#milky nail art

[prettyholic7]

Merry Christmas!!

This is a Precure Sexret Exchange gift for @weatherdino !! You said that you liked Cure Star, Cure Milky and Cure Wonderful, napping and the colour orange so I combined all those; the Cures are just chilling on a giant cloud plush! :3 I hope that you like it and I wish you happy holidays!!🎀💖💚

[m4g0rtz]

Today's manicure finally uses stamping! 🎉 I was keeping it simple for myself by just using one stamp and I used a nail art technique that I was super comfortable doing as the base. The result is this really funky manicure. 😁 I also wanted to include a couple pictures of the stamping process for anyone that is curious. A huge thank you again goes out to @lesmotsdemoi for the supplies and encouragement. 💖 This is Guilty Pleasure, Plastic, Kushy and Sky High from Cirque, Not Milky White from Holo Taco and a black stamping polish from Twinkle T that doesn't have the name on the bottle. 😂🤪🤷‍♀️

[cravinganescape]

[streetkittyclaws]

🧸🌺freestyle shorties🌺🧸

((used ibd building gel in cover pink + born pretty gel polishes + saviland top coat + sparkly bear and heart charms from my lil collection))

[screampied]

✧ ⁺˳ cw. fem! reader, unprotected, established relationship, mıssionary, praise, brēeding, petnames, mdni.

nanami who always finds himself in your sheets and between your legs after a long day at work.

“think i want a baby, ‘ken.”

and he took those six simple words personally. nanami’s giving you slow, languid strokes, rolling his hips against yours. he groans at your nails clawing all down his back. as you briefly meet his gaze, you’re met with the most kindest, fawn eyes. all you saw in them were nothing but pools of love with a sprinkle of lust. “oh,” he huskily grunts, hearing the sloshing wet stretch deep into your cunt. he’s stunned for a bit before going deep into imagination. the thought of making your cute tummy all swollen and rounded, it makes him gnaw on his lip like candy.

“my love,” he swallows thickly, a familiar lump forming into the back of his throat. nanami leans into you, his rhythm growing more and more sloppy. you’re jerking back, an ankle of yours sliding down the red lines of his back and he grunts. “c- careful now, might give you more than just one.” and he could have came right then and there—all from relishing in your beauty. he’s never laid his eyes upon anything more pretty.

your knees then get righteously shoved up to your chest. soft, browned eyes flicker at the valley between your breasts before glancing back toward your shimmery spit-slicked lips. you moan, tossing your arms over his shoulders. “i missed my girls,” he groans, stuffing his face between your chest for a moment. your breath immensely hitches at the feeling up him licking a single stripe, still deeply plummeting such inches in and out of your weeping cunt. “they missed me too,” he purrs in a raspy coo, speaking to your tits, and that’s when he latches his plump lips against your perky nipple for a short second. “m-mh.”

the air felt hot — humid, feverish even with each breeze that passes. as warm, kinetic bodies clash against each other at individual hyper strokes, he pries himself off of you. nanami’s jaw tightens so much from your soddened grip that it almost aches. “sweetheart,” he hisses, peering his eyes down to see the milky white ring already coating around his base. it’s probably been hours, hours of you prettily sprawled out for him with your legs open. docile, tawny irises lovingly gaze into you as a thumb of yours strum down his neatly ruffled undercut. “f- fuck, i want you so bad. missed my girl. missed my pussy.”

“she’s missed you too ‘ken,” you pull him into a hot kiss, tasting the mint that lingers on his breath. and as his thrusts grew more sloppy, you whine, feeling his jutting cock kiss against your most sweetest spots. your heart flutters, slithering its way around his waist in a secure lock. “fuck me kento, d- don’t stop, pleaseee.”

“never gonna stop for you, my love,” he huffs, chest heaving in and out. the more he stares at you, the more he falls in love.

through glossed eyes that shimmer with such infatuation—he’s taking in your beauty, your fervor.

nanami loves more than anything to just gawk at you, watching as your eyes droop, your neck crane, and even the way your brows crease into a furrow due to such rapturing pleasure. only he could make you feel this way—you and him both knew that. nobody knew your body like the back of their hand except nanami. your body was his personal canvas, he’s always loved to decorate it and paint it with various, chaste kisses.

to him, you were art. he’s hitting you deep, blurbs and blurbs of whimpers dragging out of your throat until it sounds like inaudible meaningless babbles. so pretty,

repeatedly, the base of his cock perfectly hits against there, leaving you with your jaw hanging open and your entire body being stuck into a limited dimwitted state. he fucks you silly every time, you whimper as a lightening pulse from his cock twitches inside of you, plugging you full.

over and over and over,

nanami blows into your mouth, and you hear a throaty chuckle before he presses yet another wet kiss against your lips. “wanna see you nice ‘n plump s-so bad. gonna give you triplets, my sweet.” and you’re just stupefied, barely a single thought was stored up into your empty, vacant brain. nanami sucks against your bottom lip, still steadily rocking his way into your sloppy cunt. you feel the juncture of his hips mercilessly thrust its way into you raw and you gasp. “right . . here?”

pleasure overtakes you so good that you barely even noticed he was talking to you. you’re too busy moaning your head off and a soft smile pierces against both sides of his lips. a few faint dimples poke against his skin before he grabs your chin. “sweetheaaaart, ‘m talkin’ to you, hey,” and once your eyes meet his mid-thrust, his heart swarms up with love and desire. “there we go. atta girl, yeah. ‘s this spot? this feel good?”

“y- yes,” you whimper, nodding eagerly. he was so big and thick, the prolongated stretch had you drooling. nanami glances at your hand. gingerly bringing it toward his lips, he kisses it, giving it a tender mwah. “kento, ‘m gonna cum a-again.”

“i know, pretty,” he groans, grabbing onto your hand. giving it a firm squeeze. you do the same, interlocking a bundle of fingers with his. his grip was gentle and warm, frantic heartbeat haphazardly picking up speed the more you get a feel of his familiar touch once more. nanami’s always slow with you,

he doesn’t wanna rush this — he hadn’t dreamt of it. already feeling you tighten around him, he invades a strip of your sensitive neck with a plethora of passionate, amorous kisses. “you always taste the same,” and you moan, sobbing cunt gripping down on him so good that it whimpers out a pitchy squelch of its own. his lolled twitching tongue licks against the edge of your shoulder blade once more and your back arches in ecstasy.

he’s never been more in love, with your body arching up backwards at his sweet, sweet hits, you were so close to becoming undone. every pivot of nanami’s hips snap you back to reality before you whine out a needy mewl, tangled digits combing through his unkempt, blond strands. “kento, fuuuuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

“together, my l-love,” his voice falters, and his adam’s apple starts to bob. each delicious thrust of his collapses into your body in such mirroring sync. the rapid, frenzied movements were in complete harmony and beads of running sweat sticks against each skin. nanami gruffly groans, preparing to get milked again, you always did it so so well. squeezing his eyes shut, both broad hands cling onto your hips as he grinds against your core. “c’mon, make a mess on me. ‘m gonna clean you up, promise. give it to me, please.”

your moans were so harmonic, each sound that left your throat coming out to be more elongated. with his cock pounding in and out, he starts to slow his pace down — seeping his teeth into your tender collarbone softly. sharp tips of your fingernails continue to paw at the beefiness of his biceps before within seconds, it happens.

with your lips forming into a lewd circular shape, you’re creaming all down his thickset of a shaft. “kentoooo,” you whine out, feeling your soaked walls clench all around him. he holds you tight, allowing you to form into a puddled mess before he shortly follows. nanami groans, tossing his head forward before a translucent ring bubbles around his heavy base. it comes out in oozing spurts, hot cum pouring into your womb raw.

“ngh, always have me bein’ such a mess for you,” he grunts, pretty arched brows curling up together. nanami sucks at the air, witnessing as your legs grow numb, gluing against his skin. “ah, ‘s gonna be a lot. hold still ‘n take it. take it like a good girl,” and he leans into you, cupping the curvature of your face. “make me proud, baby. thaaaaat’s it. eyes on me, eyes on kento.”

nanami feels a wave of drowsiness dawn over him as he stills himself inside of you. he’s panting right with you, a thumb hooks a strand of hair back toward your face. a school of butterflies flutter inside of you as he’s still dumping a sticky load of velvety thin ropes into your greedy pussy. it’s deeply spewing down alongside of your thighs as you wrap your arms around his neck. “i- i love you ‘ken.”

“i love you more,” he whispers, leaning in to pepper kisses all over your face. he hums at the tiny pout that’s displayed on your lips. you’re underneath him, succumbing into such an orgasmic state that you could barely keep your lashes open. nanami’s not moving anymore but he’s still buried balls deep. a big clammy hand ghosts over your tummy before he nips at your chin. “you’re gonna be such a pretty mommy,” and with a final kiss, you feel him slowly lifting up your leg, tossing it over his shoulder.

and as you gasp, watching him switch positions— nanami then pulls out a wedding ring, sliding it over your bare finger. “but you’d be an even prettier wife.”

[anxiously-scared]

why would you tag your post something it is absolutely not

[prael]

Pliancy

Kinktember Day 4: Dollification

ILLIT Park Minju x male reader smut

words: 6,488 Kinktember Masterlist

Art is eternal. Who was it that once said that a thing of beauty is a joy forever? Was it Byron? Was it Yeats? Who cares. But that line, however trite, does kind of get the concept down, really, as clichéd and insipid as it sounds.

Minju, too, is a joy forever, with her soft face, her sweet body, and her delicate touch. On this, I will allow you an image: she was the absolute pinnacle of girlhood, the perfect blending of innocence and wanton sexiness. When you pressed her slender wrists down into the sheets of her bed with those pale, thin fingers and pinned her slender body with your cock, you became one with a living, breathing piece of high art. The feeling of that, ah, that is something you cannot ever convey. And that's probably how it started, your obsession with her; she was beautiful and delicate and utterly desirable. She had all the loveliness of a porcelain figurine; just looking at her could arouse you, bring about your lusts and make your mouth dry up.

But there is something, and you realise this, something both primal and shameful, about wanting to sully that image of innocence. Not, of course, that your feelings towards Minju are wholly visceral—you do love her, and genuinely so. The things you do may imply something different, a detachment from her as a person if someone were looking in from the outside, but just as you assured her, it's an act born out of admiration. It's an act out of devotion.

To dollify the living, breathing, loving, feeling organism called Minju, then to make her merely an object for your desires. Ah, there's something wonderfully, gloriously filthy in that—the violation and the liberation. In all those actions and thoughts, you can be sure, is that undercurrent of perverseness and lust. Your lips tracing across Minju's navel is an act of passion, one to express the fullness and warmth that has bloomed inside your chest. Your hands gripping her thighs so tight that they leave deep, crimson fingerprints on the skin is an act of passion too—one to express a primal need.

When it all starts, Minju, a girl so usually full of energy and vivacity, is demure and quiet; she sits in this stoic way in front of you, knees together and her hands resting on her thighs, just below the table. The table holds the tools of your art: hairclips, mascara, lip gloss, nail polish and everything else. She waits, as she always does, in silent expectation.

Minju wears the outfit you laid out for her that afternoon. The fabrics are light and flowing, cotton in a milky off-white colour hugging her upper body and a linen shirt whose billowy sleeves hang around her slender arms; at the wrists, she keeps the cuffs rolled up. Cotton shorts, equally soft, equally neutral in colour, held to her small waist by a ribbon as a makeshift belt. All of it was chosen specifically by you—it's all so very angelic, and comfortable. Innocent.

You set about your work, asking her to place a hand on the table. Nails take the longest to dry so you start there: you paint the end of each of her slender fingers one at a time, taking great care, letting her rest her hand in the palm of your own as you go through the motion. Whisper-like strokes of the brush over the thin keratin in a pastel shade, the pink of newly-blossomed cherry flowers. A compliment to her fair complexion. 

One hand done, you raise it closer to your mouth and gently blow over the fingertips, to quicken their drying. Her hand, in yours, is ever so small. So petite. You remark this, smiling, and her expression—wide-eyed and quietly attentive—softens. It's a sight so adorable; how the ends of her lips upturn as if you've said something exceptionally touching. That's the thing with Minju; you just never quite get used to how much trust and affection is conveyed in those big, soft eyes.

Not long until the other hand is done, perfect crisp painting without a single smudge, or mistake.

You screw in the brush, then stand to move the table aside, you pull it away from her and then push it away. You kneel at her feet, hand resting gently on a small calf. You lift a leg, then draw your hand down it, to her heel. Bare feet, too, are a marvel in and of themselves: smooth skin over arched bones. Like all good things, it's imperfect; she's a dancer after all, still, she takes all the care to moisturise and you take all the care to massage them.

Now, Minju is ticklish, always has been, so when you take hold of her foot in preparation to paint her nails, she struggles not to break composure, and yet a cute little smirk betrays her. With one hand, you hold it steady; with the other, you reach to the table and draw the brush from the pot of white paint. White like the brightest snow, a winter's morn. You make slow, even strokes, over her nails, starting with the big toe and making your way down the digits, till her little feet are thoroughly and beautifully made up.

She flinches occasionally, under your touch, but with great care, you never make a mistake. No stain on her flesh. Repeated for her other foot too, each followed by a patient period of gently blowing, which sees her struggle against the tickling of her flesh even more. This time, she moves, almost unable to help it—and you know that to admonish her would not be the gentlemanly thing.

"It's okay Minju. Relax," you tell her, softly, as she takes a steadying breath, "that's it. Good."

It is here where you see a glow of pleasure and a hint of a smile on her pretty, youthful face, at hearing words of praise from you. This you know well: to Minju, your affirmations have an almost spiritual significance. In all the time you have known her, she has yearned to do well, to make others around her happy, to gain approval and affection, and as someone important in her life, this sentiment extends to you.

"My angel," you call her, not for the first time, and definitely not for the last. You lean close to place a gentle peck of your lips against her leg, just above the ankle, which causes her to stir. But that's okay, a moment of weakness is ever expected. You shift away from her leg, letting the soft flesh slip from your hand, and admire the neat work you have done so far. "There we go."

You bring your chair close to her, so you can sit, knee to knee across from her and set to work on her pretty features. First, you frame her face by clipping back the locks of fine honey-brown that threatened to obscure her eyes. Then you take the lip gloss in a soft rose colour, and a slender, synthetic-haired brush, and begin the work of accentuating her lips. Start at the top and glide over the curve that runs along her cupid's bow. Define the fine edges and then coat, to treat yourself to a shimmering pink glow; a shine over the otherwise natural look.

"Perfect. Oh, how I want to kiss them."

Minju doesn't say a word but the look in her eye speaks all the same, 'I wish you would do it.'

She remains still as you take hold of the thin eyeliner pencil in one hand and Minju's chin with the other, carefully positioning the tip under the lash line, and drawing it slowly, ever-so-carefully. Drawing a light, curved line to the side, first on her right, and then on her left. Do the same, light and clean, under the bottom lashes, being extra sure to define her creases.

Her eyes, as you study them, are so rich and vivid in colour that they command all of your attention and all of your efforts. So you work carefully, deliberately; being this close to her means you can see each speck, each mote in those deep, earthy brown irises. This intimacy, the face-to-face nearness of it all, brings on a unique vulnerability: when she closes her eyes next, to allow you to apply shadow to her lids, Minju puts herself at your mercy.

Minju's lips part and a small but noticeable hitch of her breath follows as you pull yourself away and admire your work. She has this kind of seductive natural pout—soft, shapely. Something alluring that the angles of her mouth lend her. As you sweep blush powder over her cheeks with a fine, oval-shaped brush, she utters a soft question, "How does it look?"

You bring a finger to rest against the fullness of her cheek, letting it trace along her soft flesh, down her jaw, and under her chin—before bringing it upwards, a physical prompting, to make her lift her chin higher. "Perfect. Always."

It occurs to you, as you define her eyebrows in quick, practised strokes, that for all the work you put into her, the inhuman focus and the undivided attention, this effort is nothing against the absolute, undying beauty that is Park Minju. It's a sort of colour-by-numbers deal; with all the perfect lines drawn out, it's up to you—a mock amateur—to simply embellish, to exaggerate, what is already there. To add shadow, light, and life.

You finish your work creating ('Creating' is the wrong word, more so, refining) the perfect doll. Minju keeps still, and patient. Beautiful.

"Precious girl."

By her earlobe, just below the jaw, there is a spot. The most perfect, sensitive area, to which you bow your head. Close your eyes. Place your lips. You kiss this spot, slowly, dragging your lips against her flesh, across it, revelling in the delicate softness. Revelling in her soft little moan, muffled only by pursed lips.

You push your chair back, and stand, looking down at her from above. You draw the clips back from her hair and it falls back into the perfect place. You circle around her once, slow, methodical. Taking all of her in, marvelling.

The greatest treasure in all the world. A masterpiece.

She follows your every guidance as you pull her to her feet. After all, she is, for tonight, nothing more than a doll. Pliable. Openly, and explicitly, subservient. You turn her and position her before a full-length mirror set in the far corner of her room. There she stands, arms at her side, staring back at you with doe-like, innocent eyes. There you stand, tall, strong behind her, hands on her arms.

"Perfect. You really are the most precious girl."

Your grip on her upper arms is gentle but firm as you ease her forward into a bend at the hips, tilting her towards the mirror as you place her into a pose. Fingers playing lightly down her limbs, like stroking the keys on the piano, or the strings on a guitar. You place her hands behind her back, and instruct her expression, "Give me a sweet smile."

Your voice is quiet in her ear as she nods, just the slightest, almost indiscernible incline of the head. She stares down the mirror as her full, kissable lips slowly contort into a charming, simpering smile, the type that the most beloved princesses often wear. You press up behind her, brushing your body tight against hers and see how that lovely little grin of hers slowly stretches up, to become ever so slightly crooked.

In your reflection in the mirror, you see yourself behind her. She holds perfectly still, hands fixed as if bound at the wrists, legs set slightly apart. "Pretty, don't you think?" You ask, teasingly. You press a little into her upper back, angling her in such a way that in the reflection you see down her cotton shirt, revealing the taut, soft curve of her small breasts. The sight of that, the teasing glance, is intoxicating. It brings a slight tremor down your spine, one you swallow down with a sharp breath. "Yes," you assure her, "Very pretty."

Her breathing comes laboured now, sharp little gasps; perhaps it has started to arouse her too, knowing herself to be at the mercy of your hands. Knowing herself to be nothing more than an object at this time—a living doll. To be used, played with, broken, toyed with, cared for or cast aside as you will.

You pull her to a stand and guide her away from the mirror. Her legs are long but you tower over her. She's so light to the touch, the petite girl, that should you need to, you could carry anywhere you desire in one swooping embrace.

You lead her to her dresser, to pose her against it. You guide her lithe left leg, so it crosses over the right one, you place her hands on the wood and let her rest against it. And she, docile, complies. "Like this?" She whispers.

"That's perfect."

You draw the collar of her shirt over her left shoulder, the one closest to you, until it hangs at around elbow height, exposing the skin underneath. A bare arm, all the way up to the strap of her tank top. You smile, admiring your own work, her poise and posture. You adjust her face, so she gazes slightly down in front of her. A final check to ensure the pose is perfect. It doesn't hurt that Minju is a natural when it comes to expressions: there is always some inflexion to the curl of her lips and the shape of her eyes, that says, 'I love this'.

You take the final unused item from the table, a Polaroid camera, one of the new instant types. This one, white, boxy and expensive, is perfect to capture Minju's pristine beauty. One image taken of her here, a pose in the frame, holding the photo to wait for it to develop is worth, it seems, a thousand words. It never ceases to amaze you: how well the camera captures her: how it draws out that natural aura of Minju and depicts it on the fine gloss. It makes, in effect, a perfect keepsake.

You take two more shots, each one giving you pause for appreciation. Each one, was perfect, like it was a scene from an album cover or the poster for a movie. She watches you from her position, gazing intently at you with a lovingly longing gaze. Watching you in fascination, and admiration.

You hold one in front of her. "This is my favourite, look at the way your leg curves here," you point to it, showing her. "And here, the shoulder, just at that angle. See the light dancing in your eyes and on the pink gloss, on the lips. Beautiful."

She remains lifelessly still staring at herself in the print without a word or reaction.

"Now, just one more like this, but first..." You place the camera slowly on the dresser, then grab the hem of her shirt. You fold it in under itself a few times until it sits taut across her stomach, just above her button. Her narrow waist is set into beautiful relief: a curvature down toned abs leading to between her thin hips. Then you pull at the other shoulder of the shirt, more pale skin, more svelteness of form, more smooth flesh. There's a light shiver through her skin as you graze her arm with your finger.

You push slightly into her chest, leaning her back a little over the dresser and then you tilt her head back exposing her neck. Soft lips fall open just the slightest, like the petals of a rose blooming, a faint gasp of a moan parting her pink lips, and her heavy breathing filling her heaving chest.

Taking the camera, you step back, crouch slightly, hold the lens up to eye height and take the shot; a flash and a click of the shutter is followed by a slow hum and a whir of the plastic film rolling out. Another polaroid, you take it to her, tugging lightly at her chin to direct her gaze to it. "This one," you breathe in close to her, placing a kiss on her exposed neck, "is something truly special." You fix on her scent, something fruity and soft: orange blossom undertones.

Minju lets out a soft gasp.

"This one turns me on. The exposed skin. The lustful eyes. Those parted lips, like an invitation," you utter, "do you know how beautiful you look, Minju? How sexy?"

The deepening of her breath tells you what you want to hear.

"New pose. Come here." You take hold of her bare shoulders and pull her to a stand. Her shirt hangs at her back between her elbows. You move behind her as you guide her toward the window, opening her curtains wide and letting the final embers of sunlight in to kiss her skin. You slip her shirt from her arms that hang by her side. "Let's lean you against here."

You guide her hands onto the sill of the window. Let her hands rest flat against it. Hold her by the hips and pull them back, making her shuffle her legs back. Make the curve of her ass tighter, the flex of her lower back deeper.

You pose her into this deep bend, then guide her face up so she faces the evening light. So she basks, regally, in the final glow of the setting sun, and you can see the pinking hue reflected in her eyes.

"Be a good doll and remain still."

The heat has turned Minju's pale flesh red, but you soothe her with a palm, a brush against a soft cheek and an affectionate 'hush'. You fixate upon the curves and lines of her back, following the path of her spine down with your hand, taking care to remain in the hollow. That central channel carved through her back that draws down the centre, passing by dimples in her lower back before widening at the hips and merging into her tapering waist, is a work of art unto itself. 

A simple touch of a kiss against that soft flesh at the base of the spine, and Minju fails to disguise a sharp breath as you kneel, her bare calves become a mounting point for your hands. She inhales in soft, controlled bursts as your fingertips stroke around the curve of her lower leg, working around and under the leg, dragging slowly upwards as you make careful circles over her toned calves, till your finger hits the lower thigh. Upward, further. Her body trembles gently as your hand traces along her inner thigh, up to her light cotton shorts where you draw your hand over to the back of her thighs and back down.

"Be a good doll," you repeat, quiet, breath warm against her lower back. You hook your fingers into her shorts, running your palms on her taut, toned little ass. Slight tremors from Minju ripple through your skin as you hook in the fingers of either hand beneath the elastic of her underwear too. A lingering hesitation passes as you focus, and in the serenity of the moment, you draw everything down in one slow, measured pull. The sight of the white cotton dragging down over the firm roundness of her ass has you weak.

You stop at her ankles, and one at a time, you lift a foot out of the clothes, and pull them free, planting her foot back down in a slightly wider stance. You look up, and to her faint reflection in the window, and admire the look she wears, the unnerving determination to hold still and say not a single thing. The deep red hue paints her skin as the day darkens.

"Stay," you command.

You find the camera one final time, to indulge in one final intoxicating shot: Minju, back beautifully lit by the last remnants of the sun's rays, the light striking her skin and making the paleness and tone all the more beautiful; the slight swell of her hips, the small, firm, almost apple-like curve of her behind, and those slim toned thighs in the shadow.

"Hold for me, don't move."

She stares resolutely into the distance through the window, hands clutching the edge of the window sill as you draw the viewfinder to your eye once again. Click, a flash and a whir. The exposure of the light behind her leaves a shadowy image on the thinning film of her nude behind; the smooth line of her legs, her trim waist and that sweet little thing between her legs. An air of sophistication; and one of sin.

"See this?" You show it to her and the embarrassment causes a flutter in her eyes; the arousal of watching her own bare ass on the printed film causes the slightest redness of her cheeks. "I'm going to use that right there. Stay."

There's another twitch in her eyes as you walk away and leave her there, still posing, looking as sensational as ever. You walk out the door, to drink, relax, anything to make her wait. Make her suffer the indignity of exposure and vulnerability.

You spy her through the doorway and never does she move a muscle, your little doll-girl stands there obediently as requested. Time passes—several minutes. And yet she, with such admirable determination, wills herself to stay in position until you return. And you do. You saunter back in, slow. Walking behind her and she never once looks back over her shoulder.

You rest a hand on her waist and the contact is met with a sudden release of tension—her chest falls with a sigh. Her pose remains perfect—adulation for your hand, written in the small shakes of her body and the gradual intonations of her heavy pants. A perfect and delicate angel. Your hand slips from her waist down over the taut curve of her ass, palm resting for the briefest moment on the soft, supple flesh. The pliability. Your hand continues the path it has carved over her skin until it rests lightly between her legs.

A gentle palm over her sex sends a current through her entire form, and a tensing in her muscles is the only indication she offers that there's a struggle to suppress noise in her throat. Hot and wet and you're a man driven by impulse. You step behind her, stroking her, massaging her, then withdrawing to instead spread her slightly with a single, teasing fingertip. "Good little doll."

A clear, sticky, glistening moisture trickles onto the digit and in the way Minju shivers, you are given every impression, you're sure of it, that her lower stomach muscles have clenched tight and are presently squeezing themselves in on each other. A fever pitch is reached within her, and you're ready too.

You draw your hand away, leaving Minju suspended in torment: there is desire, there is desperation and tension that must be alleviated. That itch soothed. She must hear it, the sound of you unbuckling and unzipping. A rustle of fabric as you pull them down and take them off.

With no word, you hit a palm against her ass, a quick and painful swat with your bare hand. Hard, smacking against soft, dough-like flesh. She stifles a soft, bitten-off yelp that sends a vibration up the curve of her back. "Going to play with you," you utter quietly. "Use this doll however I like."

Your hand is drawn back over the red mark on her tender flesh, stroking the mark, massaging, and it soon heats against your palm. You follow it by pressing the very tip of your dick, gently, against her opening. Enough pressure there for you both to know where the next moments go and a slight motion—only the gentlest thrusting—to grind that sensitive flesh in. Just enough to make her bite back her lower lip, to struggle against the overwhelming urge to break her poise.

To add to that struggle, the sensation, you lull her, deceive her, by trailing your length against her slick, tender folds, then abruptly drag it over the tight hole right there at the back. One more light tap there too, right on her little asshole, that drives her into a daze. Then you take her slit again, spreading her open, rubbing yourself over that hot hole and sending her a thousand electric tingles up through her hips.

You thrust once, a single long thrust, right into her little pussy, as much as her wetness will allow until resistance forms. Then back out, completely. Glistening with the slick fluids, you slap your shaft against her ass a couple of times. Wetness dripping, staining those tight cheeks. Then a wet slap of your hand to a cheek. Testing when she will break. Searching for that whimper, that moan, or maybe she'll hold it so well that a tear will form in her eye.

You fill her again, use her a little, rocking your hips back and forth. A careless use of her for pleasure, no consideration for her, for what she might desire and it is pure torture to her. One hand circles over her ass, grazing over the reddened mark, you let it settle on the top of her thigh for leverage and dig your fingertips into the skin. Another few firm pumps into her. Out. All the way out.

Dripping fluid pools around her slit, spilling out down her thigh, hot. "There's no better use for you than this," you hiss, as you smear the wetness over her flesh with the swollen head. The discomfort, the uncertainty, all of it written on her reddened skin and trembling lips. Another few slow pumps up her. Thrust, thrust, thrust. Draw out—slow, torturous—and then fill her again, rough, and violent, driving yourself up hard against her soft skin. Again. "Just like a sex doll," you groan. "Like you're a dirty toy."

Those words draw this low growl inside her, and Minju shudders under the intensity, this vibrating noise rising in her. Fuck, it feels wonderful in her, tight, burning hot—soft, yielding—wet, messy. Drive into that tension, the squeeze on you, where she can feel you so full and snug inside her.

Allow yourself for a moment, to just enjoy her, as she is. She will allow you to, don't fret. Enjoy her as a possession, something lesser than yourself; an object to be manipulated, used and owned. Let her be your slut and let the words roll around in your head. There are times you prefer to fill her with long, agonising strokes, and there are those other times that are frantic and hurried. She takes it all, wilfully and willingly and adoration flows through your veins.

No care for if she cums, you simply use her too. It is not in a casual disregard for her desires, or in selfish pursuit of pleasure at the sacrifice of her. No, no. That is not true. Minju wants this. She cares less about her own pleasure than you. Should she cum, then maybe that would be a nice perk to all of this, but all she wants is to submit herself as a vessel for yours. To serve as the implement to which you expel everything. You have taken her into that dream world she desires to inhabit, where she's an item to be manoeuvred as one wills.

And so you get close, right inside of her—clutch, tense—as she milks you so exquisitely, squeezing and so soft, so fucking silken-smooth and at the very last, you pull out—every last drop is captured on Minju's skin. Her spread ass, her back, thighs.

For all the care you took, perfecting her makeup, now a fine sweat paints a layer across her skin and you're shooting over it and making a true mess of her. All that, her absolute purity and devotion, and what you have done is sullied it. Your doll, your most precious is dirtied. But your most precious thing in the world deserves the best you can give her.

So it is after you have painted your release over her body, that you leave her again—basking in the humiliation of how fluids trickle down her flesh. Just a toy, put aside to stand, vulnerable, debauched and unsatisfied, waiting to be picked up again and played with once more. You could leave her all night. Have her be ready and willing any time you desire. Your toy.

"Fuck, what a sight." You step away, back out of the room, spent and gazing at her. Minju, of course, keeps her back facing you the entire time, she does not dare turn back around to see her, not even to cover up or find modesty, it simply would not occur to her to do so.

Aware of the pain, the hurt of being left this way. Left unfinished. A small smile plays on your lips, the knowledge that this is what turns her on most. Her lover is out there, he's drinking, eating, watching TV, or anything, and she doesn't really know where. She just stays resting over the window ledge with her legs held apart, exposed and vulnerable.

Knowing, feeling, every stroke that has been applied over her body, every part you have made use of, and the places in which you have violated, is enough to turn Minju's insides all warm and fuzzy and soft. Your fingerprints are inked upon her flesh—traced by the veneer of liquids coating her—a record of who has marked her, owned her, as nothing more than an instrument of delight.

Until you're ready to come back, she holds back an unspoken whimper. Tension in her stomach muscles and legs threatened to give out.

Oh, how badly the poor girl yearns to be picked up, taken and fucked again and again.

Eventually, you do return, and without warning. As if you'd never been gone a moment at all, you're just there suddenly behind her, you just have that presence of power that exudes over her. You say her name—nothing else—but the tinge to your voice tells her that you've missed her.

You bring your hands around her slim waist, just above the hips, and trail upwards. Grinding back inside her feels as wonderful as ever. Still throbbing, still wet, still wanton, and she takes you in, spreading wide once again. "Missed me?" You coo, but she still never responds verbally—dutifully compliant, Minju simply moans, her cheeks flushed the same colour as her smeared lips.

You're rough with her, pulling her away from the window and pushing her into the middle of the room. Hasty, impatient, and uncaring. Now, you see, Minju weighs nothing to you, it feels like there's nothing to her; something light, lithe, easily manoeuvrable, like you can twist her and pull her without resistance.

You draw her to you, picking her up from the ground by her waist and walking forward. You set her down on a desk—her ass perching first, then you push her onto her back, drawing up her knees to her chest and pressing onto her. Oh, flexible Minju, sweet Minju: the perfect sexual tool to place and fold and screw whichever way you want.

Minju is pinned there, under you, taking you into her pussy, tight around you. Dutifully letting you shove into her repeatedly, without fight or complaint, only meek, restrained sounds of satisfaction. Letting her limbs fold, letting herself be toyed with however you need or want.

Stretch her as you take hold of her neck and restrain her to the wooden surface. You bear down on her, fucking into her with strong, sure pumps, and with every thrust into Minju, you feel her heat against your thighs and groin, her warm juices seeping down over her, and a vulgar squelching sound filling the air.

The air is dense and hot and she is flushed bright red; she gazes at you, her face etched with need. You're forcing your doll-girl, fucking her raw and hard into her desk. Rough, dominating strokes. And what does she do but squirm and moan and take every ounce of your strength? "F-fuck," she moans out the profanity, her body succumbing to the overwhelming burst of intense, numbing heat. She flinches a few times as her eyes squeeze shut.

So close, now. Another round, and there is nowhere Minju is more content than trapped, helpless, watching you near another orgasm. She doesn't even attempt to hide her delight when you're about to blow. A smile of satisfaction as you unload inside of her. A welcome sight as you feel yourself rupture, as your essence pumps into her little fuckhole. The sticky hot cum that fills her.

And Minju moans for you, breathless, happy, so lovingly joyful that her existence has resulted in this moment—this act—her purpose as nothing more than something you fuck, claim, and own.

But, there is work to be done, work you cannot shirk away from. So, with a light sigh, you wipe your forehead, you gather Minju off of the table—flickering eyelids and all—and you lead her with gentle encouragement. "Let's clean you off. There's a good girl," you say, and she holds onto your neck, as you lift her off the desk.

You perch Minju on the sink for a moment, un-trapping her legs so she can stand once you place her into the shower.

"Stay. Still."

And again, you can see that longing gaze. Sultry, drawn. She wants so much, and she needs so little.

"There," you draw out the word with a certain finality and walk behind her to start the shower, switching from bath faucet to shower nozzle, and taking great care in testing the heat of the water, to make sure not to burn her precious skin.

You start with her shoulders, sweeping her soaked locks down her back, wet, heavy and darker now. Washing her takes time, patience, and gentleness—you bring the palm of your hand over her shoulder while the other directs the shower head. The water trails down her arm, little rivulets tracing over her porcelain skin. You draw the shower across her back and admire how the water caresses the curves of her frame.

She keeps perfectly still, save the tremble that comes with the rise of her chest each time the water meets a sensitive point. Your hand follows in the water, over her sides, slowly. You draw her close against your chest, putting your head beside Minju's, looking down over her shoulder. you bring the head of the shower to her chest and let the water flow across, over the swell of her breasts.

You whisper into her ear, "Stay just like this. Let me wash down my toy after use."

Your name comes out of her mouth, a little strained, and when you wrap your arm around her and cup her little breast, she immediately whimpers. This poor girl still hasn't cum, and she's so sensitive.

You rest her against you, keeping your front flush against the curve of her back, and there is something wonderful and sweet in the way she falls back against you. Minju leans her head back on your shoulder, a nuzzle, and your hand continues to cup her and you play with her nipple. The shower, however, you bring lower and lower, down over her slender belly and between her legs.

The lower it goes, the more soft whimpers she makes, and Minju's feet begin to curl, and she draws a slow intake of air through her clenched teeth. You dip the jets of water low, and Minju finally gives out this small groan, her eyes squeezing tight and her mouth opening and closing, the words and sounds catching as she trembles all over. 

You press it against her pussy, and she bucks lightly backwards against you—hard—and grinds. A pleasured exhale, a sign of satisfaction. That the poor girl is finally getting her pleasure but "No, no, no," she says—is she feeling guilty for it?—and she struggles forward from your grasp.

"Shh... it's okay," you soothe her, but she still jerks her body. There's this fact, that always rings true, whenever you use Minju like this. Part of it, she told you before, is how in her own head she degrades herself. She tells herself that she doesn't deserve to cum. That a toy's only purpose is for others, and she will deny herself an orgasm until you give her express permission to finish herself. That's why she fights now, she is ashamed of her own arousal and enjoyment.

You press the shower hard into her clit and she groans, "I can't... I can't—"

"Yes, you can." You focus on using the shower in little circles, not allowing any distance between it and the sensitive nub. Her head falls back on you, eyes shut tight as if in anguish. "You have served me so well. You were so wonderful. Let go for me, beautiful." You murmur those things in her ear and Minju opens her lips to say something but no words form, it's simply a long, deep-seated, contented moan. A relief-filled sound that is music to your ears.

Her back goes completely tense, and her hips twist and buck, but you press firmly down, keeping her locked into the jet. She bites her lower lip, almost like she's desperate, and it hurts, the way her whole body tenses up for so many seconds before the relief sweeps over her. The sensations surge throughout her body, leaving her limp and satisfied.

After the rush passes through, she moans, over and over. Shattering pleasure has overtaken her mind and all she can think about is the joy her lover has bestowed upon her, the ultimate show of adoration and tenderness.

"Good girl. That's it. Give in," you breathe out the last sentence, and Minju moans louder, riding it out. Her body writhes violently and her toes curl as her breathing stops, she's stuck at the very height of her pleasure, but finally lets out an ecstatic, long-winded moan. You drop the shower, and cradle Minju with your whole body.

Her hips jump one last time against your hand and then she goes completely lax against you, her feet plant flat down and her whole body gives out. Minju slides back onto her heels, and her face drops toward the floor and she just smiles with pure glee. If not for you, she would collapse to the floor in this exhausted, limp state.

For some minutes, you hold Minju until she can find enough strength until the daze of her orgasm is no longer in effect.

"Now, let's really clean up."

"Let me," she says. "Let me clean you, please."

[shalomniscient]

real deal || ruan mei x reader [NSFT][MDNI]

It wasn’t like you were jealous. No, such trivial feelings are below a Leviathan such as yourself. Yet somehow, the mere thought of Ruan Mei entering that forsaken Simulated Universe to study those equally forsaken Aeons made you feel a little… possessive. You may not be an Aeon nor an Emanator, but you are something older and better than both—why should she bother with petty imitations when reality can be so much more fulfilling? Or, you show Ruan Mei how much better you are than some simulation.

cw. top!reader, bottom!ruan mei, reader has a dick and a big one, monsterfucking because reader isn’t human, size kink, belly bulge, dirty talk

notes. i’m on my bottom ruan mei agenda fellas 📣📣 also i took heavy liberties with leviathan lore because i wanna write some monsterfuckery, sue me idc. reader’s ‘human’ appearance is loosely based off @/_maiqo’s art of monster!mei on twt so uhhh ifykyk

“There we go, isn’t this much better than some simulation?”

Your voice is a low, rumbling croon as you lean down to whisper in Ruan Mei’s ear. Your breath is warm against her already flushed skin, and you relish in the way gooseflesh rises along her nape. You’re pretty much hunched over her now, one clawed hand at her hip while the other braces your form above her on the bed. The points of your nails threaten to rip the sheets, which Ruan Mei would typically chastise you for—but she doesn’t, because right now she’s too stuffed full of your cock to answer in any sort of meaningful way. 

You had practically pounced on her once she returned from that space station, the nauseating scent of Destruction clinging to her clothes. It wasn’t like you were jealous. No, such trivial feelings are below a Leviathan such as yourself. Yet somehow, the mere thought of Ruan Mei entering that forsaken Simulated Universe to study those equally forsaken Aeons made you feel a little… possessive. You may not be an Aeon nor an Emanator, but you are something older and better than both—why should she bother with petty imitations when reality can be so much more fulfilling? 

Ruan Mei’s body shudders when you drag a finger up and down her thigh. You’re not even bottomed out yet, just your tip and a little extra, but even then Ruan Mei’s perfect, pretty cunt clenches and squeezes so tightly against you. You exhale slowly and resist the urge to hilt balls deep in her—as much as you adore the feeling of her around you, you don’t want to break her. Ruan Mei trembles beneath you, her breathing coming in hiccuping gasps. You remain still for a moment, your tail swishing on the cold floor of her room in anticipation as you let her adjust to your size. 

“Aeons,” she manages finally, looking at you over her shoulder. There’s a slight glossy sheen at the corner of those turquoise eyes, and the sight makes your dick twitch. “Y-you—“

Your tail twitches at the mention of those beings, and you can’t help but snap your hips forward just an inch more in irritation. Ruan Mei moans and jerks forward on the bed, her trembling arms nearly giving out on her. Her cunt squeezes you like a vise, copious amounts of wetness dripping down her thighs. 

“You would invoke them while I’m the one inside you?” you sneer against her shoulder, sharp fangs scraping along milky white skin. “What an audacious little creature you are.”

“Y-yet you seem to be enjoying yourself,” the scientist shoots back, one hand fumbling upwards to grasp back at the curve of one of your horns. You growl at that, the touch sending a bolt of electricity down your spine. Your hand at her hip travels lower, grazing over her belly and the prominent bulge your cock makes in her. 

Such audacity. A mere mortal, but so willing to do anything it takes for her own wants. It was what drew you to her in the beginning—after all, you’re certain no other mortal in the universe would find a dormant Leviathan and have the balls to ask them to be their test subject. 

“But you are too, aren’t you?” you hum, sinking another inch into her and forcing a long, drawn-out moan from her lips. “This cute cunt is clenching so much—you like this, being stretched and fucked out on my cock.” 

A muffled curse spills from her mouth as you start to slowly rock your hips back and forth. The squelching sounds of your cock moving in her dripping pussy echo in the room, drops of wetness spilling down her legs and staining the sheets. Ruan Mei makes a breathless, whiny noise with each thrust as your cock kisses her cervix, its sheer girth ensuring that you hit that perfect spot in her every damn time. 

“Shall I cum inside you, little flower?” you hiss against her skin, pressing love bites along the ridge of her shoulder blades and down her spine. “Over and over until a lifeform takes root inside you?” 

You grunt as you feel her tighten even more around you somehow, her thighs starting to shake as her orgasm starts to crest. Your words are an empty promise—Ruan Mei has been drinking a special contraceptive tea ever since your… arrangement began—but evidently they appear to have a very desirable effect on her. Your lips part in a wolfish grin as you tuck that little nugget of information away for later. 

A light press on her upper back has her arms giving out beneath her, leaving her face down and ass up on the bed, her back arching so beautifully you can’t help the approving rumble that resonates in your chest. The new angle has you hitting deeper inside her and Ruan Mei sobs in pleasure, her fingers grasping the sheets for dear life. 

“Scream my name, little thing,” you coo at her, voice deceptively tender as your hips snap ruthlessly. “Let me hear you scream for me.”

And she does, magnificently, her hand gripping your horn tightly as she howls your name into the sheets, streams of squirt gushing from her pussy. You snarl as she pulses around you, and with a few more thrusts you’re spilling into her, filling her cunt and her womb with thick ropes of cum. 

You give her a moment to catch her breath, her smaller frame shaking beneath yours as you lean back upright. She moans when you slip out of her with a slick pop, and your cum starts to trickle out of her used cunt. You purr at the sight, then manhandle her onto her back and take her ankles in one large hand to rest them on your shoulders. Your cock, still hard, presses against her ass and Ruan Mei’s breath hitches. 

“What are you doing?” she asks hoarsely, but makes no move to stop you. 

You grin down at her, all teeth, as you recite a little something you’ve learned from spending time as Ruan Mei’s willing lab Leviathan and you relish the way her lips part and her eyes blow wide in barely concealed desire. 

“Don’t you recall, scientist? Repetitions are necessary for good results.” 

[gladiatorcunt]

- # 🍁 THE NEMEAN LION !!

feels so ugly when i’m honest

cw: afab reader, ambiguous era, dubcon coded, insp. by this ask, patrick and reader have noncon somno fantasies about the other (so rlly it’s more cnc), patrick is gross and mean, situationship/roommate!patrick, unprotected p in v sex & relying on the pull out method, weed mention and wine mention, art guest star appearance (patrick mentions him), oral (afab reader receiving), hints of: foot fetish, dacryphilia, cnc in general, plus sized!reader, mythological themes, 3k words of me losing my marbles, one use of daddy, we don’t gotta be in love you knowweeeeee i don’t gotta be the oneeee you knowweeeeeeeeew

You’re making him crazy, Patrick knows it. He shouldn’t spend his mornings humping his pillows that you hold in your lap during movie nights. He definitely shouldn’t be stealing your panties and strangling his cock with the lacey fabric that’s going to end up smelling so foul from how much he’ll use the same pair over and over. He thinks he can catch your scent on his clothes when you’ve never actually been close enough to leave a reminder of you behind. Sometimes Patrick gets so frustrated with continuing at this same snail’s pace that he wishes he could just grab your face and smush it into his musky crotch. He’d let you go if you were about to pass out, maybe. You can’t get shit twisted if you’re unconscious.

He’s telling you another one of his stories, hoping to see a twinge of… something swirling in your irises. You just hum too much and squirm a bit, ever the overactive listener. Patrick would cut off his balls if it meant that he could hear anything resembling a moan from you, not just little signs that you’re listening and not speaking. The transformer movie’s reached a point where you don’t really have to pay attention, so you cutely shuffle your mess of blankets around on the couch so you can give Patrick your undivided attention. He’s had to start keeping space in his closet for the large throw blankets you bring along even though you refuse to let him turn the fan off.

“Yeah, I was with Art actually. We ate each other out back in the day, y’know, to see what it was like. He sat on my face and fuckin’ almost broke my neck, his thighs were gripping me so tight.” He coyly tilts his head to the side, pretending to be shy about the whole thing.

He narrows his eyes and analyzes your reaction. You dart your gaze around the room for a split second, struggling to tamper down the blossoming warmth in your stomach and the insecurity that comes with never being able to catch up with Patrick. You’ve confessed to it a couple times, usually after a couple of bottles of whatever cheap alchohol he’s got on hand. His nails shred into his palms with the effort it takes not to give you something to talk about, even if you think they’re only dreams.

“When was the first time someone ate you out? I can’t be the only one shoving my foot in my mouth here.”

God, what he’d give to have your feet in his mouth, and vice versa.

You play with the fluffy black blanket in your lap, making eye contact with one of the cartoon nutcrackers on it and not Patrick as you answer his question. “Oh… I’ve actually never been eaten out, maybe that’s why no one’s made me cum.”

It’s a like his world has been hit by an unexpected asteroid and blown to smithereens, bits of membrane and curdled dna scattered across the milky way. The gross-ness imbued in his bone marrow leaks out into vaccum of space as he processes this truly fucking suprising piece of information. Never in his life has Patrick been told something that just can’t be true, not when there are still good things in the world. Not when that helpful little tidbit will split him open and take over his every waking and sleeping thought.

He shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “What? What the hell do you mean no one’s ever eaten your pussy?”

“I, I don’t know. The people I've been with have just never gone out of their way to do it and I didn't make a big deal out of it.”

His heart’s breaking in half and you clearly have no idea. Patrick scrambles to sit up and grabs your hands to stop them from fiddling with the blanket anymore. There are a thousand things he wants and needs and just has to say but all he can do in the present moment is keep shaking his head and crowding you against the right arm of his tattered gray couch.

“Then they’re so fucking stupid, I can’t believe you don’t know what it feels like to have a tongue up your cunt.” He states, a firm declaration that has you throwing out a hand on his bicep to ground yourself.

Patrick looks crazed above you, dark hair impossibly soft and pupils steadily expanding outward. You slide your hand up his arm (trying to ignore the muscle there, what it’d be like when they flex as he picks you up by your ass) to place it on his firm chest. You open your mouth, trying to cobble together any kind of response you can think of but your mind is blank. Patrick seizes the opportunity and smahes his mouth against yours, when the clashing of your lips is over there’s more blood than spit. He flicks his tongue out to catch the little drops of blood dripping from your lips, moaning after he swallows each one.

You’re catching your breath, “You… you can’t… just do that.”

He rolls his eyes and grins, “I did. I can hear you through the walls at night you know? Rubbing your pussy on one of my pillows that you think I don't know you stole, crying for me.”

Damn, that’s what you get for making risky decisions while you’re ovulating. You knew you washed it and should’ve snuck in while he was out to throw it on his plaid comforter and act like it never happened. The longer you kept it stuffed between your plush thighs, smothering it in the natural scent of your pussy, the more your shyness grew. It was easier to spend your nights like that then explore the possibility of doing something else with your time, but now you’re just wishing that you hopped on Patrick’s stupidly huge dick while he was passed out and snoring and called it a day.

“I… I’m sorry, okay? You can have it back.” You say and keep the grumpiness out of your tone, having to come to terms with hoarding nothing that smells like him anymore.

“Just shut up and be happy, be good for me.” He punctuates it with a mean squeeze to your face, slowly sliding his hand down to hang around your throat and falling to his knees in front of the couch.

Maybe it’s the cheap white wine, maybe it’s the subpar edible you had earlier, but you throw caution to the wind and sink your fingers into Patrick’s hair. Your breath happily flies out of your lungs when he pushes your knees apart, coaxing your white lace panties off with his teeth. The bright lights from the TV cast a glow around him, and you hate how pretty he looks. Like if Hercules was a modern porn star, muscles rippling and eyes spearing through you as he catapults you to the stars.

The roughness of his fingers feels heavenly as he smooths them down your inner thighs, “Nice and fat pussy, dripping all over the place. Saying hi, right? It’d be rude of me to not say anything back.”

So he does, spitting right on your clit and spreading it all over your pussy. Patrick shuffles closer and takes several big lungfuls, humping the air with every whiff of your artificial body wash combined with your much more attractive musk. He opens his mouth wide and latches onto your soaking folds, flattening his tongue and licking broad stripes up your cunt. He laps up your juices sloppily, almost wagging his tongue wildly in an effort to suck up whatever he can.

There’s a coil forming in the pit of your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every swipe of Patrick’s wet tongue. Your face flames in embarrassment once again, you don’t really know if you look bad from his point of view but you can’t stop yourself from throwing your head back against the couch and scrunching your face up. He gives your asshole an open mouthed kiss, half to tease you even further and half because he just couldn’t resist. It was glistening and winking at him and everything.

“Fuck! Fuck! That’s so- how are you so good at this?” You mewl, raking through his hair thoroughly like you’re searching for something you lost.

Patrick’s ego grows in size and he smiles as he moves to your clit, hollowing his cheeks and suckling rapidly. He buries his face in your pussy and drinks you down in several gulps, picking up speed when you resign yourself to telltale moans about much you need to cum. He flicks the tip of his tongue against your swollen clit and slows down right when you’re apart to fall over the edge. He actually chuckles into your mound and winks when you glare at him. He cuts off whatever bratty retort you armed yourself with by going back to nearly inhaling your clit without warning.

“Ungh- I really-really fucking hate you, but don’t you dare stop, I’ll kill you.”

Each suck sends pulses shooting up your core, and that scary coil in the depth of your guts tightens blissfully. You squirm, the very definition of a hot mess as you grind against his face. The friction was never enough but you keep corralling his nose into your pubic hair, fruitlessly rutting your hips with no end goal other than the urge to hump whatever’s available. You panic for a second that you’ll suffocate him or he’ll be grossed out by you not shaving, but you shouldn’t underestimate him. If anything, Patrick groans at the heady smell. Getting it straight from the source and fucking the air during his suckling.

His eyes never stray from you. Your agonized face straight out of a renaissance painting, too strung out and burning with pleasure to resemble anything normal. Your thick thighs, jiggling with every move you make, you can’t seem to decide between humping his mouth like a bitch in heat or trying to squeeze his head like a watermelon. Your sounds, wails and cries and moans and whines, he’ll have to record you next time, play it anytime and anywhere in case you misunderstand what this is. The first documentation of how much cum and fluid you can paint him in, whatever color or thickness you’ve got for him. He’ll wring it all out of you eventually, film a home movie series to chronicle every squirting session and the like.

Gun to his head, you taste like those old fashioned butterscotch hard candies. Decadent and sweet, if he could he’d sink his teeth into the slippery supple flesh and pull and rip.

After several rounds of cruel edging, your brain whites out so hard, you can almost form the blurry shapes in your peripheral vision into a red spiked tail and horned wings. Patrick’s ruining you entirely, you know that now, and the movie’s already over but you don’t spare the scrawling credits more than a weary glance. Your soul is probably cartoonishly swimming through the putrid air towards your body, but your sweaty body is shaking too much to receive it. There’s a ringing in your ears as you blink yourself into awareness, Patrick unbuckles his jeans and a blunt pressure stretches your hole out.

“Sorry, ‘m out of condoms, I’ll pull out, baby.” He huffs out, praying to whatever’s listening that he doesn’t just start pummeling your shit.

You feel your stomach bunching up before you see Patrick’s dick disappearing into you. The feeling of being split open on something so thick has you reeling, no one else you’ve been with has left you spiraling quite like this. In a room full of dicks you’d be able to spot his, you’d just have to find the one that has the back of your throat tingling and going dry just from a sniff and a look. You’d cry if he pulled out now, it’s already too late for you. This is such a stupid decision, sloppy rough sex with your roomate-turned-situationship on his worn out couch that’s older than the both of you combined.

It’s one hell of a story, and maybe some moments in life should be allowed to boil down to that. The hand loosely wrapped around your throat tightens its hold, you welcome the thumb pushing into your mouth without prompting. The depravity of it all makes you feel owned, has you seriously considering living your life as some guy’s exclusive pet whore. The ‘squelch’s and the ‘schlick’s that come with his savage thrusts and milk white strings connecting the base of his cock to your puffy pussy.

Every breath you think you’re going to be able to take, he steals from you and mocks your whimpery “unh-unh-unh~”’s in his raspy mid-fuck voice.

“This is the only dick you’ll be hanging off of from now on, got it? Can’t let some lousy jackass try to sew his balls to this pussy when it’s not even gonna cream around him.” You say yes to that hissed demand, yes of course, Daddy.

Patrick plunges his cock to the hilt into your cunt in one sharp stroke, gasping and gripping your hip to distract himself from the way your walls are clenching around his length. Every part of you is greedy apparently, you’re perfect for each other then. The position he has you in is so filthy, he’s standing and hosting your legs up over his shoulders, folding you in half on the couch. His dirty levi’s pool around his feet and the sound of his belt hitting the floor inspires awful thoughts in you. Your sweat mixes together and trickles down your legs, sticking to his leg hair.

You can have it soft once he’s gotten this demon off his back and out of his system, you can ride him while you’re cozied up in bed, lazily rolling your hips until you get tired a couple minutes later and clinging to the caresses on your love handles. Patrick has to destroy something before he can even stand to think about putting it back together, your insides and you yourself are no exception. Your walls feel like the finest quality silk around his throbbing cock, leaking inside of you as he clutches onto your ankles. The TV’s automatically shut off by now, and the lack of background noise enhances his animalistic grunts and deep moans.

“Gonna fuck your tits next time, fuck-what the fuck-you’re too damn tight, massage them for you after, rub your cunt raw-“

Patrick fucks like he’s staking claim on a spoil of war, you’re learning, as if the pale ferryman’s hot on his heels and this sliver of time is the only sacred thing he’ll ever get in his wretched mortal life. All his, gone limp between bloody jaws and killing hands. He snarls in your face as he pounds your pussy, angling his hips to stab deeper in you than should be medically possible. You don’t when you start tearing up, but Patrick does nothing to wipe away your tears, not even lick them up. He just fucks you to the point where you’re crying, shutting his eyes as he throws his head back so you can’t see that he’s crying too. The both of you borrow from different sources of emotion.

“You sounded so scared when you were cumming, made my balls twitch, was cute.” Patrick tells you in between messy kisses, more focused on almost eating your face than properly locking lips with you.

His tongue hangs out of his mouth as he abruptly yanks himself out of you and lavishes your belly in ropes after ropes of cum. You’d reach down to dip a finger in and taste it, but you’re too annoyed at the thought that he’s depriving you of an orgasm again. You haven’t even decided whether you’re going to pout or flatbout get up and leave when Patrick’s sliding home once more. You give him a punched out gasp, sort of pained and kind of relieved, in response. He hisses through his teeth, grinding them together like it’s burning the flesh on his cock to plunge back into your searing pussy. Actively breaking and remaking you. Both of your muscles tense up as the wave threatens to crash over you.

“You can cry some more, if you want, I'd like that a lot. Beg me to save you from what I’m doing to you, to this tight pussy.”

Happy or sad, doesn’t matter. He knows you like it when he keeps you from fighting back, you suit being manhandled and made to take dick better than anyone else he’s slummed it with.

He hunches his back forward to kiss you again, and you claw red stripes down it as your tongue maps out every inch of his mouth. He pulls back and you spend several seconds like that sharing breath. You don’t realize what you’re saying out loud, things like ‘Holy shit you’re so fucking big-so good-it’s so fucking good’ and ‘Feels better than i thought it would, how is that even possible?’ It’s like your own little sex obsessed podcast, centering every episode around how situationship dick is on another level and will irrevocably destroy you. Patrick chuckles, he can’t wait to hold every treasured compliment from you over your head. You could say you’re done with whatever this is when he leaves the toilet seat up again but he’ll never forget you howling for him and his cock to never leave you.

Patrick will swing himself over the net into overstimulation before the next time your pussy’s clamping down on his thick cock and spasming, but he’ll be damned if you’re not gonna end up passed out and drooling while the sun rises. You can spend future movie nights cockwarming him, if you can stand to endure the sickeningly perfect stretch without being allowed to get your cunt beat. You’re mewling when you froth the base of his dick again, your walls pulse around him like you’re a cat laving up your favorite cream. Tonight’s not the night where you’ll be getting it straight from the source, maybe when you’re willing to take certain risks. His smiles are the most genuine when you drag out your whine to follow the speed in which he pulls out to paint your body. Tangy ribbons hanging over your love handles and dripping down to your ass cheeks.

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Innocent Possession

—

Time Written - 11:52 p.m.

Arkham Knight/fem!reader smut

Tags: Smut, possessive, breeding/innocence kink. Jason might be a meanie. (Not Proofread. Have to work on a Saturday AND I BROKE MY NAIL ���)

This man is such a slut it’s not even funny anymore. LOOK AT THAT.👇 THIS WAS INSPIRED BY THAT 👆

—

His lush, heavy breathing fans along your exposed, maroon muddled neck. Sharp teeth dimpling your skin in harsh punctures, not enough to draw blood quite yet.

Hands that once cradled your neck like porcelain art in the distance of the past, now grasped your throat like a damn vice, pairing with his grip on your shoulder to force you back against him with each deep, aching thrust.

One of the major accomplishments of his new identity, his new life, was to find the innocence of his past. The highlight of his life for many years was brought to him, bound and gagged as Gotham was in the midst of evacuation. Your clothes were torn and rustled from aggressive attempts to subdue you, enough to leave bruises along your supple, upper arms as you thrashed and screamed.

Now those bastards of men lay dead outside the hall. Scattered corpses slumped along the floors, dreadfully bland decor that meant nothing to the Knight that holstered his gun after his short pursuit.

Your first greeting from the armored man was terrifyingly quiet, towering over you like a beast after approaching where you cowered.

His hands grasp hold of his helmet before you could beg for your life, only trying to make it towards the Evac buses before you were hauled off by those bastards. All words died on your tongue when steel cut blue eyes meet yours, brows faintly furrowed, his jaw taunt with incredibly strong tension.

You’re his ex, but not by choice. None of this was by choice. He vanished for a year, only to be presumed dead the next.

You never hated him enough to put that label on him. Any attempt to begin your list of a million questions abruptly halts before it even began, as his lips instantly assault yours.

“That’s a good girl. My fucked out little whore.” He grunts, squeezing your hips closer to his pelvis, bullying his fat cock deeper into your tight walls.

The ropes that kept you bound now uselessly dangled from your wrists like cheap bracelets, the skin of your knuckles lightening as you helplessly plant them along the wall. Skin grew sticky with milky cum in between both your bodies, loud and wet, seeping down in between your bare thighs.

Watching and feeling your juices dampen the front of his red tactical pants was a punishment in itself, one he was feeling kind enough to save for later.

Maybe fucking your mouth would make for good punishment, listening to you choke as he grinds against your face, a pool of your combined mess seeping along your dirty knees on the ground.

“You better hope I never learn if any other guy fucked what’s mine, Princess,” He huffs against your kiss bruised lips, barely taking breaks to let you breathe. “Woulda’ rather had you cryin’ on fuckin’ toys than another man.”

Your whimper sounded like a cry, making Jason believe he could do so here right now, in this dingy room, underneath a dusty headlight. He hovers more over your back, tilting your head just enough to crash his lips against yours.

Feverishly responding to such a heavy, messy kiss, you moan fully against his rough, scar lined lips, amplifying when his tongue promptly invades. He licks with feverish hunger as a hand slips under your waist, huffing at your jolt at the sudden, angry assault on your nub, forcing your walls to deliciously clench towards a third orgasm.

The sounds he could pull from his sweet girl never ceases to amaze him. Even before his death, you were nothing but kind, the epitome of polite and heartwarming sweetness. What the hell were you thinking, choosing to date a guy like him?

Doesn’t matter if he died. No man is ever gonna take what’s been his for a very, very long time.

You won’t have to tell him now, but he’ll know. He has the capability to learn all your deepest secrets, knowing he could drag them out of you so easily.

“You miss me, pretty girl?” His hot rasp rumbles richly along the shell of your ear, sparking an uproar of your over sensitive nerves.

“You miss cryin’ on my dick, Princess? Missed how good it made you feel, how perfect you’d behave just to get bred? Tell me,” he grunts after relinquishing from the kiss. “Tell me you did. Say it loud, tell me you missed me.”

“I did-“ You spew out from quivering lips, ripples of tears trailing down your cheeks.

“I did, Jay. M-Missed you so much—“

Your voice draws out an empty whine towards your last word, hearing the collision of hot skin get louder as he gets harsher, brutal, eagerly desperate to make up for all the time he’s lost.

His sweet, innocent girl resorted to a jittery, babbling fleshlight. You could say anything he wanted, his guarded ego crumbling from the truth laced in your words.

You missed him, grieved for him, loved him. Yet, all he saw you as right now is his babbling whore, his whining little baby who never got used to the size of him driving deep into your cunt.

Honestly, he hopes you never will.

Your front further gets pressed flat against the wall, hot skin shivering from the harshness of the cold surface. Thick, precisely detailed armor digs deep into your back when he leans over you, keeping his persistent grip along your jaw, keeping you suspended just enough to breathe when he fucks you.

“S’been hell without ya, sweetheart,” He lowers his tone, whispering with a kiss of taunt as he rocks himself against your plush ass, keeping you cock drunk per his amusement.

“My baby wanna prove how much she missed me?” He cooes along your ear, smirking sadistically to your complete unawareness. “My baby wanna have a baby? She wanna have her pussy filled to prove she always loved me?”

You whine out ‘yes’ over and over, your back arching heavily from his relentless pace. The more space you involuntarily create, the closer Jason leans into you, the harder the plating digs into your back. The harsher the head of his cock endlessly strikes your cervix, making you just about lose it.

A series of curses spewed from your lips, resulting in three thick fingers shoved into your mouth, tasting yourself prior when he assaulted your soaked core.

“Language, babygirl,” Jason sneers against your cheek, despising the foul words that left those pretty lips. “Don’t badmouth me like a cheap whore. You’re my good girl. Fucking act like it.”

His other hand promptly pressed against your abdomen, forcing your lower half closer towards his waist. With his overwhelming free reign on your body, Jason bullies your sore, abused pussy with a series of sharp slaps, your clit stinging from repeated impacts.

You jolt out, sobbing out a series of apologies laced in short begs in the midst of various squeals.

In another life, he was your gentle giant. Now, he was a monster lusting after much more than blood. Jason was a simple man; wanting nothing more than the death of his mentor, and his ex’s warm cunt until he’s fully satisfied.

You whine out something that sounded like a mix between a cry and a moan. He clicks his tongue, tilting your head back just a little more while halting his hand, catching sight of those teary, bubbly eyes and quivering lip.

“Speak up, baby.”

“I-I’m sorry!” You hiccup, your nails scraping along the wall from overstimulation.

“I’m sorry Ja-Jason, please—“

You stumble over words. A pure miracle over how flustered you were to say your desire after being his sex doll.

“Please what?” He demands, losing what patience he never had.

“A baby,” you whine out, purposely leaning into his palm, fluttering your teary lashes. “Give me your baby, Jason. I want it. Please.”

His brows raise in surprise, slowly rocking his hips whilst holding back a grunt. Yes, he said it, desiring it, but hearing you beg for this. To ruin your beautiful body with his tainted seed.

“M’Not gonna stop, y’know. Even when it takes.” His voice dribbled with lustful possession while his hips stutter back into an uproar, nibbling along your lobe with sharp teeth. “That what you want? You ready for that?”

You moan out an easy agreement with more eagerness than before, allowing your body to relax against his chest.

“Y’hear me, Princess?” Jason braced a hand along the wall, clutching hold of your hand in his grasp, keeping your fingers safe in his fist. “I’m gonna make you a mama by the end of tonight.”

The Bats can wait, for now. Once he’s dead, once he’s been dealt with, then he’ll have much more opportunity to celebrate.

[m4g0rtz]

Today's mani is so freaking funny to me!! 😂 I saw this intestine design on YouTube yesterday and I HAD to try it for Halloween. I used regular lacquer and freehanded the pink instead of gel and eyeshadow like the video, but the spirit of it is there I think. Ohh and I wanted to make mine glow in the dark. 😂😂😂 These nails have been seriously cracking me up. Considering I've spent the last two and a half years trying to manage my IBD, this nail design seemed perfect for me. My kiddo thinks it looks more like brains than intestines, but I'll let you be the judge. Humm... I may have to do a brain version for next year. 🤔 This is Kundalini Hustle from Smith & Cult, Plastik from Cirque Colors and Not Milky White from Holo Taco. Happy Halloween! 🎃👻🦇🧙‍♀️🍬🪦🧛‍♀️💀

[turcott3]

be my baby

brandt clarke x fem! reader

warnings?: kissing, cursing, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, flufffffff

masterlist

-

“mmm” you groaned as you were awakened by the sensation of your boyfriends lips latched on you neck, his hands placed around your waist, you hands finding their way to his torso.

“good morning.” he says quietly, pressing smooth kisses to your jawline as you smiled, eyes lightly shut, content with your boyfriends affection.

“morning.” you sigh, opening your eyes, taking his cheeks into your hands and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“you look so beautiful right now.” he smiles, brushing the hair out of your face.

“right now?” you reply, cocking an eyebrow.

“i mean, you look perfect all the time, i just wan-“

“brandt i was kidding, thank you m’love.” you mumble against his cheek, his hands wandering closer to your bum.

“always.” he replies confidently, running a soft thumb over your cheek bone, bringing your lips back to his lovingly. you felt a certain electricity in this kiss that told you this was gonna go all the way. your heart thumping in your chest.

he helped you tug your shirt off over your head, hardly connecting your lips, his hands cupping gently around your exposed breasts, giving them a slight squeeze, rolling over so he’s leaned over you in nothing but boxers, what he slept in.

“can’t wait to love on my girl.” he mumbles, kissing your jawline, running his hands down your waist.

“can’t wait to show her how beautiful she is, and how much i love her, and how good she is for me.”

“brandt please.” you whine, growing wetter by the moment, trying to nicely get him to shut up and fuck you. he chuckles as he runs two fingers over the fabric of your underwear, pushing it to the side.

“patience baby, promise we’ll get there.” he giggles.

“you’re taking forever, less talking, more fucking. and kiss me please, i miss your lips.” you frown as he smiles, bringing his lips back to yours with no hesitation, sliding himself inside you simultaneously, your moan muffled by his lips. you could feel the smile on his cheeks as he thrusted deeply and slowly, feeling every inch of his thick cock pumping in and out of you. you gripped onto his back as he picked up his pace a little bit, his lips latching back onto your neck just like they were when he woke you up, nipping lightly in the skin as your fingers tangled in his soft, ginger, locks .

“so fucking good baby, so good for me.” he mutters, locking eyes with you as he snapped his hips into yours, a moan quickly turning to a yelp.

“oh my god brandt.” you groan as he speeds up, your walls tightening slowly around him as he hounded your pussy, pumping as deep as he could get, leaving room for absolutely nothing else.

you locked eyes with him, your heart growing more and more as you saw nothing but love in his eyes. you could feel how pure his love for you was simply in the way he held you as he made love to you. he held you like you were a delicate piece of art work, he would never dare to hurt you. he wouldn’t dream of it.

you were obsessed with the way his cock fit inside you, the way his lips fit onto yours like a perfect match, the way his grip on you was so protective, and loving. you were obsessed with him, and he pushed you to your limit, quicker than you ever could with any other man.

“you’re getting so tight, fuck, cum for me baby. i’m getting so fucking close.” he grunts as your nails dig harshly into his skin.

“fuck.” you whine as you’re pushed over the edge, spilling over into your climax as his cock twitches, filling you to the brim with his own, the milky substance dripping from you as he pulled out breathlessly.

“made such a mess.” you tease as he runs his tip through it.

“i did.” he smirks, you reaching down to pump his, still hard, cock.

“again?” he asks and you nod, him instantly diving back into you.

-

“whatcha making?” you ask, drying your hair with a towel as you walk into the kitchen after a quick shower to recover from the multiple fuckings you’d just received.

“well, i’m making waffles, but im trying this new batter i saw.” he says, nodding to a box on the counter.

“you saw where? brandt we never go grocery shopping.” you laugh.

“instacart exists y/n. we are adults okay.” he scoffs, sliding you the box.

“protein waffles?”

“yeah, i figure it would be good since we just worked out intensely for like two hours.” he says in that voice you always adore.

“yeah i guess you’re right. you know, you’re really getting me in shape.”

“guess we should keep it up huh?” he says with a cheesy grin, turning his head to face you and you giggle, latching onto his arm, watching him open the waffle iron.

“yeah we should, maybe even more.” he say raising your eyebrows.

“and i thought i was the dirty one.” he scoffs, making you a plate and handing it to you, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple as you made your way to the couch.

“enjoy my love, i hope they’re good.” he says as you walk off.

“baby, anything you cook and put effort into is good.” you reply, taking a bite.

“really? i really don’t feel like im a good cook. i don’t know maybe i just didn’t pay attention in the kitchen that much when i was growing up. my mom loves cooking, im really surprised she didn’t teach me at least the….” he continues, but you’ve tuned his voice out, watching your boyfriend talk was one of your favorite things, god he yapped, but you adored him the most for it.

you watched as he continued talking about cooking, making each waffle carefully, his tongue occasionally poking out of the corner of his mouth during pauses between sentences, zoning out on his gorgeous jawline and perfect side profile.

“y/n? y/n.” he finally says, snapping you back into reality.

“what? huh? sorry.” you reply, him giggling at the bright shade of red your face turned when he caught you admiring him.

you’d never adored a guy so much. his cheesy giggle, his ginger hair, his bright smile and most importantly the way he treated you, it was pure perfection.

he was the one lover any girl would dream of, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on him again, as soon as you could.

[ltash]

Ethereal

Part two "Thirst"

Link to Part 1 in the end.

Ghost x Vampire Hybrid, Ghost x female reader

When Ghost crossed paths with you, a vampire hybrid in the frozen Russian Tundra. Little did he know you are hiding a secret within.

18+, MDNI.

I would rather spend one lifetime with you, than face all the ages of this world alone."

He laid you very gently on the fur rug beside the fireplace, the warmth from the flames contrasting sharply with the icy chill that had seeped into your bones. Your clothes, little more than rags, clung to your ethereal form, hinting at the delicate beauty beneath.

Ghost removed his sniper and gloves, setting them aside with deliberate care. His puffer jacket followed, discarded in his haste to help you. You were completely unconscious, your breaths shallow and labored.

Slowly, he began to remove your makeshift shoes, his touch as gentle as possible. The old shawl followed, then the layers of rags you had wrapped around yourself for warmth. With each layer removed, he searched for the source of your bleeding, his hands steady despite the urgency of the situation.

He continued to remove every piece of clothing you wore, his movements slow and gentle, as if handling the most delicate of treasures. When he finally removed your chemise, the sight before him made his jaw drop. Your body was a masterpiece, sculpted by the hands of a higher being, a work of art so perfect it seemed almost unreal.

Your milky white complexion was so pure that he feared even touching you might sully it. In all his military years, Ghost had seen many women, but none came close to your ethereal beauty. The firelight danced across your flawless skin, setting it ablaze with a soft, warm glow.

"Steaming Jesus," he murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from the vision before him. Your tiniest waist gave way to a mound of soft breasts, adorned with tiny pink nipples, and the perfect V shape of your most sensitive part. The sight was both breathtaking and humbling, a stark contrast to the harsh, brutal world he was so accustomed to.

He gently placed his rough hand below your belly button, his touch sending shivers down his spine. You were colder than the snow outside, your body delicate and petite. Your neck, like a swan's, arched gracefully, and your collarbones were razor-sharp.

For a moment, he looked away, a sense of reverence and respect overwhelming him. There wasn't even a spot of peach fuzz on your body, your skin as smooth and unblemished as porcelain.

Ghost held your freezing cold hand in his own, marveling at its beauty. Your hands were so delicate, with thin fingers and long pink nails, a stark contrast to his own calloused palms. He squeezed your hand gently, willing some warmth to seep into your chilled body.

His gaze drifted to the wound on the curve of your side, just above your hip bone. It was a stark reminder of the danger you had faced, the fragility of life in this unforgiving landscape.

The sight of it made his heart clench. The bullet had torn through your lower abdomen, leaving a gaping, bloody hole. Ghost's fingers traced the edges of your wound. Gathering his composure, Ghost refocused on the task at hand. He knew he had to treat your wound and keep you warm to ensure your survival.

He worked quickly, cleaning the wound with the supplies from his medical kit, applying pressure to stem the bleeding.

His mind raced with thoughts of how fragile you seemed, how someone so delicate could survive in such a harsh environment. The firelight danced across your platinum hair, your pale skin almost luminescent in the glow.

Ghost took out the stitching thread and needle, his hands steady despite the gravity of the situation. With you already unconscious, there was no need to numb the area. Gently, he cleaned your wound with alcohol, half-expecting a reaction from you, but you remained still and unresponsive. He knew you were in a deep sleep, your body exhausted from the ordeal.

The first prick of the needle made your muscles twitch, and Ghost glanced at your face, but you didn't stir. As he continued to stitch your wound, he couldn't help but notice a small stream of tears cascading down your beautiful face. You were still passed out, but tears flowed from your eyes, a silent reminder that you were indeed feeling pain.

His heart clenched at the sight, a surge of empathy washing over him. He worked quickly, his movements as gentle as possible as he closed the wound. With each stitch, his heart broke with the determination to ease your suffering and help you heal.

As he finished stitching and bandaging your wound, he wiped away the tears from your cheeks, his touch light and tender. Despite the storm raging outside and the uncertainty of your situation, Ghost found solace in the knowledge that he had done everything he could to care for you.

Ghost knew that getting you to proper medical care was critical, but for now, his priority was keeping you stable and warm. He wrapped you in the thickest blankets he could find, ensuring you were as comfortable as possible.

He sat beside you, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe and determination. "You're safe now," he whispered, his voice soft yet resolute. "I'll make sure you get through this."

With one final glance at your sleeping form, he vowed to remain by your side until you woke, ready to provide whatever support and comfort you needed. In the midst of the chaos and danger of the tundra, he found himself drawn to you, captivated by your beauty and resilience.

As he sat by your side, his hand resting lightly on your belly, Ghost felt a surge of protectiveness wash over him. You were in his care now, and he would do everything in his power to keep you safe and help you heal.

The storm continued to rage outside, but inside the lodge, a fragile peace settled over you both. Ghost remained vigilant, his senses attuned to any change in your condition. He was determined to see you through this ordeal, no matter the cost.

As Ghost sat with you, his hand resting gently on your soft, icy-cold belly, he felt a deep sense of confusion and worry settle over him. Despite his efforts to warm you and tend to your wounds, your body temperature remained unnervingly low.

Minutes turned into an hour, yet there was no sign of improvement. Your skin still felt cold to the touch, your breaths shallow and labored. Ghost's mind raced with questions and doubts. What had he done wrong? Had he missed something crucial in his efforts to help you?

Desperation gnawed at him as he gently took your feet in his hands, rubbing them in an attempt to generate some warmth. But still, there was no change. Your body remained cold and unresponsive, a silent testament to the severity of your condition.

Ghost felt a surge of frustration and helplessness wash over him. He had trained for countless scenarios, faced danger and adversity head-on, but nothing had prepared him for this. The realization that he might not be able to save you was a bitter pill to swallow.

Realizing that his only option left was to give you his own body heat, Ghost felt a wave of reluctance wash over him. The thought of it made him blush, but he knew he had no other choice. Your life depended on it.

With a deep sigh, he gently peeled off his clothes, starting with his puffer jacket, then his T-shirt, leaving him in just his cargo pants. He hesitated for a moment, the gravity of what he was about to do settling over him.

Gathering his resolve, Ghost slid under the blanket beside you. He carefully nestled your head on his arm before wrapping his other arm around your petite figure, drawing you close. Your cold body pressed against his warm skin, the stark contrast sending a shiver through him.

You instinctively nestled into him, seeking the warmth he offered. Your soft breasts pressed against his chest, a reminder of your delicate beauty even in this dire situation. Ghost's heart raced, but he focused on the task at hand, pushing aside any awkwardness or discomfort.

He held you tightly, his body heat gradually seeping into yours, willing warmth and life back into your cold limbs. His hand gently rubbed your back, trying to stimulate circulation and generate more heat. He whispered reassurances, his breath warm against your ear.

"Stay with me," he murmured softly. "You're going to be okay."

He laid there, taking in your breathtaking beauty. The firelight cast a soft glow on your slightly agape lips, and the remnants of tears clung to your eyelashes, giving them a glistening sheen. Every detail of your face was a marvel to him, a mix of vulnerability and ethereal grace.

Ghost gently stroked your arm, his touch tender and soothing. He watched the rise and fall of your chest, feeling a sense of profound responsibility and protectiveness wash over him. You seemed so fragile in his arms, a stark contrast to the harshness of the world outside.

His eyes traced the curve of your face, the delicate arch of your eyebrows, and the softness of your features. The warmth of his body slowly transferred to yours, and he felt a flicker of hope as your skin began to lose its icy chill.

"You're safe now," he whispered softly, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire. "I won't let anything happen to you."

As he held you, his mind wandered to the circumstances that had brought you together. The tundra, the storm, the shot that had connected your fates in such an unexpected way. He wondered who you were, what your story was, and how you had ended up alone in this desolate place.

But for now, those questions could wait. His priority was keeping you alive and ensuring you recovered. He continued to gently stroke your arm, offering comfort and warmth, determined to stay by your side for as long as it took.

The storm outside raged on, but inside the lodge, there was a fragile sense of peace. Ghost remained vigilant, his heart and mind focused on the fragile, beautiful being in his arms, resolved to protect and care for you through the long, cold night.

Minutes turned into hours as Ghost lay there, his body wrapped around yours, providing the life-saving warmth you so desperately needed. Slowly, he began to feel a slight increase in your body temperature, a faint but hopeful sign that his efforts were not in vain.

The comms and evac had completely slipped from Ghost's mind as he became lost in you. Your fragile beauty and the urgency of your condition consumed his every thought. He didn't know when he drifted into a deep slumber, his arms wrapped protectively around your delicate form.

Soft whimpers woke him up. His eyes fluttered open, and he quickly focused on you. Your face was contorted in pain, and you whimpered softly in your sleep. The sight tugged at his heart, filling him with a renewed sense of urgency.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice soothing and gentle as he stroked your hair. "You're safe. I'm here."

He shifted slightly, ensuring you were still enveloped in his warmth. The fire had died down a bit, so he reached out carefully to add more wood, stoking the flames back to life. The renewed warmth radiated through the room, adding to the cocoon of heat around you.

Ghost checked your bandaged wound, relieved to see that it was still clean and not bleeding. He could feel your skin had warmed up slightly, but he knew you still had a long way to go.

As he held you closer, he murmured soft reassurances, his breath warm against your ear. "It's going to be okay. Just hang in there."

Your whimpers gradually subsided, and he felt you relax slightly in his arms. Ghost continued to hold you, his thoughts solely focused on your recovery. The outside world and his mission faded into the background; all that mattered now was keeping you safe and helping you heal.

Throughout the night, Ghost remained vigilant, occasionally drifting into light sleep but always alert to any sign of change in your condition. He knew the road to recovery would be long and uncertain, but he was committed to seeing you through it.

The morning sun shone through the windows, casting a warm, golden light into the lodge. The storm had gradually subsided, leaving a serene stillness in its wake. You opened your eyes slowly, the brightness making you blink as you tried to focus.

Your first sensation was warmth. You were wrapped in thick blankets, and the crackling fire nearby added to the comforting heat.

A gasp escaped your lips as you sat up abruptly, the blanket sliding down to reveal your bare breasts. The sharp pain in your lower belly made you wince, your trembling hand moving instinctively toward the bandage. The sudden movement brought a flood of memories, a flashback of the moment you got shot.

Instinctively, you covered your breasts with your long hair, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment and confusion.

You heard heavy footsteps approaching. Your eyes darted toward the figure emerging from the shadows. As he stepped into the light, you took in every detail, from the combat boots to the tight black cargo pants that clung to his muscular thighs. His black T-shirt strained against the rugged contours of his chest and arms, barely containing his powerful physique. The large biceps looked capable of snapping tree trunks, and a tattoo sleeve covered his left arm with intricate designs. He was tall, imposing, and exuded a raw, brute strength.

Your gaze traveled upwards until you met the shiny skull mask covering his face, with a black balaclava beneath it. His chocolate-brown eyes stared down at you through the holes of the mask, piercing and intense. You had never encountered a human like this before, let alone such a behemoth of a man. Despite your hybrid nature, his presence intimidated you deeply.

A gasp escaped your lips, and you recoiled, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. It wasn't just fear that made you retreat—it was his scent. It hit your nose with an irresistible allure, awakening a thirst for human blood you had never felt before. Your instincts screamed at you, but you fought against them, struggling to maintain control.

"Who are you?" you whispered, your voice barely audible as you tried to steady your breathing. The allure of his scent was almost overpowering, and you found it difficult to focus.

Ghost noticed your reaction and took a step back, giving you some space. "I'm Ghost," he said softly, his voice deep and resonant even through the mask. "I found you in the snowstorm. You were injured, and I brought you here to help."

You noticed his thick British accent, the husky tone of his voice adding an air of mystery and authority. It was unlike any way people spoke English in your town, let alone you, as you were Russian.

"Who are you, if I may ask?" he inquired, tilting his head slightly and crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"I-I am Aurora," you replied, your voice shaky but sincere.

"What were you doing in the snowstorm, Aurora? Where is your family?" His interrogative nature came to the surface, his questions probing yet not unkind.

"I-I have no one," you stammered, feeling the weight of the truth in your words. "I live across the lake. I was trying to hunt."

"Hunt? In that heavy snowstorm?" He cocked an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his tone. "Look at yourself. Are you made for hunting?" He stepped closer, then knelt on one knee in front of you.

You felt a rush of emotions as he put his gloved fingers under your chin, gently lifting your face to meet his gaze. His chocolate-brown eyes locked onto your icy blue ones, a mixture of curiosity and something deeper flickering in his gaze.

"I have never seen anyone like you, Aurora," he said, his voice softening slightly. There was a genuine marvel in his words, as if he was looking at something rare and precious.

The intensity of his presence was overwhelming, yet you couldn't look away. Despite the layers of fear and uncertainty, you felt a strange connection, a sense of being seen in a way you never had before.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "For saving me."

He nodded, his fingers lingering under your chin for a moment longer before he let go. "You're safe now," he reassured you. "But you need to rest and recover. We'll figure out the rest together."

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions inside you. Despite the primal thirst gnawing at you, there was a sense of safety in his presence. His scent, while intoxicating, also brought a strange comfort.

The exhaustion from the previous night finally catching up with you. Despite the fear and confusion, there was a growing sense of trust. As Ghost settled back, his watchful eyes never straying far from you, you allowed yourself to relax, feeling a fragile hope for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

To be continued...

Link to part 1

No reuploads or reproduction of my works allowed, reblogs are welcomed.

[dreadfutures]

Death is an Open Door | Dragon Age Fanfic

Rated: T | M!Mahariel & NB!Mahariel | Length: 8k, oneshot.

Art commissioned from @eldrtchmn.

Old Wardens told tales of long-gone companions and how they knew it was time to go. When hair thinned and nails grew sharp; when bone spurs sprouted or muscles began to hunch; when the eyes grew milky and the veins grew dark, and the light of the sun burned like the Maker’s wrath… that was when a Warden was a Warden no longer. Mahariel had never known old Wardens. Mahariel traveled at night.

A gift fic I wrote for @ammoniteflesh <3

Written for the annual Dragon Age Fan Fic (DAFF) discord server's April OC Swap. I was SO excited to receive Ghila to write a fic for and had to place my own Mahariel in stark contrast - and uncanny comparison - to Ghila's experience with the Blight, and vice versa.

We both commissioned @eldrtchmn for our ghoulish Wardens (above). Please keep an eye out for commission openings, and follow on all socials! No one does dark fantasy/souls better IMO.

[hangesbrattyapprentice]

Sleuths & Syndicates

Part 3

Mafia Boss! Shigaraki x fem!reader

art by ichiya1115

˚✧₊⁎ find Part 1 & Part 2 here ⁎⁺˳✧༚

~MDNI~

Being Tomura Shigaraki’s captive becomes easier once you stop fighting it. Before, he’d leave you bound and gagged for hours, days, unconcerned with your wellbeing. Only consumed with having your body available for him whenever the urge struck him. He’d fall asleep nuzzling your breasts, his cold legs entangled with your immobile ones. For weeks, the only people you’d see besides him were the cleaning staff who seemed assiduously oblivious to your existence even as you screamed for help. But you saw how soft he’d get when you were pliant, and your will to survive made you use it to your advantage no matter how much you hated yourself for it.

He was observant. Knew just how to get a reaction out of you. Weeks of having you tied up and unable to stop him or squirm away from his prying fingers and tongue had let him learn exactly what made you tick. Things you hadn’t even known about yourself. He made you feel good. So if you forgot everything about the world outside of that room, about who you were, things weren’t so bad. He kept you fed and made you cum and only hurt you if you displeased him – or if he felt like it.

When you’ve both grown more familiar your situation, he gradually gives you more liberty. You’re allowed to move freely within his mansion, although he’s strengthened the guard. You don’t often ask for things but when you do, Tomura makes sure you get them.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Sunny? You just had bubble tea yesterday,” he rolls his eyes. But he doesn’t send one of his men. He gets it himself on his way back home so he can see the stars in your eyes when he hands you the cup. “Whadya say, brat?” And here’s why you have him wrapped around your finger. You know he’d be happy with a sweet “thank you, Don” and a blowjob, but you don’t need him happy. If you are to survive – to escape someday – you need him absolutely enraptured.

So you make sure he reads the sin in your eyes before you ask him if he’d like a taste. And when he takes the bait, quirking an eyebrow, you pop the seal and let the milky liquid pour slowly over your mouth, neck, and breasts, drenching the shirt you’re wearing until the fabric is sheer and stuck to your nipples. It’s almost endearing how his jaw hangs open – or it would be, were he not the devil himself. But you channel your hatred into lust and guide him by the back of his neck to your mouth, letting him lap up the sweet drink. His tongue runs up along the column of your neck before he lowers his head further to suck greedily at your tits through the shirt. The feel of his tongue with the added texture of the wet fabric has you moaning above him, raking your nails against his scalp.

And because he’s feeling extra generous, he turns you around and gives you his solid thigh to ride from behind while he teases your nips, head bent over your shoulder, with slow licks and quick twists between his fingers. Despite yourself, you’re coming undone so quickly, the feel of his hard thigh under pressed trousers somehow giving you what you need. Heel lifted, he pulses his leg up and down in time with the rocking of your hips and you’re so close, already feeling the tiny contractions coming when he suddenly pushes you off of him, making you fall to the floor on all fours.

“No, please!” You wail, hips thrusting uselessly into nothing, chasing your lost orgasm.

“I thought the bubble tea was for you, pet. Not me,” he smirks. His pants are around his ankles when you turn to face him and he’s found the half-empty cup, tilting it over his throbbing erection. “Don’t you want it?”

You give him what he wants – a messy blowjob worthy of a porno, wondering if your little act was all for nothing. He’s seconds away from cumming when you decide to risk your life for some petty revenge. You lift your head, gasping for air, but instead of swallowing him right back down your throat, you stay put, panting on his flushed cock, just out of reach.

“F-fuck! Sunny-nnghh!” Tomura roars, legs quivering. But instead of grabbing your head and violently fucking your face like you expected, he’s whimpering beneath you, begging, and then you’re both gaping at each other in equal surprise. Tentatively, you reach for the restraints that would usually hold your wrists and his ruby eyes follow you, a slew of emotions reflected in them clear as day. He’s a little frightened but also very hopeful.

Straddling his torso, you tie his right hand to the bedpost and then his left, kissing him slow and tender in between. He’s an absolute wreck and you haven’t even started yet. You’ve never done anything like this before, wouldn’t even know what “edging” is but with how responsive Shigaraki is, it comes to you naturally. With kitten licks and slow strokes of your fingertip, you bring him right to the edge of release before backing away and letting him cool off, over and over and over again. And when he moans, you can’t help but moan with him. You’re enjoying this, too. Your pussy aches with need. You want to ride him, and when you ask him if he can hold off his orgasm til you say so, he huffs a drunken laugh.

“Sorry, Sunshine. Don’t think I can hold it if you so much as breathe on my dick right now. What’s wrong?” he adds, seeing the frown on your face. Then he growls. “Fuck, don’t tell me this is turning you on that much, my sick little pet. C’mere.”

When you just look at him confused, he clarifies, “come sit on my face. Use me to get yourself off ’slong as you want, baby.” He’s panting hard, voice raspier than usual, cock twitching helplessly. Something inside you snaps.

You’re bracing yourself with your forearms against the wall, riding Shigaraki’s tongue as he eats you out like his life depends on it. His arms strain against the ropes, corded muscles bulging. You’re cumming for the second time, slick and spit dripping down his face and he’s groaning like he’s in agony but can’t stop lapping you up for even a second, even though you’re whimpering and backing away from the overstimulation.

Suddenly one of the restraints snaps, and in the back your head you’re furious – how often you’d have given anything for one of those ropes to snap when it was you tied up – but you’re somewhat blissed out, mid-orgasm and caught off guard when Shigaraki uses his free arm to topple you so you’re on your back, head hanging off the side of the mattress with his arms now holding both your thighs open for him and his mouth free to continue its assault on your cunt.

His lips close over your swollen clit, suckling on it hard. You scream, hands fisting and tangling in his fluffy, white hair. Two thick fingers stretch you out and pump into you, easily finding your most sensitive spot and you’re cumming all over again, legs shaking uncontrollably and sparks going off in your head. You’re pulled back fully onto the mattress by your throat and his fingers are quickly replaced by his cock and fuck he’s so damn hard you’ve never felt him this thick before. He’s not fucked you so rough since before you became “Sunny” but you love it and you’re so grateful when he spills his seed inside you but still keeps going, fucking it deeper into you. You’re begging him not to stop, and he’s eager to oblige.

It takes a while, but when you’re both worn out, clean and curled up in bed, Tomura is sweet and gentle. He’s got you tucked into his side, head resting on his chest, hand carding through your hair while the tv throws dim, flickering blue light over an otherwise dark room. He kisses the top of your head.

“I love you, Sunny,” he murmurs, and you’re just about far gone enough to almost feel as if this could be a normal relationship. Almost.

“Fuckin’ love you so god damn much. What did I do to deserve you, hm?”  

You curl up further into yourself, and to Shigaraki, it feels like a hug.

[myownkindofdivinity]

nude ombré to semi opaque white tip stiletto nails

nude nails reflect simplicity and grounding. they symbolize authenticity, balance, and a return to essentials, promoting inner peace and self-focus.

in contrast, white polish commands attention, effortlessly catching the eye in any setting. the softer milky white tips exude a subtle allure, drawing notice without appearing overly intentional—like a sheer garment that intrigues with what it hints at while maintaining an air of mystery.

the nail shape is stiletto, specifically pointed almonds, embodying the fluidity of water and the sharp clarity of air. together, they represent a balance of instinct and intellect, blending elegance with a touch of boldness.

source: The Ancient Art of Onychomancy by Kikimancy