ìŽëŠŒìŽìŽ ê°ë°ìŽë©ìŽë
d e v o n
Peter Solarz
I'd rather be in outer space đž

pixel skylines
tumblr dot com

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Cosmic Funnies
Today's Document
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

@theartofmadeline
One Nice Bug Per Day
AnasAbdin

â

Andulka
Mike Driver
RMH
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă

shark vs the universe

Kaledo Art
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@cuteskunkz
ìŽëŠŒìŽìŽ ê°ë°ìŽë©ìŽë
need him to call me his princess NOW.
seeing old man!logan being happy and smiling fuels something primal in me đđđ
a stained glass living room design by Harris Armstrong
seeing old man!logan being happy and smiling fuels something primal in me đđđ
one thing about kink is that its play pretend for freaks and i think thats beautiful
Hugh Jackman as Logan Howlett in Logan (2017)
god men look so good when theyâre on the brink of death
i also want to just hold him & take care of him forever i donât care if thatâs a 200 year old man thatâs my bae đ
logan + parenting
nobody understands how much they mean to me
gold star student
professor!logan howlett x fem!reader
âÂ·Ë àŒ * one bad grade is one too many, so you ask one professor logan howlett, phd. for some extra credit after class. inspired by this art.
cw: reader lowkey has undiagnosed adhd, u want that cookie so effing bad, oral (m & f), praise, some degradation, swearing (itâs logan), shaky power dynamics so it can be considered dub-con, non specific age gap, college aged reader, logan puts stickers on your face while you blow him, face slapping, semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up!!), finger sucking, spitting on the pussy, grey streak logan cause if he ainât greying im not staying!!!, this is just me being horny idk what else to say iâm sorry yall. 18+ only.
wc: 8k
â€ïž a/n: this wasâŠ. a labour of love to say the least. i hate the ending but fuck it we ball. enjoy <3
Ever since you were a child, anything and everything that had to do with academia had been the bane of your existence. Sitting at a desk for eight odd hours in a day wasnât only grossly unappealing to you, but a mental challenge as well. You had found it hard to grasp onto concepts and new materials as well as the other kids, unable to focus on whatever spiel of the day your teacher went on about and still found yourself struggling in higher education. From kindergarten, to elementary, to middle school, to high school, up until now in your college years, you find that not only has your attention deficit gotten worse, but so has your motivation in academia in general.Â
A floater student is what you would consider yourself, showing up to class once in a blue moon, rather busying yourself with doom scrolling in your dormitory or shopping off campus at the mall, only showing up during exam time and barely passing. your prognosis would be one of the many hyperactive disorders, but you never bothered to diagnose yourself officially. In high school, your parents didnât make a huge deal of your grades, thanking a graceful god out there that you even got your diploma to begin with. At this age however, with tens of thousands of dollars being poured into your tuition, your mother and father have seemed to coil up even tighter in terms of frustration with your nonchalant attitude towards school.Â
A report card from your fall semester riddled with Câs and Dâs, emboldened and italicized as if to taunt you silently, was the final straw, the cussing you received was enough for a lifetime. At your parents' discretion, before the start of the semester you consulted with your academic advisor in suggestion of a course schedule that wasnât a twelve hour day, and professors who would accommodate you with in the case of your late assignments and missing homework.Â
All classes but one would be easy- you had been told. Your world history class and its professor had been the only one where you had been saddled with a hardball teacher, rate my professor describing one Logan Howlett, teacher of Modern World History in the Context of Classic Literature, as a man with a foul mouth and harsh grading assholeâ with an excellent curriculum but horrible grade weighting, as described by your fellow student body, the mandatory attendance and participation accounting for twenty percent of your grade alone pulling a groan from you as your laptop screen stares back at you, the blue light emitting from it seemingly silently taunting you with the course course outline. Get used to looking at my screen. Three hours in an auditorium, every Wednesday and Friday for twelve weeks at nine in the morning with this douchebag.
You mentally prepare yourself for the exhaustion of the upcoming semester, shutting your laptop closed with a huff of annoyance before laying in bed, mentally preparing yourself for this seemingly infamous professor Howlett.
After a rather inadequate night of sleep, a zero sugar monster energy (gotta give in for the sake of your health where you can) and a double shot latte, you feel something that briefly resembles yet still distant from awake, you find yourself struggling to get comfortable in the stiff chairs in your lecture room. Youâre glad you tucked yourself away in a seat in the corner, four rows back from the front, embarrassed that your peers are silently mocking your struggle.Â
Itâs some odd minutes to nine on the dot, and youâre rather proud of yourself for being able to make it minutes early rather than stumbling in twenty minutes late like youâre prone to doing. Face resting on your hand, cheek squishing your right eye closed, your left eye flits around the room to the other people present, and you wonder if anyone else is stuck in your current situation: burnt out student who didnât have a choice but to take this class at the least convenient time possible, simply for your graduation credits. Unfortunate kismet, you think, if anybody else in this room also had the privilege to have been born with the unlucky gene you possess.Â
Your eyes are heavy, the seconds tickering away at the speed of minutes, and you canât help it when the last open eye you have flutters close. You hum to yourself, relishing at the feeling of finally being able to rest some more. the quiet shuffling of your classmates feet and the soft scrapings of their chairs, clock ticking so quietly that it barely registers in your mind. The ambient noise is like a blanket to you. Itâs not more than five minutes, just a micro napâ you tell yourself, counting the seconds of each minute down silently. 45, 44, 43, 42, what minute is this?, 30, 29, 28, so tired, 22, 21, time to sleepâŠ
Your eyes shoot open when you hear the auditorium door slam shut, blinking away softly the sleep in your eyes. your heart sinks for a minute and panic sets inâ did you sleep through the whole class? On the first fucking day? You look around, eyes wide, and immediately sigh in relief when youâre greeted with a full hall. Conversely, you see everyoneâs attention to the front of the class with materials out, so you trail your eyes to the front of the room and thatâs when you see him, finally. Not his face yet, the wide expanse of his back and tail of his coiffed head facing you all instead. Your eyes trail down his body to his feet, clad in a pair of black combat boots, you canât help but quirk up and eyebrow, bootcut jeans that seem to be worn in well, seemingly like theyâre tailored to his long, very legs, then you see his jacket, which now you catch in time to see him taking it off to reveal a black t-shirt underneath and your breath hitches a bit. You can only see his triceps flexing as he maneuvers his jacket off, but you can just tell heâs covered in rippling muscle, his arms straining against the fabric of his shirt. You canât help but wonder what he looks like, wondering if his face is as captivating as the rest of him. Your eyes flit over to the girl sitting two seats down from you, and you canât help but smile a little at her expression, teeth chewing her bottom lip and eyes widened slightly and blinking in slow flutters, seemingly thinking the same things about this Professor Logan Howlett as you are; Heâs obscenely sexy even though I havenât even seen his face.
When you focus your attention back to the front, your face warms immediately upon finally seeing hisâ Professor Howlettâs face and fuck, you feel stupid for even thinking that he wouldnât be even a fraction of attractive. His hair, oh god his hair, styled as if he just rolled out of bed and ran his hands through it once, maybe twice even, streaked with gray at his temples, peppering down into his sideburns and disappearing in his scruffy beard. His eyes are an enrapturing shade of hazel, almost brown, almost green, you squint a little to see the mix of hues better, cursing yourself for sitting so far away. His nose, button-like yet poses so masculine at the same time. His lips look so soft and kissable, framed perfectly by his facial hair as if itâs screaming at you to kiss there, to taste each other, let your tongues touch and whisper your deepest secrets to one another-
Gravelly and deep, his voice rouses you from your rather indulgent fantasy. âGood morning. Lively bunch this semester,â he quips and a quiet wave of laughter reverberates and echoes around you. Your chest tightens at the sound of his voice and you want to smack yourself silly for it. âGonna spare you all the pointless introductions nâ ice breaking crap, yeah? Weâll go over the syllabus and get this show on the road.â
Heâs curt, forward, doesnât bite his tongue, you deduce. Not the jackass his reviews seem to pin him as, though itâs only the first class. They didnât seem to mention how ruggedly handsome he was as well, you think and pull your lips taut as Professor Howlett, continues to read off the syllabus. Two essays, three quizzes, and a final reading comprehension exam. Attendance is mandatory Your eyes quickly flit to the back of your skull as he reads off that point. No makeups. No late work. No excuses.Â
You feel your heart hammer in your chest a little, a sense of anxiety bubbling up in you at how much this class demands. Itâs nerve wracking, super fucking discouraging to say the least given your track record, but you know you have no other choice but to commit fully and pass this class, so help your parents. You suppose you can find the motivation in a hot professor and at the very least, make an effort to roll out of bed and be presentable on the days you show up to his class. You exhale softly, hearing the shuffling of books and closing laptops to rouse you from your thoughts.Â
âAnd donât forget, first five chapters of tulip fever for next class,â his voice booms in the auditorium, fighting with the noise of students desperate to leave and head to their next class or back to their rooms. You flit your eyes towards your professor, arms crossed and muscles bulging against his shirt, casually leaned against his desk. His eyes meet yours for a moment and your breath hitches immediately. His brow quirks at you silently and youâre sure you might disintegrate on spot. You feel your face heat up and you break away the eye contact to rush out of the lecture, both exhausted and perpetually embarrassed, not having enough energy to handle feeling both. In your haste, you miss the way Logan's lip quirks up for a split second at you, rushing out the door with Tulip Fever and streaks of grey on your mind.Â
You find you canât keep your modern history professor off the brain since leaving the lecture hall that wednesday, ever so flustered. You thought about his thick arms back at your dorm, and how they might feel wrapped around you in a warm embrace. You thought about those graying temples, and the picture it would paint with his head between your thighs. You thought about him in your humanities class as your professor droned on about morality and its many philosophical perspectives, but you tune her voice out and think of his instead, wondering what it would sound like whispering sweet nothings in your ear. The level of yearning youâve reached is bound to get you in trouble, hell itâs gotten you in trouble alreadyâ completely neglecting to finish the first five chapters of Tulip Fever like Professor Howlett had assigned, losing yourself in the work from your other classes. Friday had snuck up on you and you smacked your forehead for being so forgetful, the beginnings of discourage and a knot forming in your stomach. Iâm a failure, I suck at this, I should drop out, Iâm such a fucking idiot.
The thought of letting down a man you barely know has you berating yourself even further. You need to get a grip and quicklyâ heâs your teacher for God's sake. You suck in a breath, finding yourself sat in the same lecture hall your vivid fantasies found themselves being born in, laptop open as youâre frantically reading the Sparknotes summary minutes before class is set to start. Today, you chose a seat in the second row, still far off to the right side. You werenât sure you could stay coherent with his gaze on you so heavy. You tell yourself you picked this spot for a better learning experience, closer seats meaning less of a chance you fall prey to your fantasies, but deep down beyond the denial you knew better than to convince yourself of a lie like that. You sat upfront because you wanted to see Professor Howlett better, to pinpoint the hues of his eyes you couldnât make out yesterday from so far behind. You wanted to trail your eyes up and down his muscular frame, taking snapshots of the hair on his forearms, the freckles on his thick knuckles, the veins trailing his big handsâ
âGood morning, everyone,â a gruff voice speaks and you feel a ball of energy sits itself deep in your stomach, itâs him. You've missed the deep baritone of his voice, you realize. âHope you all read up the chapters, yeah? Weâll be discussing âem today, and I am the asshole who picks on students to participate.â Thereâs a soft wave of grumbles from some, but your panic is quiet and you hope to a God in heaven somewhere that he doesnât pick you, god knows you barely retained any information from your flash round of Sparknotes earlier.
âLike any book, the first few chapters were mostly exposition, character and scene setting stuff. Tell me, what does Sophiaâs marriage and lack of heir signify to us in these times?â Professor Howlett asks, and you immediately avert your gaze to the grooves and scratches in the table in front of you. Please donât pick me, please donât pick me, please please pleaseâ âYeah, you,â your head snaps up, heart hammering in your chest when you see him nod his head at some girl, some girl with too much fucking chest out, you spit, her hand raised high and smile plastered across her smug little face. Your brows pull together and you barely contain the urge to roll your eyes at her enthusiasm.Â
âThank you, Professor,â This fucking bi- âI think that- that while Cornelius and Sophia are often representative of the way marriage was a lot of the times something more transactional, her being unable to have a kid being a main problem- shows how a lot of times a marriage with no evidence of, um, consummation, is seen as practically null and void.â Your fist tenses against the desk at her answer.
âLittle long winded, but yeah, good job..?â his voice lilts off, and you smile a bit knowing he doesnât even remember her name. âOh, um, Amber,â she sputters out. He nods at her response and continues asking questions about the book. You feel a little bad as class progresses, your unprovoked and unwarranted jealousy towards another woman over a man whoâs simply an authority figure to you both, no matter how attractive, makes you cringe. What is he doing to you?Â
âGood answers, guys. Glad you all did more than skim the book,â Professor Howlett muses, turning his back to face you all as he digs through his briefcase. You take this time to admire how broad his back looks, draped in a black polo shirt today that practically has you drooling. âThe rest of you I didnât pick on today arenât unscathed unfortunately,â he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He turns around and presents the stack of papers between his large hands to you all and he smirks, âPop quiz.âÂ
A myriad of groans come crashing from all over the lecture hall right down to your ears and you silently join, hands falling down against your desk. You sincerely hope these werenât going to be graded, praying that Professor Howlett possesses some sense of apologeticness, knowing that the definite zero percent youâd get on this would completely fuck over your overall average for the rest of the semester, subsequently giving your parents ample reason to rip you a fucking brand new one.Â
Row by row, he passes a stack of papers for each student to pass down and he stops in front of you, seeing as you so conveniently sat at the end of the second row. âNervous?â he asks, brow quirked and smug fucking look on his face as you look up at him. You quirk your eyebrow right back at him, âHardly.â A group of papers fall in front of you and he breathes out a laugh, leaving you to pass papers to the next row. You lied like shit, you were insanely nervous, knowing you hadnât retained a lick of information from your mini crash course nor the classâ discussion prior.
âNo tech, no cheating. You guys know the drill, donât make me catch you and have to chew you out. Twenty minutes and Iâm picking âem up.â Logan says, walking down the aisle and back to his desk, his hulking frame leaning against his desk and his arms crossed up against his chest so tight that his biceps practically bulge out of his shirt. Or maybe, heâs just that toned, that any movement, minuscule or major, would have him threatening to rip out of his clothes. Youâre practically fighting yourself in your seat, tearing your eyes away from his thick arms and heavy pectorals and down to your paper.Â
Itâs one page, front and back, ten questions. It wouldnât be so bad had you actually read the book, considering you canât even remember the name of the main character in the book. You bite your lip, trying so hard to rack your brain for something that resembles a coherent answer to these questions that will give you at least a 75%, knowing it wouldnât skew your grade average completely off. What does Mariaâs role stand to symbolize in the context of 1600âs Amsterdam?. You clench your fist so hard around your pen youâre almost amazed that it doesnât break under the pressure. You didnât even remember a Maria in the book.
Twenty minutes of writing later, grasping at straws for potential points that would make you feel better than getting a big fat zero on your first quiz in this class, in his class, youâre walking to his desk to place your quiz in a pile with the rest of your peers, just as heâd instructed. You kept your eyes down the entire time, feeling too embarrassed to look at him after that silly excuse for banter you had attempted earlier. Hardly. Yeah fucking right.Â
After your quiz, you had been dismissed from class, and you felt the anxiety set in almost immediately. The phone call you had with your parents that weekend over your classes and grades so far only worsened, the stern and subtly implied threat of coming back home to learn at a local college looming silently above you if you didnât keep your grades up. You had obviously avoided mentioning the pop quiz you had, choosing not to set them ablaze at the mention of the fact that you most definitely failed that pop quiz. The stress of your grades instilled a new found productivity in you, in which you took initiative to read ahead of the assigned chapters and annotate as well as take notes for your modern history class, hoping to be prepared next time heâd ask a question. Your stomach churns at the thought of his praise, Good answer. Very good, kiddo. Like that idea. you imagined heâd say to you. You bite your lip as you study your western civilization notes, maybe heâd even indulge in you, call you his good girl, his good little student, something that Amber would never have above you.Â
Monday and Tuesday went by uneventfully, as you completed your labs and started on your assignments when assigned. Tuesday night however, you had been anxious almost, or maybe excitedâ you werenât sure, but you did know you wanted to be prepared for this class, to prove to Professor Howlett that you could handle his class, show him that you wouldnât let him chew you up and spit him out so easily. You took the time before bed on that Tuesday to prepare your books in your bag, organize your notes, and even pick out an outfit, neatly folding it and leaving it on your desk chair. Grades be damned, you were beyond ready to prove everyone wrong, yourself included.Â
You sat in the front row again, enraptured in the world of Tulip Fever, but really you would rather focus on Professor Howlett. He was all you thought about these days, especially at night when it was only you and the dark of your dorm to entertain you before bed. You hear a giggle next to you and you snap your head to the direction of the noise. Amber. A deep rumble sounds in front of you, someone clearing their throat. You look forward again and see your professor and your face heats up. âWelcome back to earth, sweetheart,â he muses, humour painted all over his face. Your eyes widen at the pet name heâs given you and you feel like sinking into your seat. âI need you here next time, yeah? Not in that pretty little head of yours,â he says, quiet enough so only you and the front two rows can hear. Your head spins. Pretty. He called you pretty. He continues his lecture like nothing else happened, leaving you dazed at his affection. His eyes flit to you briefly and he smiles, before walking back to the front of the class.Â
Little moments like these pepper themselves throughout your lectures with Profess Howlett in between the assignments and lectures and raised hands. Youâd catch him looking at the juncture of your breasts sometimes as you wore low cut tops, his lilting voice calling you precious pet names, sweetheart, kiddo, sweets. They all have your face warming. Heated gazes, stolen smiles, one off banter, you were convinced you were being delusional. One particular moment after class where you had asked for details on an assignment had you reeling for days. You went up to him after class to ask your question. His face was insanely close, you could smell the mint off his breath from the gum he was chewing during the lecture, feel his words fan your face, deep rumblings and focused glares as you were only inches away from his face. His lips, oh God his lips⊠so close, so soft looking, so pink, you had been so caught up in him the entire time. And he had noticed, his fingers coming up to your chip to raise your gaze. He did it wordlessly, eyeing you as you eyed him. His look daring you to say something. Challenge me. I dare you. But you didnâtâ you couldnât, you had tried to focus on something else, his musky woodsy scent, his greying stubble, anything, as he continued to explain your question to you. You walked out of his class that day with jello for legs, replaying the moment in your mind.Â
Next class you had seen him he had given the assignments back, adorned with little gold stars on those who had grades higher than a B minus. Your paper had come back to you with an A minu, a little gold star next to your grade. âBoosts morale,â had been Loganâs explanation when a student had asked why the gold star. You smiled. Cute.Â
You had felt like you finally found your groove, despite the hiccup you had at the beginning. Your first test of the semester approached, and you werenât nervous, in fact you showed up to class early, getting a chance to get a good spot and watch Professor Howlett walk in and begin setting up. You had waved, a meek good morning in your own words and he returned a wink back. Your insides tugged at themselves. He had waltzed over to you in your seat, starting up conversation. âNervous?â he asks, curt and short. You smile, âHardly,â using your own words once more. âIâm gunning on a gold star. I studied extra hard.â Professor Howlett hums, smile on his face. âI look forward to seeing your work. I enjoy reading it,â he says. He leaves you with those words as he walks back to his desk, more students beginning to pepper in the classroom as the test hour approached. You had been so sure you did excellent on your test, studying for days and days beforehand. So when you got back your test, a C Minus staring back at you with a gut wrenching empty space next to your grade right where a star would be. Tears prick your eyes as you look at the grade, feeling so disappointed in yourself. This couldnât be. It just couldnât.
You had promptly stayed behind after class to speak to him, and it seemed like Amber had the same idea, her body close to his as she spoke lowly. She didnât spare a glance back at you as she spoke to him, hand grazing his bicep as she walked away and past you. Your eyes rolled in your head and you walked up to Professor Howlett next. Heâs in the middle of packing up his papers in his bag when you come up to him, and he glances up in acknowledgment before going back to what heâs doing. You breathe out and his brown quirks as he pauses and looks at you. âYes?â he asks. âI⊠I would like to see you after class if possible to discuss my grades,â you say, fist curling and uncurling with nerves. âTomorrow afternoon come see me at my office,â he says, arms crossing. âDonât be late. Donât get your hopes up either,â he quirks. You chew your lip before sighing. âIâll be there. On time.âÂ
And true to your word, you showed up promptly and on time. Your heart was hammering in your chest cavity so hard you felt like it would burst through your ribcage. Your lower lip found itself between your teeth, chewing at it tenderly. You had been staring at the mahogany colored door, finished with a shiny golden plaque, L. Howlett, PHD. carved within the surface of the precious metal. His name posed just as intimidating as he did. Youâd been standing in front of his door for almost three minutes now, fingers skimming along the hem of your plaid skirt. The accompanying white tanktop and white cardigan hand made your subconscious intentions loud and clear, as some part of you, a delusional part of you, had hoped this school girl-esque get up would grant you some sort of leniency with Professor Howlett as you begged for him to give you a retake, a makeup assignment, something for Godâs sake.
Any moment more of hesitancy and you would be late for your two oâclock appointment time, so you bring your knuckles up to the door to knock, twice in succession, when the door swings open in front of you. Your knuckle is almost met with Amberâs face, her shock seeing you just as evident as hers. She doesnât let it linger however, as she casts a glance over her shoulder and muses a âBye Professor. Thank you so much, Iâll see you in class Monday,â before looking back forward and right back at you, holding your gaze as she walks right out the door and past you, making sure her shoulder doesnât miss yours. You scoff. Bitch.Â
âRight on time. Come in,â he gestures, refusing to get up from his comfy looking office chair. As you walk around his office you take in the interior briefly. The mahogany furniture, the lingering smell of cigar smoke, evidence of his nasty habit sitting on top of an ashtray on his desk, the glass bar cart, adorned with various bottles of whiskey and gin, and a mini fridge sitting on its bottom shelfâ filled with ice and garnish you assume. You eye his book cabinet, shelves stuffed with various literary titles, old and new, classic and contemporary. You find yourself impressed, but you shouldnât be, his teachingâ albeit rough, brutish sometimes evenâ is a testament to his passion towards books and literature. You smile a little as you sit down in the foam lined chair in front of his desk. You try not to think of who sat in it before you as you feel the residual warmth of it against your thighs. You take in Professor Logan, black t-shirt and dark blue jeansâ casual, but damn if he made it look good. You eyed his arms, veiny and bulging out his shirt, before flickering your attention back to his face, framed by those greying temples you oh so loved.
âSo?â He trails, redirecting his attention from his desktop to you. You swallow a little and sigh. âUm, I know that you said no⊠no retakes or anything, and I understand your answer if itâs a hard no,â you say, pausing to look at him to try and assess what heâs thinking, but youâre simply met with a raised brow and crossed arms as he leans back further in his chair. âBut I⊠I was wondering if- Well, my parents, they said that If I have a grade lower than an A on my report card this semester I had to drop out and transfer locally, and I donât want to make this a pity story but I⊠Itâs only this class where Iâm having trouble. And I know what you said but my last test really fucked my average and I-â your nervous ramblings are cut off by him raising his hand. Your lips clamp and you watch him, waiting for his impending words. He makes you sit in the silence and with your words, instead opening his desk drawer, rifling between what sounds like various loose pens and papers before taking a lighter out. Small, sliver, zippo style and engraved with meticulous swirls. He picks up the already cut cigar out the ashtray, placing it between his pink lips, and lights itâ two experimental puffs of smoke floating your way and you get dizzy.Â
âYou donât mind?â He asks only now, and you try not to roll your eyes and that façade of chivalry. âNo,â you shake your head. âThought so,â he smiles, smug. He puffs from the cigar once more before he places it down on the glass ashtray once again before he speaks up. âAs it stands now if you tighten up for the rest of the semester you can pass my class with a B something, which donât sound too bad to me, sweetheart.â Your gut twists with tension. A B isnât what you need. You brows furrow and you open your mouth to speak, but he continues. âI would love to help you sweetheart, trust me I would. But that wouldnât be fair to all the other students who come waltzing in here dressed just like you, begging for an A,â he drawls, picking up his cigar again and slotting it between his lips before he stands up and your breath hitches. âWh- dressed like me? I didnât-â you begin, confused at what heâs implying. Your eyes follow his moving figure, his steps taking him around his desk to the side of your chair, conveniently eye level to his groin.Â
âBut you did, didnât you?â he asks softly, thumb coming to your chin to direct your gaze up to his eyes. âI donât understandâŠâ you murmur, skin beginning to warm at the rather inappropriate contact and position. Your chest heaves up and down beneath your cardigan and he surely notices letting out a soft chuckle. âYouâre a smart girl. Iâm sure you can put two and two together,â he continues, thumb rubbing softly back and forth against your chin before he drops his hand from you completely. Your eyes drop in sync to his limb, your mind racing a million thoughts a second. But⊠isnât this what you wanted? What you needed? What youâve dreamed of for weeks upon weeks? âLook at me,â he says, stern. And you do. âYou listen so well,â he hums and you feel the makings of a fire ignite itself inside you somewhere deep. Iâm being good. Good for him. âKills you inside that you couldnât get that shiny little sticker, doesnât it?â he muses, looking down at you with mirth swirling in his eyes. You feel tears spring to your eyes at his words. He sees right through you. It did hurt. All you ever wanted to be was good for him.Â
âWe can fix that today. Tell you what, you be a good student for me, and Iâll be a good teacher to you, yeah?â he says, taking a puff from his cigar. âNod your head like a good student.â And you do. Up and down, slowly. Your brain is fuzzy. This surely isnât happening, is it? It couldnât be. He walks away and back to his desk, propping his cigar down after asking it. He pushes a pile of papers from his desk, until he finds what heâs looking for. A sticker sheet. What is heâŠ
âCâmere,â Professor Howlett gestures with a finger, simultaneously sitting back on his chair. Your legs are trembling under you as you get up and walk towards his side of the desk. Logan pivots his desk chair to the side as you walk over to him and you find yourself standing between his legs, quiet. âTake that off,â he says, flicking his head towards your cardigan. You let it drop off your shoulder promptly, standing only in your white tank top and plaid skirt. âKneel,â he says, and you drop immediately. Pathetic. Your hands lay in your laps as youâre sat between his legs on your knees. Your breathing is as laboured as ever. You canât believe this is happeningâ something that you spent nights dreaming of. Touching him, tasting him, feeling him. He reaches over to his desk and grabs the sticker sheet of gold stars, a fresh sheet of stars neatly arranged row by row. âYou know what to do, donât you sweetheart?â he asks, palm of his hand running against your face. You nod, reaching forward to the zipper of his dark denim jeans before his palm grabs your hand. âWhen I ask you somethinâ, I want a verbal answer. Yâunderstand?â he says. Your voice feels caught in your throat. Heâs so intense your head is spinning. âY-yes,â you breathe. âYes what?â he spits back and your heart hammers. âY-yes, Sir.â
âGood girl,â he hums. He lets go of your hands, taking a sticker off the sheet and placing a small gold star right next to your left eye. Your face heats up at the praise and you almost let out a breath, but you donât. Your hands go back to undressing Professor Howlett, fingers deft with his button and zipper. He lifts his hips up and helps you shrug his jeans down until theyâre sitting on top of his black combat boots, clad only in black briefs. The heavy tent in his pants makes your eyes go wide but you persist, thinking of your grade on the line. With a tug at his boxer band his dick pops up over the elastic, and you pull down until the full sheath of him is bobbing freely. Your eyes widen a little at the sheer size of him, wondering how he could possibly fit inside your mouth let alone your pussy. He was long, eight inches youâd guess just by looking and insanely thick. He was heavy tooâ the length of him unable to stand up fully, bobbing haphazardly as he twitched from arousal. You looked up at him, and his gaze was steady. Expectant. You sucked in a shallow breath before grabbing his cock, warm to the touch. Your fingers barely touched. Youâre hand jerked up once before Professor Howlett was grabbing your wrist, only to spit on his dick, the string of saliva landing on the shaft. âSâbetter. Go on,â he encourages, and you doâ jerking him a little faster now with his spit lubricant, the sound of his slick skin making your pussy feel warm, wet. You jerk him faster, spitting in the palm of your second hand before you join your other, breasts bouncing up and down as you jerk him. Little grunts leave Logan, and it makes your tummy feel warm. You were making him feelâ âGood, just like that, yeah. Use your mouth now,â he moans. You felt intimidated by his size, but you persisted still. You wanted to be his good girl.
You look up at him as your mouth opens, coy like a fish, and you wrap your lips around his tip. He inhales a sharp breath and it gives you some encouragement. Be good. Your head drops lower, lower and lower until your mouth his full and his tip is tickling your uvula, and you gag around him, sputtering spit all over him. You pull off his dick to cough and he chuckles at you. âLetâs try again together, yeah?â You nod, âYes, Sir.â You reposition yourself, back on your knees in front of him. âOpen your mouth and stick your tongue out, open real wide,â he says, tapping your cheek. It felt soft slap more than a tap however. But still, you open your mouth wide, tongue hanging out. âJuuust like that, yeahâŠâ Logan groans, slapping the warmth of his cock on your tongue. âBreath through the nose,â he says, before putting the length of him in your mouth and pulling your head down on him, fist clenched in your hair. He pulls you down deep, further than you managed to reach alone and you gag, spit everywhere, but he pays you no mind. His curses under his breath before standing up out of his seat, your head craning up as his fist pulls at your nape. âGood fuckinâ girl,â he breathes, thrusting his cock in an out of your mouth. Your throat feels rubbed raw, tears pooling in your eyes but you hold on, hands gripping his thighs. âTake it, fucking take it,â he grunts. His hand disappears before placing a sticker on your spit-covered cheek and you whimper around his cock. Loganâs brows pull together and he laughs. âThat turn you on? You like being my good little student? You like sucking off your professor?â he laughs, fucking your face with a deep pace. You muffle a Yes, Sir around him as his spit soaked balls slap against your chin and he laughs. Sticker after sticker covers the expanse of your face, a juxtaposition to your debauched mascara-streaked-spit-covered face.
Your throat is raw, but youâre relishing in the attention, the praise, the intensity of it. âOne more mouthful, câmon,â he grunts, pushing your head down even further down his cock and you squeal around him. Your eyes snap shut, focusing on holding your breath as he brings his dick deep down your throat until your nose is buried in his greying pubes. âSo fucking nasty,â he drawls, deep groan leaving his chest. âTake it, be good and take it,â he says breathless, before heâs spitting his cum down your throat, leaving you no choice but to swallow his bitter semen. Your eyes wretch open lowly, watch Loganâs face contort in pleasure as he finishes in your throat and you whimper, squeezing his thighs tightly. âGood student,â he coos, pulling his cock from your mouth and itâs a relief thatâs long overdue. Your first unobstructed breath is a deep one, and youâre slightly dizzy from the oxygen after having it restricted for so long. You donât think about it for long before a hand is pulling you up off the floor, and before you know it, lips are on yours, tongue finding tongue. Your eyes close by themselves and you melt into the kiss, Professor Howlettâs lips soft against yours, but kissing you so roughly. Your arms grip his biceps, desperate for something to hold onto, anything to steady yourself with.Â
The kiss breaks and your mind feels hazy. Your eyes open and you see Professor Howlett staring back at you, hands roaming your body. âPr-professorâŠâ you moan out after a particularly hard squeeze at your ass. âLogan, baby,â he says, kissing your lips once in a peck, and again as a sloppy embrace, his tongue swirling in your mouth and you keen into him. His hands pull at the back of your thighs and you jump up in his arms, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He walks you a few paces, still stuck in an embrace, until he puts on you down on his desk. He breaks the kiss between you two before pulling the front of your tank top down, revealing your breasts to him, nipples pert. He wastes no time kissing and licking your chest, and you throw your head back in a silent moan. He sucks on your nipples for a minute, pinching and toying with your breast until your chest is heaving and nipples are raw. âWhat a sight for me,â Logan hums, and you feel shy under him like this. âLean back and spread your legs fâme,â he says low, kneeling as you do as he asks. Heâs eye level with your pussy, only covered by your skirt and white panties. He lifts the plaid fabric up and groans, the little wet spot of your pussy a delectable sight.Â
Logan leans forward and licks the wet gusset of your panties and you let out a shuddering moan. âP-please, LoganâŠâ you breath, too wound up to wait. He smirks and indulges in you, pliant and needy. He hooks a finger in the crotch of your panties and pulls them to the side, hurrying his face into your wet and waiting pussy. Itâs an enrapturing feeling, having him suck and lick and taste your clit and folds like this, groaning into you and he praises you for having such a sweet fuckinâ pussy, baby. He sucks your clit roughly, before pulling back to spit on your pussy, rubbing his nose against your clit before flattening his tongue against your gushing slit once again. The streaks of grey between your thighs sends blood rushing downwards to the center of your arousal and you canât help but run your hands through his salt and pepper hair. He licks and tongues you until your legs go numb, teasing your orgasm from you time and time again until youâre nearly in tears for him, ready to cum.
 âPlease Lo- Sir. Please, Sir. Wanna cum, Iâll be good. Just-â your begging is cut short as two thick fingers push themselves in you and you throw your head back at the stretch. âYouâre gonna come for me in a little, sweetheart. Be good for now,â Logan coos, kissing your inner thighs. Youâre heaving as he curls and scissors his fingers inside you in a way that feels so unfairly good that tears begin to streak down your face, gold stickers peeling and falling off your damp skin; scattering down on the desk and falling on your chest. âG-gonna⊠Oh my God, Sir,â you squeal, just about ready to⊠Until his fingers deftly leave you. Before you can whine about this, Loganâs thick fingers covered in your slick push into your mouth and you groan. âHush, baby. Youâre about to feel real good in a little,â Logan hums, rubbing his cock, now hard again, up and down your wet and sensitive pussy, the head of him hitching your clit so good it hurts. His fingers leave your mouth. âBeg for it.â And you do. Youâre a babbling mess under him. âInside, p-put it inside me, Professor,â you moan, and Logan's resolve snaps, thrusting into you in one fluid movement.
You see stars, no pun intended, at the stretch of him. Your stomach feels full and you shudder, laying back down against the desk. âTightest, sweetest fucking pussy I ever felt,â Logan coos, fingers pushing back into your mouth. His unoccupied hand grabs your leg and throws it over his shoulder and he begins to thrust in and out of you, knocking the wind out of you with every push in and out. Your intermittent moans turn into a symphony of cries as his pace increases and heâs fucking into you at a brutal speed. Your hands are grasped around the wrist of his hand thatâs by your mouth, sucking his fingers to soothe the burning part of the pleasure. âThatâs it, fucking take it,â he grunts, pushing your leg from around his should back until your knee was touching your shoulder. The new angle made the pleasure unbearable, every movement rubbing against your g-spot. Your eyes begin to close, your body shutting down seemingly as you begin to enter a pleasure comatose, the bubbling pleasure, the fingers in your mouth, it all feels like too much. But Logan doesnât let you stay in that place for too long, his fingers leaving your mouth to slap your cheek, pulling back down. âI need you right here, know it feels good but I want you with me,â he says breathy, thrusts still never faltering.Â
Without his fingers in your mouth your moans are free to be heard, your incoherent babbles of âsâtoo much,â and âso deep in me, sir,â floating in the air between Loganâs heavy breaths and obscene curses. Youâre breasts jump with every thrust in you, your head bouncing up and down from the sheer force of his thrusts. âT-Tell meâŠâ you stutter out, eyes fluttering. âTell you?â he asks, grinding his hips up and deep, and youâre sure heâs grazing your cervix. You grip his t-shirt and keel. He gets what you mean. âGood girl. My good girl. Youâre the best girl. You want another star, donât you?â he breathes out, a hand moving down to your clit as he thrusts up and out, up and out into you. You whimper, his words and ministrationâs overwhelming, âYes, Sir. Mâgood. So good. W-want it. Please, can I have it?â you babble. You belly feels warm, and the heat bubbles with every brush at your swollen clit and thrust in your pussy. He lets go of the hand at your knee, spreading you open to grab a sticker from the sticker sheet. âStick your tongue out fâme,â and you do, overwhelmed with this moment. Youâre being good. Youâre being good. Youâre almost there, keep being good. He spits in your mouth and you moan holding it there and waiting for him to tell you what to do. âSwallow it,â he huffs, thrusts faltering. Heâs close, you deduce. I donât want it to end. Please donât let it end. You swallow and stick your tongue back out to show him and he groans.
He puts the star sticker on your tongue, and he thrusts in you harder, tweaking at your clit as he does. Your body seizes and you melt into a fit of moans and grunts, and you finally cum, Logan fucking you through it. âYeah baby, just like that. Kneel for me,â he says, pulling out of you. You lay up off the desk and fall promptly to your knees, watching him jerk himself to orgasm above you with your tongue out, gold star on the middle of your tongue. He grunts with deep Fuck! before warm ropes of cum spray your partially sticker-covered face and tongue. Your eyes close and you hum, relishing in the warmth. Logan wipes the cum from your eyes with his thumb and sticks it in your mouth, and you suck, no questions asked. âGood fucking girl.âÂ
The moments following are awkward. Logan tucks himself back in his pants, and pulls his jeans up and youâre left laying on the floor, coming down from your ecstasy high. The zip of his jeans breaks the silence and youâre looking up at him, soiled with cum, spit, stickers, tears and mascara. He walks to his bar cart and grabs the cloth hanging off the handle bar, and he hands it to you. You clean yourself up, and when youâre done you find his cardigan in his hands. You fix your tank top back over your breasts and pull the crotch of your panties back into place before grabbing it from him. âThanks,â you say quietly. âSee you in class on Tuesday,â is the last thing he says to you before you leave his office. Stunned.
On Tuesday, he hands you back your test with a new grade, an eighty, and gold sticker placed on it right next to the new grade. He glances at you as you look over your test, and smirks. You read the note he left in red ink on the back of the test, heart beating a little faster once you look back up at him. Good girl.Â
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Older gruff daddy with a scruffy beard & tired expression from a long day at work that letâs me sit on his lap and ramble on about my day while gently caressing my hair âĄ
literally old man logan from the x-men franchise. iâve had such a fat crush on this man since my childhood hehe.
seeing old man!logan being happy and smiling fuels something primal in me đđđ
hugh jackman on the set of logan, 2017
I'm feeling so ill rn and I just know a cuddle from this guy would heal me- (â â„â ïčâ â„â )
Bloody and beaten Logan
OLD MAN LOGAN MY BELOVED đ
This was before I saw the Hugh Jackman pictures. Btw.



