#a rock the size of my fist

[gardenofhera]

'A ROCK THE SIZE OF MY FIST' BY JENNIFER DOWN

September 11, 2017 | The Lifted Brow

Photo by Alexina McDougall. Supplied with permission.

1.

There are so many things in the world that I love. Dozing in the sun at the beach after swimming, limbs exhausted, salt drying stiff in my hair. Cutting up vegetables into neat, symmetrical pieces. Any food preparation, really, particularly if I’m listening to a good podcast. The way my dog presses his warm flank against my leg. Fragrant flowers: daphne, freesias, gardenias, violets, jasmine. Dramatic flowers: peonies, magnolias, proteas, foxgloves, hydrangeas, pansies. The strange sick swelling in my chest evoked by certain moments in particular songs, even happy ones, as though my body is unable to metabolise so much emotion. Flying into a city at night and seeing the lit gauze of its streets from the air. The scrunch of a stranger’s fingers at my scalp when the hairdresser gives me a perfunctory shampoo head massage. Cycling on a balmy night when the streets are quiet. Taking a bath when I’m a little drunk. Most things when I’m a little drunk, when my body loosens and the world softens at its edges. The quickening I get when I think of an idea for a story, or a solution to a problem of plot, or when a knot of words unravels in a clean sentence unexpectedly. Stretching out my muscles, sitting on the floor with my nose to my knees. The pearly pink light of a winter dusk.

So many happy memories. My grandfather pricking our names into the skin of green tomatoes in his garden so that when they ripened fat and full, the size of my fist, they were tattooed for us. He told me and my sister the fairies did it. Or him seated at the old player piano with its yellowed keys, badly in need of tuning. He’d never had lessons, and could not read music, but he had a wonderful ear, and turned out credible show tunes and ragtime numbers. He had a non-Parkinsonian tremor in his hands, which more or less disappeared when he played; or, at any rate, did not interfere with his playing. I remember the thud of the sustain pedal beneath his foot, the warped, tinny tone of the notes.

I remember the thud of the sustain pedal beneath his foot

The rare bioluminescent algae I once saw at night down in far-east Gippsland, at a friend’s parents’ house, sparkling in the black salt lake water. My friends and I lay on our bellies on the wooden jetty, transfixed by it. Phosphorescence as bright as the constellations in that country sky. Starlight prickled all around us.

Mountain hiking alone, very happy, a thirty-three-degree afternoon; lactic acid burning in my calves, hot air burning in my lungs; body feeling strong and capable.

Dancing with a friend at a Lee Fields show on a hot summer night in Berlin, moving in helpless ecstasy as he sings La-a-a-a-dies, right at the front of the stage, ahead of all the sober Germans; Fields reaching out to shake our hands at the end of his set, the three of us laughing and spangled with sweat.

Last week I cut through the Fitzroy Gardens at nightfall, walking home from work, and saw the jonquils with their tender faces turned to the sky. The Gardens smelled earthy. It was the last week of winter. The air was blue. The streetlights shone in that way that always makes me think of the line in the Sara Teasdale poem – all the lights are dim and pearled – and overhead, the leaves were sibilant. I watched a man throwing a ball for his dog again and again using one of those moulded plastic scoops, and it pleased me in a gentle way because I could see the dog was having a really good time, and it made me think of my own dog, who is not so interested in chasing balls as being as he is in being touched.

But when I’m depressed, all of it ceases to matter

Pretty light, cold air, turned soil, a quiet walk, a stranger’s kelpie: these things mollify me at my normal, baseline level of mental health. They are enough to constitute a pleasant walk home. But when I’m depressed, all of it ceases to matter. The world is still there, but it’s ugly and futile. My brain attaches semantic attributes to the shapes of things so that I recognise them as ‘a dog’ or ‘some jonquils’, but these stir in me no feeling, no mild joy.

In a dissociative episode, I might doubt that I am, in fact, seeing a dog chasing a ball, and become momentarily convinced that rather than crossing through the Gardens, I was obliterated by a car as I crossed Victoria Parade.

This was not, by the way, leading to a metaphor about the old black dog – which I’ve always found an idiotically benign metaphor for a debilitating and endemic illness with a high mortality rate. Sometimes a dog is just a dog.

In Teasdale’s Spring Night she laments a loss:

'Oh, is it not enough to be Here with this beauty over me? My throat should ache with praise, and I Should kneel in joy beneath the sky. O, Beauty are you not enough? Why am I crying after love?’

So many things in the world that I love, so many happy memories. But, as Teasdale wrote, there are times when none of it is enough.

2.

To frame depression as beautiful is to imagine it, falsely, as John Everett Millais’ Ophelia: an alabaster body wreathed in wildflowers, drowning prettily.

3.

Driving in his old Holden Commodore, my dad played his favourite rock and roll tapes and told me stories about the songs. Jimi Hendrix’s ‘The Stars that Play with Laughing Sam’s Dice’ was said to be a code for LSD, the name of which I also recognised from another of dad’s tales about ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’; ‘Tears in Heaven’ was written for Eric Clapton’s son, who’d fallen from a 53rd-floor balcony and died; ‘Wish You Were Here’ was about Syd Barrett, whose breakdown led to his eventual departure from Pink Floyd. My parents always talked to me as though I were an adult, so even at five or six, I had developed a strange collection of stories, many of them tragic, about these fantastically gifted but ill-fated stars. They were friendly ghosts to me, those dead rock stars in swimming pools. Poor Jimi. Poor Karen Carpenter, poor Janis Joplin, poor Buddy Holly. Poor Jim Morrison, Robert Johnson, Mama Cass, Marc Bolan, Sid Vicious, Muddy Waters. Many of them hadn’t died from anything related to mental illness at all, but their stories swam together in my head. Car accident, heart attack, heroin. Some drug overdoses were dubiously accidental.

As a child I was mesmerised by Don McLean’s ‘Vincent’, which imagines the life of the gifted but blighted Dutch painter in bittersweet, folky tones. You took your life, as lovers often do, he sings, but I could’ve told you, Vincent / this world was never meant for / one as beautiful as you. The ‘tortured artist’ trope appears again and again in Western art, history and fiction. Woolf and Plath and Eliot and Cobain, and others too many to name. Of course, there have been thousands more institutionalised, medicated, subjected to experimental therapeutic practices, who suffered terribly from mental illness, but who history has forgotten. They were not known for their art, or for anything much, by the general public; they were washerwomen and abattoir workers and railway workers and accountants and schoolteachers and store clerks, and no one documented their lives. Their illness was ugly and shameful instead of something wretchedly exquisite that could be mined for their work. It cost them jobs and houses and marriages and children, and no one remarked, in rose-tinted recollection, on what poisonous genius it all might be ascribed to.

Some research suggests that that high levels of schizotypy...are positively associated with creativity

Some research suggests that that high levels of schizotypy – a cluster of personality traits which are evident, in varying degrees, in us all – are positively associated with creativity. Moreover, self-reported symptoms of depression and anxiety have been shown to be positively associated with psychometric ratings of schizotypy. But while a variety of studies have demonstrated a correlation between creativity and psychopathology, this link is not necessarily causative, if, in fact, it exists at all. Much of this research has been criticised for the way it defines and measures both creativity and mental illness. Much of it has been undertaken in the United States and in Europe. And much of it is conflicting: American clinical psychologist Kay Redfield Jamison notes that while individuals with bipolar disorder are overrepresented in creative professions, “[the] lack of association between unipolar depression and creative occupation is seemingly inconsistent with studies that have found an elevated rate of depression in artists, writers and composers.” How can we possibly find the answers when we’re effectively asking questions in one language, and answering in another? How can we know so much, and so little? And what role do situational or environmental factors play in depression?

A 2015 report by Victoria University and Entertainment Assist surveyed a cross-section of almost three thousand people who worked in entertainment industries across Australia, from performers to technicians. It found that Australian entertainment industry workers experienced symptoms of depression at a rate five times higher than in the general population, and attempted suicide more than double as often as members of the general population. They experienced ‘moderate to severe’ symptoms of anxiety at a rate ten times higher than in the general population. But the report concluded that rather than being linked to an inherent susceptibility toward mental illness, these statistics were attributable to a range of factors associated with working in the industry – financial instability and poor wages, irregular work hours and sleep disturbances, and rampant bullying, racism, sexism and sexual assault. The report recommended the development of industry-specific early intervention programs. Anecdotally and through personal experience, I know many of these problems are present in the literary industry, too. And I can posit half-baked theories about my own anxiety, for example, in relation to my writing: most writers I know are hyper-sensitive people, and most good writers are finely attuned to others and to their environments. This sensitivity is often a positive trait in terms of their work; in day-to-day life it can be terrifying, smothering and exhausting.

For centuries, people have made art despite their depression, not because of it

It is indubitably critical that we better support people dealing with mental illness, irrespective of their occupation. But we must, too, dispel the idea that anguish breeds art; that depression is somehow fecund.

The painter Edvard Munch was famously fearful that, cured of his illness, he would no longer be an artist: “[Treatment] would destroy my art. I want to keep those sufferings.” But a century on, we know more about mental illness, though there is undoubtedly much more research to be done. For centuries, people have made art despite their depression, not because of it.

Photo by Justin Wolfers. Supplied with permission.

4.

The sound of depression, for me, is The Drones’ ‘Shark Fin Blues’, or Harmony’s ‘Cacophonous Vibes’, songs which move me enormously, but to which I can only bear to listen when I’m well. Both songs that build slowly, with restrained guitar and drums giving way to frenzied, distorted noise, both songs that feature swelling female backing vocals as the male singer’s voice cracks and shreds with emotion. Both songs whose berserk grief is most keenly felt when they’re played at great volume.

5.

My GP, a fiercely intelligent, emotionally astute physician who has treated me since I was a child, retires. At some point in the months that follow, the efficacy of the anti-depressant I have taken on and off for three years begins to wane, and I decide to consult a new doctor. I find a general practice near my house, and make an early-morning appointment. The doctor is in his early fifties, perhaps, and he’s handsome in a TV doctor way – crinkly eyes and wavy grey hair. The bio on the practice website informs me he is also interested in music. I sit in his cold room with its leadlight window and explain that for some time now, I have been feeling progressively more and more depressed. I am articulate, I am lucid, I am stolid. Perhaps too stolid. Perhaps one should not be able to discuss their despair with relative equanimity.

The handsome doctor sighs. The way I like to approach mental health is to treat it holistically, he says. Then something about being reluctant to prescribe medication to every sad person who walks into his office. He asks if I’m familiar with the therapeutic pie. I am not. From his desk drawer he extracts a photocopied, hand-drawn pie chart, which he places on the table between us. Medication, he tells me, is just one part of the therapeutic pie. On the chart, this is marked as ‘DRUGS’, and represents 15 per cent. Another segment the same size is labelled ‘PLACEBO’. The next segment is ‘DOCTORS COUNSELLORS’; 30 per cent. The largest segment, the remaining 40 per cent of the pie, is made up of the following:

1. HEALTH – OUTDOORS

2. WORK – FEELING USEFUL HELPING OTHERS

3. LOVE – CREATIVITY

Supplied by the author.

The good doctor sighs almost imperceptibly. His demeanour changes; he becomes abrupt. He prescribes a different variety of SSRI. The dosage on the new script appears radically different from my current drug. When I query this, he tells me the chemical composition is different. I ask whether I should taper off the current drug. The doctor says no; I should not take it anymore. I should have three days ‘clean’, with no medication, then start the new drug the following day. He barely looks at me as I scuttle from the room, still wearing my winter coat.

SSRI discontinuation syndrome is, in fact, well-documented, a fact I’m aware of from previous medical advice; when withdrawing in the past, I’ve been told to gradually lower my dosage. But my depressed brain is passive; no longer able to argue; no longer trusts its knowledge, so I don’t mention it.

My depressed brain is passive; no longer able to argue; no longer trusts its knowledge

For a week, I walk around in a daze. I am forgetful. I am unable to concentrate long enough to finish typing an email. My fingers neglect to hold objects; my coffee cup slips to the floor. When I blink, my vision shudders. The world seems vertiginous. These are common withdrawal symptoms. Months later, this episode will enrage me. But for now, I start the new medication. I wait for it to take effect. The days are so long.

6.

Depression is different things to different people. For some, it’s sleeping all the time to escape consciousness. For others, it’s being kept awake all night by bleak insomnia. It might involve overeating, or disordered eating, or not eating at all; it might be able to be disguised in front of family or colleagues, or it might be readily apparent; it might manifest in physical symptoms, like fatigue, headaches and muscular pain, or in behavioural symptoms, like withdrawing from loved ones, difficulty performing personal hygiene tasks, and substance abuse. It might be several of these things or none of them. Symptoms might change, or disappear and reappear with different episodes.

I am descended from worriers on both sides of my family tree. My grandparents were of an era and class that rarely treated, if acknowledged, illnesses like depression, bipolar disorder and clinical anxiety. My maternal grandmother was raised by her father and her grandmother after her mother left, or was told to leave – I’ve heard several versions of the story – following what would likely today be diagnosed as postpartum psychosis. My maternal grandfather learned yoga and meditation, in the community hall classes where his florist wife, the same woman abandoned by her mother as a baby, taught flower-arranging techniques on a different weeknight. He used to practice daily, after arriving home from work, to alleviate his anxiety. My mother recalls sneaking into her parents’ bedroom as a child to peek in on him where he sat at the foot of his bed, concentrating on his breath, and tickle his feet.

After the handsome doctor and the therapeutic pie, it takes me two months to conjure the velleity, energy and confidence to seek out another GP. In this time, my depression worsens so that I begin to fantasise about stepping out in front of the trucks that hurtle past on the major arterial I cross walking to work. As it happens, the new physician is thorough, sympathetic and practical. She takes copious notes, then gives me the K10 to fill out. The Kessler Psychological Distress Scale is a simple checklist-style test that asks the patient to self-report the frequency of a range of symptoms associated with clinical depression and/or anxiety. It is not infallible, but it is a quick, simple and cost-effective starting point for assessing the mental health of someone you’ve just met, and how to best proceed with treatment. Based on my score, the doctor decides to increase my dosage, with a view to switching medication if it remains ineffective. She will consider psychologists she believes to be a ‘good fit’ for me, and give me a referral. She will get the ball rolling with a psychiatrist in case I require one at a later date, to avoid waiting lists should things become critical. She draws my blood and tells me I need more iron, more vitamin D, and so on; that these dietary factors won’t cure depression, but have been linked to it. She makes a plan with small steps, achievable by even someone paralysed by depression.

She makes a plan with small steps, achievable by even someone paralysed by depression

It takes many months and yet another change in medication, but slowly, things begin to change, and I begin to feel human once more. It is not lost on me how fortunate I am to have found this doctor. And I’m acutely aware, even as I write this, of the privilege I hold, and the ways in which it enables me to seek medical advice and receive treatment, even when the process is fraught with difficulty. I’m a white, cisgender, able-bodied woman; a tertiary-educated native English speaker with higher-than-average medical literacy.

I’m aware of my brothers and sisters incarcerated in detention centres, who, having already suffered traumas greater than I can imagine, and fled their homes, are subjected to further human rights abuses sanctified by the government whose protection they sought.

I’m aware of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people who experience, daily, the ongoing violence of colonialism, and whose health outcomes – already poorer than those of non-indigenous Australians – are at the mercy of a largely white-centric healthcare model.

I’m aware of people of colour and people who experience quotidian discrimination on the basis of their ethnicity or religion. There’s a wealth of medical literature identifying racism as a pathogen of depression and anxiety.

I’m aware of the LGBTQI+ community, who face a variety of barriers in accessing medical care, such as homophobia, transphobia and heterosexism, as well as unique risk factors for psychological distress associated with their sexuality and/or gender identity; indeed, LGBTQI+ people have the highest suicide rates of any population in Australia.

I’m aware of people whose physical disabilities present a challenge in accessing certain services and buildings, and those whose hearing impairments or intellectual disabilities, for example, can render communication difficult.

I’m aware of migrants and non-native English speakers who may experience complex linguistic and cultural barriers to accessing healthcare – and the native English speakers whose literacy skills make it arduous or daunting to navigate the system.

If it’s this hard for someone like me to get the help I need, there are many, many others for whom it’s nigh on impossible

I’m aware of children in out-of-home care, exposed to far greater rates of physical, psychological and sexual abuse than any of us would like to imagine possible – often at the hands of the very figures supposed to protect them.

I’m aware of people who can’t afford the price of getting to a clinic, or the prescription, or the psychologist, or the outpatient care.

Photo by the author.

7.

Once I stood with some friends at the top of a colossal waterfall. We were humbled by its size and splendour, and kept discovering in it new wonder as we examined it from different vantage points. A stranger took a picture of the four of us standing in front of it in our spray jackets. In the photo, the waterfall’s scale is not readily apparent, but our faces are full of joy. Before we turned to go, one friend joked that we each pick up a rock from the ground and hurl it into the water while naming something we wanted to let go of. She cried Manipulative people! and we all applauded and laughed. The second friend yelled her ex’s name as she flung a sizeable rock into the rushing water. The third hollered Workplace sexism! as her stone sailed toward the falls. I was self-conscious, torn between a pisstake and sincerity. It was the daggy, theatrical kind of faux-symbolic act my friends dream up all the time. Sometimes when we eat dinner as a group, we go around the table and say our favourite thing about the day. We clap for one another’s potluck dishes, or driving stints on long car trips. At last I tossed my rock and yelled Bad mental health! The other three whooped and cheered. It felt like a naff team-building exercise, but it was oddly cathartic. That’s it, said a friend as we walked back to the carpark. You’re cured. We laughed and laughed. This was in 2015, before last year’s episode; at the time, I was perfectly healthy. But I was under no illusion, as I hurled a rock the size of my fist into the white-rushing water, that I was divesting myself of the complex bundle of neurological, genetic, environmental and personality factors that, every so often, causes me to unravel.

To conceive of depression as Ophelia is a delusion borne of privilege

When I read an article in a major daily newspaper suggesting depression is “less a treatable pathology than a spur to spiritual discovery,” I’m struck by the recklessly out-of-touch attitude and dismissiveness of literal decades’ worth of research. How one treats their mental illness is a highly personal decision, but one best informed by medical advice and the patient’s individual needs in relation to their diagnosis. To conceive of depression as Ophelia is a delusion borne of privilege, and only an affluent white woman could describe therapy as the “best fun ever […] Enjoyable, satisfying.” Romanticising it risks discouraging people from seeking the treatment they need, or from continuing their existing treatment. It undermines the severity and the danger of the illness. “Sorrow, at least the knowledge of it, adds depth. And of course beauty […] We know that huge proportions of poets and thinkers suffer depression. Perhaps they're the chosen – prescients, warning us that life is too short, too precious to tie to the treadmill.” What utter codswallop, I think. What irresponsible bullshit.

It must be nice to have the luxury of conceptualising clinical depression as a “melancholy hinterland” instead of a cognitive and emotional wasteland. To divide a circle into segments and pass it across a desk as a remedy for “spiritual malaise”. Must be nice to think of a sweet-faced, chlorotic woman slipping silently below the river’s surface.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

And now for your TESblr-ing pleasure, another LDB crackship, but this time it's Galmar who gets to play "Will they, won't they?" with Leara

This did not put my bestie to sleep. But it did make her laugh, I think.

ao3 | masterlist

The peace council is over before Galmar realizes that the Dragonborn manipulated them all into nonaction without any secessions of territory or pride to the other side. If he wasn't relieved that the Stormcloaks would maintain the whole of Eastern Skyrim without sacrificing their honor to the Imperials, Galmar would feel the loss of Markarth silver more keenly.

Nothing that the war wouldn't soon win the Stormcloaks.

As the Stormcloaks prepared to leave High Hrothgar, Galmar catches sight of dark red hair disappearing through the doors to the courtyard from the corner of his eye.

"Where is she going?"

Beside him, Ulfric's mouth falls into a grim line, but if he knows, he doesn't say.

As they make their descent from the monastery, Galmar seeks Ralof. It is night on the Seven Thousand Steps: Despite the cold and blistering winds, they keep watch. The Imperials are only a few hundred yards further along the path. Too close for Galmar or Ulfric's comfort. Ralof is by the fire when Galmar settles beside him. The younger Nord's gaze is distant, but at the general's approach, he seems to come to himself.

"Couldn't sleep, General?" "With those Imperial dogs within an arrow's shot? Bah."

Ralof nods. They are silent for several moments, then Galmar speaks.

"What can you tell me about the Dragonborn?"

Ralof looks at him properly for the first time, eyes present and smoking under the firelight.

"What did you want to know, General?"

What didn't he want to know? The woman was a puzzle, maneuvering through politics in such a way that nothing changed except her own position. She was a ghost, a wisp.

"She was at Helgen. Your report on the incident said she left with you and stayed with your sister before heading to Whiterun." "If you're wondering why she was at Helgen, she was coming from Cyrodiil." "Why?"

Ralof shrugs.

"Never came up."

Then Ralof's eyes cut across the small encampment to the tent where Galmar knows Ulfric lay wide awake.

"Seemed nervous around Jarl Ulfric, though."

That the Dragonborn was nervous around Ulfric was not something Galmar picked up, and now he chastises himself for it. But now that he thinks back on it, the Dragonborn, tall in her own right despite her delicate frame, seemed to withdraw under Ulfric's gaze. Galmar's mind spun through many possible explanations, but he could rationalize none of them. Her pure stance of neutrality and the rumors of her service to the people of Skyrim couldn't rationalize with the cosmopolitan Half-elf who was seemingly afraid of Ulfric Stormcloak.

Galmar, never one to back down from a challenge, asks Ulfric what the Hell he did to the Dragonborn. He waits only for them to return to Windhelm and the privacy of the war room.

"What?" "Don't tell me you didn't notice the girl wouldn't look you in the eye." ". . .and so I must have done something to her?" "She has some kind of problem with you."

Ulfric grimaces.

"Galmar, if you were any one else, I'd clap you in irons for such an accusation." "If I were anyone else, I'd have actually accused you of something instead of asking."

The thing is, Ulfric doesn't know. The few times he's met the Dragonborn, she's shied away from him. This doesn't help Galmar.

What made someone so sacrificial so skittish?

When news comes that the World-Eater has been defeated and the Dragonborn is once again wandering through Skyrim, helping the needy on both sides of the war, this question burrows deeper into Galmar. He doesn't understand her.

When he voices his wonderment to Yrsarald, the other general just scoffs with a shake of his head.

"You'll want to keep an eye on her. I don't trust her." "Hmm."

The thing was, even if the Dragonborn didn't seem to trust Ulfric or the Stormcloacks or, perhaps, anyone, Galmar found himself trusting her. Her every play seemed to be for the betterment of Skyrim and her people. Yrsarald's musings that she was a Thalmor plant didn't sit right with Galmar. Even if that explained her neutrality at High Hrothgar and her aversion to Ulfric, the Dragonborn was too giving to be under the thumb of the Dominion.

At least, Galmar didn't think she was.

Then she sweeps into Windhelm like a spring wind, still cold from the death of winter but breathing new life in her wake.

Galmar is in Candlehearth Hall when the Dragonborn appears at the end of the bar, wearing a blue dress not dissimilar to the one she wore during the peace council. She offers him a smile.

"I don't think we were formally introduced: Leara Ormand."

Galmar gives her a nod, greeting her as he takes in the wide eyes and curling red hair. All the power of a dragon inside such a frail woman. But she defeated Alduin.

What was she afraid of?

Galmar is aware of Leara in the peripheral as she inserts herself into the investigations concerning the recent string of murders in the city. Ulfric is distracted by the war effort and the guards are spread thin as it is. Yrsarald advises they keep an eye on her, and Galmar agrees, though he thinks it is for a different reason than Thrice-Pierced. Yrsarald is thinking of the safety of WIndhelm and her Jarl. Galmar, Housecarl though he was, was thinking of the fear and frailty that seemed to shroud Leara.

This point is driven home when Leara catches the Butcher and recieves a knife wound in thanks.

Galmar visits her at Candlehearth, finding her reclined in a chair by the fireside. A plate with a half-eaten apple tart sits on the table nearby, but she's more engrossed in the cup of tea he helps her pour.

"I'm all right, General, though I thank you for your concern." "Thank me by not dying while in Windhelm. The Imperials will start pointing fingers."

Leara laughs, and Galmar finds himself chuckling with her.

After that, Galmar finds himself visiting Leara as she recovers. It isn't as if he didn't already leave to go to the bar, but now that dropping in on Leara is a part of that routine, Galmar becomes hyperaware of Ulfric and Yrsarald watching him. One night, over a week after Galmar first visited Leara, he turns to Ulfric.

"You could come with me."

It wasn't as if Ulfric never came with him to the bar. Maybe some housecarls got ornery about their Jarls visiting the local taverns, but Galmar never saw the harm in it. Actually, it was good for morale for the people to see the Jarl out amung them.

Ulfric frowns, his hand on his beard.

"I don't want to impose on the Dragonborn. She won't want to see me."

Galmar scoffs.

"Just say hello to her and then find us a table. That's hardly bothering her."

Galmar almost regrets asking Ulfric to come when Leara's eyes find the Jarl across the room and instantly widen into saucers. The fork in her hand, speared with apple tart, quivers before she sets it back on the plate.

(Why did she always have sweets when he came to visit? From what Galmar had seen, she never seemed particularly interested in them.)

Leara makes to stand, but Ulfric holds up a hand.

"Jarl Ulfric!" "Good evening, Miss Ormand. I want to thank you for the services you've rendered my people. Galmar has told me how you're recovering." "Oh, it was my pleasure. I, I'm just glad to have prevented any more deaths."

Ulfric offers Leara a soft smile. Galmar blinks as a rosy hue stains Leara's ears.

Ulfric does not leave to find a table. Leara invites them to sit with her. By the end of the evening, Galmar is reassessing everything he thought he knew about Leara's perception of Ulfric. There was a certain wariness in her shoulders when the Jarl was around, but she appeared somehow softer as she spoke to him.

Something twisted in Galmar's stomach.

Less than two weeks later, Leara is gone.

"Not for long, I think I'd like to come back."

But when Leara smiles at him. Galmar can't help but remember the smiles she gave Ulfric. No, she wasn't afraid.

She's . . . Galmar couldn't acknowledge it.

Not yet.

Galmar can't devote all his time to the Dragonborn, however. There's still a war on, and dragons about, though they seemed less troublesome since Leara defeated the World-Eater. It was wishful thinking that she would bring that same canny peace to the war that she did to the dragons. But Galmar could dream.

And he did, often. Out in the camps, strategizing with the commanders and coordinating movements, Galmar found himself pinpointing missions that the Dragonborn would excell at. He could almost see her flitting through the camp, a Stormcloak blue cloak with the bear insignia thrown over her silver armor.

Damn it, Galmar missed the elf.

He could see Yrsarald shaking his head.

Fort Snowhawk is a strategic position in Hjaalmarch. Seizing it would give them a launching point to take Morthal and seize the hold, bringing them right to Solitude's doorstep. But the winter is settling in and with it, storms.

Galmar is tired of the cold.

"General, someone to see you." "Who is it?" "Says she's the Dragonborn."

Galmar nearly knocks his half empty bottle of ale off the table in his haste.

There she was, a brown hood barely containing the riot of dark hair.

"If you're here to help, then it's about damn time."

She laughs. Galmar missed her laugh.

"I'm afraid this isn't that kind of call, General Stone-Fist."

Then Leara hands him an old leather wrapped scroll. Galmar stands at it.

"Forgive my ignorance, but I believe this is something you're looking for."

Galmar's mouth is dry as he unravels the scroll. And there it is. The map to the Jagged Crown.

"I knew those pointy ears of yours were good for something." "Listening is one of my special talents."

Leara's smile is coy. Galmar wants to ask her about her other talents, but this wasn't the time (if the time ever even came).

"Has Jarl Ulfric seen this?" "No? He wasn't the one searching for it." "He'll need to be told." "Surprise him."

Leara's smile widens a fraction. Galmar swallows.

Leara is there at Korvanjund when they retrieve the Jagged Crown. Galmar can't say he's not glad she's there: She always seems one step ahead of the Imperials, bandits, and draugr that dog their path. But by Talos, until she joins the Stormcloaks formally, she's a liability.

Just as quickly as Galmar recalls her blush and downcast eyes when meeting Ulfric in Candlehearth, he recalls her iron hand at the negotiation table that held both sides in check. Trusting her was easy when she didn't insert herself in the middle of Stormcloak special operations, moving through them like a needle through thread.

. . . even if Leara was uncannily helpful.

"I hear Leara has been instrumental in a few of your recent ventures." "It would seem so."

Ulfric's jovial tone does nothing to raise Galmar's spirits.

Why won't she commit?"

"You seem troubled." "The Dragonborn troubles me." "She didn't before. What's changed?" "Does it not bother you that she hasn't sworn loyalty to the cause?"

Ulfric's face falls into thought.

"She won't betray me." "That's not my concern."

Surprise colors Ulfric's face.

"Then what are you worried about?"

Galmar shakes his head. But in his gut, he somehow knows that an oath of fealty isn't needed to bind Leara and Ulfric together. That more than anything ticked at him. She wouldn't betray the Stormcloaks—Ulfric—to the Empire or the Dominion. Galmar knew that all too well.

Leara's aquisition of Hjerim only strengthens his certainty.

"Do you want to come over for dinner?"

Galmar stares at her.

Leara is in another blue dress, this one a cool blue like frost. A basket of produce is hooked at her elbow.

"Galmar, would you like to have dinner tonight?" "That depends, can you cook?" "Yes, and I can bake too!"

The smile and laughter together. Golden blue and morning birds. She reminded him of Cyrodiil, or at least the parts he'd seen that weren't burned in battle.

He watches her stroll away through the market before realizing he never asked who else would be at Hjerim that evening. Well, he knows for sure at least one person . . .

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Clenching his jaw, Galmar crosses his arms.

"You mean she didn't invite you to dinner?"

Ulfric shrugs, clearly just as baffled.

Women. Who could understand them?

When he shows up at Hjerim, there is literally no one else there. Except Leara, of course. And her housecarl from Whiterun. But the dark-haired woman just smirks at him before disappearing upstairs with a bottle of ale and a tray of shortbread.

What was going on?

"Won't you sit down?"

Galmar sits down. Leara wasn't kidding before when she said she could cook: There is a lamb roast, potatoes and carrots, hot bread, butter, several sliced cheeses, and braised cabbage. In her hands, Leara cradles a Breton vintage he can't place.

"There's a custard in the kitchen. I couldn't get any lemons, so I bought some snowberry jam and swirled it in."

His throat dry, Galmar can only nod. There is an honest, earnest light in Leara's eyes that he can't quite face.

He would.

"Jarl Ulfric doesn't like snowberry jam." "And? What does he have to do with our dinner?" "It's something to keep in mind before you serve him the real meal." "The real meal? What are you talking about?" "This is a practice dinner before you ask Jarl Ulfric to come here."

The yellow-white bottle makes a soft thud as Leara deposites it on the table. Her eyes fix on Galmar, her mouth pops open.

"Is that . . . are you serious? No, of course you are!"

Ah. She was upset. Before Galmar can puzzle out how he's upset her, Leara sinks into a chair, her head in her hands. Galmar braces himself for either crying or some other hysterics, but no, Leara only sighs. Sitting beside her, Galmar clears his throat.

"Look, you don't get where I am in life without being able to admit you're wrong. This isn't some test run for a fancy meal for Ulfric, is it?" "Not at all."

She props her chin on the heel of her palm, a vaguely amused quirk to her otherwise tired mouth.

"It's for you." "I see that now, Ormand." "Do you?"

Then Leara is facing him, a hard set to her pale gold face. She looks far too Altmer in that moment, and Galmar only just refrains from shifting in agitation from the abrasive moonstone in her gaze.

"It was all for you."

This admission is so sudden, Galmar can't hold back the stunned,

"What?"

that escapes him.

Nodding, Leara squares her shoulders.

"The Jagged Crown? The field work? The brawl in Dawnstar—" "The what." "Oh, never mind that! Don't get distracted!" "You got into a brawl—" "For you!" "Why would you do something so stupid?!"

Reflectively, other women might have slapped him or screamed at him. If he were very lucky, they might only vocalize wordless frustration and then storm off.

Leara is not other women.

A slender hand reaches up and pats Galmar's cheek, before settling to rest on his jaw. Galmar's insides churn, heating. Leara's smile is accommodating and amused.

Oh.

Then she pinches his sideburns, not quite gently.

"You drove me to foolishness."

Then Leara is kissing him, and Galmar is very glad that this is not a practice dinner for Ulfric because after this, he isn't letting Leara run off to another man, even if that man is his Jarl and oldest friend. And then all thoughts of Ulfric and of Leara and Ulfric together disappear. Everything is Leara, her warmth contrasting the taste of frost and winter on her tongue.

He pulls her into his lap so he can wrap his arms around her. Blue skirts fall like glacial water over his knees as Leara presses into him, her arms winding around his neck.

The bear helm hits the floor.

Galmar growls and stands, arms full of Dragonborn. He trails kisses down her jaw, hoisting her up to better access her neck.

"Galmar . . . dinner . . ." "We'll have dinner, don't worry."

And they do. And then they have the lamb for dessert. If it's a bit cold, Galmar doesn't complain. He's warm enough, laying on the hearth rug with Leara. Tomorrow, he would feel it in his back, but tonight, he was quite content where he was.

However, when Leara rouses him at half past three to come to eat custard with her in her bed, Galmar doesn't regret following her somewhere more comfortable

The next day, when Ulfric discovers just what dinner with Leara had led to, Galmar can only laugh at his friend's slackjawed face. Later when he tells Leara about it (mercifully nested in her bed), she finds it as funny as Galmar did.

There's still a war going on and dragons are still terrorizing innocent farmers and travellers. Talos help him, but he's got to get Ulfric through the Moot and on the throne without any idiotic heroics or ill-begotten assassination attempts. It's all a bit daunting, but Leara's there, and if there's one thing Galmar knows, it's that he can trust her to be there when he needs her. And she'll be there, iron fist and all.

fin

[muirneach]

out here planting my tomatoes in the worst soil known to man

[scup-reblogs]

i don't usually make original posts on this blog anymore but here's most of the quartz i picked up off the ground

this one is actually rose quartz but it's hard to tell in this picture. it's my only piece ! i don't remember where i found it because i only realized today that it's pink

[mississpissi]

we don’t talk about amber and wilson enough. he proposed after they survived street cleaning day despite barely knowing her. they have a daughter. it’s beautiful.

[bluemoonrabbit]

Me: Oh, I have a sudden urge to dip back into WTNV! And look, a recent episode devoted to my favorite character, Sarah Sultan! This should be fine!

[space-mouse]

"Like most humans, I seem to have an instinctive revulsion to reptiles" smh. sending steve irwin to the enterprise via transporter incident to screw this man's head on straight.

[99woez]

love is a dog ᰔᩚ j.sc

warnings. smut, boyfriend!sungchan, established relationship, unprotected sex, play wrestling, half a size kink if you squint, i love sungchan!

wc. 4k

summary. despite never winning, you love play fighting with your big and strong boyfriend.

You told him not to take it easy on you this time.

“Get off!”

“Get me off,” Sungchan laughs from above you, having you pinned to his mattress on your stomach. It’s all a game to him, and, technically, this is a game, but it’s a game you’re losing, so you’re not having as great of a time as you imagined. You scoff at his word choice, reaching behind you to swat pathetically at his side. You can’t even tell what parts of him you’re hitting, but you're making an impact. Barely.

“Let me roll over–”

“That’s not how wrestling works.”

“This isn’t wrestling. I’m your girlfriend.” 

Sungchan scoffs, blowing his lips together to make a “Pfft!” sound that makes you sigh.

“My girlfriend that literally asked me to wrestle and not go easy on her. You literally asked for this.” His hand presses harder into your back for a moment, making you whine and scrunch your eyes shut. The mattress began to feel unpleasant against your cheek even though the feeling of his weight on top of you felt nice. Really nice. Sungchan was so big and warm that even the smallest touch made you feel like you were on fire. Right now, you feel as if you’re in a burning building, suffocating on thick grey smoke, but you’re enjoying every second of it.

“I’m still going easy on you, by the way,” Sungchan adds after a beat of silence, “You couldn’t take me really not going easy on you. I think you’d break.”

“Oh shut up,” You huff, attempting to roll over once again but are blocked by your boyfriend’s weight on your back. You groan, hitting the sheets with your fist, hearing Sungchan laugh at your frustration. You momentarily lift your head from the bed, only to have him shove it back down immediately. You gasp at the sudden aggression, quickly reaching back to grab onto his thigh just to ground yourself for a minute. Your head was spinning, and your heart was beating a million beats per minute right in your throat, but you loved it.

The air shifts after that. Both of you feel it. You can’t help but to smirk slightly.

“You liked that…” You sing to him with a widening grin. He slides his hand off the back of your head to the middle of your back again as he inhales through his teeth.

“Yeah, you seem pretty into it too.” He begins to rock his hips against your bottom, and you let out a breathy moan. It's not a loud one, but he can hear it. His free hand finds its way down to your ass, squeezing gently before sliding his large calloused hands back to your hips. 

As his hands find their way to your hips, they instinctively tilt you up a bit, making the friction between your bodies increase tenfold. His fingers press into your flesh gently but firmly, and you let out a soft moan. You rub your lips together, looking up at the ceiling before looking back in his direction.

Sungchan squeezes your hips again, pushing up your shirt to reveal the landscape of your back. Instantly, you feel yourself get hot even with the cool air of his ceiling fan hitting your skin. You try to lift your head, but Sungchan shoves you back down, his full hand nearly taking over your face, making you gasp. You try to push against him and free yourself from his grasp, but he doesn’t budge, just chuckling as you squirm helplessly against his grasp.

You twist your hips against him, inhaling sharply through your teeth when you feel his cock hardening through his sweatpants. “You get hard so easily,” You huff with a chuckle, reaching back to grab his arm. Sungchan easily pins your arm behind your back, pressing himself harder against your ass in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the tension in his pants.

“Sorry, you’re hot.”

“You always get hard when we wrestle.”

“Yeah, well,” Sungchan shrugs, lifting his hand from your head to push your hair out of your face. “If you had a dick, you’d get hard wrestling with a hot girl too. Don’t act better than me.” He pulls you up by the back of your shirt with ease. You laugh at how easy it is for him to lift and toss you around, sitting on your knees and turning around to face him. When you look at him, a big and dumb smile takes over his face, brown eyes sparkling when he looks down at you.

You love how he looks at you like you’re the best thing to step into his life. You feel so overcome with love that you can’t stop yourself from shoving him back on the bed with a giggle, hearing him laugh when his back hits the mattress. You easily climb on top of him, reaching for his arms to pin him down, but he goes for your waist, wrapping his hands around you and tossing you on your back with ease. You try to recover faster than last time, but he’s too fast, too big, and demanding, immediately crawling on top of you and pinning your flailing arms above your head.

“Damn, two for two,” Sungchan teases down at you with a laugh. He leans down to presumably kiss you, but you turn your head with a whine. He clicks a tongue at your fit, letting go of one of your wrists to grab your cheeks and jerk your face towards him. He looks so ridiculous when he’s pissed. His dark brows furrowed, his thick lips frowning, you can’t help to chuckle at him. He shakes your face softly. You clench your thighs around his hips.

“Don’t be a brat,” He whines, his high voice not matching his mean face. You smirk up at his desperation, humming up at him and pouting your lips up at him. He whines again, pressing his hips against yours again. “Kiss me.”

You blink up at him like you don’t understand, a slow smile growing on your lips when he huffs at you again. You love his frustration. You just think he’s so cute when he’s frustrated. “You should’ve let me win if you wanted to kiss–” He slams his lips to yours, cutting you off swiftly with a hard and demanding kiss. You whimper into the kiss, brows knitting when he presses in deeper, his chest pressing against yours as he sighs into your mouth. Your body heats up again. He’s suffocating you, but in the best way. You love it when he nearly crushes you, taking what he wants because he can, and you’ll let him. You let him every time.

You feel his hips jerk into yours. You gasp at the collision but smile against his lips. You can feel his cock straining against his sweatpants already. It was never hard to work Sungchan up. You teased him about it often, which seemed to get him off more. He ruts his hips into yours again, an airy moan leaving his full lips as he does so. The shorts you’re wearing begin to drive you crazy, wanting to feel all of him with no barriers.

Your eyes flicker across his face before landing on him, humming softly. “Are we going to have sex?” You ask like it isn’t obvious, an excited smile growing on your lips as he mocks your humming, leaning in to take your lips against his again, biting your bottom lip softly.

“You wanna have sex with me?” He teases, giggling against your lips as he pulls back, allowing you both to laugh at full volume as you nod your head.

“Feel how wet I am right now. It's crazy.” You grab his wrist and put it on the hem of your shorts. He takes it from there, sliding his hand inside your shorts and dipping into your underwear. You bite your bottom lip when you feel his slender fingers against your folds, gasping quietly when he presses the tips of his fingers against your wet entrance with a groan. He looks down at his hand in your pants, groaning again at how the fabric moves because of his fingers.

“Fuck…All from me tossing you around?” You nod at his question, eyes fluttering shut the more his fingers trace and rub over your hole, gathering your juices to slick up his fingers. With practiced ease, his fingers slide up to your clit and rub circles into the sensitive nub, making your back arch up off the bed slightly as a moan escapes your lips.

“I like when you get all…It’s fun to see how strong you are.” You try to explain, but your brain is easily fogging up with euphoria, which makes you rutt into Sungchan’s hand for more friction. Sungchan chuckled at your confession, his eyes never leaving your face as he continued rubbing at your clit.

“You like how strong I am, baby?” You preen at the nickname, nodding as your eyes open to meet his gaze, smiling fondly at him as you do so. Sungchan licks his lips at the sight of you beneath him, his free hand taking your face into his hand and stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“And you’re throwing a fit about me getting hard,” Sungchan retorts, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he begins to spread your wetness around with slow, tantalizing movements. The feeling of you so wet and ready for him never failed to amaze him. “You’re just as turned on as I am.”

“I can’t deny that.” You smile at him, moaning softly when he slides a finger inside of you experimentally. He’s watching your reaction, his brown eyes intense and focused. “Seriously, we should wrestle more often.”

His response is a hearty laugh, his chest shaking beneath you. “I think I’d like that,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit lazily while another finger joins the first inside of you. His movements are slow and deliberate.

Your back arches off the bed, and you whimper again, feeling incredibly sensitive. It’s always like this with Sungchan – you’re always so responsive to him and eager for everything he gives you. “Sungchan…” you moan out his name, your voice thick with lust.

“Shh.” His other hand finds its way to your mouth, silencing any more protests that might have escaped your lips by sliding two fingers into your mouth. He’s so consuming, filling you from every place he could, making you practically melt into the mattress, moaning around his digits before sucking on them softly. The feel of his fingers inside you makes your head spin, and judging by the satisfied grin on his face, he knows it.

“Look at me,” he commands suddenly, a bit harsher than before. You obey instantly, looking up at him even as stars dance in front of your vision from the pleasure he’s giving you.

His gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart falter within your chest. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice husky. His fingers are a constant pressure, curling and moving inside you in ways that have your eyes rolling back into your head.

But he doesn't want that; he wants you to watch him, wants to see the effect he has on you mirrored in your eyes as they stare back at him.

"I love seeing you like this," he tells you, grinning cockily. He pushes his fingers deeper, silently daring you to break eye contact. But you don't; you just whimper around the fingers in your mouth and take it, staring into his eyes as he stretches and fills you. “Just so pretty. All mine, too,” He whispers, ducking his head down to scatter kisses across your neck and chest, his fingers slipping from your mouth to hold your waist with a soft moan at how your skin tasted against his lips. Your fingers tangle in his silky hair, beginning to breathe heavier as his fingers continue to fuck into you with a newfound vigor. 

"More…" you breathe out in a heady whisper, one hand slipping down to cover his where it's still stroking over your clit in tight circles. Sungchan's deep chuckle vibrates against your skin before he obliges, sliding yet another finger inside of you, the stretch making you gasp and writhe beneath him. 

"Needy, aren’t you?" he teases.

You can only nod in response, the coil in your belly growing tighter and tighter with each delicious thrust of his fingers inside you. You feel your thighs tremble when he curls his fingers inside you, a long whine leaving your lips as you stare into Sungchan’s eyes. His jaw is dropped in awe of you, moaning softly and deeply at the obscene wet sounds coming from between your legs.

"That's my girl," Sungchan coos as he watches your face contort with pleasure. He loves every single one of your expressions – the way you scrunch your nose when you're trying to hold back a whimper, how your eyes flutter closed when he thrusts harder than expected. You’re an angel to him even when you claw and scratch at his arms.

He pulls his fingers back just to drive them forward once more, hitting that spot inside you that makes your body jolt with pleasure. His name is like a mantra on your lips, coming out in either soft whispers or high gasps. He bites his bottom lip when he hears you, dipping down to rest his forehead on yours to be closer to you. You can’t help but smile at the proximity, tipping your head up to nuzzle your nose against his with an airy giggle. Sungchan chuckles at your affection, kissing your forehead as his fingers continue to drill into you.

"Sungchan... please," you whimper, digging your nails into his forearms. You want– no, need – more of him. You want to feel him all around you, consume & take every bit of you until there's nothing left but him.

With a low chuckle, Sungchan gives a final swirl of his thumb over your clit before pulling his hand away entirely. You whine at the loss of contact, but it's short-lived when Sungchan murmurs, “I know, baby. I’ve got you.” You can almost see the smirk in his voice as he says it, your eyes too hazy with lust to notice anything but the presence of his warmth.

He moves away from you just for a moment, the sound of clothes rustling filling the room as he discards his own shirt and pants. He looks down at you, his eyes drinking in your disheveled state before his body blankets yours again. His torso pressing against yours, hard lines and warm skin meeting your softer curves, his fingers tracing light patterns over your hips as if he’s memorizing the contours of your body. 

His lips find yours in a searing kiss as he grinds down against you, the feeling of his length pressing into your bare thigh making you groan into his mouth. His hand slips between your bodies to align himself at your entrance, teasing you for a moment before pushing in with a low grunt. You whimper against his lips as his cock splits your walls open for him, brows knitting together at the way your body stretches to take him. He’s so big. Every time he fucks you, it feels like the first time. It’s mind-numbing. You can’t even imagine fucking another man after having Sungchan for so long. You swear he’s made for you.

"Look at me," he orders softly, his voice laced with need. His gaze is demanding yet tender as his hand takes your chin between his fingers to tip your head up. You let out a quiet sigh, opening your eyes to meet his gaze, unable to stop yourself from smiling at him. He’s so lovely, so warm. You feel nothing but love when you look at him. Sungchan bites his bottom lip to stop his smile from growing when he sees you smile, sinking himself further into you until his hips are flush against yours.

He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to him. The both of you are panting heavily, your hearts beating in sync as you feel him throbbing inside you. There’s an unspoken conversation as you lock eyes, understanding each other without any words needed.

“Alright?” he asks, his voice a low purr against the shell of your ear that sends shivers down your spine. You give a nod, your fingers clutching onto his shoulders, silently urging him to move. Sungchan chuckles softly at your impatience, giving you a teasing nip on the neck before pulling back slightly and thrusting back into you with a slow yet forceful push.

A strangled moan escapes from your lips as pleasure washes over you. His every thrust is calculated - slow, easy, building up the sensation until it crashes over you like waves. Your mind goes fuzzy with pleasure, your nails dragging down his back as his pace increases.

“You’re so tight,” he grunts against your skin, his lips nipping against your collarbone. His hands roam your body like they’ve mapped out every inch of you – and they have. He’s marked every part of you in one way or another, claiming you as his own in every way he possibly can. You can only whine in response, and you can barely form words at this point.

"Faster, Sungie. Please," you gasp out between heavy breaths, and he complies without hesitation.

His hips snap into yours at an unforgiving pace now, hitting that sweet spot inside of you again and again. Your legs wrap around his hips tighter in surrender, pulling him closer. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, accompanied by your shared gasps and moans of absolute pleasure. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he anchors himself, his teeth grazing your neck with each sharp thrust.

"Yeah? Like that?" he rasps, feeling an accomplished smirk spread across his lips when you respond with a hoarse cry and an eager nod. 

Sungchan pulls out almost completely, only to slam back in, squeezing your hips hard enough to leave bruises. You wince at the mix of pain and pleasure, your muscles clenching around him. It’s too much but not enough all at once. He always leaves bruises even when he doesn’t mean to. You have to wonder if he knows his own strength. Your world narrows down to him: Sungchan and his body on top of yours, his hands leaving trails of fire where they touch you, his cock filling you with every thrust.

The coil in your gut tightens further, warning you of the fast-approaching release. "I wanna cum," you whine desperately, your hand fumbling between your bodies to press against your clit. However, Sungchan bats away your hand with a low chuckle.

"Yeah? You wanna cum, baby?" he taunts with a laugh, replacing your hand with his own with a smirk. His thumb begins to stroke over your sensitive bud in teasing circles that make you buck your hips up into him. His pace increases, rougher now, almost punishing as he chases his own release.

Your name tumbles from his lips like a prayer, desperate and ragged as he feels himself on the edge. His words spur you on, encouraging you to chase after that high that's just out of reach. 

You nod vigorously, your eyes squeezed shut and a low moan rumbling up from your chest as he continues to move inside you. The friction between your bodies is almost too much to bear, the sticky heat coating both of you, making it impossible not to feel his skin slipping against yours. You're drowning in sensation, the world around you fading away as all that matters is this moment with Sungchan.

His thrusts grow more brutal and hard, his hips slamming into yours in a rhythm that matches the thudding of your heart. He's lost in this feeling, too, his mouth open with every breath that he sucks in between gritted teeth. The taste of you fills his mouth as he kisses and nips along your jawline and collarbone, leaving marks that will only remind you of this moment.

You push back against him, wanting more friction, more contact - like he's a part of you now, forever entwined together. His lips find yours again, hot and hungry as his tongue slips into your mouth to dance with yours. It's messy but perfect; it always has been with him.

Your nails dig into his shoulders harder now, urging him to go deeper or faster or harder - you can't tell anymore which one you crave more. The sound of skin smacking against skin echoes around the room, mixing with the wet smacks of your kisses and the ragged breaths you take together.

Sungchan tilts his head back suddenly, releasing your lips with a soft pop.

With a final slap of skin against skin, you both come together, your bodies shuddering and twitching as pleasure overwhelms you. His hips snap against yours with each thrust, lips parted in a silent scream of ecstasy while his thumb flicks over your clit in perfect rhythm. Stars dance before your eyes as you feel your core clench around him, milking him out with each contraction. Your walls flutter and spasm, trying to hold onto him until the very last moment when he groans deeply, filling you completely.

"Fuck," he mumbles as his hot load coats your insides, his lips brushing against your ear. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you tightly against the force of his release, making you moan loudly as you come apart around him. Your legs quiver beneath him, his weight pressing down on you as if to mark you as his own. Sungchan's thrusts slow down to soothe the aftershocks rocking through your body as he holds himself deep inside of you, you panting breaths mingling together in the quiet room.

Chest heaving and sweat forming on your skin where they touch, Sungchan pulls out with a soft whimper of displeasure from both of you. The cool air feels like a slap in the face compared to how heated you are inside and out. Your walls cling to him for one last moment before releasing their grip, leaving a trail of stickiness between the two of you. You let out a long exhale, still catching your breath, as he rolled off of you to lie beside you on the bed.

He places soft kisses along the marks he left on your hips and collarbone, a smile playing on his lips when he finds your eyes on him. You still struggle to catch your breath, head falling back with a laugh as you cover your eyes with your arm. You hear him laugh as hell, crawling back up to uncover your eyes and crash his lips to yours in a fiery kiss, both of you still smiling against each other’s lips.

“We should wrestle more often,” Sungchan jokes against your lips. You roll your eyes with another tired laugh, hitting his chest playfully.

“You need to let me win one time. ‘See what happens,” you tease with a raise of your eyebrows, watching him raise his interest with a cute hum before leaning in and pecking your lips once, twice, three times before pulling back and kissing your cheek. You can’t stop the giggles from leaving your lips as his arm wraps around your waist.

“Alright,” he says, his voice teasing and light. “Next time, I’ll let you win.” His hand comes up to brush a few strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear with a gentle sweep of his fingers. You blink up at him playfully, daring him to hold on to that statement.

“Promise?” you ask with a twinkle in your eye. The challenge is unspoken but clear as day between you.

“Promise.”

[hottestvirgin]

TRUST ME | PARK SUNGHOON

₊˚⊹ ᰔ plot. after months and months of convincing, you finally let your boyfriend go further.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ warnings(17+). smut, sex, virginity loss, dirty talk, corruption, manipulation, name-calling, rough sex.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ A/N. thank you sm for 1K! i'm still taking requests and i'm sorry for disappearing for damn near a month so here's a lil sumn <3

“you trust me?” sunghoon asked, licking his plush lips with a small glint in his eyes. of course you did. he was your boyfriend after all— someone you trusted more than anything.

and of course, sunghoon loved you. but he wanted more. he couldn’t kiss you without fantasizing about how you’d feel around him; snug and warm. he would fist his cock every night at the thought of your tight, wet cunt around him, squeezing and milking him all he’s worth.

he'd think about how sensitive your pretty body would be since he’d be the first man to ever touch you. and most of all, he couldn’t wait to turn you into his desperate slut who'd beg for his dick with any chance you'd get.

“of course,” you told him. deep down, you knew that those two words would change everything and finally grant him full access to your body for once. you were ready, and so sunghoon quickly found himself in between your thighs, franticly rocking into you.

“keep talking to me, baby,” he ragged, slowly and painfully splitting you open on his thick cock with each pump of his hips. “let everyone know who the fuck owns this pussy now.”

all you knew was to clench around him, the foreign pleasure sending intense shockwaves throughout your body that you couldn't handle. “b-baby—i can’t.. can’t take it!” you mewled. goosebumps formed all over your body as you held onto anything that was accessible; sheets, pillows, his thick arm.

but in sunghoon's defense, he was too lost in your warmth and wetness. he used and bruised your pulsing hole like a sex toy, rutting into you with every muscle in his body. he loved how your dripping cunt struggled to accommodate his size, fluttering walls stretching painfully just to take him.

“you’re so soft,” he grunted. his thumb slid between both of your hot bodies to stroke your swollen clit and you clenched harder around him with a sudden gasp. “mm, you like when i touch that slutty pussy?” he delivered a powerful slap against the bud, “hm?”

“yes! ah.. love it.” you hiccupped and threw your head back against the pillow, hands gripping onto his forearms as he continued to rut into your body. nothing could have prepared you for this. he was obsessed and drunk on how small and helpless you looked beneath him, each drag of his cock had you holding your breath and wanting more.

sunghoon let out a low, rough grunt. “this pussy’s mine now. say it for me.” your boyfriend licked his lips and embraced your body, stomach-churning at the lewd faces you made.

“i-it’s yours.” you moaned, voice shaky and needy. everything's so wet, sloppy, and messy. he could feel his balls getting tighter, that aching feeling in his abdomen that could only fill his mind with the idea of pumping you full of his cum. "what’s mine baby?” he squeezed your thighs and increased his pace, chuckling when your words got caught in your throat.

your breath hitched when you felt his tip stroke that spot again, “my pussy.. s’ yours.” it was almost a yell. he pinned your wrists above your head, “good girl.” he praised.

legs trembling against his body, nails digging into his shoulders, incoherent noises leaving your mouth.. you couldn't even focus anymore because all you could think about was your man and his fat cock reaching and poking the deepest parts of you.

you were drooling— sentences coming to a start before fading away. at that moment, you wanted more. you needed more. you wanted him to go deeper, faster, harder— to make it hurt so bad that it feels so good. you wanted him in ways you've never felt before.

"i'm gonna cum." he whimpered with small, shaky breaths. it made your stomach twist in arousal, it was so fucking hot. you loved how your body had him like this. he nuzzled his sweaty face into your neck, "f-fuck.. Y/N."

he continued to punch breathless moans out of you, squeezing your hips in desperation. it didn't take much time before you were convulsing around him, your body tensing and coating his base with a creamy, white ring. and he continued to fucked his cum into you, making you glad that you said those two words.

[pandoraslxna]

Lost and Found – Chapter 1

Lo‘ak x female human reader

Words: 3.9k

Summary: There was this scent. Like a distinct call for his name that only he could hear. And Lo’ak was under no illusions about who was the hunter and who the prey. Every instinct told him to run like hell and catch this thing, this prey, that smelled so sweetly. It belonged to him.

Warnings: explicit smut, dub-con, enemies to lovers, somnophilia, (kinda forced) oral, size kink, squirting, praise, fated mates, scent kink, piercings, predator/prey chase, alien biology/anatomy, a/b/o elements (heats, ruts, knots, scent marking, biting, etc.), kidnapping, possessive behavior, body worship, this is written in Lo‘aks pov so I’ll be using 'she/her' instead of 'you' for the reader

Notes: I’ve always wanted to know how the story of my Neteyam fic "lost & found" would play out if it was Lo‘ak instead of Neteyam, so I hope you guys will enjoy this little surprise fic. Basically my first spin-off work lol. Please give this a chance, even though the first chapter isn’t my best work 🥹

Credit for Lo‘ak pic on the left: @aeralithiel 🩵

There was this scent.

Lo‘ak hasn't stumbled in the forest in years, not since his first steps on the soil, not since long training days with dad, reading tracks and hunting lessons with mum and lanky limbs that have by now grown into board muscles and lean flesh.

Any awkwardness had fled when he had completed his iknimaya, the one with his people and then again, with the metkayina during his families stay at the sea clan. Now, at twenty-eight, every step is predicted. Calculated. Steady. He still knows these forests like the back of his hand.

Despite that, he feels as though he should be stumbling, running into branches, tripping over obscured rocks. The pounding of his heart and the adrenaline he can taste in the back of his throat tell him so. Lo‘ak didn't need a trail on the ground to follow, which was good, because whatever it was that had left this scent hanging in the air hadn’t left one. He didn't need splatters of blood, the sight of terror or the remains of a fight, not even boot prints in the dead leaves. No, he could smell it from miles away. Like a distinct call for his name that only he could hear.

He was under no illusions about who was the hunter and who the prey. Every instinct told him to run like hell and catch this- this thing, this prey, that smelled so sweetly, it felt like his teeth would begin to rot any minute now. His tongue curls over his fangs. They’re itching to be rammed into something and bite. Claim. And Lo‘ak feels so animalistic, so feral. His nose twitches, scenting the air once again.

He finally comes to an halt by a clearing, surrounded by tall trees with overgrown branches and thick leaves that cast various shadows over the mossy ground, leaving most of it covered from the warmth of the sun. Lo‘ak inhales shakily, heart still beating a foreign rhythm inside his chest that makes him clutch his fist against it to calm himself.

It’s so silent here, it fills him with unease. The forest is never that quiet, unless there is danger close by that the great mother is trying to bring to his attention. His ears turn against the soft breeze of the wind, focusing. There’s nothing. Nothing, but the soft hum that is coming from a few feet ahead. The sound of something, or someone, breathing. Low and steady, oblivious to the hunter in close proximity.

Bow in hand, Lo‘ak crouches low to the ground.

The first thing Lo‘ak remembers being taught by his father was how to be quiet. To be a stealthy warrior. A quiet hunter.

Looking back, he knows that must’ve been his first lesson solely for the reason because he has always been a talkative kid. Even now as an adult, silence doesn’t come to him as it comes to his older brother when needed. Countless slaps to the back of his head had been served as a reminder to bite his tongue. Even now, Lo’ak has to focus and concentrate in order to be quiet.

Any good hunter knows how to follow tracks, stay downward of the winds. The element of surprise was their best asset. Sometimes all they find are sun-bleached bones, offering little clue to potential prey. So they continue on. Taught to be patient, careful and quiet.

But Lo‘ak doesn’t have to be patient for very long this time. He doesn’t even have to search the ground for tracks or listen to the whispers of the wind. He finds his prey right there, served on a silver platter, laying in the soft grass like an offering from Eywa herself.

A human. All soft skin and short limbs.

Spellbound to the sight in front of him, Lo‘ak doesn’t pay attention to the stick he involuntarily steps on and it breaks with an echoing crack. He winces at the sound that would’ve earned him a smack if his brother was anywhere near him right now, but the human in front of him doesn’t raise from its position. Is it sleeping?

Lo‘ak remains frozen in place until his very fingertips begin to tingle in anticipation and he can’t help himself anymore. He steps closer. Close enough to come to realize that the human is a female and she is unconscious. He crouches down next to her limp body, so much smaller than his own that it frightens him to think that she is all alone out here, seemingly unprotected to the possible danger that lingers in the forest.

Lo’ak studies the woman for a long moment, hesitant at first, but soon he can’t stop his hand from moving to carefully brush the hair obscuring her face out of the way. And what a sight it is that greets him.

Behind the glass of her mask is a face so pretty, his breath momentarily gets stuck in his throat.

An angel. That’s what comes closest to a word that could describe her. Lo‘ak remembers his fathers stories of angels and suddenly, she is the missing piece to the puzzle in his imagination. She his what his mind has always failed to comprehend when imagining these mythical creatures from earth.

The woman's face is delicately structured, with high cheekbones and soft skin. Her lips are plump and softly shaped, slightly parted as she exhales a breath. Her features are harmoniously balanced, with a gentle curve to her jawline that adds to her overall beauty. The contours of her face are accentuated by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, casting a serene glow. Her brows are naturally arched, framing her closed eyes, which seem to hold a depth of emotion even in slumber. There is something ethereal to her appearance, as if she is a part of the forest itself, an enchanting presence amidst the foliage. Truly, such beauty could only be created by eywa herself. And it felt like finding her here was like a gift from the great mother. A reward of some sort, possibly.

Lo‘ak would’ve loved to admire her for longer, just sitting here, looking at the strange little female. But there was this scent. There had to be reason for no one to have scented her other than him. She was meant to be found by him, he declared. The great mother had gifted her to him and no one else. And this scent was so much stronger now that he was up close to her, the tang of sweetness strong enough he could almost taste it on his tongue. Almost. And that alone made his mouth water in anticipation.

He wanted to taste her. To claim her. Her body called for him and who was he to ignore this call?

The muscles beneath his tattooed arms flexed as he carefully moved his body to shift position, leaning down over her unconscious body to press his nose to the soft curls and strands of hair framing her face like a halo. The subconscious flinch her body gave when his breath fanned over her skin did little to quell his delight when he ran his hand over her rounded shoulder and discovered she was smoother than any surface he'd ever touched and was silky like that of a flower petal. And she smelled delicious, but this was not quite the scent he was looking for. Running the flat of his nose along her jaw and throat, he inhaled deeply searching for the source of it. Her skin was so warm to the touch, he may or may not have let his lips glide along her collarbone as he took her scent in. Not quite a kiss yet, but close enough. Just the barest of touches that made his skin tingle.

He couldn’t deny the fact that the thin material of the black top that clung to her body like a second layer of skin was as much a treat to his eyes as it was an annoyance. If he had any say in this, the little tawtute [human] would wear significantly less. Still, it left enough room to his filthy imagination that he didn’t mind it. For now. There would be enough time for him to unwrap this piece of candy any time soon. For now, Lo‘ak settled on the one place on her body that was radiating so much sweetness, it nearly made his mind go blank from the intensity.

Soft thighs, the softest he has ever felt beneath his palms laid there in front of him, spreading so easily for him to settle between as his nose passed the dip of her navel. With both of them in his hands, he could spread them to press his whole face against the rough fabric of her little green shorts that barely hid her from his hungry eyes. Inhaling deeply, it nearly made his heart jump out of his chest as this pure sweet scent hit his nostrils and filled every vein of his body with adrenaline and the urge to lick, taste, bite, kiss and fuck.

Mine, mine, mine, his inner voice yelled at him. Mate her. Knot her.

Soon, he thought to himself, as he licked his lips eagerly. But first, he would have to still his hunger or he fears he would loose himself right then and there.

With what little sanity was left in him, Lo‘ak couldn’t find the patience necessary to undress her properly, so he unsheathed his knife from his chest and ever so carefully slid it inside the front her shorts. The sound of fabric ripping apart at the seam as he cut it in half made goosebumps raise all over his arms.

The little female however didn’t even flinch. Still so deep in her slumber. He might need to find out about the reason she was unconscious, but that would have to wait until later. Right now, all his senses were entirely fixed on his most priced possession.

Eywa, that scent. It was so intoxicating.

Even better yet, was the sight in front of him. What a pretty, pretty pussy that was, he thought. Red and puffy and in need for someone, for him, to take care of it. Poor thing. How long must she have been waiting for him? Her slick was messily spread over those gleaming lips and Lo‘ak spread them apart with his thumbs to get a better view.

"Aw, nìn nga [Aw, look at you]," he murmurs, "Fìtxan sevin sì tumpin [All pretty and pink.]

Her tiny little hole leaks more clear, sticky fluid as it’s spread open and drool dares to spill over the corner of his mouth at this. Truth be told, it looked barely able to fit his finger, but the thought alone made his cock unsheat and harden to his full size below his loincloth. She would need a lot of patience and preparation, but if Lo‘ak was one thing, it was determined to fulfill his goals. Just a small glance above her entrance sits her clit, the small nub looks just as needy and is just begging for his attention.

No longer able to withstand the arousing scent of the tawtute, Lo‘ak finally, mercifully, gives his first kitten lick to her cunt. And great mother, she tastes delicious. Tongue sharp and pointed, he glides the wet muscle through her folds with a groan. He takes great pleasure in the way the small little metal ball that sits on the middle of his tongue runs from her entrance to her clit, where it sits perfectly on top, before he closes his lips around it and bestows her her first kiss.

Lo‘ak had gotten several body modifications over the past few years of his life. The tattoos were his first, made by the olo’eyktan Tonowari himself after successfully mouting a tsurak. Followed soon by the tunnel earrings that were inspired by his mothers and then the piercings on his ears made by some of the younger humans at hells gate. The one on his tongue was Spiders idea and even though it earned him pointed looks of his people at first, not even the most uptight na‘vi woman his age could resist her curiosity of the little metal ball and how it might possibly feel as he ran it over her most sensitive parts. He would have to thank his human brother forever for this. And he can tell that she likes it, too.

The metal ball adjusts to her body heat quickly, prickling on top of his tongue as Lo‘ak makes it circle and bump against her clit. This motion rewards him with the first sound of what could soon turn into a beautiful moan. For now, it’s a breathy little sigh, with her brows drawn together and the muscles in her thighs tensing and jumping slightly.

Oh, she likes it very much, he can tell.

Lo‘ak presses his face harder against her cunt until all he can taste and smell is her. Her juices are already running down his chin, yet he can’t get enough of her. The difference in size makes it easy for his tongue to reach all these wonderful, delicious spots inside of her. He curls and thrusts it until the females back arches off the ground. A guttural groan escapes him as he kisses and licks her clit, loving the way she responds more and more to his touch.

Glancing up, Lo‘ak catches the way her breathing seems to quicken, the way her soft stomach tenses and the noises falling from her parted lips increase in volume. The first real moan tumbling down those beautiful lips is like music to his ears and he nearly comes inside his loincloth from the sound of it. What a beautiful voice that little demon has. Soft and feminine and so full of need. He wants to hear her beg in that sweet tone. Wants to hear her call out to him. Wants to hear moans turn into screams of pleasure that will make her voice go hoarse.

"Kalin 'u. Oe fpìl tsal lu krr ne tìtxen si [Sweet thing. I think it’s time to wake up]," he purrs against her sensitive skin, watching the way she instinctively jumps as his warm breath fans over her spit slicked skin. His tongue darts out again, but this time he aims for the pillowy flesh of her inner thighs. He licks a board stripe over her skin, kissing until it turns a pretty hue of purple that matches the shade of his tip, which was currently oozing heavy droplets of pre-cum onto his tewng [loincloth]. Eyes so heavy with lust, he can’t stop himself from letting his kisses turn more feral. Open mouthed and wet, until his fangs graze her delicate skin and sink into her flesh.

His cock throbs heavily at the first claim set onto the small tawtute [human] female. It’s followed by another, and another. Lo‘aks is careful, though, to not break skin and draw blood. He could never forgive himself for hurting the fragile human. Once he deems her marked enough, he switches back to burring his face against her sweet cunt. He‘s more frantic this time, groaning and breathing heavily as he suckles on her folds and makes out with her clit until its swollen and puffy between his lips.

Behind him, his tail trashes vividly against the mossy ground, eager like a puppy waiting for a treat. He wants her cum. Wants to know how it taste. How it feels soaking his face. He want to make a mess, wants to let the little demon claim him as well. He wants everyone to smell her on him and know they belong together.

The intense tension of her muscles is the first sign of her approaching orgasm that Lo‘ak takes note of, so he doubles his efforts. Her body craves release and he will happily give it to her. But then she turns restless. Squirmy little thing begins to wriggle under his touch, hips jerking away from the assault of his tongue and he grunts in disapproval.

But she‘s so small, easy to hold down. His shoulders are enough to keep her thichs spread and folded, knees nearly touching her ears as her lower body is contained by his massive frame. He holds her wrists tight above her head in one hand before she can even claw and push at him. Tiny wrists. Bones like a bird's.

And then finally, her eyes flutter open.

Lo‘ak watches with the intensity of a predator catching sight of his prey how these pretty pupils slowly focus down on him. The human gasps and he grins, wide and dangerous.

Suddenly she’s making these new sounds, little high pitched noises and whines, as he tongue fucks her. Her head turns, left and right, trying to hide her face from him, but there’s nowhere to hide. Precious thing. He can feel her core clenching hard around nothing.

"My name is Lo’ak," he smirks at her from between her thighs, making her flinch despite the soft tone in his voice and the breath stutter in her throat. "Can you say Lo’ak, baby?" Lick after lick he spoke, making sure to bring pleasure to her as she tried to comprehend his words. Her mind must be a mess, that much was obvious to him. Even though he imagined waking up like this from such a deep slumber must be a nice surprise, he could clearly see her inner turmoil. Her body wanted her to enjoy this, so close to her pleasure high. But her brain, the logical thinking part of it, was struggling to figure out if she could trust him. If this was right.

"Lo‘ak," he repeated, soft and slow and lovingly as he kissed her clit. More tenderly this time to put her whole focus onto this task. "Say Lo’ak, come on. Say my name."

He would make sure she knew she could trust him. That she was safe. But this would need so many words and so much reassurance, it was hard to do it now with his mouth full of her. Later, paskalin [honey]. He will prove himself as a good man later. But he had to prove himself as a good mate right now.

After a moment of intensely staring into her eyes to make sure she understood him, to signal her that he was no threat and she could enjoy this to her hearts content, it finally clicked.

"Lo..ak," she whimpered, the finest sound his ears ever had the pleasure of picking up. Nodding eagerly with a moan, Lo‘aks tail curled tight around her ankle as he sucked a filthy, rewarding kiss to her clit that made her throw her head back in bliss.

"What a good girl you are," he purred into her folds, "Such a smart thing."

She could tell him her name later, he thought. For the moment, it wasn’t important. He just needed her to scream his and he would promise her, the next time he would scream hers for the whole world to hear. Let everyone know what a perfect little pussy she had and that it was all his now.

Heart beating rapidly in his chest, Lo‘ak doubled his efforts to push her over the edge. Putting more pressure on her thighs to keep them further apart, he leaned half his weight against her body to keep her pinned and folded, her head now entirely framed by her knees, with her weight balanced on her upper back and her pussy high up in the air to reach all the spots that made her hips jump and legs shake. As he did so, Lo‘ak took a mental note of her flexibility. He would make great use of this in the future.

Aware of every new twitch and shudder, Lo’ak was adjusting the patterns of his tongue accordingly.

He was sucking and licking so hard, made sure to hold straight eye contact with her, who was having a hard time keeping herself from moaning too loud. He was running the tip of his tongue along the creases of flesh, around and back down, dipping into her, and then returning to press against her clit, playing with the tiny ball of steel against that sensitive little nub. Her slickness was coating more than just his mouth now. His nose too and his chin, threatening to run down his throat. Lo‘ak was entirely lost in her taste, feasting on her as if she was a fruit he had grown addicted to.

"S-Shit," she was cursing through clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut as her whole body began to tense beneath him. "Fuck, I’m- I’m gonna– come!"

A low, throaty groan that nearly sound like a growl broke free from his mouth at the sound of that. "Let go, sevin [pretty]," he reassured her, barely lifting his lips enough to detach from her clit. "Come for me, little tawtute [human]. Let me taste it."

It was heat against heat, hot mouth against hotter skin, and then she throws her head back and sobs with relief. His sharp tongue flicks over her clit a final time, and she breaks into a thousand pieces.

Noisy little demon, he muses with a grin, paying close attention to the way she screeches and screams his name, moans loud and shameless and her clit pulses under his tongue. He presses his mouth closer to her, making sure none of that sweet sticky liquid goes to waste as it leaks in little squirts from her tiny hole. She tastes devine and Lo‘ak closes his eyes and groans as he savors it all.

Like a Nantang [viperwolf] cleaning its pup, Lo‘ak makes sure to clean the tawtute [human] of all remaining spit and slick, showering her lower half in kitten licks until he deems her clean enough and finally manages to detach his mouth from the space between her thighs.

Breathing heavily, he pulls back, letting a hand glide down his rapidly raising and falling chest, skimping over his abs, to locate the throbbing pain between his own thighs he only now grows aware of.

"Kalweyaveng… [son of a bitch]," he curses under his breath. He finds his loincloth soaked with his own cum, yet his neglected cock was still standing proud and tall, eager for attention. Giving his own length a quick squeeze, he hisses through clenched teeth. He needed more. More of her and her delicious little cunt. The arousing scent that was still radiating off of her wasn’t helping with that either.

Leaning back on his heels to sit up straight and gently lowering her legs to the ground again, Lo’ak glanced down at the female‘s face to find her lashes kissing the apple of her cheeks. Passed out again.

That’s okay, he thought, unable to wipe the cocky smile from his face, as he ever so carefully scooped the sleeping human up into his arms. "Sleep well," he cooed in her ear, hoping that even deep in her slumber she would be able to hear him, would feel the way he pressed his clothed cock against her as he carried her away. "There’s enough time for this later, ma’muntxate [my mate]. You’re mine now."

[phant0mth1ef]

are we still friends? can we be friends? are we still friends? i’ve got to… know. (pt. 2 to the feeling that i’m losing her, forever). part 3

to say you didn’t expect to see a pair of bright red eyes staring you down as you walked into the facility was an understatement, you hadn’t made eye contact with those eyes in over a year, and you flinched the moment you realized just who you were looking at.

you’d stumbled into inasa once you snapped out of your daze, catching yourself quickly as your cap hit the floor, the boy using his wind in order to float it back onto your head.

“thank you.” you mumbled before going to take your spot in line, coincidentally right next to your former best friend.

“why haven’t you called me?!” so now he wants to begin a conversation.

“been busy.” you shrugged, refusing to even look at him because you knew you’d start crying the moment you met his eyes again.

“okay? you could’ve texted me or some shit!”

“my phone stopped working.” you were competing for the title of nonchalant final boss at this point with how casual you were being.

“bullshit. i saw you with it at the exam! just tell me why you’re avoiding me like the plague.” it may not have looked like it, but bakugou was scared out of his mind. you’d changed since the licensing exam, he could sense it in the way you carried yourself. you were being cold.

“what the hell happened to you?? you used to always call me, always text me. what happened?” did he seriously not know what happened?

“you happened.” and that was all you were able to say before the proctors for the training session entered the room, quickly commanding you all to stand in line as your face changed to a softer expression.

it was a casual sparring session, so why were you sending rocks the size of boulders his way? his mind was too clouded to even dodge them effectively, the words you said still playing out in his mind as he mindlessly sent out explosive attacks.

you’d tried to pack up as quickly as possible afterwards to avoid a confrontation with your former best friend, but you heard the clanking of his boots hitting the ground and just let out a sigh.

“what?” you snapped.

“what me? what you!” he was starting to get angry, the way he would get angry back in middle school.

“what about me?! you’re also at fault here. i was the one always trying to get in contact with you! i just grew up and realized that if you wanted to, you would.” you begun to shove all your things into your duffel bag, accidentally smashing your fist into the ground.

“what the hell does that even mean?! you’re the one who stopped calling me outta nowhere. i didn’t tell you to do that.”

“don’t you get it?! i was the one always calling!” you shoved your bag to the floor as you stood up straight, your voice getting strained as you finally made eye contact with bakugou.

“i was the one who always had to start talking to you first! it made me feel like a nuisance. and then one day i hear you telling your new friends that you think i’m annoying? like what the fuck, katsuki. none of this is my fault. if you’d just been a man and picked up the phone, this could’ve been avoided.” you had a habit of crying once you got frustrated, so naturally the tears were threatening to fall from your eyes.

he didn’t have any words, letting out a scoff as you picked up your bag and shoulder checked him on your way out, sending him stumbling back as he just stared at the ghost of your presence.

later that night he sat in his dorm room, his finger hovering over your contact but never once pressing on it, unsure of what he’d even say if you decided to pick up.

“i mean how the hell am i supposed to apologize? she’s so confusing. like damn sorry i called you annoying but it isn’t even that big of a deal anymore that was months ago!” bakugou was ranting to his little group of friends that were huddled on his floor, suprised that the boy would even invite them, let alone drone on about his issues with the friend that none of them even knew about.

“so you called her annoying but you didn’t know she was listening?” mina spoke up.

“yes but that was months ago! i don’t even know how to talk to her anymore because she won’t listen to me.” he sprawled flat on his bed.

“sounds like you’ve dug yourself a deep hole bakugou.” kirishima said, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

meanwhile, back at shiketsu, your group was currently huddled in camie’s dorm, and you sat on the bed while they formed a circle around you.

“i don’t know who he thinks he is but i am not going to beg for him to be my friend, i am not going to be as pathetic as i used to be!” slow teardrops fell from your eyes as you recalled back in middle school when bakugou found more friends and slowly begun to leave you behind.

“i know, and i get that, but you should at least try to give him a chance. he’s making an effort.” she tossed you your phone that was sitting on the desk, a notification on the lock screen.

[kats 💥🫂]

Meet me at the spot tomorrow. Please. 4 PM.

tags; @riverozada @lupitalove @msjaeger @aintseennothinyet @wendeeeee ask and you shall receive sorry if its kinda bad 😢😢

[dancingbirdie]

This is by far the horniest, most deplorable thing I've ever written. Not sorry for it. Hope you enjoy! Please pay attention to the tags - we've got some new stuff happening in this one.

Like my smut writing? Find more here.

Earned It

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Reader x Halsin

Word Count: 1K

Tags/Warnings: vaginal penetration, vaginal fingering, total body control, dom/sub vibes, plotless smut, porn without plot

Summary: Astarion and Halsin use you as a plaything for their own (and your) enjoyment.

*****

“Wicked thing,” Astarion cooed in your ear, voice pitched barely above a whisper. 

Squeezing your hips, he angled you down deeper, sheathing you onto Halsin. You let loose a breathy whine at the sensation, the sheer size of your other lover.

“Sweet one,” the druid amended in a growl, thrusting up into you with gusto. 

Straddling his lap, you collapsed your head onto his shoulder, lost in the sensations inside and around you. Your pliant form allowed Astarion to continue pumping you up and down, up and down, in long, languid strokes. As he maneuvered you, Halsin clutched the back of your head with a tenderness that was completely at odds with the ferocity in which you were being pistoned on top of him. It caused you to mewl languidly, too overstimulated to muster much else.  

This had all been Astarion’s idea (of course it had), to use you like this, a plaything for your two lovers to share. You didn’t mind in the least. To be surrounded by both elves, one fucking into you while the other manipulated your body like a marionette on strings? It was deliciously sinful. You were all too willing to relinquish control of yourself into their capable hands, and bodies. 

Movement, and a wanton moan by your head, caused you to shift and blink your eyes open toward the sound. You hadn’t thought it possible to become even more aroused than you already were. That was until you saw the marvel that was Halsin and Astarion locked in a heated, open-mouthed kiss. Even as they continued using your body, Astarion never missing a beat as he slid you up and down Halsin’s length.

You watched hungrily as Halsin fisted Astarion’s curls and pulled him in closer, rocking you up against his chest in the process. You whined pitifully as the movement hit some deeper part within you, the feeling akin to the sensation of stroking your clit. Seeing their tongues dance, hearing their muffled groans as they ravaged each other’s mouths, it was almost enough to send you spiraling into release. 

You subconsciously wiggled against them both, itching to find some way to put more pressure on your clit without interrupting their heated embrace. 

Astarion was the first to break away from the kiss, however. Recognizing your telltale squirming, he grinned wickedly down at you as his fingers dug a little deeper into the skin of your hips, halting you from moving at all. You whined again, desperate to feel more, not less. 

“Tsk, tsk. Looks like our pet is trying to have more fun without us, darling,” he crooned to Halsin, who chuckled and caressed your cheek gingerly. 

“I was enjoying the show,” you breathed, nuzzling your head into Halsin’s large palm. “I wanted to enjoy it a little bit more.”

“Greedy little thing,” Astarion admonished in a playful tone. “Whatever shall we do with her?”

“Give her a good finish,” the druid replied in a low, gravelly voice. “She’s earned it, don’t you think?”

He wasn’t asking you, of course, but you moaned your assent anyway. Astarion chuckled at your eagerness, shifting one hand from your hips to tease his fingers across your swollen clit. 

“Have you? Have you earned it?” He whispered into your neck, the pads of his fingers ghosting across you. You keened and bucked your hips, trying to chase his hand. Halsin groaned as your movement caused him to slide deeper inside you. 

“Please, please, please,” you begged, not an ounce of pride remaining within you. You were wound so tight, ready to spring. You would kiss the soles of his feet if it got you closer to climax. 

You felt Astarion flash a wicked grin against your neck, his fangs brushing across the delicate skin. 

“Poor thing, begging like that. Very well, let’s give you a memorable finale,” he purred, slipping his middle finger fully between your folds and circling your clit. At the same time, his remaining hand on your hip urged you up, up, up, so that Halsin was fully released from you before pushing you back down on him again. 

Halsin grunted as you enveloped him once more, bucking erratically into you as he chased his own release. You watched as his mouth found Astarion’s again, his hand wrapping around the column of Astarion’s pale neck and pulling him closer. 

You felt Astarion rut against your backside, in rhythm to the way he was using your cunt to fuck Halsin. His fingers never faltered as they continued their assault on your clit. In no time, the three of you were tumbling into ecstasy, unable to keep the crescendo at bay any longer. You reeled as Halsin spilled himself inside you, riding out your own high, clenching around his length. The wetness on your backside was evidence enough that Astarion, too, had found his own pleasure in the process. 

Utterly spent, you collapsed your full weight against the druid, allowing Halsin to capture both you and Astarion in his embrace. The three of you tumbled gracelessly over like that, into the plushness of the blankets beneath you, catching your breath and recovering from the high. 

“That was… incredible,” you sighed before letting loose a muffled yawn. Sandwiched between the two of them, you could feel sleep was quickly approaching.

Halsin laughed, watching you try in vain to keep your eyes open. “Did we tire you out already?”

“Precious little thing,” Astarion crooned, kissing your shoulder delicately. “She gets tuckered out so easily.”

“You’re more than welcome to continue without me,” you smiled mischeviously at the two of them. “As I said, I enjoy watching.”

“Who knew we’d create a little voyeur when all this started, hmm?” Astarion smirked. 

“I believe the lady wishes for an encore, love,” Halsin replied in a low tone, rich with renewed desire. 

“Well then, who are we to deny her?” Astarion teased, reaching for the druid once more.     

[lupinmoonlight]

Too Full

Masterlist AO3

Summary - Remus pumps you full and tells you to hold it in for the rest of the day. Literally. (1,590 words)

Tags - rough sex, dom/sub dynamic, dom remus lupin, sub reader, cum kink(?), age gap, porn without plot, praise kink, lots of "good girl", light humiliation kink, my grammar, not proof-read.

Notes - Guys this is absolute filth I don't know what else to tell you. I'm embarrassed. I made up this silly scenario at university today. I'm sorry if this is a mess. I wrote this in 2 hours, barely proof-read it, and English isn't my first language. Good night now!

The parchment in Remus' hands blurred at the edges. Numbers swam before his eyes - Order safe house locations, patrol schedules, supply caches. None of it seemed to penetrate the fog of his mind. All he could see was the flash of a silhouette pinned beneath him, hear the echo of a moan. Your silhouette. Your moan. 

Your relationship was a secret. It was a raw, passionate love, born out of desperation and need. Remus knew it was almost unhealthy, the way he craved you, needed you, but he couldn't help himself. You were his escape, his forbidden sanctuary in a world gone mad. 

His focus on the parchment was shattered, his thoughts consumed by you. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips. He was aching to be with you, but the house was always bustling with Order business... until it wasn't. For a delightful moment, the attention wasn't on him, the members too busy, too taken with their own tasks. 

He didn't need to say anything. He just took you by the hand and you knew. The moment the door to his bedroom slammed shut behind you, he warded it. His need was immediate and overwhelming. He was already rock hard, his erection straining against his trousers evident. He wasted no time, spinning you around and pushing you face down on the bed, hiking up your skirt with an urgency that bordered on madness. 

"Remus," you gasped, your voice muffled by the mattress. 

"Shh, sweetheart," he growled. "I can't wait any longer. I need you. I need you now." 

He hastily freed himself, his erection throbbing with need. The sight of you, face down and hips raised, made his cock twitch almost painfully. He tugged your panties down, just enough to give him access, and positioned himself at your entrance. He pressed hip tip against you, feeling your warmth, and pushed into you with one swift thrust. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips firmly. 

You whimpered, your body trying to accommodate his size. "R-Remus..." you gasped, your fingers clenching the sheets. 

He stilled, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your hips. "Easy, love," he murmured. "Take a deep breath. Just relax for me. You can take it." 

You nodded, your breathing evening out as you adjusted to him. "That's it, good girl," he praised as he felt you relax about him. Once he felt your ease, Remus began to move, his thrusts slow and controlled. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you back to meet his movements. 

"That's it," he groaned, his pace quickening. "Take me. Take all of me." Each thrust was powerful, demanding, driven by a need that bordered on feral. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging it back, making you arch back into him. "God, you feel so good wrapped around me." 

You moaned in response, your body yielding to him. "Remus..." you whimpered. 

"Such a good girl...taking me so well." 

Your body shuddered with each movement, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. "I can't...Remus, I..." 

"Yes, you can," he growled. "You can take it. Let go for me." 

You cried out, your body trembling violently as you reached the edge, clenching around him. 

"That's it," he murmured, his grip on your hips painfully tight. 

He could feel himself nearing the edge too, his control slipping further with each thrust. "I'm close," he warned you, his voice strained. "You're going to make me come. Ah...fuck. I'm going to come inside of you." 

He thrust into you one last time and held himself as deep as he could, his hips bucking as he released inside you, a loud moan escaping his lips. "Yes...you feel so fucking good," he groaned, his body trembling with the force of his orgasm. He stayed inside you for a while, his cock pulsating, lazily thrusting a few more times to prolong the sensation. 

Eventually, he slowly withdrew, his breath still heavy, his hands caressing your back. "Are you alright?" he asked softly. 

You nodded, your cheeks flushed. 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before pulling you up and turning you to face him. 

"I want you to do something for me." 

"What is it?" you asked, still breathless. 

"Don't clean up," he said simply. "I want you to stay like this, full of me, all day." 

Your eyes widened, a deep blush spreading across your cheeks. "Remus..." 

He chuckled softly as his fingers traced random little patterns on your skin. "Yes, love. You will do as you're told, aren't you?" 

"Y-yes, Remus," you responded, eager to please him despite being embarrassed. 

"What a good girl," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Now, let's tidy up a bit so we can head back. We don't want the others suspecting anything, do we?" 

"No, Professor," you teased. 

"Careful, love," he warned playfully. "You might just get me started again." 

"Maybe that's what I want," you replied innocently.

Remus chuckled, shaking his head. "You're insatiable." 

He helped you adjust your clothes and gave you one last, lingering kiss before leading you out of his bedroom like nothing had happened. 

Only a few hours later, you felt the undeniable sensation of Remus' essence running down your thighs. Your face flushed a deep crimson, and you immediately sought him out. You made your way to the dining room where the Order was gathered for a meeting. You waited at the doorway, your eyes wide and pleading. Remus' eyes traveled your form, pausing briefly at your thighs, and he immediately understood. 

Maintaining his composure, he stood smoothly. "Excuse me for a moment," he said calmly. 

He followed you to the study, closing the door behind you. "What is it, love?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. He wanted to hear you say it. 

You hesitated, looking down in embarrassment. "Remus...it's...running down my thighs," you admitted. 

His eyes darkened with desire at your words. He lifted your skirt slightly, exposing your slick thighs. "Aww," he cooed, his tone both mocking and affectionate. "Is my little girl too full?"

Your face turned an even deeper shade of red, and you looked away, flustered. "Remus, I-"

"Hush," he interrupted. "Let me see." 

You stood still, your heart pounding in your chest as he lifted your skirt further up, giving him better access. He took out a handkerchief and began wiping you clean, his touch light and gentle. "You need to try and hold it in a bit longer, love," he murmured.

"But, Remus, I can't-"

"No," he said firmly. "You will do as I say. Can you do that for me?" 

"Y-yes, Remus." 

"Very good," he whispered. "Now be a good girl and hold it in. I'll take care of you after the meeting." 

You nodded again, his words going straight to your core. "I'll try." 

Remus smiled, kissing your forehead. "That's all I ask. Now, go back to what you were doing." 

Remus watched you go before composing himself and returning to the meeting, his demeanor as calm and collected as ever. 

"Sorry for the interruption," he said smoothly, taking his seat. "Where were we?" 

You kept to yourself for the rest of the day, mostly focusing on staying still, desperate to please Remus. As evening finally fell, Remus discreetly took you back to his bedroom, closing and warding the door behind you. 

"Show me," he instructed. 

You hesitated for a moment, your cheeks flushed. Slowly, you lifted your skirt, revealing the sticky mess that had accumulated throughout the day. Remus hummed appreciatively at the sight, his eyes darkening. 

"My, my...looks like I've made quite the mess down there," he whispered. "You've done so well, sweetheart. I'm very pleased with you," he praised. 

You could barely hold still under his gaze, feeling exposed. 

"Now, let it out," he commanded softly. 

You went to protest, thoroughly embarrassed by the idea. "But, Remus, I can't just-" 

"I said, let it out," he repeated firmly. 

You bit her lip, your eyes darting nervously, but you obeyed him, relaxing your muscles. Remus watched with satisfaction as the evidence of your intimacy slowly began to trickle down your thighs.

"Good girl," he murmured. "You're doing so well." 

Your face burned with embarrassment, but you felt a strange sense of pride for following his instructions, for pleasing him. 

"That's it, just let it out," he soothed, his hands gently rubbing your hips. "How did you feel today? Sitting around the others knowing you were full of my seed?"

"I-I felt like I was...yours," you let out almost too quietly. 

"That's right, love. You're mine. Say it." 

"I'm yours, Remus." 

"Such a good girl for me," he praised. "You've done so well today. Now, let get you cleaned up properly." 

He led you to the bathroom, helping you undress and stepping into the shower with you. He washed you gently, his hands moving slowly, caring, possessive, gentle. 

"You've been so good," he murmured. "You did exactly as I asked." 

You leaned into his touch, feeling utterly safe and cherished. "I just wanted to please you," you whispered. 

"And you did. You've pleased me very much," he replied, his hands gently massaging your shoulders. 

After you were both clean, Remus dried you off with a soft towel, his movements slow and deliberate. He led you back to the bedroom and tucked you into bed, joining you under the covers. 

"You need your rest," he said softly, his arms wrapping around you protectively. "You've done enough for today."

[konigsblog]

‘smile for the camera, mäuschen’

pornstar könig and his little, naive plaything.

mdni - tw: dubcon (coercion), toxic relationship, manipulation, guilt tripping. photo credit @ave661

you knew könig was a pornstar, he made sure you knew before getting into a serious relationship with you, so that it wouldn't cause any issues. you had no issue with this, only feeling slightly jealous at the thought of him having sex with other women for content... ‘til könig perked in.

“you could always join me instead, dear.” he comments, leaning back on the couch with his thick thighs spread out. the thought of being on the internet recording yourself having sex with your boyfriend wasn't exactly something you wanted to do. but, könig pushed. he wouldn't let go without the answer he wanted.

“please, mouse... it'll be fun, it's how i earn my money. do you want me to go get it elsewhere?”

his wording made your jaw drop slightly. of course you didn't want him sleeping with other women! but, this was his job; how he earned his money. he couldn't just drop it. “if you were committed to this relationship, you wouldn't have such an issue with either me having sex with women to earn my money, or becoming a part of it. what would go wrong? you're with me, safe in my arms, liebling...”

from then, he'd constantly pushed, manipulating you into saying yes, even if you were on edge. he had you on your back with the camera recording slightly from above, just over his shoulder. the flashing red light reminded you that it was there, that there were people watching. you were reminded könig was also there when he slapped his thick, meaty shaft down onto your clit, rubbing it with his tip. pearly beads of precum spilled onto your stomach, making you gulp nervously. he pinched your nipples, twisting them before angling his cock and pushing deep inside.

your mouth fell open, back arched and your body jolting with nerves. your bottom lip quivered, anxious as he continued to grind himself deeper, cursing under his breath at the tightness. you held back the tears that filled your waterline, gulping and bunching your hands into tight fists the more he filled your hole. you couldn't stop pulsing around him; squeezing his big dick with your gummy, tight walls. he furrowed his eyebrows together, eyes shut tightly as he bucked inside, filling you to the brim with his huge size. a small tear slowly rolled down your cheek, not visible to the camera from the angle.

“smile, mäuschen.” he threatened, wiping away your tears and rocking his hips slowly. your breathing picked up, became laboured and heavy and desperate the more he pushed inside. you gasped quietly, biting your bottom lip while rocking your hips in harmony. truthfully, you'd rather be anywhere else than on your back with your boyfriend's huge cock inside your cunt, for the internet to see. but in this moment, you couldn't do anything but freeze and take whatever könig decided to give you, no matter how rough or gentle he made it.

a low and guttural chuckle left his lips, with his dick throbbing inside your wetness and seeping out thick drops of cum. each thrust könig made knocked your body forward — probably due to the size and the impact his broad hips would make against your ass, his huge stature enveloping and curling around you. you gasped when he wrapped his arms around your body, picking you up into his arms and fucking you whilst standing. only drilling you deeper onto his massive size. you sobbed out, gripping his shoulders firmly and burying your face in his chest as he bucked and drove his hips up and into your slicken, wet folds.

“keep going for me-ja... good girl...” you could feel the wet head of his dick rubbing against your gummy cervix, smacking against it with each thrust, impaling you on his length.

broken sobs became muffled, drowned by your moans as he continued to fuck you harder. your eyes wet with your orgasm and anxiety, and the tightness in your stomach threatening to release, for you to coat and cover könig in your sweet, slick cum. you felt lightheaded — perhaps from exhaustion, maybe from anxiety, but the more könig rutted thrusted his hips against you, the wetter you became, leaving you now hot and flushed.

“that's it, my dear. you're doing well--look at the camera for me--ja... that's it, good.” maintaining eye contact with the camera, the live comments degrading you for getting fucked like a dirty whore.

könig breathed heavily beside your ear, growling out german while you grinded and rocked your hips down against him. you couldn't help it anymore. the tickling sensation of his pubes against your clit and your slit swallowing everything whole was driving you utterly crazy. you squirted down his shaft, lifting your hips off of him, your legs still wrapped around and clinging to his waist for support while he carried you with one, large hand cupping your ass, the other on your waist.

your cunny dripped with euphoria. juices dribbling onto his big dick while he groaned at the tight pain in his balls. “come on... your turn, then.” könig smirked a cruel grin at you, placing you onto your feet and sitting down on the bed, his bare body inviting and his thick, muscular thighs wet with his hot cum smeared along the skin.

“what?” you let out, a stuttered cry for help and support. the viewers watched as you nervously took a step closer, straddling his hips and easing yourself down onto his huge length. the veins on his shaft prominent, grazing against your walls at an agonisingly slow pace. two large hands guided your hips and you sobbed needily, anxious as he began fucking you down, showing you how to ride him.

“just like this, liebling...” your eyes rolled back at the sound of his accented and low voice, moaning out at the texture of his dick against your cunny. your pussy weeped cum, drooling with ecsasty. he spanked your tight ass, his other hand tugging at your hardened nipples while he kneaded the flesh and fat on your ass between his fingers, slapping you whenever your pace faltered.

“gutes mädchen, es geht dir so gut.” you panted, eyes drunkenly looking into his, filled with lust and piercing into yours. his silver eyes growing darker the longer and faster you rode him, ‘til he was pushing you down, making sure you took every single drop of his thick and hot cum like a good girl. you cried out, feeling as he stuffed you full of his semen, with your stomach tight and your hole gaping with his seed oozing out.

“all of it, my dear. take it all.”

translation: gutes mädchen, es geht dir so gut. (good girl, you're doing so well)

[websterss]

UNFILTERED — ETHAN LANDRY

REQUEST: Secretly dating Ethan for months but you get caught bc you walked with Ethan back to his dorm. He kisses you goodbye before realizing Chad is there.😭

WARNING(S): SPOILERS, um cussing again lmfao. Implications but its pretty okay i guess...

WORD COUNT: 1,162

PAIRING: Ethan Landry x fem!Reader    

A/N: Hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed!

MASTERLIST

“You sure you don’t want to stay tonight? I can be the little spoon this time.” Ethan offered. His back pressed against the open door of his room.

“The last time we tried that you fell off the edge. You’re a giant Ethan. You hardly fit on your twin sized bed.” You pressed a fist to his bicep. The doorway was filled with echoes of your laugh combined with Ethan‘s grimace then followed chuckles.

“That hurt by the way. I swear I thought we could fit.” His eyes crinkled with an apologetic smile.

“Well, your calculations were wrong. I fit just fine. It was your dumbass who’s legs hung off the foot of the be-“ You were cut off by Ethan’s assaults of tickles. You squirmed in his grasp trying to push him away.

“Stop, stop, stop. Pleassse no more…no more no more no mor-'' You break out into another fit of giggles.

“S-Say you're sorry.” Ethan couldn’t contain his own fits.

“No-“ Your head falls on his chest in defeat. “Okay, okay. Fine, I’ll stop. I’m sorry...” You thank him out of breath. Patting his bicep graciously. “God, you’re mean.”

“I’m not mean.” He chuckles. “Just right.”

“Yes, mean. And you are wrong. Like half the time despite having a gorgeous brain.” You look up and push back his curls.

“My brain’s gorgeous now?” He nodded, a teasing raise of his eyebrows.

“Only when you're not being a dumbass.” You wrap your arms around his neck. You leaned in and pressed your head against his. Sighing as he pulls you closer up against him.

“Stay…” He mutters softly. “Or at least let me walk you.” He suggests.

“I’m literally the building next over.” You scoff out a laugh. Pointing into the hallway for the dorms.

“A lot can happen within that walk.” He shrugs.

“Like what, getting stabbed by ghost face?” You mock with a laugh. Though seeing his shoulders slump let you know otherwise. He didn’t find it in the least bit amusing.

“That’s not funny.” He dipped his head.

“Oh, would you stop worrying. I’ll be fine. I’ll even text you when I’m safe and sound in my dorm…not bleeding out from a stab wound.” You smirk and press a sweet kiss to his cheek. He leans into your lips. Then gives up trying to convince you to stay. He leans against the door again.

“You’ll call me right when you get there?” He starts letting the idea of you walking to your dorm process.

“I’ll even FaceTime, which you know I hate doing it. I’ll even do the BeReal shit, or whatever it’s called just for the kick of it.” You now hold him at arm's length. “I’m gonna be fine. Just like I’ve been fine for the past few months. I’m invincible.” You raise your biceps, trying to show your very visible lack of muscles. Ethan’s eye roll only makes you laugh further. “Now, shut up and kiss me stupid, so I can be on my merry way, and begin my daydreaming about you, and those muscles, and that hair I like to pu-“ You moaned in delight as he cut you off with his lips. He turned you guys around and pressed you up against the door this time. Your arms now pinned over your head. He kissed you hard and rough, and god it was fucking hot. You thanked all the women that rejected him prior to meeting you. The universe had really been looking out for you, blessing you with a six foot tall, hot brunette, gorgeous brown eyed loser of a boyfriend. But goddamn was he no loser in bed. You were truly blessed.

You pulled back with a gasp. Head tilted as he left trails of kisses up and down your neck. “Fuck…” You let out shaken and rocked to your core.

“Still wanna leave?” He breathed out with shit-eating grin.

“Please leave.”

The yelp you let out was quite embarrassing. You had jumped one inch off the floor, and you had never seen Ethan pull away from you so fast. Yours and Ethan’s head snapped to the source. You both walked further into the room. Your eyes widening as they fall upon Chad, curled over a text book. He wasn’t looking directly at you but he was highly aware that the doorway was being corrupted.

“H-How long have you been sitting there?” Ethan closed his eyes, as mortified as you were in that moment.

“Enough to know you two are into some kinky ass shit. By the way, what the fuck?” He scooted his chair back and looked at you two incredulously. “When the fuck did this happen? And please tell me it hasn’t happened in the sacredness of our room…”

You and Ethan exchange a look at each other then grimace and wince at Chad who looks at Ethan’s bed grossed out.

“I think imma throw up, but also, why didn’t you just tell us. What’s with the sneaky around?”

“Cause you and Mindy are fucking nosy as hell! Plus I didn’t- We didn’t want the group to meddle into our lives. I don’t need Mindy schooling us on the basis of scary movies 101 every second we want some time alone. Okay? We just wanted to enjoy the peace while it still lasted. That’s if you can keep your fucking mouth shut though.”

“I’m offended.” He touched his heart.

“You’re a goddamn blabbermouth.” You smack him upside the head. Ethan chuckles amused by this whole ordeal. Chad shakes his head. Then looks between you.

“You trust him?”

“I let him deflower me for three months. I wouldn’t let someone go that easily….but yeah I trust him.” You nodded surely. Arms crossed over your chest.

“Don’t ever say deflower again please. For the sake of our peers and my ears.”

“You want me to say he fucked me then?” You let out a small chuckle. “Defiled, corrupted my insides? I’m an English major dude, I’m loaded with synonyms.” You gesture to yourself.

“No!” Chad exclaims, mortified. “Don’t fucking say shit period! Get the fuck out already!” He points to the door but laughs nonetheless.

“Alright, I’m going!” You lean over and press a kiss to Ethan’s cheek. “I’ll call you later, okay.” Your hands separated as you walked to the door.

“You’re fucking unbelievable…You put up with her willingly?” He laughs up at Ethan.

“Everyday...” He nods. “You just have to catch her on a good day though.”

“See even Ethan’s done with your shit!” Chad leans over to see you halt at the door.

“Not when I’m offering up my pu-” You shimmy, but dodge out the way as he throws a football at you. Your booming laughter echoing in the hallways.

“Fuck you!” Chad yells after you.

“You wish!” Your voice could be faintly heard.

“That’s your girlfriend, Landry.” Chad points to the open door. “You’re unfiltered, crazy ass girlfriend.”

“That’s my girlfriend...” He laughs out loud.

[fanaticsnail]

have/could you write something with katakuri? the size difference... >:3

I have been enabled by the OC discord server run by @discordantwritings. At the request of @maritimebird, it's now here for you too. Thank you for your request, I hope I did it justice!

Take A Seat

Masterlist Here

Word count: very short, unfortunately.

Synopsis: Katakuri finally convinces you to sit on his face, and he won't let you go until he's fully satisfied.

Warnings: smut, no plot, MDNI, 18+, NSFW, face sitting, soft Dom Katakuri x afab!reader, oral sex, mattress grinding, size difference (he's 17' tall).

Once he's convinced you to sit on his face, a single fat stripe between your folds is enough to have his ruby gaze roll back in his skull at the first taste. As soon as you're sat firmly over his face, he cant help but to reach up and hold your hips so you can't get away while he chuckles up into you.

Vibrations of his soft whines of pleasure at your essence rolling over his pallet causes you to cry out, as you have no choice but to take everything he's giving to you. He releases your thighs and circles a single broad grip over your waist, the other softly reaching down to palm at his heavily erect and clothed cock. Rocking your hips backwards and forwards by the single grip of his right hand around your waist, he releases hia cock to gently caresses your cheek with the pad of his left index finger. This is how he checks in, mouth simply too full to ask his questions up to you. His eyes both intimidate and reassure you at once: a possessiveness and neediness at the forefront of his glassy gaze.

You're getting tired holding yourself up over his face, regardless of his firm grip, legs trembling and back hunched over him as you struggle beneath the amount of pleasure driven up in every ridge and divot of his tongue. He's very aware of your overwhelmed fatigue as that tightness winds in your stomach and gently shifts you until your lying comfortably on your back beneath him.

The diameter of his head is enough to pry your thighs widely apart. All you can see is those two ruby orbs staring up at you as he spreads a mixture of his needy saliva and your arousal over your pussy.

He's everywhere all at once, the stimulation of his rhythmic grinding prompting you to clap one hand over your lips to muffle your screams while the other fists at his plum-coloured locks to hold him in place. By the soft rise in your cadence and the way you bury your face into your shoulder, he can sense just how close you are. Humming and groaning into your pussy, he shoots shockwaves of his empathetic bliss through your body.

Growling a soft order, he forces your eyes to crack open to see his eyes first rolling back before they close.

"Cum for me, little mouse. Cum on my tongue. Let me taste your ecstasy," he gently shakes his head to pry open your thighs further before bobbing his head up and down. Rolling and flicking his fat tongue through your pussy, his drool seeping from the creases of his split smile and dripping over his textured morsel, he feels you immediately gush the first waves of bliss into his mouth.

"Fuck, Kata! I-I'm cumming," you mewl, throwing your head back into the pillows and keening for him, "Mmm-... F-Fuck, keep d-doing that. I'm c-cumming!!" The soft whimpers as your vision snaps white is all he needs to hook his hands beneath your thighs and force your legs to cage him completely between them. Humming and gently rocking his clothed cock onto the bed, he feels a soft orgasm roll through him and spurt from his cock and stain the inside of his pants.

Gasping into your pussy, Katakuri adds a burst of cool air which shoots a chill through your core and prolongs the sensation of your bliss. Your walls contract and throb as you ride through your high, softly experiencing the shudders of sensitivity through the borders of overstimulation.

Finally both coming down from your highs, no further words are exchanged between you as Katakuri's eyes meet yours with nothing but love and adoration within. Pupils blown, eyes glassy, his lips find your thigh and press a soft flurry of open mouthed kisses over your soft flesh. Placing your thighs back on the bed, he crawls up and looms over your smaller form beneath him.

Reaching up to caress his cheek, he presses a kiss into your palm while closing his eyes. The love he feels in his heart swells and lingers in the afterglow of unconventional unity. Your adoration is mirrored in the softness of your touch as you draw him down to you. Lips colliding, the kiss he presses into you is slow and intentional, depicting more love and romance than words could ever say.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @imveryyellow