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targaryen-dynasty · 7 months ago

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THE CURSE OF CURIOSITY.

Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!reader

"While your brother searches the library of the Dragonkeeper Elder for something new to read, you come in contact with some unlabeled fluid. You both learn that it's something meant to aid in the breeding of dragons, however, it also has a unique effect on humans. But lucky for you, your twin is there to help you through the ordeal."

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, dub con, sex pollen (rather fluid lol), p in v, breeding kink

WORDS: 4 K

NOTES: Hope you enjoy me having literally zero grasp on English. 🤭

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

“It’s far too late for us to be here,” you huff, almost annoyed, as you watch Aemond graze his fingers along the spines of the several books kept in the currently deserted chambers of the Dragonkeeper Elder. “What are we looking for here anyways?”

The room is barely lit by anything else than just a handful of candles. Your twin holds a lantern of some sort in one hand, using it to make out the writings that are carved on the books backs.

When there doesn’t immediately come an answer from him, you start to slowly walk around the room, inspecting its decor. “I have exhausted the castle’s libraries, and hope to take something of their collection for my own,” he murmurs, carefully selecting two books.

You stop in your tracks and turn to look at him. Although you’re just a few moments younger than him, sharing the same attributes with your long, silver hair and lilac eyes, you have a much gentler nature than he does, one that doesn’t lend itself to the same mischief you had pursued together as children anymore.

“And you couldn’t have just taken Floris with you? You ought to wed, and doing something together would do no harm to your future union. One sparsely sees you two around court,” you note, slightly annoyed your brother chose to wake you instead of his betrothed.

Knowing all too well that just the mention of the betrothal is going to set him off, you choose to play with fire. If your brother wants your company, he’ll have to put up with your teasing. And just like expected, the notion of being forced into a marriage he doesn’t want to be in irritates him, audible in the sigh he releases. His resentment of the situation has become worse over time as he feels more and more suffocated by the ordeal.

“The girl is as dull as stones. Besides,” he replies with a shrug, “she knows nothing about our family’s history, much less about dragons.” The topic of dragons is something your twin is very passionate about, and you know that the fact that his wife-to-be cares so little about his passion infuriates him. It might be one of the main reasons for his dislike of her. “I have no desire to have Floris at my side any more than she does me.”

His annoyance is palpable, but you don’t feel bad about making it worse. For all the hours he has spent teasing, taunting and annoying you while you grew up together, he gets it back twice and three times over. And although he hasn’t spoken it out loud, you know you’re one of the few people he trusts blindly to be himself around.

“That aside, it would be foolish to read with Floris,” he continues, your silence coaxing him to speak more, “as all she does is gossip with her friends and prattle on about pointless nonsense. You of all people know best how I feel about this match.”

“Floris isn’t so bad, you know,” you defend with a low voice. “And you’ve barely tried to get to know her. Surely you can find at least one thing to like about her. If you did, you might just see she’s not as terrible as you’ve decided.” If you both have to spend your days withering away in marriages sealed by your father and mother, you at least could find a little solace knowing your twin wasn’t as miserable in his.

Aemond sighs in frustration. “You sound just like mother,” he comments dryly, finally moving to look at you from over his shoulder. “Can you really say that you like her? She is dull and naive. I am certain I couldn’t find anything to like about her even if I had all night. There is nothing for me to like about her. Nothing at all.”

Finding yourself at somewhat of a loss of words at this, you open and close your mouth without any words leaving it. Part of you wants to disagree with your twin, as Floris hasn’t been entirely unpleasant to spend time with at court, which makes Aemond’s dislike for her appear entirely without reason to you. On the other hand, you’ve known your brother long and well enough to know when he is resolute about something.

“Just promise me that you won’t be a terrible husband to her. Even if you don’t like her, don’t make your lifes awful,” you finally blurt out.

As you allow your gaze to trail through the chambers once more, you spot some small vessels standing lined up on the desk in the far corner with books and scrolls littered around them. You don’t wait for Aemond to reply as you make your way over, determined to inspect the small containers. The liquid inside of them resembles milk of the poppy, although it’s slightly more permeable to light when you hold it to one of the candles.

You hardly think about the dangers coming with it when you open the lid to inhale a whiff of the fluid. Not smelling entirely unpleasant, it still has you scrunching your nose as a slight burning grows prominent in your nose and throat.

Placing the vessel back down rather quickly, it stands too close to the edge of the desk. You’re not quick enough as it falls to the ground with a clatter, the vessel shattering into pieces and the pale liquid spreading across the floor.

“By the Seven,” you mumble, sinking to the ground to collect some of the larger shards.

The sound of breaking glass and your sighing is enough to catch your brother's attention again. Where he has read the spines of the books before, he makes his way over to the source of the commodation now. “You shouldn’t have dropped that,” he comments dryly, which prompts you to shoot him a heated glare. “Oh, you don’t say, mh?” you reply, your voice laced with sarcasm.

Reaching for another shard, you pull your hand back with a hiss when it cuts your finger. “Ouch!” you exclaim and rise to your feet, soon enough spotting the crimson oozing out of the cut.

Despite his annoyance at your clumsiness, Aemond’s good eye is drawn to the cut you have given yourself. It’s no deep wound, but even the hint of your blood makes something akin to guilt bubble in his stomach. “What were you doing with that?” he inquires, as he takes your hand to inspect your finger, nodding towards the vessels still standing on the desk.

You watch him twist and turn your hand to have the perfect look of the wound, the stinging pain suddenly not too bad with his warm skin on yours. “I… I just wanted to see what they keep here. It is unusual for anyone other than the maesters to store unmarked liquids,” you reply, hissing as Aemond pinches the cut finger a tad too tightly. “I shall see Maester Mellos. Mayhaps this needs stitching.”

“That’s an excellent idea.”

Aemond fetches the books he has chosen from the collection, holding them under his arm as he brings the other to you to place a hand to the small of your back, guiding you out of the Dragonpit.

On your request, the cut on your finger is stitched by Maester Mellos, although he has voiced that it wasn’t quite necessary. But something tells you the opposite, especially when you catch him staring at your face and checking your temperature more than once. “Is everything alright, maester?” you ask him with a soft voice, a yawn following.

Aemond towers over the both of you, carefully watching each move of the needle in the elder’s hands, just waiting for him to make a wrong move that’s meant to hurt you – he’s familiar with being stitched up after all.

The maester seems to be out of his mind, and only reacts as he hears you say his name. “Maester Mellos?”

His eyes are wide, but he nods quickly. “Yes… yes, princess. The wound should be able to heal calmly now.”

He is quick to pack his utensils up again, and even faster to leave your chambers at once. And while Aemond hurries after the old man, trying to catch up on him outside of your chambers, you don’t wait for any of them to return again with sleep coming over you.

The crackling of the fireplace is the only thing audible when you stir awake, a sheen of sweat covering your skin, making your nightgown cling to it uncomfortably. Your body feels as though it’s on fire when you squirm from one side to the other, not finding back to sleep. A tingling spreads in your loins, and each time your thighs squeeze together, it surges up your spine.

“Gods be good,” you whine, utterly bewildered with the feeling of liquid fire coursing through your veins.

Aemond not so silently rises from one of the chairs close to the fireplace, and comes closer to the bed, though, careful not to startle or frighten you as you regain your bearings. He has hoped you’d sleep through the entire ordeal and wake up as if nothing has happened, but that hope slowly dissipates with each passing moment.

“How are you feeling?” your twin asks, concern in his voice. Suddenly, hearing his voice allures you, and doesn’t diminish the burning at the apex of your legs.

As you clench your thighs together again, it releases some of the tension your body holds, and makes you whine in despair. “Aemond…” you pant, your chest rising and falling with your heavy breaths. “What are you doing here?”

The thin sheets covering your body do little to conceal what is happening beneath, and your brother just assumes it’s your way of trying to suppress your bodily urges ignited by the pale liquid you came in contact with before.

“I…” his usual confidence and boldness completely deserts him at the state you’re in, and he can barely find the words to tell you what he’s been told by Maester Mellos.

As he watches you writhe and writhe about on the bed, he’s unsure of how much longer he can just stand there and do nothing. But his concern and love for you cause him to make the decision to act, approaching you and reaching out to grasp your hands.

At the contact, the feeling of his warm hands fully engulfing yours, it’s like something overcomes your mind and body, luring you in to move, staring up at him with wide eyes as you sit on your haunches. “Dohaeragon nyke… kostilus,” you whimper, strands of your silver hair clinging to the damp sides of your face. “Ziry ōdrikagon.. sīr bāne. Nyke sepār – dohaeragon nyke, lēkia.” Yet you don’t quite know what exactly you’re begging for. Help me… please. It hurts… so hot. I just – help me, brother.

In the dim light of the candles, you spot his eye widening as you shift and squirm, looking up at him in such a vulnerable state with your innocent eyes, pleading for him to help you through your ordeal although you have no idea of what’s wrong with you right now. He can’t help but notice how your hair clings to your skin, seeming as if you’ve just bathed, and that your movements seem to contribute to its dampness.

“Mellos has told me what the fluid is that the Elder keeps in his chambers,” he states, trying to stay calm and not let your state affect him too much.

But with his proximity, all effort of you to process what he’s saying is fruitless. You pull on his hands, as if you want to encourage him to join you in bed, and when he doesn’t budge, you rise on your knees, and start to fidget with the buttons of his coat – solely driven by your urges. “And that is?” you mumble, not really listening.

His cheeks run hot when you start to undo the buttons, and his hands capture yours once again to put a stop to it, making you pout. With furrowed brows, his grip finally has you looking up at him. “It’s something used to aid in breeding the dragons,” Aemond states. “He told me it’s also used to increase their stamina and to make them more…” he trails off, his body slowly growing tense as the implication of what he’s going to say settles into his mind. “... receptive to breeding.”

“Mh–Mh,” you hum almost nonchalantly, and watch completely mesmerized as your fingers graze along his, the warmth and softness of his skin only intensifying the tingling in your loins. Aemond is hesitant, unsure whether or not what you’re doing is entirely due to the potion’s effect, or if there is genuinely some desire for him on your part.

You lick your lips and free your hands from Aemond’s to shrug the opened coat off his shoulders. The fabric of his tunic is pinched between your fingers as you tug on it once again to beg for him to join you. With him taking his sweet time, you find yourself clenching your thighs every now and then to soothe the aching burning at the apex of them.

“He also informed me that ‘tis necessary for someone to… help you through it,” he murmurs quietly, his voice almost sounding shaky as he speaks, “... for it will burn you from the inside out if not.”

Even though you’re fully acting on your body's desires, you do notice the way his widened eye trails down to your thighs, lingering there for a moment before it returns to yours.

You don’t give a verbal response to his words, and instead, your only reactions are subtle ones. Nodding your head slowly, as if you’ve understood what he is implying, your hands squeeze his tunic further into his chest. He can practically see your body tensing with each movement of your fingers, almost as if you’re trying to hold back.

With your eyes firmly locked with his now, you slowly trail your hands beneath his tunic, pushing it up to remove that as well from his body to get further access to him – if it wasn’t for him not raising his arms.

Exhaling a deep breath, you sit back on your haunches. His reluctance does little to quell the fire raging within you, no, it only fuels to make you even more desperate. The lacey hem of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you spread them, and fully exposes your undergarments the moment you bring your hand between your legs. A breathy whimper falls past your lips as your fingers finally make contact with your clothed cunt, and then something akin to mischief flickers in your lilac eyes.

“And… will you help me, brother? Or shall I ask Jacaerys for help instead? We ought to wed in a moon's turn after all,” your voice is honeyed as you speak, dripping with feigned innocence. “But you don’t want that, do you? That’s why you’ve stayed.”

You spot the exact moment his breath hitches in his throat. He suddenly feels a wave of heat overcoming him, your words triggering something in him that is more than just the usual desire to protect his younger sister, something primal. You sound and look so vulnerable asking for his help, secretly begging for him and him only.

Intertwining your fingers with his, the intensity of your grip increasing as your senses become more heightened, your twin finally moves as you pull him onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as you watch him come closer, and when he is close enough, you reach and pull him down onto you in a quick motion. You don’t waste a second more and lock your lips with his, your hand slowly traveling down his back. But before you can grab his tunic and pull it over his head, Aemond pushes you back to lie flatly on the bed, pinning your wrists above your head. His eye burns with hunger as he gazes down at you, visible even in the dim light, and it makes you yearn for more.

“Well, if I chose to leave you here to your own devices, would you crawl to your betrothed for help? I do not think so,” he says, his voice taking over a mocking tone. “No, in fact, I’m certain you would come to my chambers instead.”

When he doesn’t touch you, you try to wrap your legs around his body to grind yourself against him, but Aemond is quick to catch your hip with one hand, keeping your body still as it's pinned to the mattress.

“Sir, dohaeragon nyke,” you beg, voice shaky enough it comes close to a whimper. But when you notice that speaking in the tongue of your ancestors is not having any effect on him at all, you choose to coax him to tend to you in the Common Tongue. “Touch me, Aemond. Help me… please.” Now, help me.

Aemond is silent for a moment, visibly dragging his eye over your squirming frame. One hand still holds your wrists above your head, while the other slowly but surely releases your hip. “I shall take care of you,” he reassures you. “But you will have to let me, do you understand?”

You gaze up at him with wide eyes and slowly nod your head, only for you to pounce on him the moment your wrists are released. The tunic is gone as soon as your body collides with his, causing a strained gasp to leave your twin’s lips. While just the thoughts of his warm skin on yours have incite your mind already, seeing his bare chest sets your body alight.

His demeanor changes in the blink of an eye, and he has never treated you as roughly as he does when he pushes you off of him. It leaves you dumbfounded for a moment, more so when he moves between your parted legs, towering over you.

“Look how dull this fluid has made you,” he mocks, the condescending tone of his voice sending a shiver up your spine. Aemond notices that you’re not shying away from him, no, you keen at that. “Just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“If I help you,” he warns, “no one else, let alone that bastard of a nephew, is ever allowed to touch you again, do you understand?”

It might be the liquid-induced state, or the despair to have him do anything to you already, but you’re far too eager to nod at his words.

Aemond’s hand wanders below the hem of your nightgown to heartily fist your undergarments and peel them off of you. He can already feel that the linen is soaked with your arousal, but still can’t stop himself from licking his lips as he sees your now exposed cunt glistening in the light of the candles.

“Now, we do not want you to suffer any longer, hm?” he asks.

And you nod once again. “Gods, yes, please. I need you, Aemond.”

You don’t have to beg him any longer. He undoes the laces in the front of his breeches and pulls out his throbbing cock, painfully hard and aching to be buried inside of you. It’s slightly curved and thick, and if you have to guess, you’d say that you need both hands to pleasure him, and even then there’d still be a bit of him that would be left abandoned.

Aemond wastes no time in lining himself up with your entrance, pushing into you as you both moan in unison. You don’t expect him to set up a merciless pace almost immediately upon fully bottoming out, but you’re not disappointed either.

While you’ve been able to talk before, he’s quickly reduced you to a whimpering and whining mess, relishing in the delicious burning of accommodating his sheer size.

“Does it help?” your twin asks through gritted teeth, desperately trying to keep his sounds of pleasure at bay. But you’ve been fucked into a stupor by him already, not even able to keep your eyes open. “Mh-mh,” you hum.

Putting some of his weight onto you, Aemond’s hand finds your throat like the most treasured necklace you only take off to sleep, taking up the entirety of your neck and leaving no room for you to shift even the slightest.

It was subtle at first, but the merciless pace slowly changes into something more determined, his hips rolling with each thrust as if he wants to make sure the tip of his cock really brushes your sweet spot every time. He’s seemingly spurred on by the way you’ve lost all inhibitions, not that the fluid allowed you to have any in the first place, and the wanton moans that spill past your lips.

One of your hands grabs his wrist, keeping his hand around your throat, while the other finds solace on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. Your nails dig into his alabaster skin, and you’re sure that crescent shaped marks will bloom there not long after, staking your claim on him.

“But you need more,” Aemond grunts, and you can’t do more than whimper a pathetic string of yesses. “The only thing that will truly help you is for me to fill you up with my seed, to breed you.”

Your head tips back in plain bliss, and you’re not sparing one thought to the possible repercussions of him putting a child in you. If anything, there is something buried deeply inside of you that has waited for this moment. You have waited for this moment. You grew up thinking you’d marry your twin one day, only for the rising tensions inside of the family to force you to marry your nephew instead as the final straw to mend the chasm.

Aemond’s stamina doesn’t seem to be able to handle the way your body reacts to him and his words – not when a renewed wave of your arousal drips from your cunt at the mere thought of you carrying his child. It’s running thin, ready to burst at any given moment, hence he brings a deft finger to your pearl, rubbing it with frantic movements that should bring you to peak just in time with him.

The pressure brought to your pearl has your body squirming, not anticipating it and the shiver of pleasure that comes with it. You arch your back and moan, yet a tight squeeze of your throat is enough to bring your attention back to him.

“Do you want that?” he pants, dark blown eyes fixed with yours. “Want me to put a babe in you?” It might be his way to ask for your reassurance, and while your body’s reaction should be enough with your walls clenching around him so tightly, he stills wants to hear your voice.

Your cheeks grow hot as his words finally seem to settle in your hazed mind, a whiny ‘yes’ slipping past your lips. “Fill me up, Aemond… please. I want it,” you all but beg, your voice croaked with him squeezing your throat.

The confession flips a switch inside of you that allows you to let go, your body shattering beneath Aemond with a pathetic whine. He relishes in the way your walls flutter and spasm all over him, utterly mesmerized as relief etches itself into your features.

With a groan, the first wanton sound of pleasure you’ve heard of him, Aemond spends himself inside of you. He connects your lips in a heated kiss that has you swallowing down each grunt and groan he unleashes. Working you both through the blissful highs, his hips only stop once he’s sure he’s fucked his seed as deep as possible, determined to put a child in you.

Aemond topples over into the vacant space next to you, his breeches soaked with your arousal and his chest heaving with his breaths.

The sudden loss of friction makes you whine at first, but is quickly overshadowed by the feeling of relief. “Thank you,” you whisper through heavy breaths, turning your head to look at him.

“I won’t leave now,” he says softly, although there is a linger of mischief in his voice. “I would be remiss not to aid my sister in her hour of utmost desperation… so, I shall stay the night just to make sure you really get through it.”

Aemond Taglist: @persephonerinyes @dr-aegon @schniiipsel @thekinslayed @baizzhu @legitalicat

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ham-st4r · 2 years ago

Text

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐞𝐞 (𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐎) 🔞 use headphones!

✎ Pairing: professor heeseung! + female college student reader!

✎ Warnings: smut, soft dom hee, service top hee, NSFW AUDIO, dirty talk, unprotected sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, cum eating, teasing, mentions of masturbation.

✎ Genre: professor, student.

✎ Summary: you purposely fail your assignments so you can be alone with your professor.

✎ Number of words: 2,872k

Find your way around!

• Requested by anon. I hope you see this, lol currently not taking requests at the moment, but I decided to squeeze this one in.

Class had ended, and everyone was scrambling towards the door, and so were you as you slung your backpack over your shoulder but stopped in your tracks when you heard your professor's voice.

“Y/n, would you mind staying behind? I have something I’d like to discuss with you.” Professor Lee speaks up, causing you to turn on your heels and face him as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

You walk towards his desk until you’re a few feet away from him and look down at your feet, trying to hide your flustered state. “Y-yes, Professor Lee?” You say quietly.

Your professor takes a seat and touches his fingers together while resting his elbows on his desk, and you can’t help but think he looks so attractive like that.

“Y/n, you turned in your assignment late again,” he says, followed by a sigh. “Could you tell me why?” He asks as you nervously pick at your nails.

“I-I forgot again,” you lie. “Sorry, professor lee” you lower your head once more. Truthfully you hadn’t forgotten you had been doing it on purpose, hoping he’d have you stay back and have a talk with you like he was doing now.

Never mind the fact that you’ve been getting zeros and partial credits on your assignments.

“Forgot? Now, y/n, that’s not like you at all,” he says with a slight smirk that you miss cause you were still looking down at the floor beneath your feet. “Is there something on your mind that you’d like to share? Maybe something bothering you? Distracting you, perhaps?” He teased, already knowing full well what you had been up to, and he wasn’t opposed to playing your naughty little game.

He wasn’t oblivious to you staring at him every time he walked into class. He didn’t miss the way your eyes would flicker down to his crotch whenever he readjusted his trousers, and he definitely didn’t miss when you caught your bottom lip between your teeth as you zoned out while staring at him and not so discreetly rubbing your legs together.

It amused him, to say the least, and he couldn’t lie. He’s thought about you on occasion quite a few times when he had his late-night masturbating sessions, moaning your name as he spilled his warm release all over his sweaty abdomen.

“N-no, Professor Lee,” you play innocent.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’re all alone,” his soft, reassuring tone makes you look up at him finally, and you can’t help but get lost in his heavy lingering gaze. “I’m your professor. You can talk to me, Darlin” He stands up and walks around his desk until he's standing less than a foot away. “I wouldn’t happen to be the cause of you forgetting, would I?” He asks as he sneaks his hands inside your blazer and rests his palms on your sides, softly rubbing up and down.

You look up at him, breath hitching in your throat when he squeezes your hips, and you have to bite your lip to hold back a moan, and he can’t help but smile at the heavy effect he has on you. “Yes,” you whisper while analyzing every last centimeter of his beautiful face up close.

“Yeah?” He cups your cheeks with his large palms tilting your head up until your eyes meet. “What about me makes you forget, Darlin?” He strokes your cheek with his thumb, and you melt into his soft, warm touch.

You gulped, and you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and your mind wandered to all the lewd filthy thoughts you had about him during class.

“Everything,” you say, feeling a bit bolder as you take a step forward, pressing yourself against him, and he raises an amused brow at your move. “The way you talk,” you say quietly, eyes shifting back and forth between his. “The way you walk in the room” You grabbed his tie and looked at him innocently despite your not-so-innocent implications. “The way your brows crease when you’re focusing on your lecture, everything about you makes me distracted, professor. Every time you do the smallest thing, I forget about everything else but you” You bite your lower lip.

His lips upturn in a smile at your little confession, and his heart rate picks up from having the knowledge of you noticing all the little details about him.

“Hmm, yeah, is that so Darlin?” He lowers his hands, cupping the roundness of your ass.

“Yes,” you moan when he puts his hands under your dress and his warm palms make contact with your bare flesh.

“Well, Darlin, I am flattered” He leaned down, ghosting his lip’s against yours as he spoke in a low gravelly tone. “But, I’m still gonna have to teach you a lesson for being so forgetful” He presses a soft kiss to your lips, and you feel your body ignite from the short-lived contact of his lips meeting yours. “After all, I am your professor,” he smirks before swiping his tongue on your bottom lip and squeezing your soft ass, causing a breathy whine to slip past your lips as he uses the opportunity to stick his tongue in your mouth, swirling it with your as he pushes you against the edge of his desk. “Sound fair?” He asks, breathing heavily from the make-out session.

“Yes, professor lee” He smirks at your desperation, enjoying how pliant you have already become for him.

He easily lifts you up on his desk after hiking your skirt around your waist. He smiles at the sight of your white cotton panties and rubs his palm over your drenched core, feeling the damp fabric from how wet you had gotten just from kissing. “Darlin, is this all for your professor?” He teased and prodded his finger at your clothed hole.

“Yes, professor, all for you,” you breathe out, and your voice is already whiny and desperate with need as he rubs your clit over your underwear.

He pushed your panties to the side, gawking at the little mess you made of yourself, and he had barely even done anything to you. “You’re so cute,” he whispers while looking at you fondly, and you shy away from his gaze as he pushes one finger in your hole, groaning from how your pussy squeezes tightly around his single digit as he slowly works you open.

You lean back and rest on your elbows, watching as he adds another finger alongside his index, curling them up and massaging your upper walls with the pads of his fingers. “Darlin,” he whispers, and he still doesn’t take his eyes off your little cunt, all creamy and wet, just waiting to be filled with his cock. “You distract me too,” he hums at the little noises you make for him. “Make me forget what I’m saying all the time” He chuckles and rests his hand on your right thigh, rubbing your smooth flesh. “Sometimes you distract me so much that I can’t even stand up and come from behind my desk cause I’m so hard for you,” he gulped loudly, daring to accompany his two fingers by adding a third, and your eyes roll back in your head briefly from the pleasuring stretch of his fingers opening you up. “Even at night, when I go home, all I can think about is fucking your pretty little cunt” He looks at you briefly, and his eyes are dark and hooded with nothing but pure lust, and you moan at his dirty confession clenching around his fingers in satisfaction. “And even after I touch myself to the thought of you, it’s still never enough cause I know that my hand will never ever feel as good as you.” He blows a breath of cool air over your bare pussy.

Your legs shake in pleasure, and you’re not sure how much longer you can last when his fingers are fucking you so well.

“Just look at me” He looks between his legs, and you automatically find his line of vision staring at the very prominent tent in his khaki pants, moaning at the sight of his huge bulge.

“Professor,” you grip whatever you can on his desk, trying to stabilize yourself, but it’s no use as you become a squirming mess when he fastens the pace of his fingers.

“Yeah, darlin', look at what you do to your professor. Are you gonna make it better? Hmm?” He asks as he places his thumb on your clit, and your body jolts from the new sensation, mouth falling open, allowing a pleasured cry to escape as you feel the heat rising in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuck,” you mewl out, unknowingly rutting yourself on his fingers as you get closer to the indescribable bliss building up inside you. “Yes, professor lee, I’ll make it all better” Your mouth hangs open in a silent cry of his name, legs trembling and breath heavy as you come around his fingers and your pussy clenches rhythmically.

“I know you will, darling, always such a good little thing for your professor,” he coos, still pumping you full of his fingers and guiding you through your first orgasm as your lips, purse, and brows furrow in absolute total pleasure.

He retracts his fingers, nearly drooling as his hungry eyes rake over the wetness that covers his digits.

He sticks his fingers in his mouth, sucking and slurping up all your essence as his hard throbbing dick twitches in need for you underneath his slacks. “Better than anything I could have ever imagined,” he moans at your taste, sucking his fingers, completely clean.

He impatiently reaches for his belt, quickly undoing the buckle and button before pulling down the zipper and finally freeing himself from the restrictive confines of his pants.

“Professor, you’re so b-big,” you stutter at his massive size, staring you in the face beneath his underwear, a huge wet spot staining the front and outlining his thick tip.

He chuckles at your cute observation, and you blush. “All yours,” He says, rubbing himself over his underwear. “Gonna be good and take professor's big cock?” he strokes his palm over your thigh, and you nod frantically, which pleases him immensely. “Mmm yeah, Darlin,” he rasps and pulls down his underwear revealing his delicious cock to you, and it’s even better than what you dreamed about. It was thick, long, and veiny tip leaking with fresh beads of pearly precum as he worked the wetness over his shaft.

“Need you inside so bad” The words mindlessly slip past your lips, but you’re too entranced by him to even take notice or care. “Wanna feel your big cock inside of me, professor” You spread your legs as wide as they can go clenching around nothing as your wet gaping hole awaits to be stuffed full of your professor’s massive cock.

He rests his heavy length on your wet pussy dragging it back and forth slowly. “Don’t worry, professor is gonna give you what you need” His eyebrows grew taut in pleasure just from the feeling of your wetness soaking his length as he gripped your thighs, still massaging your aching core with his warm cock. “Gonna make your tiny little pussy feel good, okay, darlin?”

“Okay,” you say in a breathless whine, and you both release a sharp breath as he presses his tip at your hole and slowly sheaths himself into the warmth of your walls.

“Oh my fucking god,” he practically growls when your silky heat invites him in, hugging his cock tightly with your warmth. “Oh, Darlin, your pussy feels amazing.”

“Yeah?” You hold onto his wrist, watching your tight pussy stretching open and making room for his dick to sink deeper inside.

“Oh yeah,” he confirms while his eyes focus on the same spot that you’re looking at. “You see that, Darlin? See me splitting your little pussy with my cock?” Your eyes roll back and he has to bite back a smirk, now steadily rocking his hips into you, the quiet squelch between your bodies making both of your heads spin.

He pulls out, leaving nothing but his tip inside, grabbing his thick base and teasingly dipping in and out of your soaked hole.

You whine at the loss-making a fuss from the dull, empty feeling. “Awe, Darlin, what’s the matter?” He asks as if he’s not fully aware of what he’s doing to you right now.

“Please, professor lee” you pout and make a dissatisfied sound as he pulls all the way out, leaving you completely empty. “Please, no more teasing, please,” you beg desperately as your hole tightens around nothing and your back arched off his desk. Your hole searches for his cock so he can give you what you need and fill you up again. “Need you,” you breathe out, chest heaving, and you feel as if you were going to cry if he didn’t stick it back in soon.

“Me too,” he moans when he fills you up again, this time setting the perfect pace. “Need you too, Darlin, so bad” He puts emphasis on his words by leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips.

He grabbed your hips, sensually rolling his hips into you, stroking your walls at all the right angles to make your toes curl.

His tip roams your insides until the slight curve of his cock finds that sweet spot that makes you moan loudly and beg him for more and more. “Yes, right there” He doesn’t go harder or faster. He listens to you attentively, brushing the head of his cock over that same spot over and over.

“Yeah, right there, Darlin? That feel good?” He smirks, knowing damn well it does. He deep strokes your heat until it feels numb from the consent in and out motion, and by now, your legs are shaking wildly. Your moans are a little too loud, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he places the pad of his thumb over your swollen, engorged clit.

You let go of his wrists, falling back on his desk, not being able to hold yourself up properly anymore cause the pleasure he’s giving to your body is just too much to handle, and your lungs nearly give out from your intense pants and moans.

“That’s right” Your disheveled state makes him go completely feral as he speeds up the tempo chasing his high with you. “Take your professor's big cock Darlin” he grunts, snapping his hips erratically as his thighs clap loudly against your plump ass, and the noises overtake his classroom along with your soft moans and his heavy breath.

“Professor Lee, im gonn- fuck I’m- I’m gonna cum!” He holds onto your waist for dear life, restlessly pounding into your tight cunt as you clench around his girthy cock.

“Go ahead, Darlin, cream your professor's cock” He pants loudly, giving you his all with every last thrust as you cum around his cock, whimpering and moaning as you feel the heat surge throughout your entire body. Your muscles tense up, and your toes curl, mouth falling open as you let out high pitch moans from the breathtaking orgasm he gives to you.

“Please, professor lee cum in me,” you plead in your fucked out state, and just those words alone are enough to make him lose any ounce of self-control as he spirals down with you.

“Darlin,” he moans, and his hips stutter. He quickly loses his rhythm as he grunts and spills his creamy release inside your pulsating cunt, filling you until you’re brimming over with his white gooey cum.

You pull him closer by his tie, and he breathes heavily against your lips, kissing you passionately as he rolls his hip continuously to empty his throbbing balls in your heat, moaning into your mouth as your cunt coaxes out all he has to give.

Once you both somewhat catch your breath’s, he kisses your forehead as he gently pulls his softening cock out of you, quickly moving your panties to the side so your cunt can bathe in his cum. “There, I know you forget a lot, so I thought I’d give you a little reminder” He bites on his bottom lip after giving you a teasing smile and nudges his nose against yours before leaning up and putting his trousers back on.

He grabs your hand, helping you stabilize yourself once you stand up from his desk, and it takes you a moment to stand up straight cause your legs are still literally shaking. “Thank you for the lesson, professor lee” You say with a hint of bashfulness in your tone as you smiled at him shyly.

“Of course,” he smiles at you as you gather up the rest of your things and get ready to head out of the classroom. “And darlin', if you ever need another lesson, feel free to ask me for help anytime” He winked and collected all the disheveled papers on his desk.

“Yes, professor lee” you smile, and with that, you finally leave his class, and come to think of it, you’re probably gonna need his help a lot more often from now on.

FIN.

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#heeseung smut #enhypen smut #enhypen heeseung smut #enhypen heeseung #heeseung #enhypen #lee heeseung smut #lee heeseung #smut #heeseung x reader

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pparacxosm · 1 month ago

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uta hagen

(divorced!art donaldson x reader; tw divorce obviously; tw sporadic mentions of violent or otherwise shitty partners; that sounds intense but this is actually a fun time i swear; cw a little smut; as a treat; tw ironic intimacy; kaz write a normal romance where one or both people aren't hypercritical of the other challenge ((impossible)); tw group therapy; tw condensing of tashi duncan's character for narrative reasons but i hope you know me well enough by now to know where my heart lies; whoever came up with the art donaldson calvin klein campaign headcanon i owe you a kidney; tw exploiting therapeutic exercises for sexual tension lol; tw hamfisted closure; raymond carver easter egg for all who have the eyes to see)

Before anything happens, Art Donaldson is just another guy in the “Learning to Let the Ex Go” group therapy session you signed up for.

It occurs to you, pretty quickly, that Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. Dr Harper has this question he asks all the newcomers.

You’re having circle time with a bunch of adults on a Friday afternoon. So that look of longsuffering on the new guy's face isn’t particularly remarkable. You note a few furtive whispers and glances his way. But then this sad little workshop is mostly comprised of weepy middleaged women. They, too, kicked up a ruckus when that silver fox with the Harley—Rick—deigned to grace the room with his impossible biceps for a single, cigarettescented session two weeks ago.

What you’re saying is you know he’s handsome.

And, anyway, you’d never hold anything against your motley crew. Agnes invited you to her neighbourhood book club. Padma brings little clingwrapped trays of desserts every other week. These are your gal pals. Your bereaved bosom buddies. You wouldn’t begrudge them their eye candy.

Dr Harper says, “So,” and claps his hands the way he starts every session, narrowing his eyes with that scarily sentimental smile and sweeping his gaze around the circle. He makes a point to make eye contact with every single person for two whole seconds, as though he knows something you don’t. Then, “As you can see, we are not as few as we once were.”

He tends to speak in that meandering sort of way. He makes a flourishing gesture with his clipboard, as if setting a stage, and says,

“If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, and letting us know…” He pauses for effect. He tends to do that, too. “… Why can’t you let your ex go?”

You do the guy the favour of not laving him in that expectant stare people seem to love doing here. You fiddle with your fingers and listen to the uneasy knell of his sneakers against the linoleum. The stilted whine of his little plastic foldout chair. You cast him a glance as stands. He’s sort of tall, but not imposing. His fingers fidget at his sides like he’s awaiting a time bomb.

When he speaks, he looks so upset you’d think he’s getting a root canal. “Uh, hi. I’m Art, uh… just Art.”

And, at the time, you think this is kind of strange.

The next week, when Dr Harper brings a purple tennis racket with Just Art’s face on the front to get him to sign it for his daughter—which you already think is unprofessional and a bit presumptuous, considering how few people actually return for a second session, and how fascinatingly tortured he looked all throughout the first—you will think oh. And then his whole humble kicked puppy thing will feel a little annoying. But that’s besides the point.

On that first day, while he’s standing there awkwardly, and every shriek of his shoes against the ground is making him wince like he’s sporting stab wounds, and he keeps casting very conspicuous glances at the clock, Dr Harper asks why can’t you let your ex go?

And the thing about that question is it’s mostly rhetorical. Sure, it’s supposed to make you think. But the ultimate unearthing there is of the truth that there is no real reason. And such is the first step to selfactualising change and so on and so forth. You get it.

There’s a couple answers you come to expect. The notably lachrymose will get to weeping straight away. Because I’m pathetic! you remember someone wailing, which made you feel like a bit of a sadist, just sitting there and watching. You’re pretty sure you’d said a less than kind, I don’t fucking know, on your first day, but you’ve grown since then, and you appreciate Dr Harper’s abiding effusiveness despite that.

But Just Art releases a contrite sort of exhale and says, “Because I still love her.”

Which—okay—strikes you as a bit overkill.

A tissue discreetly finds his palm, but he only rumples it into a ball.

Dr Harper nods sagely, leaning back in his seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“Go on,” he prompts in that gentle, needling way he does.

You don’t Google him. You don’t really need to. Dr Harper keeps intentionally-unintentionally peppering sporadic little pearls of information about him into conversation like some sort of bizarre BINGO game.

Like—for example—when he’s passing out little notepads and outlining your task of writing unflinchingly honest farewell letters to your exes, he tacks on, “—it’ll be tough, but it’s no Wimbledon, am I right, Donaldson?”

And Just Art’s ears will turn a dazzling shade of crimson.

You file these little tidings away in some less important corner of your mind, passively constructing a criminal profile.

Padma brings her son to a session, which you’re pretty sure she’s not allowed to do. Luckily, the kid doesn’t internalise any of Padma’s scathing anecdotes about his father because he’s too busy marvelling at his own freshly signed Art Donaldson racket.

There seems to be a new racket to sign every week.

You doubt people actually give this much of a shit about tennis. But—anyway—you suppose if fucking Michael Cera rocked up and joined the circle, everyone would be hauling a Superbad poster out from some dusty corner, too. Such is the nature of celebrity.

Dr Harper, for one, appreciates the effervescence. He seems to think the mere presence of a famous athlete will motivate everyone in the room to face with renewed fervour their own pathetic little romantic quagmires.

Well, it’s that, or a strange personal infatuation he houses with the guy. Probably both.

You don’t Google him. You don’t Google him, nor his conceivably equally famous exwife. You don’t need to. Dr Harper seems to think it necessary to give you all regular progress reports on that whole imbroglio.

You know there’s news—perhaps unfortunate news—by the colour of Dr Harper’s voice when he says, haltingly, “And Art… how have you been doing?”

By the severity with which Dr Harper nods as Art reads his letter. (“Tashi,” he begins, and one of those not so furtive whispers ricochets around the room, another tissue in his hand; you think it’s Agnes who’s slipping them).

By the abject enthusiasm with which Dr Harper declares what real progress Art is making. Like he’s one of those zoo animals being parallelreared with a human child, and he’s starting to glean the art of speech without being prompted.

This is all saying something, for whom you know to be an already colourful, severe, enthusiastic Dr Harper.

What you gather is a vague impression that Art’s exwife tortured him psychologically by wielding his body and tennis career as serrated edges by which to flay their marriage intricately, slowly. And then there’s something about her repeatedly sleeping with his exbestfriend? Which—big whoop. Eleanor’s boyfriend tried to kill her, which you feel is a marginally more exceptional love story.

A month in, you realise what’s really bothering you is the untruth.

Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. He still loves her. He opened with that.

He reads his letter (that reads a lot more like a draft for vow renewals) aloud to the room. Everyone looks at him with these misty eyes like he’s just chainsawed his chest open and wrested his heart from his arteries while simultaneously reciting Sappho.

Which is to say—and you’re no doctor, but—what fucking progress?

You don’t think you’re the patron saint of therapy or anything. But you’ve paid decent money to be here, and you’ve spent more afternoons than you’d stomach admitting on guided meditation. You’re doing The Work, as they say.

You get it; you do. Losing a relationship can feel like a death. Losing yours certainly felt like the Sun had imploded. But Eleanor—you’ll mention again—could be dead. Your jaded inner voice struggles to identify with this probably deplorably wealthy Adonis who can't seem to cut the racket strings.

So you think it’s a little irresponsible to glorify the abject pining of this crestfallen man. All flaxenhaired and broadshouldered like Prince Charming lamenting bedside of Sleeping Beauty.

This is a class about severance.

Art Donaldson seems to weave himself inextricably around something. The love of his wife, sure, that’s obvious enough. But there’s something. Something. Something very sad, sure, but not sad in the way you’re all so sad around here. A different kind of sad.

You’re trying to figure it out.

So you spend some time doing that. Trying to figure him out. You expect to start to hate him the more you stare. The more you note the weird slope of his nose, his selfdeprecating laughter.

But you don’t.

In fact, you find it delightfully, uncomfortably strange. He carries himself like an interloper to despair. Not like he thinks he’s above it necessarily—you’d thought that (reproachfully) for a while—rather like sadness is one of many things stored at the other side of the city, and he keeps missing the train.

Like these brilliant sorrowers are deigning to include him in their orbit, even though he doesn’t belong. If he remains silent, maybe they won’t notice that he’s not one of them. Better yet, conceivably, he’ll actually belong one day.

That’s what it’s like. Like he’s striving for sorrow. Like he’s working with something worse than sorrow and is saying, you know what? I’d rather take the sorrow.

In the exercise you’re doing this week, you’re supposed to personage your ex and act out your final argument. Take your scene partner’s hands and look into their eyes and everything. Dr Harper makes a big deal about how he's not trying to trigger anyone's relationship trauma, but that feels like a lie. You can’t imagine a productive reason to make a bunch of lonely, divorced adults hold hands in a cruel parody of their last brush with fleshdeep connection.

And anyway, fuck this shit.

That doesn’t mean you won’t communicate circles around it. You’re doing The Work, after all.

But fuck it hard.

His hands sort of swallow yours. They are warm and calloused and a little sweaty.

You were, at first, excited by the idea of this proximity. Excited in the way a cultural anthropologist would be, at the prospect of conducting participant research. But now you’re here. Sitting at the edges of your little plastic foldout chairs. Your knees between his. And his fingers are curled pretty firmly around yours. He looks about as comfortable as a grade schooler called to the chalkboard. And you’re the one who’s been sitting around observing him from a distance and gleaning your data and passing your judgement all this time, but it is he who makes—and holds—eyecontact.

His eyes are dusky and intent—molten navy—like he’s seeing past your skin and bone. And you are less than pleased by this subversion.

So when he shifts and his knee brushes your outer thigh, a potent shock of heat resounding through the denim, and he clears his throat and mumbles, “Sorry,” you say,

“You could back up a bit.”

His expression falters. You must admit, there is something alluring in his being disappointed by your little rejection. Anyone looking at it from the outside would find the whole thing pretty ludicrous. That you could say no, that he would even ask.

Dr Harper comes up and puts his hands atop both your heads, which feels more than a little patronising. He squats to be eye level between the two of you and whispers, “Do you know why I paired you two together?”

For a moment, you almost roll your eyes. When all is said and done, and the skull speaks and the bell tolls, your primary takeaway from your time Learning to Let the Ex Go is that Dr Harper has a spectacular penchant for assigning meaning where there is absolutely none.

If he paired you with Art based on eyelash hue, would he come up with some reason for that? Probably, you think.

But what he says next manages to throw you.

“You two…” he begins, pausing for effect. Because, of course. And Art shifts his weight uncomfortably, quite literally wincing as he accidentally bumps your knee again. He glances fleetingly in your direction, ears gone florid, but you have little time to delight in this before Dr Harper stands up straight again and delivers his verdict, “… have the same problem.”

You make a face like you have just seen a lizard eat a bird.

And fucking Art, of all people, has this look in his eyes, this look that’s almost hopeful. Like some explanation is finally to be offered for what the hell is wrong with you.

And you don’t care for that shit. At all.

You bark out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Which is, of course, when Dr Harper’s gaze sharpens like a scalpel and locks on you, like you’ve said exactly what he predicted you would say.

Which you care for even less.

He doesn’t look smug. Not exactly. He doesn’t even look vindicated. The only way to describe that look on his face is total delight. Cat with the canary in his maw.

Art seems very committed to staring at the ground, now. Trying, perhaps, to evade something of a brewing storm. You’re tempted to reach up and flick his head for his cowardice, but his hands are—very tightly, now, you’ll note—still holding yours.

“You two are both at mercy to judgement,” Dr Harper declares, and he’s still got your head in his palm like a basketball, and all that selfregulatory yoga feels fucking useless right about now.

You shift to look up at him better. “I’m not at mercy to judgement,” you inform him as calmly as you are able, and maybe you’re disproving his point in this moment by being so affected by this analysis, but you sincerely believe that you’re generally pretty hardwearing.

Dr Harper pauses for effect. “You are at mercy to your own judgement...” Another pause. And you’re about to tell him that—nice fucking try, but—you’re actually a remarkably selfassured person who rarely, if ever, gives yourself to negative selftalk. But then, “... Of others.”

And now it occurs to you that the fucking room has gone silent. And you feel like your eyes have all but crossed in simmering anger. Because—okay—everyone here is crazy, and miserable, and a little fucking pathetic, but you’ve prided yourself on being the least crazy one here.

And fuck.

Fuck if you’re not proving his point right now.

When you open your mouth to argue—because you are going to disagree, if only for the sake of disagreeing—Art Donaldson’s fingers screw up firmer around yours, like he’s some sort of sentient lie detector, and you’re about to ask him where the fuck he gets off, but Dr Harper isn’t done.

He turns, now, to Art.

“And you…” he says. You’re getting seasick with all the pausing. “Donaldson. You’re at mercy to others’ judgements of you, my man.”

So Art, you see out of the corner of your eye, looks like he’d rather debone himself than be sitting here.

And fine.

Okay.

Let’s all agree that that much is true. That Art Donaldson lives and dies by the judgement of others, and you live and die in the name of it. Fine.

Even so, you can’t help but think that these are directly antithetical problems to have.

And, in practice, if you’re a callous shrew, and he’s an open wound, you’ll probably kill him. Or something.

But now Dr Harper’s pushing your heads together like a ref before a rugby match. And he crouches down again. And Art’s nose brushes yours, and your lash swipes his cheek, and you can smell the coffee Dr Harper was just drinking.

And he says, “Let. First serve.”

Then he stands again and pats Art’s shoulder like they’re old friends, and gives a wink to the room at large.

He saunters away. Art looks like someone is pointing a gun to his head. But really it’s just your—heartlessly selfrighteous, apparently—forehead still against his. His skin is feverwarm.

You pull away.

Of course no one takes the exercise seriously.

In its defense, you think, there’s very little that goes down in this room that can be veritably labelled a ‘serious’ event. Most of it—the guided meditations, the writing exercises, Dr Harper’s entire vibe—feels like you happened to miss some crazy event that tore reality asunder and tipped you over into a sadistically tragicomedic alternate universe.

But if you all were to sincerely sit here, knees to knees with mourning strangers, and concretise this litany of other strangers who have wounded you all irrevocably in different ways—shit—Harper’d be sitting with a fetid heap of weeping corses.

So—well.

Eleanor’s chasing Ally around the hall with a her fingers hoisting an invisible shiv yelling, I love you, I love you, you bitch. Which is certainly one way to contend with a murderous exlover, you guess.

Padma and Colin are treating this as a gossip session. You can tell because you can hear that delighted peal of laughter she emits whenever someone interjects one of her—deeply engrossing, by the way—caustic vignettes about her exhusband with a little observational jab at the guy.

Most people are laughing. Or making fun. You catch fleeting dregs of remarkably hilarious conversation from all angles and are reminded why you keep coming back here.

The only person, however, who seems to have really taken Dr Harper’s thought experiment to the harp of his heart—much to your horror—is Art Donaldson.

He sets his elbows on his knees and leans forward. You get a waft of him. Something acerbic like citrus, and maybe pine. He blinks up at you with this almost regrettable intensity. Like he’s about to tell you that he has to pull your teeth. But he’s not thrilled about it. You’re still deciding if you’re flattered by the notion. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to glean the pattern of your sinew with his eyes alone.

“I’ll be you,” he says, his voice low and soft. And there’s a hoarse quality to it, like he’s just run up a staircase.

You’re suddenly very aware of all the noise around the two of you. The laughter, the bedlam. Something faintly percussive.

His thumbs swipe over your knuckles, which you’re hoping is an absent thing.

You blink. Your face is overcast with a less than kind, more than unimpressed glower.

“You’re serious?” you deadpan.

He looks serious as the end times. His fingers twitch around yours. You feel his knuckles like piano keys against your palm.

Dr Harper has essentially told this man that you have something he doesn’t. Something he needs. And now—with a tenacity you can only imagine churns through his bones by rote—he seems determined to find it.

He’s gripping your hands like you’re the fucking racket.

He leans down further, elbows pressing into his thighs, and his face gets alarmingly close to your fingers. A whisper of heat against your nailbeds.

When his tongue dips out to swipe the chapped coral edge of his upper lip, you nearly flinch, because you think that wet will touch you. But it doesn’t.

He peers up at you intently. You see the way his throat shifts under his wan skin as he swallows.

“I’m as serious as you want me to be,” he says. He is absurdly sincere, but also something else.

Your brows twitch, and you frown, because you are now realising that, even after several weeks of careful observation, you do not have even a remote understanding of this man to speak of. You feel like an academic whose thesis has just been rejected, and now they’re back to square one of some miserable odyssey. Moreover, this is all just unutterably ridiculous, so you sigh and roll your eyes and shift in your seat, your knee knocking against his inner thigh.

“Fine,” you say, “You be me.”

Art’s face is set in what you first think is determination, but are incredibly unnerved to discover is him getting into character. He’s trying to emulate that vaguely bitter perennial scowl of yours. He looks like a bitch—which means he’s pretty fucking dead on.

You’re almost impressed.

Of course, he still looks sad. There’s a vulnerability his mimicry cannot conceal. But you think he’s finding something cathartic in wearing the hue of your passive vitriol.

You tell him to express a perfectly reasonable grievance to you—and you yourself are now rolling your shoulders and slinking into the ethos of a gaslighting asshole—like how you never wash the dishes. Like, ever.

He clears his throat.

“You never do the dishes.”

You swallow.

“Right…” you murmur.

You’re still a little facetious about this whole thing, but there is that intensity in his gaze that wrests you into the moment like a fervid point of gravity.

“Well, now I—as my ex—would probably tell you—” You roll your eyes again, but now it is at the memory you’re unsheathing. “—oh, you’re being dramatic. I was just about to do them. Why are you always on my ass?”

And Art’s nose wrinkles, like the memory is offensive to him, too.

He looks you over like a sawbones trying to determine a patient’s symptoms. Mapping out the incision.

“Then I—you—would say…” He’s speaking really slowly, too. Like he’s giving you the chance to object where you see fit, on grounds of mischaracterisation. “I would say that you always say you’re going to do all kinds of things. But you never actually do them.”

“Exactly!” you blurt, kneejerk. But then you catch yourself. Flex your fingers a bit in his. Clear your throat and put on your best impression of a total dolt again. “Okay—oh, maybe you’re too busy focusing on the little stuff I don’t do to recognise the large sacrifices I make for our relationship.”

He scoffs.

It’s your scoff. A facsimile of that incredulous ire you seem to always be evincing. It’s deeply disturbing.

“What sacrifices?” You can’t tell who’s asking.

“W—” You falter. Swallow. It takes you a moment—like you’re emerging from deep water—to answer, as your ex, “Well, I moved here, didn’t I? Packed up all my shit and left my friends, my family, fucking everything. To be with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to move.”

“You didn’t,” you confirm quickly. And you can’t tell who’s saying that, either. But you put on the voice again, and say, “You didn’t. But I still did it for you. And I don’t think you’ve ever said thank you. Or sorry.”

A beat.

Your hands go slack in his. You sigh. “You never say sorry.”

Art’s eyes search you like a probe.

Your shoulders are stonerigid and the blood is rushing like torrent through your ears because—somehow—this feels uncomfortably like a fight. Like that fight. And your body seems keen on adjusting the scoreboard accordingly.

His thumbs rub your knuckles again, in a way that feels a lot less idle this time.

“I’m still not going to say sorry,” he guesses with a marginal tentativeness, but a general certainty in his assessment.

You swallow again. “Yeah,” you rasp, “You’re not.”

It occurs to you that this exercise is a little like immolation.

He’s supposed to be acting like you. But he’s acting like you at your worst, and doing so—to his credit—a little more accurately than you’d like to admit.

It strikes you as unfair. And excoriating. And you picture yourself tackling Dr Harper to the ground and choking him out.

And then Art says, “We’ve been having this fight for…?”

“Two months,” you mumble. You’re not even doing the voice anymore.

Art clicks his teeth, a sentimental crease at the corner of his eye. “I think we should break up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

“It’ll be really hard for me.”

A guess again, but then you’re here. Doing The Work. Holding hands and roleplaying. It’s not inconceivable that you didn’t take the breakup exceptionally.

Your lip twitches. “You’ll survive.”

He pushes off his elbows and sits up straight, his knees sidling fully around your thighs, now unashamed. He gives you a look. A different one. His mouth purses to the side in some alloy of pensive amusement, a dimple delved into his cheek. His gaze coruscates with a deep cornflower intrigue.

“I think I will, actually,” he says finally.

And he has the nerve to smile. Revoltingly soft and sympathetic.

He gives your hands a parting squeeze before dropping them in your lap, his chair scraping loud the linoleum as he backs off.

You call your ex that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

Dr Harper’s probably somewhere creaming his pants so fervently as to have rendered himself numb in a state of gleeful stupor.

“Hey,” husks your ex—who, for his flaws, has always been more magnanimous than you—before chuckling, “No worries.” You can hear that easy smile of a life unburdened by you in his voice.

Which is fine.

“How are you?” he asks then, “You good? You surviving?”

You smile wryly. You feel like you’ve been flogged by four consecutive eighteenwheelers. “I think I will, actually.”

You Google Art Donaldson.

You’re having a drink with Eleanor and Ally and Colin and a few others from the group, and you’re basically shitting all over the whole programme in a very hush-hush sort of way because you all know what an Opportunity For Growth this has been, when Art walks into the bar and spots your table and nods at the whole gang. The mood quickly shifts. Excitement, sure, but a collective wordless agreement that the lighthearted gossip between real friends ends here. You feel bad. It’s not his fault.

Art slides into your booth with beer floats and greets Colin, who’s looking at him with a senex’s disdain because he was just telling you all how he’s thinking of getting hair plugs. Again, not Art’s fault.

Art’s in camouflage, with his baseball hat and T-shirt, which you think is unnecessary because—again—you’re still quite certain no one gives enough of a shit about tennis as to recognise him in a bar.

When he slides into the booth—into the space between you and Colin—he’s careful to leave a distance between the two of you. Which you only really notice at all because you’re acutely aware of exactly how much space occupies the expanse between the two of you at any given instance.

A bunch of people at the table are already looking at him like he’s some sort of foreign dignitary.

You don’t think athletes are necessarily charming by nature, and you refuse to give Art Donaldson that kind of credit, but he doesn’t have to try very hard to make himself agreeable to everyone.

He buys a round for the whole group. He asks after jobs, and the state of marriage, and family, and life. He seems sincere enough.

You all start chatting about the various horrific relationships that lead you here, as though they were all particularly uninteresting ham and cheese sandwiches. Colin’s exfiancée diagnosed with early onset dementia. Ally’s exgirlfriend developing a heroin habit. You’ve all jabbed and scrutinised these woes to deflated nothingness, by now. None of it hurts anymore. Is that the whole point? You still don’t know.

No one knows by what fancy Dr Harper pushes you all about in his great cosmic dance of personal selfimprovement.

You do know that Art remains quiet. Generally inconspicuous, but then you’re you, so you’re paying attention. And you don’t think he should get to sit there like an archaeologist recording the fossils of your collective melancholy, as though his own warm and living bones are out of the question.

Maybe you all can pull up the People.com article, A Comprehensive Timeline of Art and Tashi Donaldson’s Perfect Relationship and Messy Divorce, and have it contribute to the conversation.

Eleanor’s telling a story about the time her ex wrested her from bed and lobbed her out of the house at 2 AM in midwinter.

“And we lived in Duluth,” Eleanor’s saying, and she’s laughing in that disconcertingly manic way she does when she shares these things. “And I sleep halfnaked, so I’m fighting frostbite, and I’m just totally mortified that one of my neighbours will see me.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being halfnaked,” Ally shrugs.

And then you say, “Ha, yeah, I mean Art would know.”

Art—who, until now, looked like he was studiously contemplating the meniscus of his beer, or the grain of the table—flicks his gaze up to you.

You snort. “What, I’m supposed to act like everyone here hasn’t seen you oiled up and smouldering to the camera for Calvin Klein?”

A brief hush descends upon the table like a falling guillotine.

Then, laughter.

Eleanor snorts her gin and soda with such force that she coughs for a solid minute afterwards. There’s tears in her eyes and Colin is laughing at her and Ally is laughing at them both. And Art looks as embarrassed as a woman strewn porchside in her panties in midwinter in Duluth.

And—okay.

You were trying to be tongueincheek about it. But his discomfort levels are seemingly off the charts. He doesn’t know how to react and it makes him unhappy. Clearly, ten and something years of public scrutiny—and, in your defense, actually doing that photoshoot—have not prepared him for this moment.

You lean forward and awkwardly bump his fist with yours. “Hey, I’m kidding.”

But you’re not, because it was technically true.

“I thought it was artistic,” says Ally.

Eleanor, still crying laughing, “What, the fullpage spread of him fully waxed and laid out on a clay court surrounded by Great Danes?”

“Someone paid attention,” Colin chuckles, and Eleanor erupts into vibrant giggles again. Colin gives Art a courtesy clap on the shoulder before saying to Ally, “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but a Billboard of a guy wearing whities so tightie you can see his dickprint isn’t exactly Starry Night. But maybe I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to worry too much about that. The art has to get you,” Ally says, pointing at him with a fry. Ally studied theatre. “I mean, we are the most complicated machinery in our lives. You have to take yourself seriously to do something like that.”

Everyone’s looking at Art like he’s some kind of colourful textbook.

It’s not often people sit beside a guy of whom they can confidently guess the naked physique.

And maybe you’re thinking that, too; you brought it up, after all. His arms look strong in his T-shirt sleeves. Not, like, bodybuilder strong. But lean and cut. And there’s a sort of animal grace to his movements. Like a fox, or something. Even as his ears burn a practically neon shade of carmine in the dim lighting.

He clears his throat. “I doubt anyone took that seriously,” he says dryly, the corner of his mouth ruefully, if hardly, upturned.

Eleanor shoves Ally playfully, swiping her tears away in a blissful mascara smear. “My God Al, will you stop scaring him with your Uta Hagen spiel?”

The conversation meanders to other topics. Fringe stuff, briefly, like the societal implications of male sexuality and modern advertising. But then things branch off entirely—The Fast and the Furious franchise, artificial intelligence, Colin’s stepson’s career aspirations of becoming a TikTok street interviewer. Et cetera.

You hope Art isn’t looking at you when you chance a glance his way, but when have you ever been so lucky?

So he’s looking at you. He looks at you like he’s taking inventory of you at your expense. He gives a slow blink, an almost imperceptible smile, then he lifts his beer towards you and takes a swig.

At the end of the night, he asks for your number, which feels like a boot to the loins. Not because it’s profoundly unbelievable. Maybe a little surprising, but, if anything, it’s the conclusion you’ve halfanticipated all night. That’s the way he’s been looking at you, at least. It’s just the finality of it all.

But what are you gonna say? No?

You call him that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

God, what have they done to you?

Art, on the other end of the line, presumably lounging in his stately mansion, remains cautiously silent. You sigh like you’re losing something here.

“I hope I didn’t upset you,” you say, but realise your tone is too grudging, so you adjust, “I got awkward, I was trying to be funny. Which we both know by now that I’m not. I’m just a bitch. So, I just wanted to say… you obviously look fucking amazing. And your shoot was great. Everyone can see that.”

You swallow the dryness in your throat.

Art makes his own pained noise across the receiver. “Everyone?” he groans, and you cannot tell if you’re imagining the fleeting hue of amusement you discern there. “Please no.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“You called me,” he scoffs. It’s a good scoff, if such a thing can be said. But he still sounds pretty incredulous with you, and not in a way that says he thinks you a moral paragon. You think he thinks you’re a bit of a monster. Which doesn’t offend you, actually. “To apologise.”

“And I did!”

“Okay?”

A silence befalls you like a yawning maw, stretching out. He could hang up on you. He doesn’t.

“Look, you can internalise the things I say at your own risk,” you say.

“You’re telling me.”

“But it was a nice photoshoot. And, you know… pretty hot and stuff, which I guess was the intended purpose.”

You feel like a corpse whose arteries are being drained of blood and filled with embalming fluid.

“Pretty hot and stuff?” he echoes. You roll your eyes.

If you’re lucky, he’s tipsy, because you guys didn’t only indulge in beer floats. So, maybe—by God’s impossible mercy—he’ll have forgotten this conversation in the morning.

“I—” you hesitate, adding a small laugh, kind of hoarse, kind of unconvincing. “I—honestly—I can’t stop watching it.”

It’s not a joke, you both realise.

His voice drops an octave. “Really?”

And—fuck. Fuck, right? But you’ve made it this far.

“Really.”

You feel his eyes on you, not Tashi. Harper has you all thronged around a burn barrel in the community centre parking lot at 8 PM on a Wednesday. Scintillating honeygold flames lick at the night and shadow his face at pretty angles. And he’s reading his letter—that letter—and looking at you.

That’s bad.

This is supposed to be a cathartic and utterly sexless exercise in closure.

But you feel like a filthy fraud.

You’re crossing your arms, and blinking off the flameheat, and pretending not to stare at the scarp of his Adam’s apple and his tendons working beneath the skin of his hands.

He clears his throat, and his lips are moving like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Tashi,” he starts.

Her name, when he says it, still sounds like a tender orison. But last time he’d been reciting this thing, his eyes had been all flushed, raw, and misty, his voice abraded at its edges. Now—well—Agnes hasn’t slipped him a tissue in weeks.

“I still love— do we have to do this again? Can’t I just throw it in?”

The group sputters into giggles. You don’t know who brought the sweet Moscato.

Dr Harper pinches his nosebridge like an enervated preschool teacher. You think he, of all people, ought to be pleased—and you suspect he furtively is, but doesn’t want to discourage your good spirits with his approval—because, as much as you’re loathed to acknowledge it, all his forcible, unwelcome attempts at conjuring vulnerability amongst the lot of you have actually kind of worked.

The fire warms your brows to dampness, the saccharine acidity of the spirit seeping through your flesh and sweltering the rest of you. You should’ve worn a thinner sweater.

“Art,” says Dr Harper, “Your feelings are valid. Even—” The group interjects with a smattering of jeers, a slurred, densetongued amalgam of fuck you! and get a life, Harper! and other stuff to that effect. “—even your reluctance.”

The flames thrash deep indigo and copper. No one can quit laughing.

Dr Harper continues, “But the whole point of the exercise is—”

“Come on, Doc, we’re still pretending these exercises have points?” someone heckles.

“We’re still calling these exercises?” says someone else.

“Hurry up and cry already, Donaldson, I got work tomorrow.”

“Alright, alright,” Art raises a hand and everyone wanes to a simmer of firewarm drunken murmurs as though he’s some sort of Biblical king.

You roll your eyes, but you keep thinking of Great Danes on tennis courts and tightiewhities.

Everyone cheers like this is fucking Madison Square Garden when Art holds his hand out for the bottle, teeth scintillating in the pyreglow with a wry slanting smile.

He takes a long, healthy swig. You think you hear someone whistle. His lips gleam with moisture when they pop off the glass bottlemouth.

“You wanna see me cry?” he grins, eminently rueful and amused and resigned, all at once.

And everyone hurrahs and hollers and maybe some people even bark. He’s being pushed around affectionately from all angles. His gaze is sharp and garlanded by flames and trained on you. You raise your brows at him wryly, perhaps a little dubious, before lifting your hands and joining in the applause.

He clears his throat and sweeps his tongue over his upper lip and flicks the paper out like a Shakespearean scroll.

“Tashi,” he starts again.

You watch the fire lave and singe and swallow all your bitter, pathetic epistles.

Tashi.

I still love you. I’m still sorry. For something, or everything. For anything, really. It’s mostly okay, but it’s worse at night. And on weekends, and with Lily, and when the microwave starts making that shitty sound that you hated.

I miss you deep in my bones. I—

The flames scorch his words to flickering cinders.

You look at him, and he looks at you, and his bottom lashes glisten with tears. But he’s grinning widely. He’s laughing. He’s laughing a lot. Padma sings ‘Auld Lang Syne’, for some reason.

The goodbyes are a little maudlin, but sincere.

It’s time for you to all go home and actually get over your exes, which feels a bit jilting.

Art walks you to your car, and you let him, and you even let him get in your car, which is probably not a good idea. But it’s the end of the stupid workshop and you want to spend more time together. There, you can admit it.

You even say it out loud.

“I’m gonna miss this corny bullshit.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, a little more quiet.

When the middle backseat belt buckle is digging sharply into your hip, and he’s got you pinned beneath him, and his hands are everywhere—seriously, it seems he was just waiting for your permission, because he’s squeezing all the flesh he can reach, slipping his hands under your shirt, between your thighs, just absolutely no decorum on this guy—you think to yourself, this motherfucker.

A spherule of spearmint gum slips from his mouth and into yours.

You’d thought, too, that he’d be more deft with this. And he is, but he’s also very clunky. Maybe because your car’s quite small. He’s not huge, but he is still fairly tall and broad and trying to fit himself between your thighs while covering you with his body in this small space, so it’s a bit chaotic. You don’t really mind.

And—yes—you have thought about it.

There’s a shot of him, in the Calvin Klein campaign, sprawled across the court in greyscale, his hand resting on his middle, his other arm above his head.

You know they edit those photos. That there’s some kid, fresh out of graphic design school, rubbing one out while airbrushing these halfnaked men to oblivion. But you now see—feel, more than see, really; there’s a streetlight nearby, but it’s blown, so you’re all touch—that such satin cannot be contrived. He really is that smooth. There’s not a bit of fat on him, but he’s oddly liquidfeeling, skin sloughing off like cream.

He’s always looked almost uncomfortably boyish to you. But you’re realising now that there’s an abrasiveness to his haggard breathing, and that potent, vaguely olid, mannish fume to his skin.

It's really doing it for you.

In that shot, he was lying right beside the polyethylene net and the sun was beaming down, searing alabaster, through the lattice, at an angle that splayed shadows all across him. The lines warping over the slopes of his body.

You feel the phantom crisscross of those shadows between your thighs now.

His eyes are still a little wet. He tells you he’s wanted to do this since he saw you giving him the jettatura while he was signing that racket for Harper's daughter. He also tells you he bets you’ve wanted to do this since you saw him in tightiewhities lying under a tennis net.

Can he be your tennis net?

You don’t even know what that means.

You laugh a little, but then he slips a finger inside you and latches his mouth to your pulse, and it is hot as magma, and you forget all about Great Danes and apologies and fires.

You would think they do some computer magic to make the cocks look bigger in those things, too.

They don’t.

To be fair, he doesn’t have some kind of doubletake worthy, John Holmes ordeal or anything, in the pictures. But the slope beneath the cotton, the bend of his hips like the handle of a water pitcher, all that pearlescent skin—so what if your saliva gathered on your tongue as you leaned in (way too closely) toward your laptop screen?

You feel especially shameless now as he slides into you.

Sure, the buckle is a bitch and the seatleather’s sort of chafing your ass and your elbow’s in a cup holder. But you take furtive pleasure in thinking that some people’s fantasies about him probably go like this.

The softest thing is his hand cupping the back of your neck, dragging your head up. It’s a weird contrast to the way his dick is pumping erratically in and out of you. Like he’s trying to control himself, maybe add a little romance.

You keep your eyes open to watch the way his body moves. Fuck it, you wanna see what all the fuss is about.

The talented Mr Ripley whose volleys (and probably orgasms) are intensive, frenetic affairs of selfpersuasion. Unless, of course, he’s fucking the random, judgy woman he met in a group therapy session. In this particular case—though laboured all the same—he comes harder and slower and you hear his panting groans in your ear as you shudder through your own pleasure.

He pulls your hips closer and empties himself in you and you rub yourself against him and you try to keep your eyes open, but, ultimately, you concede that you can only experience this pleasure in the dark.

You keep feeling his muscles work beneath your hands, though.

Dr Harper strongly recommends that you two not start seeing each other. He does just about everything but get on his knees and beg. And even that he nearly does. He reminds you that, on your Vision Tree, you mapped yourself single for at least the next two years.

But Art says he’s had enough of other people saying what’s good for him.

And your Vision Tree also forecasted you taking up jogging, which—come on.

#challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson angst #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson smut #the art donaldson calvin klein campaign is canon to me #challengers fic #uta hagen was team tashi #dr harper is his own trigger warning #i am actually an artashi divorce denier #but i was too compelled by this idea #tightiewhities #tag yourself i’m eleanor trauma dumping on a fun night out

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 8 months ago

Note

so i'm a graduate student at a prestigious university in north eastern united states and one of my professors recently made a very oblique announcement to the class to the effect of "i've noticed some people using chatgpt. won't say who though. won't tell you if it's you i am talking about. but just so you know. i can tell when you do it."

and like the anxious person i am, i have started doing the student equivalent of when you are in the airport security line and wonder if you accidentally packed a gun and a kilo of coke. "what if this essay i wrote accidentally sounds like chatgpt and she hates me now"

from your point of view: is this possible? i have never once used chatgpt, i don't think i even know how, but not every single one of my academic contributions is as stellar as i'd wish (ya girl is sleep deprived). please help me shut down the anxious brain that is saying i am somehow being suspected of using chatgpt when i hand in just plain old, home grown mediocrity.

Haha! It's extremely unlikely that you would accidentally false-positive flag as using ChatGPT. You kind of... get your eye in for this stuff? So generic bland writing isn't enough by itself.

Here's a very quick list:

Fake references and citations. MASSIVE giveaway

Factual errors. But like... BIG errors, and errors that build on each other (it's called hallucination). So first it claims that coal spoil makes poor soil because of drainage (true), then it's because it's sandy soil (false, bad drainage in the wrong direction) and then before you know it it's recommending palm trees and mangroves for planting (wtf)

Sentences of the same/similar lengths in same/similar sized paragraphs

Maddeningly vague topic coverage. Zero analysis. Everything is broad strokes, no real examples or case studies given. If one is given, it turns out to be fake.

And, the standard hallmarks of cheating. If the offending piece was only partly written with an LLM, there's a difference in writing style/language that's super obvious among other things.

The other thing, though, is that you can protect yourself to an extent by saving your assignment on OneDrive (or whatever equivalent your uni offers) and working on it from there, with auto save enabled. This is because modern OneDrive Word allows you to access a file's version history. It's much easier to see when a file has been genuinely written line by line Vs copy-pasted in a block from destinations unknown. So, if you are challenged, you have a bit of a backup if you can go "Here's my version history for you to explore, here's my planning doc, have fun."

But, genuinely, I can assure you that lecturers are actually more accustomed to reading mediocre work than anything else lol. We know what that looks like. It's staggeringly unlikely that your work could be accidentally mistaken for an LLM generated piece.

#asks #the professional world of careers and tasks

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sordidmusings · 2 months ago

Text

Sanji x Reader - Face Sitting Headcanons

A/N: well now I can say I got at least one (1) done so there’s that 💀 happy spooky and smutty month y’all!!! October is a phenomenal time of year I fucking LOVE Halloween with my whole heart; fav holiday hands down. Now back to the fic - like I said in my update, the aim for kinktober stuff this year is to be headcanons! This has those but honestly a lot of it reads more like a bulleted fic cuz I tend to lean to that and I like those too. I see that likely being the case for all of them. I hope you enjoy❣️

Word count: ~1.7 k

Warnings: nsfw, afab reader (I double check but if I missed things denoting fem instead, please let me know!), starts with regular eating out first then gets to the good good, he's somewhere between opla and anime, Sanji is a needy needy man, he’s got a lean towards sub in this, hair pulling, a taste of body worship cuz come on it’s Sanji, a bit descriptive on scent as I tend to be but this one’s sex smell so hopefully that’s your digs cuz it’s def Sanji’s lol, some cheesy jokes at the beginning and end

Now go my lovelies and feed the chef ヾ(●ω●)ノ

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Sanji’s passion for good taste and no waste was something you joked to yourself about him bringing into the bedroom (you’d come to find out it’s no joke)

You thought of throwing a cheesy “hey chef can I serve you dessert” his way a non zero amount

There was also the time he’d been kept from food by circumstance til dinner, where he dug in moaning and “you look so pretty eating like that, can I feel?” sat on the tip of your tongue, but you were afraid if the words got out he’d choke on said meal and the heimlich would really spoil the whole mood

Your general caution of possibly giving the man a heart attack when you fully returned his advances often kept you barely teasing at the boundary where platonic meets romantic and sexual

However, being plagued by thoughts of his face between your thighs, flushed and grasping and moaning and whimpering, was wearing your patience very thin

It was driving your desperation to a level only Sanji ever seemed to reach upon pursuing attention from a pretty face

You were just happy yours was clearly a favorite of his and his eagerness left you with no fear of rejection, just fear that the reality would end up being some awkward jumble that would haunt you so long as you were on the Straw Hat crew

That was a hell you wanted to avoid, especially since Nami would be your own personal demon, tormenting you with teasing reminders of the encounter and the fact you expected anything else from the hopeless cook

When you finally bit the bullet, you realized that you were so so so stupid for having any fears at all

Sanji touched and tasted you like it was his reason for living

Hell, you’re pretty sure he mumbled something along those lines as he kissed and sucked his way up your thigh, but it was trapped as a personal prayer against your body, a pact between him and his new altar

He started sweet and hesitant when you first told him you wanted him to touch you and taste you, a shake of nerves and disbelief in his exploring hands

Once his mouth was on you though - first just the lightest brush of a kiss - raw need bled into his veins and pushed him to press harder, hold you firmer, breathe you deeper, taste your lips and tongue and moans

The stuttering breaths and saccharine praises set your body and heart alight, delighting in your effect on him and the tender names he gave you

“Mon coeur, I’ll treat you right, make you feel divine like you are” “You don’t have to lift a finger, darling, just please let me keep touching you” “Angel, I’ve dreamed of you but -ah- you’re s-so much more of heaven than I could’ve known”

He was all awe borne hesitation yet again when you’re fully naked and he’s stuck inches from your exposed cunt, trying to commit the beauty that shapes your body and curves and marks to memory, his fingers feather-light and twitching where they rest on the crease between your hips and legs

He watched in overwhelm as your entrance flutters around nothing in anticipation, became possessed with the need to feel that against him, around him

He took his time leaning forward with a deep inhale, eyes rolling closed in bliss at the heady smell of your dripping arousal mixing with clean skin and a faint hint of the start of fresh sweat

He reeled himself into the decorum he wanted to show you just long enough to place three loving kisses on you, starting with one on the crease of each thigh, just barely teasing your labia next to his lips with his hot breath, before planting a peck that eases into firm pressure right over your clit

Your breathless call of his name broke him

As he took his first lick of you, easing his tongue first side to side to slide between your folds and let him massage a firm stripe all the way up to then circle your clit, his blissful face turned to scrunched eyes and furrowed brows, showing how his desire and need overwhelmed him to near agony

All reservations were miles from your mind, the only thing you could think about was how well he was playing with and savoring every inch of your cunt

You’d swear he’d been with a hundred women before if you weren’t sure it was just as likely that he’d spent a questionable amount of time studying the female body

Whichever it was, him leaving nothing untouched didn’t mean he didn’t know where to focus - every grip into your thighs and gentle scratch of his short nails, every tease and lick and suck at labia was to highlight his nose pressing your clit, his fingers working you open and curling just right, his mouth lightly sucking at your clit, his tongue swirling at flicking in a dance choreographed by your reactions

It set you in a whirlwind where you forgot everything but his touch and sounds and the steady build of trembles and pulses simmering in your muscles in warning of the way your climax would grip you and have your whole body throb with buzzing heat and wailing bliss

Time even escaped you, but it was still too quick when his head popped up and not just because you could’ve kept him there forever

You would’ve protested but your breath caught at his hazy, half lidded eyes framed by pink, flushed cheeks and tousled hair. Little strands of his bangs clung to the light layer of sweat on his forehead and his panting mouth glistened obscenely with spit and slick

“More” he whispered. His pink tongue darted out to wet his lips from the heavy breaths drying them quickly. The taste had a deep hum vibrate from his chest. “I need you -hhah- I- my love, I need more of you”

You thought he meant he wanted to fuck you but- “On top of me- please” Sanji placed begging kisses to your thigh “I just- please, angel, mon coeur, I-“ his hot cheek pressed into your thigh and he looked at you through his lashes with shining eyes “Will you sit on me- my face?”

Once he’d laid back and you hovered over his face you had a moment of hesitation, despite the ravenous look he burned over your body before settling it eagerly on your pussy

That hesitation left the moment you lowered enough for his lips and tongue to get to you and his hands immediately dug into your hips and dragged you down to drown him

Sanji was even more all-encompassing than before, making sure to get a taste of every inch of you he could reach and relishing in your weight pushing down on him and helping him sink his tongue deeper into you cunt to lap at your clenching walls

He stayed just as vocal as he was before too, even with the sound having to vibrate through you before it got to your ears to leave your head buzzing as heavily as your clit

That was when both of you knew that this had to keep happening come hell or high water

Even once you spend time exploring each other in many, many other ways (Sanji had spent a lot of time brainstorming and you get to enjoy the fruits of his perversion) having you sit on his face remains a favorite

He gets as much pleasure from it as you do - just as vocal, just as reactive, just as blissed out

Sanji always takes his time enjoying you and doing all he can to please you, but it seems to deep the impulse to the point of instinct once he has your cunt clogging all his senses and your weight and warmth embracing him

He will in fact stay there until you tell him you’ve had enough

He always pulls as many orgasms as you’d like from your body, usually letting the first come at a natural and steady crescendo before toying with how fast he can have your thighs shaking beside his head again

On a rare occasion he will draw out how long it takes to make you cum, tormenting you with pleasure that makes your blood rush and your head fuzz but just not quite enough, usually when he’s needing extra attention from you, even if that means getting you to the point of frustration - he needs to know you need him

Feeling your need and feeling surrounded by it and by you is another reason he’s always wanting to be your seat - he can interact with nothing but you and your pleasure and know that it’s from him and you’re here resting your body on him and trusting your needs to him

Sanji’s hands are always very active during sex and this is no exception, he’s always pawing at your hips and thighs and ass, sometimes sneaking long fingers past your entrance to sink in deep while he catches a breath and laps at your clit

He shows you his legs aren’t the only thing on him that’s strong - endlessly pulling you closer even when you try to raise yourself for fear of suffocating him or twitching away when it’s too much in the best way, holding his hands up beside you for you to grab and use as leverage to stay upright and grind, using his grip on you to grind you against his face himself once you’re all spent muscles, made loose and languid from work and pleasure

He also LOVES that having his face buried against you always has you gripping at his hair, the sensation of the light tugging always sends sparks under his skin and he’s addicted to the way it has him feeling possessed and controlled by you when you use it to keep him still or direct him

All in all, it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures for you both and if one day someone asks you your greatest regret, you might not say this one but the answer “waiting to get with Sanji instead of asking him to be my personal throne on day one” will flash in your mind

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed 🤍

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space-blue · 3 months ago

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Arcane 2 Trailer time!

Imagine this chick comes into your office and tells you what to do? What are you gonna do?? Tell her no?????

Overall Ambessa and Sevika are really making this season MILF o'clock.

It would seem that early season will focus on Jinx terrorist time...

This is sadly the only LoL skin she could afford...

If you like Cait AND you like your women in pain/getting squeeze like they're a pineapple in the werewolf fucking press, then it seems this season is going to be for you. But Cait isn't the only one having a bad time, seems like Heimerdinger losing his day job led to some relaxation of his principles:

Now focusing on Ekko, who we know is helping Heimer:

This has a chain to pull a mechanism, and we see some similar thing being pulled by an unknown character, just a much thicker chain.

These shots of the Firelights attacking AMBESSA's people lead me to believe that the story may look like > Councillors listen to Ambessa > The tensions with Zaun escalate > Jinx terrorism instead of resolution > Vi sees this as failure and returns to Zaun to try another way > Ambessa doesn't take no for an answer > everyone teams up against Noxus, bringing Zaun and Piltover together again.

By hair alone we can see a timeskip here. Love Ekko's outfit. Vi's simpler style with just a bit of Piltie chest armour gives me hope that she transitions away from being a Piltie Enforcer and more of a Vander style character, trying to mediate.

Notice how dark her roots are???? I am wondering because LOOK:

She has black hair!! With reddish tips?

SO THIS MEANS THIS IS VI'S NEW LOOK:

And this last shot confirms it! RHEA RIPPLEY makeover!!!!

PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLESAEPLEASE BE REAL please don't be an inforcer don't be a cop please be cool please have an arc learn progress return to your people don't be a class traitor I beg I begwaah

My only criticism of this is that we now have 2 options: Either Vi is entering her goth era and is actively dyeing everything sloppily so that bits of Pink remain, or she has always been black haired, and has been dyeing her hair AND eyebrows pink her whole life, even as a child.

I get that it could be a cultural thing parents do, as my friend En suggested. I'd like this, if it weren't for the fact she was in stillwater for YEARS and I don't see them providing pink dye and a nice setup to bleach and dye safely...

Curious to see how it goes.

At this I screamed "Silco????" But not sure now. Seems too far off to be a Jinx vision.

There's also fucky things going on with the Arcane. We're told it's "waking up", which is curious because I was assuming mages across Runeterra were using the Arcane lots for their own magic, so very happy to learn more about it.

Also very cool to see a return of the wizard guy from Jayce's backstory:

Very excited for these depictions of magic :

Free feet included.

I'm pretty amazed that we have seen Zero Mel and Zero Jayce, and just 2-3 frames of hinted Viktor. Nice to see he'll go through with the transformation, but I'm curious as to why they're keeping the jeyvik divorce era so out of promo. Some of my friends feeling very edged right now.

Wondering if this is baby Powder flashbacks, or if we're going to get little kids getting dyed blue in celebration as we see adults do when they team up with her. I suspect if this is a kiddo who wanted to be blue like Jinx, this will be used as a parrallel, with them being caught in an attack that harkens back to the bridge.

The visual effects look insanely gorgeous, and also Jinx's very bad time tm is always on the menu. Very exciting!

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dontcryminecraft · 1 year ago

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red team purgatory day one

half of red team isn't here, nobody knows how to actually PLAY MINECRAFT, and the only person remotely good at pvp here is philza. Carre carries everyone and is off doing his own thing. Even IF the other half of the team is there, the only person i can accurately gauge the ability of is WILBUR, and i have zero faith in his skills lol. Everyone is realizing how much they're going to have to stream, and some will have to change their schedules in order to play effectively. Charlie doesn't stream for 5 hours, but he has to be here for all of this, and it becomes VERY CLEAR, VERY QUICKLY, WHY HE DOESN'T. His voice is dead and he is unravelling at the seams. He hates it here more than anyone. only half of his breakdown is a joke. They're drying. Cellbit and Slime had ENOUGH and just beat each other with sticks. They're devolving and screaming about how much they hate this and they're manic and their arms feel numb and tingly and badboyhalo keeps killing them and they keep dying and life hates them. Jaiden told badboyhalo to kill himself. In a fit of rage they declared that they no longer care about the eggs and they'd rather just go home. They're planning on logging in on Monday only to build a house and start Egg Island Survival LetsPlay where they make an Emerald Empire and only respond in Villiager Hrmms. now they're sing/screaming as their base burns around them, and i can't tell what they're supposed to be singing but they kept repeating "say something I'm giving up on you" and someone started playing the Living TombStone FNAF song. Phil got a globe and gifted everyone a fidget toy to spin and they're just sitting and spinning. Baghera just realized that Phil already had all the saplings they need and she wasted her time, so Phil took off his armor so the two can could fight. Baghera lost even though she had a diamond sword, so Phil just let her kill him so she can be happy. Corpses scatter across their yard. They're killing each other. I started typing this with 20 minutes left and I'm witnessing the longest fucking 20 minutes of my life how is there still 7-whatever minutes left??? CELLBIT JUST CONFESSED TO THE MURDERS AND THEY'RE CONFESSING TO THEIR SINS NOW???? I CAN'T TELL IF CHARLIE'S CONFESSION ABOUT JUANAFLIPPA AND THE CODE IS CANON???? Charlie suggests a cannibalism arc and everyone wants to go absolutely FERAL and cellbit it trying to act normal about that idea and kinda fails at it. And it all ends with everyone being banned to enforce the 5-hour rule. We're Free...for today. And despite this, they don't want to change teams and they're actually looking forward to suffering with friends :) ...nevermind they're planning on selling wilbur to get a better advantage.

#ahyes an original post #they're my favorite team #hands down #no questions #qsmp #qsmp purgatory #qsmp red team #purgatory red team #philza #foolish #cellbit #slimecicle #jaidenanimations #baghera

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heartfullofleeches · 10 months ago

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I think two of my favorite readers are fast food reader and everglades reader 🥰

Also the everglades reader posts immediately reminded my of Fluffy (the comedian) skit about the crocodile hunter. (Cant remember the actually words just the touch part lol).

Ever!reader: you see that?! That one right there has a bite force equal to biting into a boiled carrot! / This one is so venomous it could paralyze you faster than it take for you to fall to the floor!!

...

Ever!reader: I'm gonna touch/poke it! 🥰

"You see this little guy right here? This right here is a wandering spider - one of the most venomous spiders in the world. Nausea, severe pain, abdominal cramps, erections that can last for hours, breathing difficulties that can lead to death if not treated soon enough...."

You count off the small percentage of the list of symptoms you've mentioned so far with your fingers as the drider looms behind you. Little was quite the broad term to use for it. The creature was large enough to where they could probably fit your entire head between their fangs has they wished. It ponders how a human could be so brave to turn their back on a beast of their kind while rambling on about the very side effects they have a probable chance of inflicting you with at any given moment. Perhaps it was stupidity. Either way, the spider was positively enthralled by you and your nulled sense of danger. How on earth has a person like yourself survived out here for so long?

"Anyway, I'm gonna poke them."

The drider shifts - given little to no time to process your words as your finger pads the fuzzy layer of skin right where a nose would be if they had one. You laugh as all six of their eyes point towards the area of their face where your hand had touched.

"Boop!...See, this little guy is chill. Barely any reaction at all"

Truth be told, the drider was too stunned to move a muscle. No one's ever had the nerve to touch them like that. And which such a carefree attitude too. You truly had zero regards for your own safety -

Which meant if you ended up in the spider's web there's really no one to blame for your disappearance but yourself. If anything they'd be doing you a favor by taking your well-being into their own hands.

#yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere imagines #yandere blurb #yandere #yandere drider #Everglades reader #yandere hybrid #yandere drabble

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amourtoken · 4 months ago

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I will be the brave soldier that tackles this concept that others may be too afraid to tackle 🫡

I was gonna do one big post for the whole group but the Noah part took over so I'll split it into individual parts for you. Here's some stepbro Noah for you 💀

Anyway let's get into it I feel like im virtually stalling lol. Apologies if this is insanely long it may or may not be the longest thing I've ever written so forgive me if it's rambley or not that great.

CW: stepcest, mean/annoying ass Noah, oral (M receiving), dacryphilia, choking, spit, belly bulge, raw sex, facials, squirting, fingering, nipple play, mentions of breeding, Dom Noah ftw always, oral fixation, slapping (just in general, face and pussy yk), and if I missed any others pls let me know

*NSFW below the cut, MDNI*

♡ The day Noah moved in to your dad's house was the worst day of your life unbeknownst to you at the time. He seemed tolerable at first but it took zero time for him to become a raging asshole that lived to torment you it seemed. He always blasts music late at night, is constantly yelling while playing video games with those obnoxious ass friends of his that like to come over and somehow act even more unbearable and he has the audacity to walk around YOUR house like he owns the place when he's only been here for a few months. What a cunt.

♡ Noah loves teasing you as well. He's got a couple years on you and is SUBSTANTIALLY larger than you so somewhere in the back of his mind he feels like you're easy to manipulate and manhandle the shit out of cause he's older, bigger, stronger, ect. He likes the way your voice pitches up in a yelp when he walks by and smacks your ass hard enough to bruise, he couldn't resist, not while you had those little shorts on. He also doesn't think twice abt it being "weird" or anything, he really doesn't even see you as a relative at this point, you're both grown and you've known eachother for like 6 months at the most. The fact his mom wanted to bang your dad has no effect on his life aside from the fact he had to up and move to your city.

♡ every time your parents give you two the house alone, it usually goes one of two ways. Either Noah invites those previously mentioned friends over and you get to listen to them practicing new songs in your living room until your head throbs from the volume or Noah invites some random tinder girl over to fuck half to death while you get the pleasure of listening to it through the thin wall that seperates your rooms. You've done everything to muffle the noise, but the incessant rhythmic slamming of his headboard right against the wall is similar to water torture. If you didn't care about privacy (unlike him, he frequently throws your bedroom door open while you're changing or walks in on you fresh out of the shower) you'd storm into his room and tell him to shut the fuck up but unfortunately you're a nicer person than he is so you suffer for a while longer.

♡ you end up confronting him the next night while he's on a game with his friends (again being eye twitching levels of loud and annoying). You had the decency to knock but when he opens the door he's got his hair tied up halfway, shirtless, and shorts sitting so fucking low on his hips you can see the light trail of hair that runs up his lower stomach to his navel. You hate that he's your type because shouldn't that be weird? He's your step brother, that has to be weird right?

"Yknow if you take a picture it'll last longer, right? My eyes are up here."

♡ Noah apparently clocked your staring and he has this stupid smug grin on his face that you hate. Ultimately how can he be upset for you staring at him when his eyes are always glued to your tits or ass whenever he has the chance?? He has no shame. It's not that he's upset at you, but he knows deep down you're fighting something he gave into ages ago, and he's got you wrapped around his finger whether you like it or not. You can't stand him, or is it that you want to hate him so you don't have to admit your other feelings?

"Can I help you or are you just gonna keep staring at my cock? I'm kinda fucking busy."

♡ he's always been this brash and it still somehow shocks you every time. You hate he's not really wrong, you wouldn't have been looking if his dick didn't leave a scarily large print in those shorts he was wearing. No wonder all those girls he brings over are so fucking loud. You didn't realize you still hadn't said what you came over to say, it felt like your voice was trapped in your throat especially when you looked up at him and those pretty brown eyes of his. God you fucking hate him, you hate that you're jealous of everyone that gets to spend time with him and all of those girls he's brought over to fuck and never say a word to again. He's an asshole but fuck if he isn't a pretty one. You feel like this is wrong but everything about him is wrong so what's new.

"If you want a taste you can just ask."

"Come on baby don't act like you don't think about me how I think about you. I've heard you playing with that little pussy and whining my name before, so you can't really fake hating me now, huh?"

♡ you're literally standing in his doorway dumbfounded at this point. He knew? Oh.

"Bet I could fuck that uptight attitude out of you. Maybe that's all you need, some good dick."

oh!

He shifts from where he's leaning against the doorframe to palm himself through his shorts and your heart feels like it's actually trying to escape your ribcage. Is this even real??? You came over here to bitch at him for being a loud inconsiderate asshole and he's trying to fuck you? Why doesn't he feel like this is wrong, why don't you feel like this is wrong? Why do you have this childish crush on your literal stepbrother? You feel dizzy. Noah has you right where he wants you though, he's been onto you the whole time and he could've just been nicer to you but who doesn't love a good hatefuck? He figured if he broke you down enough he could build you back up into the perfect little in home cock sleeve he knew you really wanted to be. He's fucking gross I need him but he's not wrong, is he?

♡ your eyes flit down from his eyes to his hand that's wrapped around his clothed cock again and you thought your knees would give out. How does that even fit inside anyone?? No wonder his dates sound like they're in a slasher film, they probably feel like they're getting split down the middle. You don't have much more time to think cause he's pulling you into his room and forcing you onto your knees in front of him.

"You're so much nicer when you're not bitching at me for fucking everything. Always wanted to fuck that pretty mouth of yours anyway, can't talk with your mouth full can you?"

Noah laces a large tattooed hand through the hair at the back of your head and you wince at the sting. You feel like your brain is just empty now, honestly this whole thing feels so much like a dream you're not fully convinced it's real, that you're actually letting your stepbrother smear precum on your lips with the tip of his big cock. It's even more threatening when it's not straining against his shorts, the tip is a pretty pink and there's a big thick vein running up the underside. You can't even fit your hand around it entirely, and you're so wet over it you're sure you can see through your pajama pants.

"Open."

♡ you do as you're told and Noah tugs your hair a little more to angle your head back. He's clouded up your brain so much you barely react when he spits directly onto your tongue, reaching to smear the mess around with 2 of his long fingers. You're looking up at him with big puppy eyes that water pathetically when he slides those two fingers down your throat, thrusting them in and out deeper each time to see how well you take him. He laughs when you gag and your eyes water as he sinks his fingers as deep as he can get them, you're such a fucking mess it's pathetic but that's exactly what's making his cock twitch. You're exactly how he needs you.

"gonna be a good girl for me? Let me fuck your throat and maybe I'll make you cum after if you're good."

you squeeze your thighs together to try and get some friction when he slaps his cock on your tongue, he's so fucking heavy and thick you really don't know how he expects to fit anywhere in your body let alone your mouth. Regardless, you try. You reach up to brace your hands on his tattooed thighs and focus on kissing and licking all over the tip, looking up at him when you wrap your lips around it to see his head fall back in a deep sigh. Sure he's gotten head before but something about this situation just makes him so much harder. The hand in your hair tightens and he slowly starts thrusting into your mouth, shallow at first but as you start taking more of him and it gets messy, he starts going much harder.

♡ Noah's fucking your throat so hard you have fat tears spilling down your cheeks, you're trying so hard to take him well but when he sinks in to the hilt and holds you there until you're clawing at this thighs and whimpering around his cock cause you can't breathe you can't help but pull away to catch it.

"God you're such a fucking slut."

He punctuates the phrase by landing a slap on your cheek. Not hard enough to really hurt you but definitely enough to sting. Normally you'd be upset but right now? Fuck you're almost begging him to do it again.

Once you catch your breath you open your mouth expectantly and he's right back to it. This time he has both hands tangled up in your hair while he's fucking your throat. Thank God no one's home cause he's not even trying to be a little quiet, deep moans and growls freely flowing from his mouth. You can't help but feel a little proud of yourself, normally you don't hear him make much noise when he's fucking whoever he's brought over but he's being pretty damn vocal right now. You can tell he's close by the way his thrusts falter and right before he cums he pulls out to paint your face. Whatever doesn't land on your tongue he gathers with his fingers and makes you suck them clean.

♡ you'd think he'd need a while to get hard again but no, he honestly didn't ever stop in the first place. Noah's dragging you up off the floor and nearly ripping your shorts down your legs and shirt off your torso immediately, he's seen you naked on "accident" but now that he really gets to look at you and feel you, fuck it's so much nicer. He steps back to admire your bare form but he can't go 3 seconds without teasing you. He runs his hands up your body to massage your tits and tease your nipples, pinching and playing with them until you're whimpering and teary eyed again.

He "apologizes" by leaning down and laving his tongue over the sensitive skin, making you arch against him and you can literally feel him smiling against your skin. He doesn't pull away before leaving a few dark hickeys on the underside of your tits, admiring his work after.

You don't get much of a break for long before he's picking you up and tossing you onto his bed. You can't help but notice it's neatly made (or was) before he drags your attention back to him by slapping his tip right against your clit, making you yelp. Apparently he liked your reaction cause he did it again, this time with his hand instead and with a little more force. Your voice broke into a whimper as he started rubbing circles on your clit with his fingers to ease the sting from the slap. He's mean but he still wants you to feel good.

"Can you say please? I wanna hear you beg for my cock before I give it to you, gotta know you really want it."

that smug look returns when his name and various pleads spill from your lips while he's sliding his fingers through the slick mess at your entrance, spreading the wetness around and dipping into you just enough to feel how tight you are around his fingers. He's reeling over the thought of how tight you'll be around his cock.

♡ like I said he's mean but he still wants you to feel good, he knows you need some kind of prep before he gets to fuck you. His free hand is slowly stroking his cock while the other is teasing your entrance, gauging your reaction. He starts with just one finger but quickly ends up fucking 3 into you, watching your back arch pathetically off the bed while he curls his fingers right up against that spot inside you that makes black spots flood your vision. You're squeezing his fingers so tight he knows you're close. The hand on his cock comes up to play with your clit and you feel like there's a literal fire lit in your belly.

"Gonna cum for me baby? It's okay, you can. Just let me make you feel good, need you see you fall apart for me."

Your legs are shaking, you're panting and squirming. It really feels like too much and right before you cum you're begging and pleading Noah to slow down cause it's just too much but he doesn't, if anything he's picking up the pace. The sound of your wetness is almost as loud as your moans for him and it only gets worse when that coil in your belly snaps and you nearly scream. You're arching off the bed and clawing at anything you can grab, you've cum before on your own but you've never felt anything this intense and sure as hell never made yourself squirt so this is a first. Noah is elated, his forearm and sheets are fucking drenched but he couldn't care less about the mess he's achingly hard at the fact he got you to squirt at all.

Noah reaches up and makes you clean your mess off his fingers, sliding them down your throat again just to feel you gag around them.

You're so sensitive and your brain is so fuzzy you can barely hold your head up, your chest rising and falling quickly while Noah sizes his length up against your tummy and groans at your size difference. His tip lands right below your navel, fuck, he's gonna demolish you. He's practically dripping like a faucet at this point and can't wait to be inside you, he's wanted this since you two fucking met. Noah leans over you to spit directly on your pussy before spreading it around with his tip and prodding at your slit, he's not even inside and you're whimpering about the stretch just from him resting against you.

"Can I hear you say please one more time, baby?"

♡ you enthusiastically answer, pleading for him to just fuck you and he takes the chance gladly. You knew the stretch was gonna be a lot but fuck when he actually sank balls deep your whole body ached. You were so fucking full it was unreal. You thought he couldn't get deeper but he crawled over you to push your knees up next to your ears and the moan you produced was pornographic. His tip was pressed right against your cervix and every time he thrust into you he knocked against it, it was painful at first but once the initial sting of the stretch wore off you've never felt better.

You swore you could feel him in your stomach he was so deep, and the sound of his hips smacking against yours was filthy. There was that familiar sound of his headboard hitting your shared wall but thankfully this time you weren't annoyed by it, if anything it drove you further.

Noah's moans started out deep in his chest but as he got closer they pitched up almost into whines, he was bucking his hips into yours like an animal in heat and his nails were sinking into your hips hard enough to bruise. He only leaned back a bit to wrap a hand around your throat and squeeze, cutting your moans and whimpers into pathetic strangled sounds.

"F-fuck- fuck fuck- 'm gonna cum- so fucking hard- tell me you want it- fuck, tell me you want me to fill this pretty pussy up-"

Youd never seen or heard him so disheveled but fuck if it wasn't hot. You didn't hesitate to beg for him to cum inside you, it made his head spin at the thought. God this was wrong but he couldn't help but imagine how pretty you'd look carrying his kid either. Noah pulled back just enough to have you in normal missionary, you wondered why but when he pressed his hand on your lower stomach you figured it out pretty quick. He could feel exactly where he was inside you and was rutting against his hand through you like you were nothing more than a toy. He only stopped so he could grab your hand and have you feel as well. His dick made a noticeable bulge in your belly every time he thrust into you, and it only made you ache at the thought. He really was ruining you for anyone else.

♡ Noah slid a hand between your bodies to tease your clit while he picked up the pace of his own sloppy thrusts. He was gonna cum but he needed you to cum with him. The hand on your throat absentmindedly tightened and you were seeing black spots flood your vision already but when he sank as deep as he could possibly get and whimpered as he came you couldn't stop yourself from toppling over the same edge. You thought you'd never cum so hard in your life earlier but now? This was really it. You sank your nails into his arm hard enough to draw blood while you convulsed under him, breaking into sobs of his name while he ground his hips into yours.

Noah pulling out left you with a horrible emptiness and you almost begged him to stay for just a bit longer. He was considering it himself but his thoughts were cut short when you both heard the front door downstairs open.

Shit.

Noah nearly threw you out of bed, scrambling to pull his shorts back on. Your clothes were strewn everywhere and you didn't have time to hunt for them so you picked up the first shirt you could find off his floor and put it on before racing back to your own room. Thank God you made it quick cause Noah's cum was still dripping down your thighs.

*also just saw the rb but tagging @somebodyllelse cause I almost forgot 😭

#Nowah #noah sebastian smut #Stepbro Noah

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n3ptoonz · 11 months ago

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'Sigh of Relief'

Pairing: Kuai Liang!Scorpion/GN!Reader

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 1 (2023)

Warnings/tags: Smut!!! Explicit!!! technically exhibitionism/public sex, implied size kink??, mutual sexual frustration, missionary to doggy, creampie, you two are like some horny ass teenagers, not proofread

Word count: 1.8k+

shoutout @valyrra for the prompt she came up with that inspired me writing this!!

additional tag: @genesiswrld since you were there in the comment section LOL

These past few days have been excruciating for the both of you. Every spot you thought was secure, someone would always be walking past or looking for one of you. It would always start with kissing and touching, but even before an article of clothing could be lifted, you were back to ground zero.

You couldn't even help yourselves. Throughout the mission there'd be subtle moments where you'd purposely brush past his arm or his hand remained on your shoulder for a moment longer than he should've in front of everyone. It was a dangerous game to play, but that aspect alone riled both of you up to new levels.

To make matters worse, the group always moved together. Be damned if somebody were to slip away for a second to even use the bathroom. It was understandable at some points since you all were appointed for something important, but still!

Kuai Liang always held his duties with high regard and respect...but damn it was hard to focus whenever you were in uniform. The way you walked, the way you talked, the way you fought, he felt so lucky to call you his--even if your relationship had to remain a secret for the time being.

While the groups were a bit separated from each other and looking for clues in pairs, you and Kuai Liang took off to wherever looked the least occupied, hands locked with each other's. Once you reached an area deemed fit, you shamelessly started making out behind a large tree. All out of breath and quickly grabbing at each other because you both knew it wouldn't be long before someone noticed you two were gone.

He nipped at your earlobe and slightly exposed neck from pulling your uniform shirt apart with care. Your chest heaved from your breath being taken away by just running a minute ago but also, Kuai Liang just had that effect on you. His warm hands tucked under your shirt and squeezed at the flesh on your torso, making you gasp and him chuckle before kissing you once more.

"Kuai..." you mumbled against his lips, halfway caring about being caught if you two didn't stop soon. "We have to..." your words trailed off again. You hummed against him and glided your hand over the top of his head. You were mindful not to accidentally make his bun become undone because then all types of questions would arise.

He pulled away with a disappointed look on his face, resting his forehead on yours. "I know, baby, I know...I don't know how much more of this I can handle." he whispered. He pecked you on the lips before reluctantly backing up and surveying the area.

Like clockwork, you heard some of your teammates calling out your names in the same direction you both ran from. You both groan in frustration.

"You think they would freak if we didn't show?" you asked, already knowing the answer and what his reaction would be. Was he opposed to ditching his responsibilities just to take you where you stand? Of course not. But that stern look he always gives you never failed.

You didn't even need to respond since you both understood the situation at hand, it just really sucked you were interrupted before he could get into character.

Nightfall came and everyone has finally been able to settle down into their respective camps. Another painful day of barely being able to touch each other has passed, and it feels like you both will go nuts. While at the campfire Kuai Liang never took his eyes off of you. It was only the few times someone would ask him to hand him an item that he'd avert his gaze. Otherwise, the light from the fire bounced off his beautifully sculpted features and made his eyes look all the more tantalizing.

Everyone has now began to fall asleep. So you'd think it'd be simple to just sneak over to the other's tent, right? Wrong. With there being patrol shifts, the universe was truly against you two relieving stress.

You were starting to drift off while waiting for a good chance to strike. With all these twists and turns it was seeming like good sex was just not in your itinerary.

You took a quick nap, although it felt way longer than 20 minutes. You whirred awake to the feeling of another presence in your tent. When you looked up and saw Kuai Liang just chilling next to your sleeping form, it startled you. He quickly looked over and covered your mouth with his palm, his index finger up to his lips to signal for you to not be loud.

"How did you-" you said. Your question was muffled but he could put context clues together. You get that he's a ninja, but damn!

"You left your tent flap open. Was that on purpose?" he asked in a hushed tone and a growing smirk on his face.

You removed his hand and sat up to sit like he was, rubbing your eye to wake yourself up more and crawling into his lap. It's a good thing everybody was provided with roomy tents, but you probably couldn't cared less about the size especially in a situation like this.

"Maybe it was." you whispered. You held his face in your hands and gazed down at him as you kissed him slow. He kissed you back without hesitation, removing your hands to wrap around his neck. He did the same thing as earlier, except he made the attempt to remove your clothes this time. He unbuttoned your shirt and pulled the remaining over your head. Now you were half bare before him, slightly shivering from the lack of layers.

But obviously that would last long when you were with a walking space heater. He too discarded his shirt before pulling you close once again to let his lips dance with yours.

Kuai Liang gently flipped you over to lay on your back while he discarded the rest of your attire, wasting no time leaving a trail of kisses from your neck to your abdomen as more layers came off. It wasn't long until he did the same. He softly hummed in content at the sight of you before him. In his eyes you were nothing short of perfect for him. He wanted to ravish and cherish you with every last fiber in his body.

He leaned over you to where your noses were barely touching. You've made eye contact with him and plenty of people plenty of times, but it was rare times like this it made you a nervous wreck while you still wouldn't dare to look away. He looked at you with such love and respect, you'd almost forget he would wake the whole camp up if he was really about that.

"Stay as quiet as you can, okay?" he said softly, caressing the side of your face and dipping his head into the crook of your neck. He didn't even wait for an answer before filling you with all he had. It had been a long time since you've been intimate with him. His duties were always his main focus, but he'd never purposely disregard your needs. That's why it didn't bother you very much.

He wasn't huge, but he wasn't small either. A perfect medium length and width wise. It took everything in you to quiet yourself as you wrapped your legs around his waist. Your own hand resting over your mouth so you don't just suddenly give the camp a scare with your moans.

He kept panting in your ear. He had truly forgotten how good you felt around him, it made him nearly start to hallucinate.

"You still- feel so good-" he said with strain. Every thrust of his hips connecting between your legs made you want to cry.

You just quietly moan in response. What else can you really do? Surely you can't call his name out in ecstasy or tug on his hair to make him do the same.

At this rate you both were nearing the finish line, but neither of you wanted to stop just yet. It had been too long of too many nights of just settling for hugs and kisses. Nothing wrong with it, but you'd never expect him to have the energy to put a dent into the mattress after a long day of leading a new clan.

He shakily pulled out, making your eyes shoot open at the lost feeling inside you. He sat up with his chest heaving and sweat running down his toned chest.

"Turn over." he said in between breaths. He took his bun out and ran his fingers through his own hair. You haven't seen him look this determined since the day he came home with recruits. You did what he wanted without question: now on all fours and impatiently patiently waiting.

If he was doing what you think he was about to...it was about to be even more challenging to not make a sound. He simply pressed himself back inside you, and before you could even think to audibly react, you now had a mouth full of his massive bicep wrapped around you. And in an instant, there was not a thought behind those eyes. Imagine a windows shutdown sound, that's exactly what's going on here.

Kuai Liang had no problem fucking you as if there was nobody else around. How he was able to make it feel like your body could fall limp at any second while keeping the sound of his hips hitting your ass at a minimum should be studied.

Your hands balled up the sleeping mat that was underneath you. If only you could see yourself now: cross eyed and drooling over being caged in like this. Kuai Liang is a big guy; it runs in the family. You didn't need to be so little in order for him to tower over you physically or figuratively.

It was about that time. The growing hot sensations in the pit your stomachs was about to pass through.

"Almost there." he huffed out.

At the climax, he pulled you against his chest and kissed you, drinking in any sound you just couldn't hold back any longer. He just held you close to him while he pumped you full of his warm seed. Once he backed up he remained still inside you, keeping your balance while you came back to reality.

You collapsed into each other's arms on the sleeping mat, still catching your breaths. You let out a sigh of relief as you held him. Thank the Elder Gods your tents were all spaced out, otherwise you would've definitely been heard. Though, nobody would dare to question the Grandmaster of the Shirai Ryu or who he lays next to at night.

a/n: thank you for reading! i hope this was good this took a while cause i have a cold 😵‍💫 i'm so tempted to write some of the mk cast taking care of me reader LMAOOO also happy holidays everyone!!

#n3ptoonz #mk1 #mortal kombat #mortal kombat 1 #kuai liang #kuai liang mk1 #scorpion kuai liang #kuai liang x reader #kuai liang scorpion #scorpion mk #scorpion x reader #mk smut #mortal kombat imagine #mortal kombat smut

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