavy over your face. a flood of spit pours out your mouth as you turn on your side, your now free hand coming up to hold your throat as you cough up.

her gray eyes roll at your dramatics, lazily stroking herself as she watched you struggle. "what'd i tell you, huh?" she huffs, reaching down to nudge your head to rest on the bed, your sticky skin leaving a mess on the sheets.

her knee sinks into the mattress beside your head, bringing her cock down to slap against your cheek before her hips start to draw back and forth, using your face as friction. "you're pathetic, you know that?"

you whimper at the taunt as she rubs against your face, pre-cum leaking from the slit of her dick and dribbling down the side of your face, seeping between your swollen lips.

"then you throw up on me— fuckin' disgusting."

she cuts herself off with a grunt, fucking her cock between the plush of your cheek and the palm of her hand. you were caked in your own fluids, feeling nasty and used just how she wanted.

her other hand keeps your head down against the mattress, her fingers tangling in your hair as she gets closer to cuming. "shit... keep still 'n i'll go easy on you."

╋━ taglist.

@danfelog @fortluocha @ocharavitys @trizxyp @aelizreal @moodient @luxmith @iamastar @uhh-lana @amastarxoxo @pearlcigs @abbyspup @sunrxxyz @inui-ii @evabby @graciedollie @starrrcane @frazzledgf @lilyyx0 @gaysevika @444fernz @mybelovedvi @abbysbae @tqlepatia @nvr4getme @lesbodietcoke

#nosferatuv.#sevika #sevika smut #sevika arcane smut #sevika x you #sevika imagine #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #sevika arcane x reader #arcane

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wordsmeetwbb · 12 hours ago

Text

The Chains Stay ON

Word count: 3.1k

Content: smut

Pairing: Pazzi

Notes: This is my first attempt at writing smut and tbh I think it turned out really good but like. It's also pure filth that I wrote at 2am and edited this morning so consider this your warning. As always, let me know what you think!

________

Azzi couldn’t stop staring at Paige. She knew she was being obvious, she knew people online would clip this entire event and dissect every interaction, but she couldn’t help herself. Paige looked fucking incredible.

The team had gone to a Connecticut Sun game tonight, and Azzi truly felt bad about her lack of attention to the actual game thus far. Somehow, she had gotten through the whole bus ride to the arena without interacting with Paige, but that ended quickly as the team took their seats, with Paige plopping down in the seat right next to Azzi.

Azzi’s eyes had a mind of their own, roaming over Paige’s face, down to her arms, her chest, and always dragging back to her neck where two silver chains rested. Azzi swallowed thickly.

“Hello? Az, are you even listening to me?” Paige snapped her fingers in front of Azzi’s face. She blinked, startled out of her visual perusal of Paige’s body.

“Uh, yeah? No. What?” Paige snorted.

“You’re so not locked in right now. If you were looking at me I would be like, fine, whatever, but you’re not! Pay attention to me!” Paige complained. Azzi swatted her arm.

“Oh, hush. I pay you plenty of attention. If you really loved me, you’d give me a break and go whine to somebody else for once.” Lies. Azzi was lying through her teeth. She didn’t want Paige to go anywhere. She wanted the blonde to stay in the seat right next to her so Azzi could continue to stare at how those silver chains rested against her throat, draping down to sit between her collarbones. She blinked again, trying to pull herself out of the Paige-induced haze so she could actually listen to her girlfriend.

“Hey, what’s up with you? You’re not listening to me,” Paige whined again. Correct. Azzi hadn’t even realized Paige was still talking. She was too busy looking at her to practice active listening. Azzi blushed. Paige’s eyebrows raised.

“You gonna tell me, or do I have to pry it out of you?” Azzi sighed dramatically, slumping back into her seat. Against her will, her eyes wandered right back to Paige’s neck. She wanted to kiss her way down the skin there hard enough to leave bruises where the chains rested. The brunette crossed her legs, too aware of the warmth between them.

Paige looked down at herself, trying to follow Azzi’s line of sight. Azzi sighed loudly again, blushing a deep, embarrassing shade of pink. Paige was so adorable when she was confused, but she needed her to understand faster so she didn’t have to explain what had her so hot and bothered.

“Paige,” Azzi said firmly.

“What? Baby, I don’t know what you’re looking at. I just know you’re blushing real pretty right now and I want to know why.” Azzi couldn’t stand it anymore. She looked Paige right in the eyes, fisting her hands in her lap so they wouldn’t get any ideas and reach up to touch the chains that were taunting her so badly. She took a deep breath, taking a little glance around to make sure none of their teammates were listening too closely to what they were talking about.

“You look… really hot with those chains on,” Azzi mumbled, face flushing an even darker shade of red.

“Baby, what? It’s loud as hell in here, I didn’t get any of that.” Azzi wanted a sinkhole to open up under Mohegan Sun and swallow them all so she didn’t have to repeat that sentence. Lord knows Paige’s ego didn’t need to hear it twice. She wished she could just whisper it into Paige’s ear, but the chance of somebody in the crowd recording it was too high. She groaned and leaned only slightly closer to Paige.

“You look hot with those chains on,” she said, with more volume in her voice this time. She wasn’t letting there be any chance of Paige making her say it a third time.

A hint of surprise fluttered over Paige’s face, but it was quickly replaced with that all-too-familiar smirk. Azzi would never tell Paige, but it made her squeeze her legs together just a little bit tighter.

“You like them, baby?” Paige murmured, voice somehow loud enough for Azzi to hear her over the noise of the arena. It made her think that Paige definitely heard her the first time and just wanted to make her suffer. Azzi gave up and let her head fall into her hands dramatically. Paige poked her shoulder, waiting for confirmation. Azzi knew that being in public was saving her from having to reply for real. She nodded into her hands.

“Hey, come back up here. I love it when you blush like that for me. So pretty, baby.” Azzi was going to die in Mohegan Sun at the ripe age of 21. She took a deep breath, praying that she had composed herself enough for the whole world not to know just how turned on she was right now. She straightened back up, trying to pretend like she was paying any kind of attention to the basketball game.

“There you go, good girl.” Azzi whacked Paige on the knee.

“Stop it. Stop or I’m gonna do something inappropriate in a very public place with lots of cameras, and then we won’t be private or a secret,” Azzi hissed. Paige just laughed. The audacity of this girl to look the way she did, get Azzi all turned on, tease her in public, and then laugh? She scowled at Paige. Paige shut up.

“Az, wait, I’m sorry for laughing. You’re sitting here all turned on, staring at me, and I’m being an ass.” This is genuinely one of the worst apologies Azzi has ever heard. The lack of amusement on her face must be as obvious as it feels because Paige starts backtracking.

“Azzi, baby, look at me. Please.” Azzi doesn’t have it in herself to disobey. And who is she to pass up a chance to look at Paige right now? God, she looks sinfully good.

“I shouldn’t have laughed at you. That’s my bad. I’m gonna make it up to you, I swear,” Paige promises, looking very sincere. Azzi raises her eyebrows skeptically.

“How are you gonna do that?” She questions. A grin spreads across Paige’s face.

“You said you like the chains, right? Got you all wet and needy?” Azzi wants to protest, but Paige isn’t wrong. “I see you with your legs crossed, ma, you’re not subtle.”

“I’m not seeing how this is you making anything up to me-” Azzi starts, but Paige interrupts her.

“You want me to fuck you with the chains on, baby?” Fuck. Just the words have Azzi absolutely dripping. She almost lets a whimper slip out, but clamps her mouth shut at the last minute.

“Yes,” she whispers. Paige looks entirely too satisfied with the way this conversation has turned out. Infuriatingly, it just turns Azzi on more. Damn this woman.

“Didn’t know the NIL money would come with this benefit,” Paige muses. Azzi is in her own personal hell.

“I need you to shut up. Immediately. Yesterday,” Azzi demands. Paige snorts.

“Yes, ma’am.”

________

Azzi doesn’t know what Paige told Jana and Allie or where the two girls went upon the team’s return to campus. Frankly, she doesn’t care. All she cares about is that Paige’s bedroom door is locked swiftly and the apartment beyond it is empty.

Paige is on Azzi as soon as the door is closed, shoving her up against the wood and trailing kisses from her mouth to her jaw to her neck. Actually, it’s more like Paige licking her way down Azzi’s skin. Either way, it feels incredible.

“Please, please,” she mumbles. She’s already begging, although she’s not entirely sure what for.

“Shh ma, just hold on. I’m gonna get you right, don’t you even worry,” Paige reassures Azzi against her skin. Something about it reminds Azzi of her thoughts from earlier. She lifts her head away from the door, trailing her eyes down to where Paige is mouthing at her collarbones, just above the neckline of her tank top. In a feat of pure willpower, Azzi flips their positions so Paige is the one pressed against the door. Paige gasps and immediately starts to protest. “Just shut the hell up,” Azzi demands as she begins to place wet kisses across Paige’s jaw. Her skin is warm and Paige smells so good, as she always does. Azzi’s mouth reaches the hinge of Paige’s jaw and she nips at the skin softly, not hard enough to bruise. Paige groans.

“God, baby, feels so good. Mark me the fuck up.” Azzi pushes her surprise away in favor of getting back to work. Who would she be to pass up a rare opportunity to claim her girlfriend? She bites a little harder at the spot from before, then licks over it with her tongue when Paige moans. Encouraged, Azzi makes her way down Paige’s neck, sucking in some places and biting in others, until Paige’s neck is riddled with red and purple splotches and covered in Azzi’s saliva.

Azzi finally pulls back to look at her handiwork, incredibly satisfied with herself. Paige looks desperate. Her neck glistened from Azzi’s mouth, her pupils were blown so wide her blue irises were barely visible, and she had tugged her hair free from the bun it had been in. She’s panting, staring at Azzi with unrestrained want. Azzi lets her focus go back to Paige’s neck. The silver chains glistening there really do look pretty against the newly mottled skin. She swallows, letting her hand drift up to play with the metal, warmed by Paige’s body.

Paige seems to have finally had enough teasing, because the next thing Azzi knows, she’s on her back in the middle of Paige’s bed.

“Off, off, I want these off,” Paige is saying, hands pulling at Azzi’s clothes. It’s not like she was wearing much of anything to begin with, just a tank top and a pair of too-short denim shorts, but within seconds the fabric is gone from her body, leaving her only in a pair of lace panties. The cool air makes Azzi shiver, nipples perking up from the chill.

Paige’s focus zeroes in on her tits, tongue immediately coming to lick over one nipple, hand squeezing the other gently, then pinching the nipple. Azzi gasps. It feels incredible, but this is not what she’s been thinking about all day. She tugs Paige back up to eye level, bringing their lips back together. Paige’s tongue is immediately against Azzi’s, but Azzi is mumbling demands.

“You gotta get naked too,” she whines, voice far more breathy than she wants it to be, but if Paige didn’t already know how needy she was, Azzi had bigger issues than what she sounded like. Paige’s clothes were off in seconds, leaving her in boxers and her sports bra. And those irresistible chains, of course. Still more clothes than Azzi in just her panties, but definitely an improvement.

Paige’s hand came down to Azzi’s stomach, fingers brushing over her abs teasingly on their way down to where Azzi was aching for her.

“Paige, please,” she pleaded.

“Please, what, baby? Gotta tell me what you want.” Azzi was going to cry if Paige didn’t touch her in the next five seconds. It’s that desperation that makes her give in immediately. She doesn’t have the willpower to resist Paige today.

“Touch me, please baby. Need your fingers on me, please, please, need it so bad-” Azzi cuts herself off with a moan when Paige presses her fingers over Azzi’s clothed clit. Her eyes roll back, but fly back open when she feels cold metal bump against her chin. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.” It seems to be the only word she can remember as Paige’s chains dangle in her face.

“There you go, baby. Is that better?” It’s not, really. Paige isn’t moving her fingers, and she’s still not really touching Azzi. Just that teasing presence over the fabric of her panties. Azzi bucks her hips against Paige’s hand in an effort to get what she wants.

“Is this not enough, baby? I’m touching you. What do you want?” Azzi is going to scream if Paige keeps this cocky attitude up and doesn’t fuck her like she needs. She almost gets sassy with her response until Paige moves her fingers against her clit, rubbing slow little circles over the fabric. Azzi groans, so hopelessly soaked through her underwear that the lace is practically see-through.

“Fuck. Please, Paige, please just fuck me. I need your fingers inside, please. Gotta feel it, need it, please.” She sounds pathetic, she knows. Paige doesn’t usually make her beg like this, but god, being forced to say exactly what she wants is doing sinful things to Azzi.

“I got you, good girl, so good begging for me,” Paige praises. Azzi’s head flops back onto the pillow and she immediately misses the light presence of the chains in her face. It’s quickly forgotten as Paige pulls Azzi’s panties off, throwing them somewhere to the side of the bed in favor of quickly slipping one finger into Azzi’s pussy.

“Fuck, baby, so wet for me. You feel that?” Paige already sounds like she’s going crazy, her voice hoarse and low. Azzi can barely focus on the words the blonde is saying. She’s too busy squirming closer to Paige’s hand, trying to get that singular finger deeper inside of her. She needs more and Paige is too busy talking to give it to her.

“Shh, honey, just relax. I gotchu, you know that,” Paige soothes, leaning down to press soft kisses to Azzi’s lips. The action drags the chains against Azzi’s face in the most delightful way. It almost makes Azzi miss the way Paige’s finger starts to move inside her, dragging out and then pushing right back in slowly. She moans desperately, still wiggling against Paige. She needs her deeper, faster, more fingers, anything.

“More, please, Paige, I can take another,” she begs. Paige finally obliges her, sliding another finger in alongside the first and continuing to fuck in and out of Azzi’s pussy. Azzi moans. One of her hands drifts up, tangling in the hair at the nape of Paige’s neck. Then it drifts down, sliding over the fresh hickeys on her throat that are getting darker by the minute. Her hand finally comes to rest on the silver chains, fingers wrapping around the strands of metal just for something to hold onto. Her eyes won’t leave the way they gleam against Paige’s skin, swinging back and forth as Paige’s arm moves.

Between her legs, Azzi can feel her wetness dripping onto the bed. She knows Paige’s hand is probably drenched, and that mental image only makes her wetter.

“There you go, baby. Doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. Fuck, look at you. Fucking soaked, Az. Can you hear that?” Paige takes a break from her fuck-drunk rambling so Azzi can hear the sound her body makes when Paige’s fingers slide in and out. It even sounds like she’s drenched. Azzi throws her head back on the pillow again, pulling Paige’s chains right along with her. Paige follows her down, licking a stripe up Azzi’s neck while she’s there.

“Gettin’ close, ma?” Azzi nods desperately, feeling her stomach get tighter with every stroke of Paige’s fingers into her sopping wet center. “Fuck, yeah, I know you are. Squeezing me so tight, baby. Just sucking me up. Need me that bad, right baby?” Paige’s thumb drags circles around Azzi’s clit. She lets out a high whine. Paige has yapped for every minute of her life, she’s sure, but the absolute filth she’s saying right now has Azzi teetering right on the edge of her climax, biting her lip, and her stomach tenses.

“Let go, Az. Just relax and let yourself cum. All over me, baby, come on. Want it dripping down my hand. Please, I know you’re almost there.” Paige’s words, begging her to come, combined with the feeling of her damned silver chains dragging against Azzi’s throat now that she’s released her grip on them, send her over the edge.

Azzi cums with a cry, high-pitched moans and Paige’s name falling from her lips. Paige fucks her through it, fingers still moving inside her, thumb still circling her clit until Azzi is trembling from overstimulation, begging Paige to stop.

“Please, please, too much, Paige-” Azzi pushes Paige’s hand away from her, collapsing against the mattress, panting as she tries to recover. When she forces her eyes open to look at her girlfriend, Azzi finds Paige already staring at her. Her pupils are still blown wide, her body glistening with sweat, her hair messy (probably Azzi’s fault), and she thinks Paige has never looked hotter.

“What?” Azzi demands softly. “I’ll get you in a minute, don’t worry,” she promises. Paige shakes her head and melts into Azzi, wrapping her in her pale arms.

“Did so good for me, baby. So good,” she mumbles into Azzi’s collarbones. Azzi’s hand comes up to brush through Paige’s hair gently, a smile falling onto her lips, blushing lightly at the praise. Paige was starting to crush her under her weight, but it felt so good that she kept quiet, one hand moving down from Paige’s hair to stroke up and down her back.

“Hey, let me take care of you now,” Azzi said, starting to roll herself out from under Paige. Paige just tightened her arms.

“In a minute. That was so hot. You’re so hot. Everything about that was just… really insanely hot. I think I’m buffering. Give me a minute,” Paige mumbled into Azzi’s skin. Azzi laughed, bringing a hand to Paige’s chin and tilting her face up to meet her eyes.

“That was really hot,” she agreed. Paige grinned.

“I should wear chains more often,” she mused. Azzi groaned, letting Paige’s face drop back into the crook of her neck.

“I swear, I can’t tell you anything.” She complained. Paige just laughed, and Azzi couldn’t do anything but laugh with her. Of course Paige would give her the best orgasm of her life and her takeaway from the experience would be fashion advice. Azzi couldn’t argue with the idea, though. She sighed.

“As long as the chains stay on during sex,” she agreed.

“Hell yeah. High five, dude.” Azzi groaned and pushed Paige away.

“Shut up or I’m not helping you get off.” Paige shut up.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn women’s basketball #women's basketball #uconn #pazzi #pazzi smut #paige bueckers smut #azzi fudd smut

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middle-of-town · 2 days ago

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i have been read to filth well done

One of my favourite parts about autistic people is how you can use other peoples' reflections of them like an echolocation bullshit detector. Like they personally do not need to do shit for this to work, they just passively emit their own autistic vibe that bounces off every surface around them, and you can assess another person's level of self-awareness by how they reflect it back.

"Autistic people do not understand social hierarchy" nope, they understand you're supposed to be an authority here, but they won't politely pretend to respect you if they think you're incompetent.

"Autistic people do not understand humour" nope, they just don't politely pretend to laugh to humour you, and you are simply not funny.

"Autistic people are rude" nope, they just don't think it's polite to lie to you, and don't care about trying to tell you what they think you want to hear instead of telling you what they think.

"Autistic people sometimes have emotional meltdowns for absolutely no reason" nope, you're just insufferable to be around and the person with the lowest tolerance of your shit is simply the canary in the coal mine who breaks first.

#autism

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quarterlifekitty · 2 days ago

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I need absolutely pure filth about Rudy, just the most jaw dropping, pearl clutching smut. I need to know his favorite porn categories, his favorite toys, his favorite positions

All of it.

In a smutty and shameless manner

You know. Every time I think “this is it, it’s the fans of THIS character that are the most desperate and depraved” I’m proven wrong lol

cw: there’s kink here

I’m going to be a basic bitch and say he cannot live without eye contact. Like, more so than others. He actively dislikes doggy. He wants you looking at each other. Missionary, mating press, sitting on his lap while facing a mirror. And I’m gonna say something controversial maybe but I think he likes piledriver. Just seeing you so completely beneath him and taking what he gives you— it gets him hard as fuck.

First of all— amateur porn. He wants to see a real woman. He wants marks on the skin and rolls of fat. Bush. He just can’t derive any pleasure from smoothed down actresses with perfect hair and makeup. Second, he does this “trick”— almost always puts “big naturals” in the search. He can’t stand it when girls look too young in porn, and that term filters out all of that “barely legal” shit. As for the rest, it’s a mixed bag. Shibari, snowballing, heels, stockings, nails, overstim, size queen training and occasionally the tamest of CBT.

As for toys, I think he’s into fantasy style dildos because they just have such interesting shapes and can be soooooo challenging. Like he’d love to work you up enough to take bigger and bigger toys, especially knotted ones. Like the euphoria he gets from finally being able to slip the knot into your slicked up, dripping cunt, after multiple sessions of training? Unmatched.

I also think he’s a bit of an exhibitionist. Like he would enjoy the knowledge that you’re wearing your leather harness under your clothes, or controlling a vibrator remotely so he can watch you squirm and bite your lip when you’re out on a date together. Big fan of fucking in dressing rooms when you can manage it. Loves to finger fuck you while he’s driving. He just likes being able to keep such a straight face with the risk of being caught.

#writing #cod fanfic #cod #rudy parra #rudy parra x reader #rodolfo parra #Rodolfo parra x reader

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luxerians · 2 days ago

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The Last Mask (01)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 01 - An Invitation

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 02

In the dead of night, when most people were asleep, you found yourself running for your life. Your heart pounded violently as you sprinted through the poorly lit alleys. Every turn, every makeshift obstacle you created, failed to shake your pursuers. Their voices cut through the stillness:

“How long do you think you can keep this up?” one of them roared.

“You can’t hide forever, you bitch!” another spat, their words seething with anger.

You didn’t dare glance back. Fear propelled you forward, your mind singularly focused on escape. The narrow alleys, illuminated by flickering streetlights, offered little comfort. You weaved around piles of garbage and shoved a loose dumpster into their path, hoping to buy precious seconds.

But as you rounded a sharp corner, your heart sank. A loan shark was already there, standing in preparation. His eyes locked onto you, and before you could react, his hands gripped you with crushing force.

You screamed and fought to free yourself, but he slammed you to the ground. The rough concrete bit into your skin, and the acrid stench of the alley filled your nose. Panic surged as you writhed beneath his weight.

The others arrived moments later, their pounding footsteps signaling your doom. Their faces were shadows of fury and determination as they descended on you. Hands clamped around your arms and legs, pinning you in place despite your frantic attempts to break free. You kicked, clawed, and twisted, but their grip was unyielding.

“Stop struggling, or we’ll make this worse for you,” one growled, tightening his hold on your arm.

Pain flared through your limbs, but desperation kept you fighting. With one arm freed, you acted on instinct. Your hand dove into the pocket of your trench coat, fingers curling around the cold, heavy handle of the gun you had hidden there.

Shaking, you pulled it out and aimed blindly, squeezing the trigger.

The gunshot shattered the night, its sharp crack echoing off the brick walls. The men holding you jerked back, their grip loosening. You didn’t hesitate. You fired again. And again.

The loan sharks stumbled away in shock, their expressions frozen in disbelief. Some fell immediately, clutching at wounds, while others tried to flee. You kept firing, your trembling hands barely able to control the recoil. The alley became a chaotic blur of noise and motion until the gun’s chamber clicked, empty.

When the chaos subsided, the silence was deafening. You stood amidst the bodies, your chest heaving, your grip on the gun tight. Blood pooled around you, glistening in the faint light, mixing with the filth of the alley. The gun, once a tool of desperation, now felt unbearably heavy in your hands.

In the distance, the wail of sirens began to rise, faint but growing louder. The sound jolted you back to reality. There was no time to think, no time to process what you had done. You had to get out of there.

With a shaky breath, you forced your legs to move. One step, then another, until you were stumbling forward. Exhaustion clawed at you, but you couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when you had a little sister to take care of. You had to keep running. You had to survive.

You managed to flee before the cops arrived. Once you were on the crowded streets of Myeongdong, you tried to act normal and blend in with the bustling crowd. The neon lights and chatter of street vendors offered some cover, but your heart still raced. You tucked the gun deeper into the pocket of your trench coat, making sure its outline wasn’t visible.

You spotted the entrance to the subway station and quickly descended the stairs. The air down there was damp and heavy, filled with the faint hum of trains in the distance. You stood against the tiled wall, and scanned your surroundings. Nobody seemed to be watching you. No signs of the loan sharks, no suspicious figures lurking nearby. For the first time in hours, you allowed yourself a small, shaky breath.

Minutes passed, and just as you started to relax, a presence appeared beside you. You flinched, your body going stiff as if a jolt of electricity had shot through you. Your eyes darted to the side, and you saw him. A man in a crisp, tailored suit. His hair was neatly combed, his shoes polished to a shine. He looked out of place in the dingy subway station, like he had just stepped out of a boardroom. But it wasn’t his appearance that unsettled you. It was his smile. Calm and knowing, as if he’d just uncovered a secret you thought was buried.

“I apologize for startling you,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. “Are you alright?”

You stared at him, your suspicion immediate. Why was this stranger talking to you? What did he want? You said nothing, your silence deliberate. His smile didn’t falter.

“You seem like someone who could use some help,” he continued. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, a certainty that made you uneasy. “I have a proposition for you.”

Your shoulders tensed, but curiosity won over your hesitation. “What do you want?”

He reached into his pocket, and you stiffened, but all he pulled out was a square piece of folded red paper. It was a simple Ddakji tile.

“Ddakji game,” he said. “If you win, I’ll give you 10,000 won. If I win, I get to slap you, unless you can pay me 10,000 won. Simple, isn’t it?”

You blinked, taken aback. Of all the things he could have said, this was the last you expected. You wanted to laugh, to ask if he was joking, but his expression told you he wasn’t. The idea was ridiculous, but so was your situation. You were desperate.

“Why this all of a sudden?” you asked, though your resolve was already cracking. The man’s smile widened slightly.

“Because you need the money,” he said plainly, as if reading your thoughts. “And because I think you enjoy a little risk.”

He then pulled out a second one – a blue tile this time – from his pocket. He held the two of them up, waiting for your response. Your mind raced. You had no idea who this man was or why he was doing this, but he was right about one thing: you needed the money. And if losing meant nothing worse than a slap, it felt like a gamble worth taking.

You nodded. “Okay.”

The man nodded to the two tiles. “Choose one.”

You pressed your lips in a thin line before you took the blue tile. It felt heavier than it should. It felt like a proper Ddakji tile, not the D-I-Y one people usually made on a whim. Does he carry these everywhere?

He tossed the other tile onto the floor and stepped back.

“You go first,” he said, gesturing to the tile on the ground.

You crouched down, gripping the Ddakji tile tightly. You’d played this game as a kid, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Now, it felt like everything hinged on this one throw. Taking a deep breath, you raised your hand and slammed the tile down with all your strength.

But it wasn’t enough. The Ddakji tile on the floor barely moved, let alone flipped. You sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment as the man’s smile widened.

“A pity. Looks like it’s my turn,” he said, stepping forward and picking up his red tile. From then on, you decided to call him Mr. Suit in your mind as it seemed fitting for someone so strange yet composed.

Mr. Suit crouched down and adjusted his stance before slamming his Ddakji tile onto the ground. The impact was sharp and precise, flipping the tile on the floor with ease. You braced yourself as he stood, stepping closer to you.

Your heartbeat quickened. You squeezed your eyes shut, ready for the slap. But instead, you felt a light slap on your cheek. Surprised, you opened your eyes to see him grinning at you, his expression playful.

“Why do you look so surprised?” he asked teasingly. “I wouldn’t be rough on such a pretty face.”

Your cheeks instantly turned red. The compliment caught you off guard, a stark reminder of how long it had been since anyone had said something even remotely flattering to you. Years of overworking had left little room for anything else, let alone romantic experiences. You tried to shake off the flustered feeling, but it lingered.

“Let’s keep going,” he said, handing you your blue tile.

The game continued, and you focused hard on each throw, determined not to lose again. To your surprise, you managed to win a few rounds. With each victory, Mr. Suit handed over crisp bills, his demeanor as calm and collected as ever. By the time you’d played several rounds, you had earned a total of 70,000 won.

In the end, he handed you a card. The card was simple and it consisted of three different shapes with a phone number behind it.

“If you’re interested in more opportunities like this,” he said, “give it a call.”

You looked at the card, then back at him, unsure what to make of the situation. But before you could say anything, he tipped an imaginary hat, turned, and disappeared into the growing crowd, leaving you standing in the subway station in confusion.

You clutched the money and the card tightly, your mind racing with questions. Who was that man? And are there really other opportunities like that? Play a game and you get money? You thought.

You stared at the card for what felt like hours. Its plain design and embossed text had your full attention, though your mind was elsewhere. The same thoughts churned in your head during the train ride home, as you sat in silence with the card in your hand. Even when you finally made it back to your small apartment, you kept looking at it, the questions still swirling.

“Sis, you’re back!” a cheerful voice broke through your haze. Your twelve-year-old sister, Ji-yoo, came bounding into the room. She was all smiles, her hair tied into uneven pigtails. Despite the struggles you both faced, she always managed to stay positive.

“Oh, Ji-yoo,” you said, slipping the card into your pocket and forcing a smile. “How’s school today?”

“Today was fun!” she chirped, her grin widening. “I even learned a new game at school! It’s called Tuho. You’re good at it, right?”

You chuckled. “I do a little. Why?”

“Because I like it!” she said, dragging you toward the small dining table. “My friend showed me how it’s done and I thought it looks fun! Maybe you could teach me. Please?”

Her excitement was hard to resist. “Okay, I’ll teach you but first, help me take out the flowers in the plastic vase in my room. We don’t have a Tuho tong so that will do. For the arrows, we will use chopsticks.”

Ji-yoo’s eyes sparkled in excitement. “Okay!”

For the next hour, you taught her the basics of Tuho. Her laughter filled the room every time she failed to throw the chopsticks into the vase. For a little while, you forgot about the card and the stress weighing on your shoulders. Ji-yoo’s joy was infectious, and you found yourself genuinely enjoying the game.

When the evening grew late, you cooked dinner for the both of you, helped her with her homework and sent her to bed.

“Sis, are we going to visit mom and dad tomorrow?” she asked out of the blue as you pulled her blanket over her chest.

You smiled at her. “Yes, Ji-yoo. After your school, okay?”

Ji-yoo’s smile widened. “Okay! Good night, sis.”

“Sweet dreams, Ji-yoo.”

Once the apartment was quiet, the weight of reality returned. You sat on the edge of your bed and pulled the card out again. It felt heavier now, the simple embossed text almost daring you to act.

Was it really possible? Could you earn money just by playing games? The idea seemed absurd, but then again, so was the day you’d just had. You turned the card over in your hand, staring at the number like it might reveal some hidden secret.

The questions kept you awake long into the night, the card clutched tightly in your hand.

You decided to ignore the card for now. Life had to go on, and you couldn’t afford to be distracted. Your day after that evening returned to their usual grind – two part-time jobs and a constant, gnawing vigilance. You kept a close eye on your surroundings, scanning for any suspicious men. The image of the loan sharks still haunted you, and you knew they wouldn’t let the events in that alley slide. You had killed their men, and there would be consequences.

That late afternoon, you were standing outside Ji-yoo’s school, waiting as the last of the students spilled out into the crisp afternoon air. The playground buzzed with kids laughing and parents chatting. You spotted her instantly. Ji-yoo’s face lit up when she saw you, and she waved wildly, her tiny backpack bouncing with every step as she ran to you.

“Sis!” she yelled, crashing into your arms.

You hugged her. “How was school today?”

She pulled back, grinning. “We learned about space! Did you know Jupiter has sixty-seven moons?”

“Wow, sixty-seven?” you replied, feigning astonishment. “That’s so many, it’s like a whole moon party up there.”

Ji-yoo giggled, slipping her hand into yours as the two of you walked toward the bus stop. She chattered the entire way and you were grateful for it. It gave you something else to focus on, even if just for a moment.

The hospital loomed ahead as you approached. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight those days. Ji-yoo’s steps slowed as you neared the entrance, her grip on your hand tightening. She glanced up at you.

“Are they feeling better today?” she asked softly.

“We’ll see,” you said, squeezing her hand. “But they’ll be happy to see us, for sure.”

Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and faintly of something floral, like someone had tried to mask the sterility with fake cheerfulness. You navigated the corridors with practiced ease, nodding at nurses you had come to recognize. When you reached their room, you hesitated for a heartbeat before pushing the door open.

Your dad was asleep, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. The sight of him so still sent a pang through you. Faint bruises marked his cheeks and jaw, their muted colors a haunting reminder of what he’d endured. He’d always been the strong one, the one who could fix anything. Now, he looked so fragile.

Your mom, on the other hand, was awake. Her face brightened the moment she saw you both, though faint bruises shadowed her cheekbones and forehead, the discoloration stark against her pale skin.

“Oh, my girls!” she exclaimed, holding out her arms.

Ji-yoo didn’t need to be told twice. She let go of your hand and rushed to her side, throwing her arms around her as carefully as she could.

“Mommy, look! I brought you a picture I drew in class,” Ji-yoo said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her bag.

Your mom took it with a smile, studying the scribbled stars and planets. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. You’re going to be an artist one day.”

Ji-yoo beamed, settling into the chair beside her. You stayed back for a moment, letting them have their moment. Then your mom’s gaze shifted to you, her smile softening.

“Come here,” she said, patting the space beside her on the bed.

You sat down, careful not to disturb the IV line taped to her arm. She took your hand in hers, her fingers cool and fragile.

“How are you, really?” she asked, her voice low enough that Ji-yoo, now engrossed in pulling the white strands from your sleeping father, didn’t hear.

You knew exactly what she was asking. Her question was about everything. Your health, how your day went, and also about the debts. The loan sharks. The weight you’d been carrying alone.

“I’m okay,” you said, keeping your voice steady.

Her eyes searched yours, not quite believing you. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

“I’ve got it under control,” you lied, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You just focus on getting better. That’s what matters.”

“I know this treatment must be expensive,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “How are you going to pay this too?”

You hesitated, knowing she wasn’t wrong. “It’s not something you need to worry about, mom.”

Her grip on your hand tightened slightly. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’re struggling. With the bills, the loans… everything.”

You sighed. “I’m managing. It’s hard, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Figuring it out isn’t enough,” she pressed. “I don’t want you to do anything rash. No matter what, don’t sell your body.”

You nodded. “I know, mom. I could find money in many other ways than that. I just have to… work hard. It takes time. Right now, what matters is you and dad getting better. Don’t worry too much about me.”

She studied your face for a long moment before nodding slowly. The worry didn’t leave her eyes, but she didn’t push further.

Before she could say more, Ji-yoo’s laughter filled the room, drawing both of your attention. Your dad was awake now, a faint smile tugging at his chapped lips as Ji-yoo animatedly pointed to her drawing.

You took a deep breath, letting the moment wash over you. For now, it was enough to be there, together. The rest – the debts, the threats, the impossible weight – could wait until tomorrow or so on.

Two days passed without incident. Then, on a night like any other, you finished your shift at the convenience store and headed home. The walk back to your cramped apartment was quiet. The streets were empty, and for a moment, you let yourself believe you were safe. But the unease in your chest never really went away.

When you got home, something felt off. An envelope was waiting on the floor, just inside the door. Ji-yoo’s soft humming floated from her room, unaware of your arrival or the tension that gripped you. You bent down, picked up the envelope, and tore it open.

Inside were printed images on small sheets of paper. The sight hit you like a punch. It was you, captured in the dark alley that night – firing shots, bodies crumpling, blood pooling beneath them. The photos were grainy but damning.

Your hands shook as you unfolded the letter that came with them. The words were typed, cold and deliberate:

“You owe us. Pay up, or face the consequences. Here are your options: We report you to the police and let you explain these photos. Or we come to collect you ourselves. If that doesn’t motivate you, consider this: your little sister might just inherit your debt. She seems like a strong girl. We’re sure she’d manage.”

Your stomach churned. It wasn’t just a threat. It was a promise. They knew where you lived. They knew about Ji-yoo.

The envelope slipped from your hands, landing on the floor. Ji-yoo’s humming continued, light and carefree, completely unaware of the storm brewing in your chest. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to breathe. You had to think. You had to act. Most of all, you had to protect her.

Mr. Suit’s words came back to you. He had promised a way out – earn money just by playing games. At the time, it sounded absurd, but now, it felt like your only option. The debt, the threats, all of it had consumed your life. You couldn’t let it take Ji-yoo too.

After dinner, you waited until Ji-yoo was busy with her homework. She sat at the small table, humming softly as she worked. Once you were sure she wouldn’t interrupt, you went to your room and locked the door. The card was in your pocket. You pulled it out and stared at the number on the back. Your hands trembled as you dialed.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

“Hello,” a calm, measured voice answered.

You swallowed hard. “I… got your card a couple of days ago.”

There was a brief pause. “Do you wish to participate in the game?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“If you wish to participate, please state your name and birthdate.”

“It’s [Your Name]. I was born on [Your Birthdate].”

“Understood. Tomorrow night, at midnight, be at the bus stop near XXXX. A vehicle will pick you up.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving you sitting there in silence. The phone slipped from your hand, and you stared at the floor. Whatever you had signed up for, there was no turning back now.

The next morning (Saturday), you decided to spend the day with Ji-yoo. When you told her, her face lit up with excitement. It was rare for the two of you to have a day together, and she practically bounced around the apartment, planning everything she wanted to do.

You spent the morning playing games, watching her favorite shows, and laughing at her silly jokes. For a while, it felt normal. The weight on your shoulders lifted just enough to let you breathe.

As the sun began to set, you knew it was time. You sat Ji-yoo down on the couch, your heart heavy.

“Ji-yoo,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I need to go away for a little while.”

Her small face twisted in confusion. “Why? Where are you going?”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I have something important I need to take care of. It might take some time, but I need you to stay with Aunt Min-hee for a while. She’ll make sure you’re safe and taken care of.”

Ji-yoo’s eyes filled with questions, but she simply nodded. “Okay. But you’ll come back, right?”

Your chest ached at her quiet acceptance. You pulled her into a tight hug, holding her like you never wanted to let go. “Of course I’ll come back. I promise. And when I do, I want to hear about all the new things you’ve learned, alright?”

She sniffled against your shoulder, then nodded. “Alright.”

You leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You are a good girl, Ji-yoo.”

Whatever came next, you’d face it head-on. For her and for your parents.

NEXT : Chapter 02

Story Masterlist

I would love to know what you think so feel free to comment as long as you could!

Leave a comment on the masterlist post to be added to the taglist.

#hwang in ho #hwang in ho x reader #hwang in ho fanfic #in ho #the front man #player 001 #squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game s2

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aimorhalynx · 23 hours ago

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need their messiness

the grime,sweat,blood,and absolute filth of themm

i just know they hit that one spot. every time. each thrust.

#the walking dead #rick grimes #daryl dixon #negan smith #would suck them clean

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kasztanek86 · 24 hours ago

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Anytime I watch any horror movie/series I try to figure out what Avatar it might be from TMA. It's fun and let's me make even more TMA references.

Go and try it, it's awesome really and I'd love to hear some ideas 🙏🙏

#Btw The Human Centipide would be The Filth #tma podcast #tma #tma mention #horror #horror movies #the magnus archives #the avatars: magnus archives #yayyy

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darkartfinds · 1 day ago

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*D∆n1.F!LtH* by Pierre.D

#Dani filth #psychedeviant_art #Pierre.D #*D∆n1.F!LtH*#Cradle of filth #Order of the dragon #dark art #dark fantasy #gothic art #dark fantasy art #Gothic #Charcoal

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haydenthewitch · 2 days ago

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unstoppable force ( Remus and Janus flirting with logan in an attempt to fluster him because nobody has ever flustered logan before) meet immovable object ( logan reading them to filth, flirting back and essentially dog walking them)

#hayden yaps #intruloceit #it's my favorite headcannon that while remus+janus are considered “good” at flirting they rarely ever had anyone to flirt with so they have #no practice. meanwhile logan has been “around the block” a couple times and he absoultly reads their each and every move #reads them to filth on exactly what they are into + uses that information like the weapon it is #sanders sides #logan sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders

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vunblr · 14 hours ago

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I come back to this filth time to time, he is so

Needy Dark!Bucky

Feel like I should issue a warning for this - PLS scroll all the way past this if this isn’t your thing. Maybe this should have stayed in the drafts or be deleted. But I can’t help the absolute headlock, deception, corruption, dub con, mommy and innocence kink has on me rn.

This is fucked and dirty.

Heed the warnings.

Please.

Imagine dark!Bucky taking advantage of your sweetness. You’re so soft and kind with him, helping him adjust to the new world, hardly realizing he’s damn well adjusted already and doesn’t need anyone to baby him.

But he loves when you do.

Maybe it’s because of all the shit he’s been through, touch starved, deprived of care and softness, that’s how he justifies the need to be utterly babied and taken care of by you. Fuck you’re so soft when you do it, cooing and walking him through everything, as if he doesn’t know a thing, he’s poor little fried brain.

It started with him pouting at dinner, happy to have you feed him instead. Sometimes you help him wash his hair so the shampoo doesn’t sting his eyes, sitting on the edge of the tub with a bowl of water, not minding one bit your clothes would get wet in the process. You even hold him in his sleep like a little boy because his nightmares are so scary.

He’d taken to calling you mommy when no one else was around.

But then he wanted more.

So much more.

Seguir leyendo

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scorpioriesling · 1 day ago

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An Enticing Offer

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Lucien x reader

Warning(s): 18+, mdni, nsfw

Summary: Your roomate was a lot of things; kindhearted, hard-working, handsome... but, he was other things too. Messy. Maybe a little irresponsible. But, most of all -- deliciously, enticing.

SR’s Note: Oye... everytime I write smut, I feel nyyyyassty, LOL. Anywho, many thanks for @hardcoremarvelfan for the request -- I present to you, absolute Lucien filth using prompts #2, #12, #23, #71, and #74 from my promt request list. (; Enjoy.

Tags: @mellowmusings @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @kitsunetori @velarisdusk (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The late afternoon sun streamed through the wide kitchen windows in your apartment, the golden glow illuminating the otherwise darkened space. Heaving the brown paper bag onto the small kitchen table, you sighed. Sure, an apartment that overlooked the Sidra was quite a luxury in your eyes -- but for the amount you paid each month to rent this place (well, paid half of), you'd sometimes wished they'd included curtains.

Add that to next week's grocery list. You kept forgetting to pick some up when you went to the market.

You began removing the miscellaneous items from the bag -- fresh vegetables, canned goods, that disgusting cereal your roomate requested -- and putting them away. When the mid-shelf in your pantry was full, you groaned in frustration; the top shelf was too high to reach, and your very tall, very able roomate would not be home until tomorrow.

Groceries on the table it is. And... maybe, a stepstool, added to next week's grocery run.

You were fortunate enough to secure a place like this, not to mention the roomate that came with it -- you'd met a few years ago and became fast friends, and living together seemed like a wise choice when you'd both finally abandoned your childhood homes.

A good choice indeed; having Lucien around brought you comfort, as you never liked being alone anyways. Not to mention, he was kind hearted, funny, and quite easy on the eyes. You tried to ignore the stir inside when he'd so casually walk around without a shirt on, or emerge from the bathroom in only a towel...

It was his place too, rather.

You groaned in frustration when you spotted the dirty pans on the stove, inspecting the residue on one as you picked it up.

If your roomate was one thing, it was messy.

"Lucien," you grumbled aloud. Tossing the pans into the dishwasher, you shoved it closed and turned on the wash cycle. How hard was that?

This happened quite often; Lucien, not cleaning up after himself. And you, trailing after him with a broom and dustpan.

You paused, listening for another soft sound over the rumble of the dishwasher. Straining your ears, you couldn't quite make it out -- the muffled, mubling sound over the running water.

Brows furrowing in confusion, a flicker of fear coursed through you. Sure, when Lucien was here, you'd never felt afraid in your apartment; but, since he'd left on a particularly gruelling mission only a few days ago, you couldn't help the irrational paranoia that made an appearance every so often.

Taking a timid step toward the hallway, you heard it again -- louder, this time. A soft, breathless sound amid the falling water. Your breath caught in your throat; someone was surely inside your home.

You walked faster, soft steps toward the bathroom door; sure enough. The water was running, and someone was inside.

Had he gotten home early?

"L-Lucien?" You squeaked. Your voice came out less confident than you'd hoped, and your hand shook as you reached for the doorhandle.

"Y/N... oh Gods, yes..."

Your outstretched palm halted. The voice was surely his, but what in the Hell was he doing in there?

"I'm... I'm coming in."

Your voice was barely above a whisper as you grabbed the doorhandle, twisting and shoving inside the small bathing room. Steam blasted against your face, and you coughed once as you waved it away.

The mumblings stopped.

And the shower curtain flew open.

The two of you shared a shout of shock as your eyes met, his face framed by his long, yet soaking, red hair. You both stared at one another in silent surprise for a beat, before both speaking at once.

"What the Hell are you doing here?"

"Why didn't you knock?"

The moment of clarity hits you, and Lucien wipes a hand over his dewy face.

"Y/N... by the Cauldron, why would you come in when I'm literally showering?" Your brows narrow, and you cross your arms over your chest. You don't miss him pulling the shower curtain in front of his body to cover himself -- but it's too late.

Your cheeks pinken.

"I... I didn't know, you were home, yet." You stammer, your cheeks deepening in color. "I heard someone in here, and you were still gone and-"

"And, what, you thought a stranger was using our shower?" Lucien chuckles. You feel your face heating even more, slight irritation bubbling beneath the surface as your friend seems to find this situation amusing.

"Well, I-"

He continues to laugh, raking a hand through his wet hair. Small droplets of water cascade over his shoulders, running down and over the exposed area of his pectoral muscles.

You huff. "If I must be perfectly clear," You glare. "I heard something going on in here other than just the shower." His eyebrows raise in an amused stare as his eyes scan over your face. Your very embarassed, face.

"Uh huh, and what do you think you heard?"

You huff, trying to look anywhere but him as his gaze intensifies.

"I-I thought you weren't even supposed to be home yet," you stammer, attempting to change the topic.

"Got back early," he deadpans. "I just can't believe you really thought it was anyone but me in here." He shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

"I suppose it's because of all the moaning and ... and, and words coming from inside this room." You try to remain confident, but falter as you notice his gaze lowering to your chest. Bad day to opt for a tank top.

"There's nothing wrong with relieving stress -- why is that so unbelieveable?" He quirks a brow.

You feel the familiar swirl inside your abdomen.

You swallow hard. "I guess... it was quite unbelieveable to think you'd be the one in here, saying, and... doing those things." He chuckles, and you catch sight of his erection pushing against the shower curtain. You quickly look away.

"More likely a stanger, than me, hm?" He tuts.

You gulp. "I suppose so."

Its quiet for an awkward moment, you trying not to stare at your half-covered gorgeous roomate as his eyes trail you up and down; so agonizingly slow.

"Y/N... you don't have to pretend to not stare." He chuckles. "In fact, you could join me-"

Your mouth opens in shock. "Lucien Vanserra! You're not seriously suggesting that--"

"Oh, I am." He grins, like a feline about to pounce on a little mouse. You shake your head in disbelief, the swirling in your stomach a full on tornado at this point.

You scoff, folding your arms over your chest once more. "What, you need me to help you?" You ask. He shrugs, moving to close the shower curtain. Taking a timid step forward, you begin to shrug off your shorts before thinking too long about it.

"Only if you're willing," he muses, his voice once again muffled by the cloth.

"What an enticing offer," you quip, glancing to the mirror at your reflection.

Your cheeks burn, the sensation in your abdomen becoming near unbearable. Were you really about to fuck your roomate? So many nights you'd spent together, doing seemingly harmless things; watching movies, reading together, preparing dinner.

Many of those nights, you went to bed with your hand between your thighs.

Pulling back the shower curtain lightly, you let out a nervous laugh as he came into full view. His back was to you, which made it easier to slip in behind him.

He turned, his eyes immediately wavering from your face to trace over every curve you had to offer. His bottom lip drew lightly between his teeth.

"Seems like you could use my help," you chatter, nerves propelling your mouth to move. "If you clean yourself as well as you clean your dishes-"

His hand gripped your waist, the other grabbing the back of your neck as he pulled you to him. His mouth crashed into yours, his lips moving and gliding along yours alike as he devoured your kiss. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping and tracing along the toned muscle there. It was only after his tongue had slipped in that you let out a soft moan, and he pulled back from you.

"Y/N... I-" His words were cut off as you reached between you two, gripping his hardened length that had been pushing against your stomach. His breath caught, and his eyes stared for only a moment where your hand held him before looking directly down into your eyes.

"Please..." he breathed out, his pupils blown wide with desire. You moved your hand up and down, how you'd fantasized doing many times before. You could feel him hardening more in your hand, and he reached one of his hands up to play with your nipple. You gasped, and he leaned back against the shower wall as you sped up your minstrations.

"I... I... oh Gods, Y/N," he breathed out. His other hand reached behind you, his fingers pressing into the curve of your ass where it met your thigh. You smirked, looking up at him in this state.

"You, what, pretty boy?" His eyes opened as he looked to you, doe-eyed and putting on a show. "Can't even finish a sentence as I jerk you off, hmm?"

His brows furrow, his teasing from earlier seeming to finally catch up with him. His one hand leaves your butt, gripping your wrist that pumps him; the other one clasps your throat.

"Don't act so innocent," he growls, and you clench your thighs, his tone sending a wave of heat straight to your clit.

"Get on your knees."

You make quick work of lowering yourself onto the shower floor, the warmed tile pressing against your knees as you sit back on them. His hand grabs your hair in a makeshift ponytail, forcing you to look up at him. His free hand yanks on his erection -- a sight worth salivating over.

"Open that fuckin' mouth."

Happy to oblige, you open, laying your tongue out flat for him to see. He groans, his fist pumping his dick faster.

You lean forward, your tongue meeting the bottom of his length as he removes his hand. You replace it with your own near the base, holding him steady as you lick a fat stripe along his cock. Continuing your teasing, you trace your tongue along the vein running from the base to his tip; all the while lightly circling your hand at the bottom.

"Mmmm... 'love the way you taste," You groan, and gasp when he grabs your head with both hands.

"Don't... stop, the teasing," he pants, pushing your ehad closer to his throbbing dick. You take one breath before shoving it in your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

"Fuck," he grunts, as you start moving forward and back along his angry length. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him hard as his hips start thrusting against you.

"Mhm... fuck, Y/N, taking it so good," he groans, his grip on your hair tightening. You move quicker, his hips fucking his cock into your mouth harder and harder -- so hard you gag. He throws his head back with an unrestrained moan, and you gaze up at him through your tear-filled eyes. The sight of him, so vulnerable and needy like this...

You reach your free hand between your legs, your fingers finding the buzzing bundle of nerves near your core. He looks down at you once more, his length twitching inside your mouth.

"Yes... yes, play with that pussy," he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as he tries to prolong his orgasm. "Fuck... oh, fuck-"

He yanks your hair, pulling your mouth flush against his pelvis as he releases, hot spurts of cum coating the back of your throat. You cough as he gasps, yanking his dick out of your mouth before leaning down to grab your jaw hard.

"Swallow all of it."

You do, gulping before gasping for air. He leans back against the shower wall, smirking at you as he offers a hand to help you up. You reach up, positioning the showerhead so the water hits you directly.

Bathing in the warmth for a few minutes, your breath quickens as your roomate reaches for you, his deft fingers tracing along the curve of your waist before one reaches your throbbing core. Your breath hitches, and you grab onto his shoulders as he looks to you with pure lust in his eyes.

"Lucien..." you say breathlessly. "You... you already came-"

"Mhm," he says, his tone low as he presses a kiss just below your ear. "But you didn't."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #a court of silver flames #acosf #a court of frost and starlight #lucien vanserra #lucien acotar #acofas #lucien x reader #acotar smut #acowar #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #lucien smut #pro lucien #vanserra brothers #lucien vandaddy #read more

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