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jessmarianosslut · 10 months

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not quite learned | professor!miguel o’hara x reader

2k+ word count. small content warning that it is a student/teacher relationship fic, so feel free to skip this one if that’s not your thing. 18+ afab!m/c.

haven’t written, or been insanely active in the fandom, in a good two months maybe? trying to get out of that, hope this is enjoyable to someone <3

Only one thing is for certain, Miguel didn’t intend for things to go this far. But during a brief moment of reflection, he supposes none of the men like him ever really do.

The opportunity arises, and because he’s weak, fundamentally weak to your doe-like eyes, sweet voice and gentle affection— he gives into his impulses, willingly falls victim to his circumstances.

He hadn’t known that you would be so addictive, that once he gave in, there wouldn’t be another point at which he could regain his sane and working mind.

—

You were in his last class of the day, and as was your purely studious custom, you stayed after to ask whatever burning academic questions were plaguing you that day.

In the dark recesses of his thoughts, as he looked you over with a purposefully disinterested dark stare, he privately referred to your choice of presentation as obscenely feminine.

Especially with how you were dressed now— in a thin and lacey, thigh-length dress. Your ears and collarbones decorated with delicate silver jewelry and the tiniest, fucking light pink ribbons wrapped at the ends of two, neat plaits of hair.

He was close to rolling his eyes at that last detail. Finding himself desperately wanting to hate you for making his days significantly more difficult, with just the addition of your presence alone. And if not for the fact that you were always so sweet to him— never failing to brighten his day with your way always approached with an enthusiastically cheerful, “Hey, Miguel!”, he would have successfully manifested, and actively nurtured a deep hatred for you.

Instead, as you ask for pointers on how to proceed with your essay, he sighs deeply and gives an acquiescent nod. “Let me see what you’ve written so far.” He answers in a bored huff, ignoring the way you smile appreciatively at him, before promptly turning on your heel to retrieve your laptop.

You’d set your bag down in one of the front seats of the classroom, and as you bend over the small desk surface to pull open the zipper, Miguel’s eyes are fixed on the way your dress hikes up. And for just a brief moment, the backs of your creamy thighs are exposed to him. He can’t help but take the time to stare, catching a rare glimpse of a part of you he wouldn’t otherwise get to see.

Tearing his eyes away just as you free your computer, he swallows thickly as he watches you approach.

Setting the device in front of him, you choose to stand beside where he currently sat at his desk, leaning forward as you scrolled through the draft of your written assignment.

His mouth and brain were operating separately, delivering level headed advice on one end while focusing on all things concerning you on the other.

He couldn’t care less about the assignment. The older man quickly found that he was more than willing to give you full marks and be done with it, if it meant he could center in on how smooth your skin looked, or how pink your lips were and whether you smelled more like vanilla, or lotus and warmed honey.

During the fifteen minutes he’d spent giving you small pointers on how to push your essay in the right direction, he remained on his best behavior, not once straying off topic or letting his desires get the best of him.

You’d thanked him softly, beginning to put away your laptop and he’d almost patted himself on the back for making it through the interaction when you suddenly pulled a small glass container from your bag.

It held cookies— vanilla something or another, that you had made especially for him, as thanks for his patience with you so far. A supply of patience that seemed to evaporate the second you displayed the baked treats in front of him.

He doesn’t really know what happened next, how A got to B is still a mystery to him, but before he knew it the container of cookies and your bag lay strewn and long forgotten on the floor.

You were so tiny compared to him, his left hand capable of not only cupping your chin but the entire lower half of your face, easily squeezing your cheeks and lips together in the snug hold he has on you.

Miguel didn’t think this far ahead— doesn’t know what possessed him to clear the distance in three or less steps and have you locked in his grasp. But the way you look up at him, not in fear, but quiet anticipation has him considering that perhaps it’d be okay to test the waters further.

“Mr. O’Hara?” Your voice comes out small as you blink up at him, as though there wasn't a doubt in your mind that you were entirely innocent. And in that moment, he couldn't help it, he had to laugh right in your face.

It’s the first time you’ve ever heard or seen him appear anywhere remotely near amused, that it would’ve left you unsettled even if the notes didn’t fall flat. The sound of his ‘laughter’ coming across as sardonic and wholly mocking, the ‘mirth’ he apparently felt not quite reaching his eyes.

“Mr. O’Hara?” He repeats quietly, a dark smirk twinging his lips. As the seconds ticked by, you were starting to feel more and more like a butterfly caught in his web. “What happened to Miguel?”

You merely look up at him, a bit lost for words as he greedily eyes your form.

“You know- just while we’re on the subject, I never gave you explicit permission to call me by my first name. You started that on your own.” He hums, voice even and quiet. “It’s the same way I never explicitly told you that I was free after class… Do you know why that is? Do you have a guess?”

“No?” He asks rhetorically, shaking your head for you when you don’t immediately answer, Miguel leaning down to allow his lips to ghost your ear. “It’s because these aren’t my office hours, mi reinita. That’s what you are, you know. A little queen. That’s exactly how you act, calling me by my first name… taking up my time when you want it. When it suits you.”

“I’m sorry, M-“ You begin apologizing before his hand cupping your face suddenly tightens, not enough to hurt, but just enough to stop you from speaking.

“No quiero disculpas.” He says dismissively, waving you off with his free hand. His speech was quiet, each sentence perfectly enunciated, teasing almost. “Words don’t mean much, actions are everything. Like the cookies you made for me, that’s cute but… I don’t want cookies either.”

His free hand comes to rest on your hip, large and warm as it traces the outline of your waist.

“What do you think?” He asks, his voice soft but his tone coming across as a touch condescending. “Think you can make up for your bad behavior some other way?”

You nod feebly in reply, though the gesture doesn’t seem enough for him as he loosens his grip on your face. “Say it.” He orders evenly.

Your lips part, sucking in a shaky breath as you struggle to maintain eye contact. He was intimidating like this, towering over you, fully caging you in. “I wanna make up for my bad behavior, Mr. O’Hara.”

And it appears to do the trick, because his eyes darken and his jaw ticked as he looked down at you like he was seconds away from devouring a meal whole.

“Dicho como una niña buena.” He replies quietly, lids low. His face was so close to yours, air fanned your cheeks as he spoke. “Is that what you’re gonna be for me, mi reinita? Are you going to be a good girl?”

“Yes, sir.” You answer, voice barely above a whisper.

“Typically, I’d want to keep my eyes on your face but—“ He trails off, turning you in the opposite direction before you feel him place a hand at your back, wordlessly instructing you to lean forward until your torso is lying flush against the front row desk. “It’s not everyday that I get to see this end of you.”

Face hovering over the table with your hands laid flat against its surface, you attempt to focus on your breathing, trying your best not to fidget in place as he lifts the hem of your dress until your ass is on full display.

Miguel lets out a low whistle as he registers the lace cream thong you’re fitted in, his eyes drifting up the length of your body. “You’re a little naughty underneath too, aren’t you?”

“Maybe just… a bit prepared.” You answer quietly, cheek pressing into the desk as you look back at him over your left shoulder. And Miguel is finding that it’s harder and harder to think as more and more blood is redirected from his brain to somewhere more easily excitable.

“Walking around campus ready to be bent over, hm?” He asks, not expecting an answer as he runs his finger underneath the strap of the waistband. “All the pink ribbons and lace is just a distraction, isn’t it? Otherwise people would know what you really want.”

“What is it that I want, Professor?” You ask innocently, playing the part of being just a touch naive, your bottom wiggling the smallest amount as you attempt to discreetly ease the slowly growing ache between your thighs.

If Miguel catches the movement, he doesn’t comment on it.

Brushing the pads of his fingers against your chubby folds, he prods at your entrance through the small area of fabric, not covering much of anything, experimentally. Pressing inside and allowing the pitiful excuse for underwear to go along with his digits.

“The same thing I want.” He answers simply, his poker face unreadable as you whimper at the odd but gratifying sensation he briefly grants you.

You watch in awe as he pulls the fabric aside, licking a wide strip along his middle and ring fingers, rubbing his slick digits at your cunt before dipping them inside of you.

Your mouth parts as he stretches you open, unceremoniously making room for himself in that warm and welcoming place between your legs.

“Mhm, that’s it…” He hums appraisingly as the slip and slide of his fingers gradually becomes increasingly easier as he massages your spongy walls.

Hooking his fingers inside of you, his wrist jostles about, causing your voice to slip out despite yourself as his pace increases. Your feet begin to lift off the floor from how spirited his ministrations become. Miguel’s hand glistening with your arousal, small droplets dripping from his skin and onto the dark carpeted flooring.

It becomes clear that you’re fighting a losing battle in the way the more you try to contain your voice, the harder he seems to work at getting you to audibly cry out despite the space the two of you are occupying.

“What are you holding back for?” He asks, as though he doesn’t know.

“B- because…” You protest in a high pitched shriek, clasping one of your hands to your mouth, the other gripping the edge of the desk to anchor yourself from how hard he’s fucking his fingers into you.

Leaning forward, Miguel playfully nips at your ear, the older man chuckling mischievously at how affected you are by him before he whispers, “Let me hear you.”

You frantically shake your head no, tears brimming in your eyes as your climax approaches.

Sure, you’d had fantasies about something like this occurring between the two of you— but never in a million years had you thought that you’d be pressed into the same desk you stressed about studying for your midterm at, minutes away from cumming on his fingers.

“Can’t, can’t.” You whine, your cries muffled against your palm as he shushes you.

“None of that,” He replies calmly, increasing his speed. “No more whining, niña preciosa. Just let go for me. You said you’d make it up to me, didn’t you?”

You nod weakly, lost in the way he’s making you feel. Lost in how lulling his voice is when he wants it to be.

“Then make it up to me.” He coos soothingly against your neck. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

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jessmarianosslut · 1 year

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Stewy Hosseini smut hcs bc i make the rules!

also i have a huge daddy kink don’t come at me

stewy hosseini x reader

imagine him coming home after a day of dealing with kendall’s shit.

he’s all pissed off because how dare kendall discredit him again and again

so he’s muttering under his breath, cursing the world

when you walk out of your shared room

you’re startled to see him home, especially since he hasn’t been home in a week because of some stupid business thing

and you are also pretty angry at him for not being there

but you let him walk over to you and just hold you

you let him lead you back to the bedroom without a word

you let him settle between your thighs and start raking your fingers through his hair

“what’s happened now stewy?”

and that sets him off so he just starts ranting

“kendall is a fucking asshole, his fucking ego gets in the way of everything. i try to explain something to him and he just won’t fucking have it.”

and then you had an idea

you knew that stewy needed to let some steam off

and you really wanted to piss him off as punishment for leaving you the entire week

“ yeah, i get it, love. kendall’s ego is probably just a result of being hot and getting everything handed to him his whole life.”

(you never once found kendall attractive)

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. what the fuck did you just say.”

“I said that kendall is just hot and rich, i was agreeing with you.”

and for a second you were so scared that you went overboard

and then stewy got that glint in his eyes

the one that made you know you fucked up big time

stewy pushed himself off the bed and circled you for a moment

“you think he’s hot?”

“duh”

“hotter than me?”

“probably would be better at fucking me”

he snatched the pillow out from under your head and very unceremoniously dropped it on the floor

“what are you doing, stewy?”

you feigned exasperation

then he lifted you up gently placed you on the floor

“ you want to talk like a fucking whore? you’re gonna get fucked like one. none of the princessy shit i normally give you. let’s see kendall do this, slut.”

“take off the shorts”

you really wanted to draw this out

“no”

“you fucking asked for it.”

stewy lowered himself on to the ground and all but tore the silk shorts off you

“stewy! i liked those shorts you asshole.”

and then he was gripping your chin

“don’t talk to me like that, princess.”

a sick smile started to form on his face

he settled between your thighs again, but this time facing your wet cunt

he started like normal, pressing the flat of his tongue to your clit swirling it around

but then he got more aggressive

he slipped a single digit into your cunt and kept eating

fucking his finger in and out of you as he was licking and sucking and grazing the bridge of your clit with his teeth ever so slightly

when your orgasm began to wash over you, you started begging stewy to keep going

but when it was over he didn’t stop

he just kept licking and sucking as you drenched his face

and you were trying desperately to close your legs to no avail

stewy just held your legs in place and administered a swat to your ass

“ please, please no more” as your second orgasm came

mercifully, stewy got up, and you thought it was just to get a washcloth

you started shaking in fear as you heard the sound of a vibrator being turned on

stewy just gave you a kiss on the forehead and shoved it between your legs

you started begging

“please daddy, don’t want to cum anymore.” you were practically sobbing

but he didn’t relent

instead he turned the vibrator up and laughed

he mocked you and pouted “aw, the little slut thinks crying for daddy is going to make this stop.”

your thighs were shaking at this point, already feeling your third orgasm creeping up

you’re trying to curl your head into his shoulder and simultaneously trying to let your cunt escape the vibrator

but he caught on and gripped your hips tightly, pushing the vibrator back on your clit.

“daddy, daddy, please.” as you tried to grip his arm

“no, you’re cumming as much as i want you too. i make the rules, i’m in charge. right now i want you to cum until the only word you can remember is my name.”

and you bursted again, shaking and crying as you did

trying to scramble into stewy’s lap, you clung on to his dress shirt, hoping to avail to his sense of kindness

he laughed though, and said, “kendall’s so hot, why don’t you go beg him for mercy?”

you started slurring your words “please daddy, i don’t even think he’s hot, just wanted attention. you left me, and i just wanted you to pay attention.”

you were starting to get emotional, so stewy just rubbed your back and patted your head.

“i know sweetheart, you know i don’t like being away from you.”

“so it’s over then, we can forget about it?”

and stewy’s smile returned as he chuckled

“I haven’t cum yet.”

he started unzipping his slacks

you were in for it

#stewy hosseini #stewy succession #succession #succession smut #succession x reader #stewy hosseini x reader #stewy hosseini smut #my house #my rules #i wanted smut dammit

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jessmarianosslut · 1 year

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horny for stewy hosseini today!

#succession #stewy hosseini #stewy succession

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jessmarianosslut · 1 year

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the namor content we absolutely needed

literally so hot

Dilf! Namor...so tempted to write hcs for that

well let me inspire you with this hot mess bestie 👀

pairing: dbf!namor x (f)reader warnings: eighteen+ content, unedited because it’s late and i’m lazy so beware of hella spelling mistakes, lowercase, sexual tension to the max, alcohol mention, pining, and kissing, that’s literally it but it’s more inner monologue and tension heavy than anything honestly. note: bro this was supposed to be multple hcs but turned into one long ass tension filled mess lmao, i’m sorry but dbf!namor took over, it’s just perfect for him!!

i saw a gifset where tenoch was riding a motorcycle so obviously that's dbf!namor get's around, and he's giving brooding, grumpy, man who is always scowling at you and you're not even sure if he really likes you. if he is only polite for your dads sake

but one night you go out with your friends and have a little too much to drink-and using uber right now with your vision blurry and fingers key punching so bad your messages look like a toddler did them-namor is the first person you think to call. why? you're not sure. and you almost regret it, retreat into yourself-sober up-when you hear his rough voice answer, the "hello" landing heavy in the pit of your stomach

it take you a few deep breaths and closing your eyes to steady your tipsy mind on why you even called, your name on his lips sounding stern, adjacent to being worried you think

"where are you? stay where you are." and he's there before you realize it. the loud rumble of his bike as he pulls up in front of you making your entire being vibrate with nerves. "you need better friends." he says as he hands you the helmet that was just on his head, pleasantries dead as always

"what about you?"

"just get on." it's a command, rushed, demanding, as he helps your wobbly limbs onto the bike. wordlessly pulling your wrist to have your arms wrap around his midsection. and it's probably the liquor in your system that has every bump, the vibration of the bike, the wind whipping against the tops of your thighs-or maybe it's the heady affect his cologne that engulfs the inside of the helmet-how you almost feel completely compliant and light to lay your head on his shoulder. to let your palm spread flat against his rib bone

the heavy thump of his heart matching the same speed of the thumping that leads from your chest cavity to regions it has no right to be in. and when you expect him to fix your hold on him, to shrug off your head from his shoulder, he gives you no reaction. something that both makes your nerves burn and grow cold at the same time

when he pulls into your driveway, pulling himself off of the bike first, his fingers rubbing against your chin as he undoes the clip keeping the helmet steady on your head. helping your drunken hands pull it off your head-there's a moment where his eyes catch on your outfit. like he's really taking it in now, letting his eyes drag along your exposed thigh, before that signature scowl is pulling a shadow over his eyes again

"your father home?"

"no."

"do you need help inside?"

yes. is the first thing that comes to mind. yes, please. a heat bringing itself to your cheeks when you internally shame yourself for it. lock away somewhere in your brain that tipsy you cannot be trusted to think clearly-normally. and there's a split second where you think maybe he's shaming himself for something, that the two of you are sharing the same thought, the same link to something that maybe has always been there but you've stuffed away because it was better that way-proper, normal. with the way he's just staring at you

"no." you say again. your tongue feeling heavy and dry in your mouth as you swallow and force yourself to look away from him. brace your hands on the bike to pull yourself from it but end up catching your foot and ending up where you shouldn't be: in his arms. your palms once again finding themselves pressed to his front as he wraps an arm around you to stop you from planting yourself on the harsh pavement

"let me walk you inside." he says low and gruff against your temple. your insides turning into liquid compliance as you nod without a second thought. his breath heavily fanning itself across your skin as it takes a minute, two, three, before he's pulling you from his chest and holding your wrist to help you inside

once you're inside he drops your wrist, doesn't speak, just watches as you move on wobbly legs to the stairs. the pathetic thought to trip, to plummet yourself down the steps in hopes he'll touch you again, is volleying itself back and forth between just running up the stairs and sleeping this off and waking up to whatever this tension-filled-air-and insanity going on in your head-is gone

"thank you," you send over your shoulder as your fingers have a death grip on the railing. forcing yourself to surface a smile that you know probably looks as ridiculous as it feels to your burning cheeks

namor hums, nods, keeps his eyes on every step you take up the stairs, hype focused incase you fall-you assume. "do you need me to stay?"

you know he means it politely. not in the way your body is currently taking it, he's your dads friend, besides tonight he's barely shown you a kindness besides a pressed smile. you really need to sleep. need to reset your mind back to normal because his words shouldn't stop you in your tracks. have your body internally clenching at the intensity of his stare, from the glint in them that you're definitely imagining when you watch him move closer to the bottom of the steps-because you probably look like a tripping hazard right now

"do you want to stay?" the words leave your mouth before that last sober cell in your body can stop them-stop you from making a fool out of yourself

"i want you to be safe." he replies simply. you don't know why the answer only fills you with disappointment. i'll be fine, leaving your lips as you quickly take the rest of the steps up to your room. ignore the way you feel foolish and silly as you slip into bed

a silly feeling that still lingers when you walk down stairs the next morning to see a rumpled sheet and blanket on the couch deserted, and the smell of food coming from the kitchen. a sticky note stuck to a plate covered in foil on the counter: eat. simple. to the point. but still bringing a smile to your lips and those silly feelings imbedding themselves into your marrow

turning into something burning and aching when you see him again. when he drops something off for your dad and he's nowhere to be found in sight. when the two of you are stuck in the kitchen together, a heavy silence weighing down the air that seems to suck itself from your lungs the longer the two of you just stand here. the longer he keeps looking anywhere but you as his grip tightens on the neck of the beer you offered him-mentioning your father would be home any minute now

"thank you for staying, and for the food."

a nod. curt. ever him.

"you didn't have to help me-"

"think so little of me?"

"that's-i didn't mean it like that-i-" you want to state how he's avoided you like the plague before that. how his face morphs into a scowl when you enter the same room as him. how you are certain he hates you, still think that, just maybe a little less after helping you

"you need better friends." he repeats himself from the other night. making an annoyance shift your emotions

"so does my father."

the snort he lets out from under his breath shocks you, as does the pull of the corner of his mouth in the smallest-genuine-smiles you've ever seen him give you. it makes your stomach swoop

"i'm glad you called me."

"that's hard to believe. i'm confident this is the most you've spoken to me in a span of minutes." you joke, the corner of his mouth pulling into a full grin that makes you upset you've never seen him smile before this-has he always been this handsome?

"and here i thought you were a smart girl." the words would wound you if he wasn't staring at you like that over the bottle pressed to his lips. how even when he sets it back on the counter his eyes are still boring into your very being, right to that part of your body that you're understanding now has always wanted him. that you slowly realize, after much analysis to everything that happened the other night: the look in his eyes, the grip he had on your body to make sure you were kept safe, how he didn't even second guess or ask questions when you called, just demanding to know where you were, and to wait for him-that he was coming to get you and that was that

and it’s like a domino effect because now all you can think about is the stolen glances you’ve let go unnoticed, that you’ve chalked up to some festering dislike he may have had for you. how quickly his eyes shifted away from you when your father was in the room, how you’d look over and see him already looking at you when your father was distracted-that scowling coming back, the swivel of his head away from you almost something you’d see a frustrated animal do

maybe you weren’t as smart as either of you thought. or maybe being blind to something you both ignored was better than doing something you’d possibly regret later

if it were that, the fear of betrayal and regret, it didn’t seem to have any place in the room as you watch him finish his beer, walk around the counter to stand in front of you. reaching past you-your chests touching for half a second, your breath getting caught in your lungs-as he sets the empty bottle beside the sink behind you. and when you expect him to move away, to bid you goodbye, you feel his finger under your chin lifting your gaze from the floor. his deep brown eyes sucking every last potential breath from your lungs, your back digging into the edge of the counter as you try to ground yourself, try to settle the burning nerves that are making it hard for your brain to function right now

“if it was only me, all this time, tell me right now.”

you don’t need him to elaborate, there’s no need for explanation, you read through his words, the knowledge sitting heavy in your lower belly; the fear of shaking your head and having him stop touching you stops you from moving, a barely audible “no. not just you” falling from your parted lips

lips that his thumb presses into, your bottom lip met with the pad of his thumb as he rubs along it. throat bobbing with a hard swallow, eyes flashing from your mouth to your eyes. you want to ask why now? what changed? why throw both your dignities to the wind and say fuck it? but the look of stern-protection he showed the other night each time he looked at you, like he was fighting with himself with being upset at himself and upset at you for not having better friends, for putting yourself in a potential bad situation. you know why now

“if i keep touching you-if i let myself cross that line-i’ll never stop.”

“what if i don’t want you to stop?”

“you’ll have to beg me to.”

“i won’t.”

his front is completely pressed to yours, a thigh between your parted legs, forehead on yours as you see the internal battle going on in his expressions, in his heavy breaths, in how he keeps dipping his mouth down to yours only to pull it away at the last minute, “you need to.”

“i need you.”

and it’s those magic words that have him cupping your face in his hands and pressing his lips to yours in a rough kiss of passion-every lick into your mouth, every bite at your bottom lip, the moans he swallows down from your throat, speaking silent words of how long he’s waited to have you like this.

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