#this is really just a thirst tweet post gone awry

[killakalx]

18+ content, MDNI.

breath play (?), choking, brief mention of orgasm denial

“what was that?” the arkham knight rumbles beneath the thick modulator, thrusts slowing by a fraction as a gloved hand tightens around your throat. the grip is bruising, clamped around the front and sides of your neck to cut off blood flow and breath alike. it’s different—crueler, compared to past men, like he wants you to pass out while he fucks you deeper. your free hand—because the other is locked under a painful pin to the mattress—moves to wrap around his wrist, holding on and tugging in an attempt to beg for air.

“you sound fucking stupid,” he chastises as black and white spots your vision, “snapped one of my best men’s neck for ogling at you, y’know that? so what the fuck is that attitude for?” by now you can’t even recall what you’d said to elicit this correction of behavior, but you mouth pathetic apologies through silent gasps for air in hopes of even an ounce of forgiveness. you can distantly hear him continuing, calling you all types of spoiled and ungrateful, all types of degrading names while he pounds your pussy sore as your eyelids flutter and eyes roll back dangerously far.

the worst part; the fear of losing consciousness, being left in his hands as you’ve drifted away from the lack of oxygen? it all turns you on that much more. it’s embarrassing how tight you get around his cock, legs trembling around his torso as your back arches away from the squeaking mattress.

“you like this shit,” jason calls you out, “fuckin’ hell- you wanna cum from getting choked out? ‘s that it?” he leans forward so his upper body weight joins the pressure on your throat, and the only noise you make over the lewd sound of your pussy squelching around his cock is equivalent to that of a mouse. you struggle underneath him and he gets the point, yet it only seems to make him dead set on fucking you just like this.

“you’re staying like this until you cum,” he orders through a distorted rasp, “y’catch that? ‘m not letting go until this nasty cunt creams on my cock.” it’s as if he wants an actual answer, and you’re not even present enough to act like you’re looking for one. your consciousness teeters away as your orgasm coils in your tummy, and the rough fabric of his gloves only digs deeper into your skin.

“I know you fucking hear me,” you make out his words, and you’re pulled away from the sheets by the neck for the soul purpose of being thrown deeper into the dip of the bed. it allows a pathetic gasp of air before you choke on the same bit of oxygen. “which is it, huh?” the answer’s evident when you tense, nails clawing at his arm as your orgasm washes over the lightheaded haze you’re in.