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black barbie 💋

[nymphomatique]

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[nymphomatique]

benjamin pointdexter

[nymphomatique]

sour straws

inmate!joel miller x fem!reader

⋆·˚ ༘ * a girl who never asks for more, and a man that’s been taking his whole life cross paths. what becomes of the two despite it all?

cw: fem reader (early 20s), small town churchy-religious vibe sprinkled in here haphazardly, age gap is alluded to thematically but never outright, porn with plot, some misogyny, inklings of a controlling mother, mentions of violent crime and general crime, attempted repressed desire, shotgunning/smoking, sneaking in sydcarmy moments cause i never gaf, bar fighting, kissing, groping, cunning linguists, car sex, loss of virginity but it's not really made a big deal, vaginal sex, female ejaculation, unprotected sex, jail calls, ‘daddy’ used in passing once.

wc: 8.6k. Proofed!

❤︎ an: long time no see lmao. joel miller girls… accept my gracious offering in tribute of my favourite authors deactivating <\3. been working on this for a minute (a year), hope you guys enjoy! requests are open, and feedback is always appreciated.

“Ten minutes.”

Months ago, you would have furrowed a brow at the untoward gruff tone, but it’s routine now. Part of the visits.

The bag searches, the lack of privacy during phone calls, the bacteria covered phones (because you know they don’t bother to clean them between visits), the sterile white lights, lightbulbs that flicker and hum and buzz, low and unsettling in the depth of your guts — all part of your life now. 

You can admit that you didn’t picture yourself here, like this — ever. In fact, you’d turn your nose up at yourself had you been looking at your situation from the outside over a year ago. But, that was all before you met him.

You walk to the uncomfortable metal stool and sit in front of the thick, fortified window, riddled with scratches and eroded by years and years of touch. Your finger runs down the glass, soft and slow, but enough to feel the ridges and scrapes along the planes of it, and you smile. It never gets easier, and the constants of the rugged and trite routine help sometimes. 

Your propinquity with Joel started as something humble, small, delicate at first. A secret, kept between only you and yourself. Deep in the folds of your mind he’d lay. Almost forbidden indulgence, keeping you at bay in the monotony of small-town living. You’d known about him. Everyone had known about him. You lived in a small, densely populated town. There was no escaping the gossip. In and out of jail. Violent. Petty crimes like theft and public misconduct were practically symbiotic to his name, the half to his whole. Your mother warned you good and well as a teenager. She told you time and time again that if you ignore everything she says but one thing, let it be a careful warning that you should at all costs stay away from Joel Miller. Naturally, you rolled your eyes at her words, so sure her caution was overbearing and overblown, dipped in unspoken pretenses, but deep down inside of you, her warning encroached itself into the depths of your hippocampus. Her words played over and over again in your mind late at night, when you had nothing to do but think. Stay away, stay away, stay away. He must be bad news if she got so worked up over him. So, you did as you were told and you stayed away from him.

She never said anything about simply looking, however. 

You’d seen him in glimpses at the gas station before, stealing scratches, cigarettes and a case of beer before taking off in his rust-dusted blue pickup truck. A pack of condoms occasionally hanging crudely out the back pocket of his dark denim. XL Trojans. Pervert. 

But then what does that make you for noticing them?

It was always in pieces you’d get to see of him, to truly be able to take in. Soft-looking and tousled brown hair, dark wash denim jeans, the broad expanse of his back in a crisp white tee — little harmless keepsakes, you’d consider them. You’d even begun to familiarize yourself with the smell of his cologne long after he’s gone, or the heavy sound of his footfalls and thick gait, ever loud even when he shouldn't be from such a distance, a testament to his cantankerous nature… all perfectly harmless moments you find yourself keeping in the deep comforts of your mind.

You were weaving up and down the candy aisle, contemplating your choice of sweet treat for the evening, when he walked past you, only to plant himself on the shelf opposite of you. It was almost disarming seeing him in person, no glimpses or pieces of him. No curtain or veil. Just him. Joel Miller. His personality and name so mythologized, a man made out to be an idea, a warning– a rather grave one at that. And yet, here he was in the same shitty town in the same shitty gas station. He almost didn’t seem real in front of you. The personified fanfare seemed almost comical looking at him now. Was he really that dangerous? He saw you see him, his scratchers, his cigarettes, his beer, all of him this time. His arms, his gruff greying beard, his scars and scratches, black ink seeded into his skin, deep and guarded eyes. All the little details you would miss from a distance. He was beautiful, which was an unfortunate fact. An air of almost-but-not-quite docility in the curl of his lips, along the expanse of tan skin stretching across the valley of his trunk of a neck, the flutter of his brown eyelashes when he harshens his stare. He manages to lull a false sense of security over you despite the explicit implicit danger. He calls out to you like a siren, waiting for the kill when you decide to wade the dangerous waters. You couldn’t help but feel your face warm, and surely he noticed. The aisle shelves were short, but compared to Joel? They were embarrassingly little. You’d guess him at a little over six feet if you had to eyeball it. You can look up his mugshots and see the exact number for yourself, your brain supplicates the knowledge gap rather pointedly, and you can’t help but breath out an amused huff before grabbing gummy worms and making it to the cash. You paid, and Joel left without. The clerk seemed unphased, he must do this all the time. 

Hands clammy and crinkling the plastic gummy worm bag, you smell him before you see him. The scent of tobacco curls up and into your nose, the fetid smell triggering the knee jerk scrunch of your face. A man and his vices. To no surprise, Joel leans against the faded and chipped red brick of the convenience store, haul in tow, his eyes already finishing trailing up your figure before he makes eye contact with you. A Marlboro Red hangs between his lips, his brows hanging heavy atop his eyes, and he nods his head towards you. The siren calls. You think you feel your pupils dilate and your tongue dry. Did he just…?

You’re almost paralyzed with fear, and in the moment you decide you should have perhaps heeded your mother’s warning better. At this moment, there's no fabricated story or warning to hide behind, you have no choice but to stand in the storm you’ve been sheltered from your whole life. Still, you’re unmoving. A grouse seems to erupt from his lips and you can feel his irritation bubbling and simmering, feeling the heat of his stare climbing and clawing up your spine, heeding way to dig deep within your flesh and stake its claim. Look at me. Come to me. You cannot ignore the call. Your breath slows and your heart begins to race. Finally, you step. Your boots hit the payment heavy– the noise building consternation in the hollow deep in your chest, where your heart thrums hard and heavy, and beats until the meat and muscle and bone form a crater, between the quiet and unspoken air. It’s truly almost suffocating. The sour tobacco, the sweat that mists almost imperceptibly across Joel’s face and arms, his heavy stare, and frustratingly passive demeanour making you impervious to his innermost predilections.

Only about two feet away from him do you stop yourself, still and tensed from head to toe. You could be grimacing right in Joel’s face and you wouldn’t even know, the passivity seeming to ebb and grow into something monstrously rigid. An unmoving, heavy energy surrounds him, and it terrifies you. One inhale of a cigarette and the red cherry of the tobacco stick burns furiously bright, then an exhale, and the smoke curls and breezes up into your nose and seeps into your lungs. Disgusting. Your fear flattens from your face and turns into annoyance with the furrow of your brow and heaviness of your stare, and when your eyes flit up from the lips around the cigarette to the heavy, almost whiskey-colored eyes. Pernicious, in every sense of the word.

A small furl of his lip, the crumple of plastic, and… strawberry straws? 

“Oh, you…” 

It’s impossibly frustrating how easily you feel every bit of frustration drain from your veins, giving way to the vacillating heat that rushes and flows within your chest. Your mother’s words bounce around in your head, words of warning knocking against your skull in hopes that if you do one thing, it’s listen to her. He lets the candy hang between the two of you, outstretched lazily in his big and calloused hands. He stole them. He’s dangerous. He’s trouble. All reservations worn on your sleeve, you grab the candy from him. Proceeding the inhale and exhale of smoke, he kicks off the brick wall and walks away and right past you, throwing out his cigarette butt on cracked pavement, leaving you in the memory of ash and smoke, a tantalising burn despite the syncopic feeling that takes you under and grips you whole.

Long gone with long strides, the tire tracks of a pickup truck, the faint smell of burnt and combusted gas, and a cigarette butt smouldering against the pavement the only proof of his presence in front of the quaint little corner store. That, and the candy gripped in your hands still.

You huff aloud, “So annoying…” before walking back to your home, making sure to step on the cigarette, hoping it crushes your desires along with it.

Days since then pass by almost alarmingly quiet. No breaking news to report, other than local stables reporting of a new foal born on a quiet Sunday, highly anticipating its name to be revealed. The days are the same, blurring into themselves from the menial tasks. Wake up, clean the house with your mother while your father is away at work– gone from sunup to sundown. Saturdays are for Bible study, and Sundays are for Church, no negotiations. Still, you find a form of respite on Saturday at Bible study, something with the namesake but none of the values really. You and the other girls that make up the quaint group often forgo the religious discussion, preferring gossip of the town–hearing about Brent being put out on the couch, and Mary wearing lower-cut tops during errands to the butcher. Trivial things, truly, but they bring a welcome sense of frivolity to your day, little keepsakes between the boring parts. 

Today, you take a backseat to the chatter, preferring to listen to everyone's anecdotes, the giggles and laughs and gasps flowing and melting into a pleasant, comfortable hum you laze on like a river. It’s content, hanging in suspended joy like this. Soon the chatter dims into a low buzz of conversation, and you halter onto every word like this.

“I just need a day to really decompress, you know?”

“Yeah, it’s been a minute since our last bar night hasn't it?”

“Hmm, I think I get what you’re putting down, sister.”

And a chorus of voices ring out at once, “Bar night!”

And so in a flurry of makeup brushes and strewn wild clothes, you find yourself along with the rest of your friends tucked in a little booth of the shitty dive bar in your town, giggling and chattering with a tipsy lilt to it. A little more brazen and louder than what should be considered acceptable conversational volume, but it melts into the rest of the atmosphere in the room. Grizzly men yelling over the pool table and darts, the thrum of the jukebox in the air, the clanking of cups and crashing of ice behind the bar. It’s all kind of nice when you think about it. You hum, lips perched on your straw of whatever fruity cocktail was in the large pitcher on the table, not sipping, but simply holding. Savouring, in more ways than one. 

Your eyes fall into the natural progression of drifting from corner to corner of the dingy bar, hoping for something… someone to capture your attention. Your disinterest halts itself when your pupils widen slightly and you perch up upon hearing the little bell at the doorframe of the entrance jingle deceptively sweet, pulling your eyes to the man who’s been running around in your mind day and night, the subject of your bothersome restless interest. 

Your mind is racing against itself, your thought running before your synapses can fire the request. He’s here, and you’re a nervous wreck. You hate the betrayal of your gut, as it sinks and sways at every move he makes, the nod of his head to a patron, thick leather boots bounding across the sticky beer-soaked hardwood floors — every step thumps akin to your own unsure heartbeat. You watch him sit at the bar, the stool lone in its own corner, something unspoken and sure between him and this place. The bartender drops a beer on the counter, wordlessly, leaving Joel to crack the top open with his lighter. Something cheap and convenient, the plastic paint of it visibly chipped, even from where you sat. He takes a sip, one gulp, then another, and he looks at you — a blink and you miss it kind of look, before setting the bottle down and looking away.

Your heart slams in its chest. Fuck. 

“I got shots!” is followed by boisterous applause at your table, a tray of mismatched shot glasses filled with something clearly cheap and juvenile. Still, you have no choice, hauling it up to your lips and swigging the burning liquid down your throat, following a swift 3.2.1! countdown from one of the girls. The moment the alcohol meets your lips, it’s a rather dangerous thing. You can feel the warmth building in your blood, your body melting off the weight of the room for something more easy, palpable. One shot turns into two, which turns into dancing along to a heavy rock song, reminiscent of something you’ve heard before, lost in the then and the now of the night. You ride along this warmth, the confidence you feel creeping up from your toes and settling subtly in the way you laugh a little louder, crowd a moment longer. 

You’re either ignorant to the stare he is giving from his claimed corner at the bar, or if some part of you knew this whole moment became something to speak to him without words. I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you. Play this game with me. Still, you dance until it’s time to go home, and then you find yourself making a conscious effort to look for him, maybe see if he was looking for you too. 

“Guys, someone played for our drinks!” one of your friends says. You feel the heat bloom deep in your belly. Did he…? Still, he’s gone. You can’t even make something of yourself with a sobering effort to ask him all sweet-tongued and doe-eyed if it was indeed him. 

You tell everyone you’re going to wait outside, feeling the heat of the moment finally settle on your bones. Instead of fresh air, a familiar waft of spice and tobacco hits your nose, and you know it’s him before you even see him. Your legs are following the scent before your mind catches up to what you’re truly doing until you’re planted right in front of Joel, the moment quieted under the implications of your encounters leading up to this. You look up at him, the cherry of his cigarette setting alight the mirth in his eyes as he takes you in, all of you. 

“Can I try?” you ask, eyes deceitfully tracing the image of his lips wrapped around the slim tobacco stick. 

Wordless, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth after a brief inhale and holds it to your lips, a crooked smile taking place on his own. You look up at him, glossed lips finding their way around the filter and pulling in a hot puff of smoke into your lungs, burning and tightening immediately at the foreign feeling. You sputter and cough, the smoke coming out in one heaping cloud, contrary to the smooth wafts you're used to seeing. The rush that accompanies your expectorating nearly has you keeling over from the dizziness, which is only amplified by the man in front of you.  

“You’re shit at smoking. Quit while you’re ahead.”

You cut him a side eye, your lungs still aching as you’re bent over trying to catch your breath. “Piss off. I’ll get better.”

A curt laugh leaves him in the form of a curt chuckle, before taking a last puff of his cigarette and stepping it out. “Stupid girl,” he hums, his hand coming to pat your head once before making off again. The moment leaves you as quickly as it came, because from somewhere behind you, you hear your name being called, signaling your time to leave. You take one last look at Joel, nearly gone from your line of sight now before you turn and head back to your friends.

Your days since that encounter pass quietly, almost alarmingly so, the only grounding thing you have from it being a sore throat and lungs. You huff when you remember his words as you so embarrassingly coughed your lungs out in front of a man like Joel, and his subsequent response at your display. Stupid girl. The gall of the man. No matter the warmth that bloomed under your skin and wiggled itself into the tips of your extremities at the name, he had no right to call you that. You’d show him as much, eventually.

You spend your days doing chores and fussing over the house with your mother, as she’d always say a woman’s work is housework. But no amount of scrubbing floors or wiping away the stain of grout makes you feel better. You haven't been able to stop yourself from thinking about it, him. It’s semantics to you at this point. Your stolen strawberry straws still sit uneaten in your bedroom table drawer, the implications of what it could mean by eating it scaring you more than the idea of them going stale. (Talk about wasted effort!)

It’s not long before another Saturday turns into sticky floors and a humming jukebox, and you find yourself back in an unwilling moment of déjà vu in the booth of the bar. Tonight, the sangria and idle chatter serve as modicums of what you can’t have. A defeated look undoubtedly marks your face as your finger circles the rim of your ginger soda. Your friends, spread out by the jukebox and pool table respectively, dance to America's crooning style and haphazardly hit pool balls, leaving you in the solitude and safety of the booth. Shrouded in a dark overhead light, you feel a kinship with the mood you've experienced all night. All that's missing is…

“You here alone, pretty lady?”

You don’t even make the effort to give whoever it is that's talking to you your full attention, simply trailing your eyes up to the sad soul who decided to approach you tonight. He’s not ugly, you’ll give him that, but you simply aren’t in the mood tonight for blonde hair and cunning eyes. You're craving something more mercurial and crooked these days. “I’m with my friends, I’m not really in the mood to–” you don’t even get to finish your sentence before this stranger cuts in, and already the irritation begins to simmer up on the front burner, threatening to bubble over rather quickly already. 

“C’mon, let me buy you another drink at the bar?” he prods again, and now you make the effort to look at him, face as impassive as ever.

“I’m flattered, but maybe my friends over there,” you point curtly to the corner of the bar where your friends are, “will appreciate your offer more.” 

“Hey, c’mon, don’t be like that. I just want to get to know you better,” the ever dense stranger says, his hand reaching out to grab your hand. 

“Touch her and I got something that you’ll get real familiar with in a second,” a voice cuts in, gruff, authoritative, familiar. Him. 

You turn to angle your head to see behind the man touching you and confirm your suspicions. You blanch a little, somewhat embarrassed for this to be the way you meet him once more since your embarrassing excuse of smoking a cigarette last Saturday. Still, he seems unperturbed by whatever unspoken dance you two have been stepping around these past few weeks, focused instead on pulling the man from his proximity to you as much as possible and into his own, the two of them now chest to chest.

“Sorry man. Didn’t know this was your piece of ass to begin wi-”

Joel's fist dealt a swift blow to his jaw, wiping the smug smirk and comment from his lips, and you could only gasp at the violence he enacted in your favour. Fuck. 

The bar's warm energy drains, and instead, something volatile and thick fills it, catching in your throat and punching deep in your lungs. There’s a blur of fists and swears and blood, and you hear what you’re sure is the bartender clamouring for them to take it outside or let the cops deal with them. At that, Joel steps away from the bruised mess of the man that was just standing all tall and contrived with confidence only minutes ago, having succumbed to the brawn and raw brute strength of this enigma of a man. Your heart flutters in your chest rather unwillingly, forming some twisted version of affection pulled from the act of violence. Your eyes meet Joel’s own, ever brown and ever guarded, and he leaves the bar as swift as he seemed to have shown up. 

Your friends huddle, a foot or so away from the bruised man, seemingly entranced by the brutality of it all. You don’t hesitate for a moment to take advantage of their distraction to slip out and find your own distraction. 

He’s leaning against his pickup truck, cigarette between his lips as always, rubbing his bruised and bloodstained knuckles. He eyes you, bordering on wariness but not quite, and you eye him back — the same sense of uncertainty reflected back at him. 

“…Thank you,” you murmur, that juvenile embarrassment flooding your veins once more. You step to stand next to him, leaning against his pickup truck, just watching him smoke in the silence. A moment passes, and it’s not sharp-edged and uncertain like you’d expected it to be like the other times, but rather comfortable, familiar. A sense of mutual understanding blanketed under cigarette smoke and unspoken tension, soothing it into something softer, palatable.

“You’re welcome, kid.”

His response takes you by surprise almost, the silence lulling you almost completely. You turn to face him fully with your body, and your fingers grab the cigarette from between his lips to find its way between your own, your knuckles brushing his calloused own. A soft smile falls on his lips at your bold display. Still, he lets you take it from him and bring it to your own lips.

“Thought I told you to cut that shit out,” he hums, watching you inhale, the cherry glowing softly against your skin in a dance with the full moon above. 

“Thought I told you I’d get better,” you hum back, the burn and nausea of the smoke curling into your lungs coming back to you like the last time, but you stomach it better now, certain of your own harmful intent. He laughs, the sound almost impossibly quiet, reserved only for you two. You take a drag of the cigarette once more before he’s pulling it from your own lips and trapping the smoke between yours and his, quieting your pleas before they have the chance to bloom into the night. It takes you a second to really absorb the moment before you realize what’s happening. He’s kissing you. All smoke and angst and unspoken life lived long before you, you melt against his mouth, breathing him in with every fibre of your being, taking as much as he’ll let you in this moment. Your eyes flutter shut, and a whimper leaves your mouth as he presses you against his pickup truck, sticking between his stocky body and the rusted metal. It’s a safe and slow kiss until it’s not, and it becomes something more desperate, the desire palpable in the way his tongue moves against yours and your hands find themselves gripped in his flannel shirt. You pull at him, losing yourself in the moment of his kiss, wearing your heart on your sleeve in the hopes that he can see you for your bearings in this moment. I’ve wanted this for so long. 

Thick hands pull at your waist, trailing down to your hips before lifting you up, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist, the kiss never faltering or breaking, a testament to the nature of the man before. In the throes of passion and violence, he remains impervious despite it all. A never wavering strength, a strength for which you can only show unbridled appreciation towards. In a moment, his lips pull from yours, a whimper leaving your lips as you tuck your face into his neck. 

“Fuckin’ drive me crazy. Can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers, the confession feeling like a moment of magic under a full moon. “Will you let me taste you tonight? Or you gonna keep teasing me?” he asks, steadying you in one hand as he opens the back door of his truck, setting you down on the worn leather seats to leave him standing between your knees. 

His hands are incessant, toying at your waist, squeezing, grabbing, staking his claim in every way possible. He’s looking up at you, expectant of an answer, and you bite your lip under his heated gaze. You’re still reeling from his kiss, lips surely tasting of him and heavy smoke, the only admission of what you did tonight let anyone come close enough to you. 

You bite your lip meekly and nod. “Y-yeah… but… here?” Your face warms, realizing that your display of affection was still rather public, no matter how contained in the moment you felt. What would your parents dare to think of you now?

“Mmm,” his nose nuzzles in the juncture of your neck where you’re sure he can feel your heartbeat, “won’t let anyone see what’s mine, baby. Promise.” He licks a warm stripe up your neck, then nibbles gently at your pulse point, causing your breath to hitch. A moan cat he’s in your throat, and you can feel your already fickle resolve melting. 

“Please, Joel,” you breathe, gripping his hair tenderly as he tastes the admissions of passion all over your skin. His kisses trail up your neck to your jaw, his beard and soft lips tickling all the way up to your own, where he kisses you once. “Lay down.”

It drips of certain authority when he says it, and you can only listen, your back meeting cool cracked leather. You’re almost embarrassed at your choice of garment tonight, a simple black skirt, knowing you wouldn’t have expected the night to end with a troublesome man underneath it like this. 

You can’t bring yourself to look down, simply feel as he flips your skirt up and moves to bring either of your legs up over his shoulders. You can feel his breath laced with trepidation against the notably wet gusset of your underwear, and you want to sink into the leather and never come back out from the embarrassment. He doesn’t spare you impassivity on it either, and you should have known as much.

“A kiss gets you this excited?” 

“Shut up,” you groan, hands covering your face. 

“Don’t be embarrassed, I’m here to take care of it now.”

With that, he presses open mouthed kisses over the moist of your underwear, sending chills up your body in the anticipation of it all. You squirm under his touch, the playful kisses and licks and bites over your intimates frustrating you beyond belief. He seemingly senses it and moves to finally give you reprieve when he hooks a finger in the gusset of your underwear and pulls it to the side. You can feel his breath ghost over your clit, and the stimulation that you’ve been begging for has you whimpering.

“Pretty fucking pussy been waiting’ for me, hasn’t she?” he coos, kissing your left inner tight. “Mhm, please…” you say lowly, supplicant under the throes of the potential pleasure. “Impatient little thing,” he hums, but his comment is in jest it seems, as he moves to taste you finally, as he asked, and it’s nothing short of explosive, your nerves working in overdrive. 

He eats from you as if you were the sweetest nectar, sucking and licking every inch of your sensitive pussy, his beard giving a welcome pain to accompany your pleasure. He prods you with his tongue with an expertise that you're sure only comes with age and experience. He's incessant, despite your cries and gasps and twitching he holds strong, spreading you and keeping you still by your things with his strong hands and you can do nothing but take it.

“Oh Joel,” you moan, honeyed and delicate, clearly succumbing under the waves of pleasure sent crashing your way. Your hands grip his hair in a silent plea of encouragement to keep going, for you'd feel forsaken if he stopped. His tongue moves from circling your clit, to plunging deep into your pussy as if he was trying to devour you from the inside out. You nearly screamed when he pulled a way to lick a stripe up your wetness, starting this time at your puckered hole drenched in the residual wetness of your pussy, Joel’s sole doing.

“Oh my God,” you breathe out when you feel his tongue lick up from your ass to your clit, over and over until the pleasure that has been building in you crescendos and you go taut, mouth agape in a silent plea as you're wracked by your orgasm.

“Just like that, baby” Joel hums between licks at your clit. “Cum for me all sweet.” 

And you do, left with no choice but to take as he relentlessly gives, even in the throes of overwhelming pleasure. Your hands grip his hair even harder, the stimulation of his mouth feeling like an overload for your nerve endings. It has you babbling, legs fluttering even as he holds you apart. “C-can’t,” you heave, and he relents upon hearing your desperate plea.

His mouth leaves you, but not without a final kiss to your pussy, before he moves his head from the juncture of your legs and pulls your skirt down. You whimper at your legs freeing from his grip, your muscles sore after being held bent for so long. 

“Did so good for me, yeah?” Joel says, rubbing your thighs softly, as he watches you come down. 

“You’re so mean,” you mumble, mustering up the strength to sit up from the backseat and finally look at Joel since he lost himself between your legs. 

“You say that to everyone who gives you an orgasm?”

That fucking smirk isnt lost at he teases you back, but this time his lips are wet with you and your face warms, your eyes insisting on looking down instead. There's no mercy to be had, as you see his erection straining against his jeans when you do, and you gasp. He must be huge, considering the size of the bulge he's sporting. “You’re…” you start, and you’re not sure how to even finish.

“I am. Tends to happen when you eat pussy,” he says rather brazenly, and if you didn't have a modicum of control you're sure you'd sputter at his words. You make eye contact with him again, and his eyes are holding a newfound softness, but you're unsure if it's from the moment or a betrayal of the moonlight above you both. “Can we… keep going? But in- in a bed. Your bed, preferably,” you say, heart beating ridiculously fast at the fact that you even had the spunk mustered up inside you to ask him such a thing. 

“You tryna get into my pants now?”

“I-It’s only fair…”

“Hop in the front, I hear your preferred ideas loud ‘n clear.”

The car ride to his place was quiet, but not uncomfortably. It was welcome, giving you time to watch the signs pass you by on the roads like a blink, with Joel’s hand on your thigh, thumb rubbing more affirmatively than an act of lust. It grounds you in a sense, keeping you in the moment rather than the idea of what’s to come. You drive for about twenty minutes until you’re exiting off the highway onto a quiet route, scarcely lit until it trails off into dirt, the tires crunching under the rock and soil before a quaint cabin comes into view. It was all rustic and wooden, surely built as strong and capable as the man next to you. He pulls up in front of the house, cutting the engine quick and swinging his door open, muttering a Don’t move your way and your stomach turns when you realize he’s coming around to open the door for you. 

Quite the gentleman you are, Joel Miller. 

He offers you a hand when your door opens, and you take it, unable to help the smile on your face as you hop down from the lifted truck. “Thank you.”

“Jus’ didn’t want you eating shit in my driveway,” he says, but the lack of playful tone in his voice lets you know he doesn't mean it. Still, you give him this nicety and spare him from any further teasing, your gut beginning to spark the smouldered embers that were there previously when the moment sets in. You’re at his house, and the pretenses are ones that you cannot ignore. 

Joel walks a pace ahead of you, keys in hand to be able to open the door for you, and you watch him silently, taking in this obvious vulnerability. You admire the little chair sat on his porch, the ash tray atop the balustrade, what looked to be whittled chippings of wood scattered along the dark oak of the porch. This was the most intimate version of him, and in this moment, it’s all yours.

“Ladies first,” Joel says, breaking your concentration, and you walk past him and across the threshold of the door. His house is quaint, that is your first observation. Quaint, and messy. A man can't be helped. The cabin is lit only by the light atop the stove, making the room seem humble in a sense.  The door leads straight into the living room, furnished humbly with a couch, table, and a television, with a kitchen to the left, all open concept. The door at the wall at the opposite end of you is what you can only assume leads to the bedroom, bathroom too.

“You want the grand tour or can I show you where the magic happens?” Joel says, walking up behind you with an eyebrow quirked. Your eyes roll instinctively.

“Don’t ruin the moment.” 

You turn to face him, and you’re met with his chest, inciting you to look up until you’re peering up into his face. “C’mere…” he trails off, grabbing your waist before pulling you into a kiss. This one feels different than the one you shared in front of his truck. There, you felt as if the moment would escape you if you dared do anything but get lost in it, but here, the kiss demands you to be present. To savour it, taste it, take it in its entirety. The purse you’ve been carrying all night slips free from over your shoulder, hands moving to wrap around his neck and savour the feeling of his tongue against yours, his hands only granting you this moment of softness. 

His lips pull away from you for a moment, just to speak softly. “Jump up.”

Hands catch your thighs when you do, and the kiss resumes, slow and deep and heavy, riddled with everything unsaid under the stars, and he’s walking you to his room like this. Still, everything is distant as you're focused on how his lips feel as though they're consuming you – mind, body, soul. A door opens, and you're moving down, plushness meeting your back. The kiss doesn't break still, his denim covered groin rutting into you and you feel the heaviness of him, giving you friction against your panties. You’re the one to break away from the kiss this time, desperate beyond relief that grinding can give.

“Please, Joel. I need you inside,” you breathe, hips canting up to provide relief to your aching clit. 

“Fuck. I got you baby, I got you,” he says, and he sounds as desperate as you feel. He pulls away from you, pulling his flannel off his frame, then his wife beater, then he moves to his jeans, the hefty clink of his belt buckle making you bite your lip.

“You’re so sexy,” you whisper. You can’t help but reach a hand out to his stomach, toned but still soft with plush and dusted with soft hair, trailing up and down. You watch him pull the belt from the beltloops of his jeans, the loud clang sound of it dropping to the floor making your breath hitch. 

“You just gonna watch me undress, or do I get in on this fun too?”

Yes, you're still clothed.

You make haste of your shirt and bra, thrown to the wind behind you. You don’t have a chance to rid yourself of your bottoms before calloused hands are doing it for you, pulling you shirt and panties down and off your legs in one fluid motion.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, before coming down to kiss you once more. Chest to chest, inhibitions gone and forgotten, you relish in the freedom the intimacy grants you. You let yourself grind against his hard erection, you let your hands tangle in his salt and pepper tresses. His hand teases your clit with the rigid softness of the tip of him, causing you to arch your back and bare yourself to him, a willing participant in your own debauchery.

“Gonna fuck you now, yeah? Nice an’ slow…” Joel hums against your lips, noses touching as you pant under him. You nod your head, and move to kiss him again. 

His intrusion takes you by surprise despite the warning. He’s heavy and warm and unrelenting, just like the rest of him. Inch by inch, he breaks you down until there's nothing left but the melting feeling of pleasure deep within you, finally igniting the slow burning ember that you tried so hard to smother.

“Joel, move… please,” you sigh against him. He must hear the desperation your voice is dripping in as he moves to pull back his hips, thrusting in you once more to the hilt. The movement punches a whimper out of you, goading him on to keep going. 

When he finds his pace, built up from the careful and slow thrusts he originally started with, you feel as if this is your divine punishment. The grunts of the man above you, laced with masculine inhibition, lust, and something you can’t name… it all sends you reeling. His heavy thrusts bring stimulation internally and externally, the sensitive walls of your pussy fluttering in enchantment of this pleasure that supersedes anything your own fingers could give you, the tuft of his bush rubbing against your clint with every stroke inside you, knocking the air out your head. Another thrust, another moan, another grunt. The flex of your foot, the mean swivel of his hips — you’re drowning in ecstasy, smothered in the unbridled pleasures of a hormonal release that’s been begging to be let go of. You’re one with the moment, only anchored by the incessant puncture of Joel’s thick cock against your inner walls, and the sweet vulgarity he lets lave against your neck between his kisses and bites, only hoping it reaches your ears.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

“Sweetest - fuck, sweetest fuckin’ pussy.”

“You feel so good like this. Tell me how good you feel, baby.”

“Want that sweet pussy to cum ‘round me, can you do that?”

It’s all too much and not enough at once, it has you incoherent and trembling under Joel. He lifts up from his position on top of you to be able to see you take all of him, and the look in his eyes has you clenching harder than any words he’s said to you all night. This is what becomes of those who answer the call of a siren’s temptation, you take until you can no longer.

“Can feel you clenchin’ up on me, baby. Cum for me, give it to me.”

A hand moves down to thumb your clit, the other wrapped around your calf and holding it against him for leverage to fuck into you like you need. The feeling of lips kissing the sole of your foot have your eyes bursting wide open from their haze. Joel eyes you, obvious to your reaction, but is unwavered. His kisses remain constant in tune with the rut of his hips and circling of his thumb against your clit, and you feel yourself beginning to crest.

It’s all so much now. 

You can't hold the whine that bubbles out of your throat nor the gasps of breath that come after, your orgasm beginning to take the reigns. 

“Tha’s it, cum for me. Holy shit.”

Your entire body tenses up, an electrical symphony of nerves firing rapidly in an attempt to keep up with the sensation as you feel it. You're sure you go blank for a moment, reduced to nothing but fried nerve endings and trembling muscle. You blink, only coming to when you feel a warm cloth against your stomach and between your thighs, wiping up the collective mess you made. You only see Joel’s back as he moves around the room. Still, the exhaustion and exertion of the night digs itself in your bones, and your eyes can’t help but flutter closed again.

“Shh, I got you. S’okay, take it easy and rest. We’ll talk in the morning, sweetheart.”

The morning after doesn't grant you the same sense of ease the night before had. The sun shines brightly through the bedroom window, interrupting the heavy sleep you fell under. You wake up to an empty bed and the smell of eggs and bacon, you’re sure. Your clothes from last night are folded on the nightstand and a glass of water is waiting for you next to it. You can’t help but smile, throwing the sheets off you and stepping into a stretch. It’s only when you feel a breeze as you lift your arms that you notice your sleepwear – his shirt. 

You smile again, unable to help yourself, swallowing the wince you feel from the budding soreness between your legs and follow the sweet smell of breakfast into the kitchen.

The layout of Joel’s cabin gives you no moment to creep and watch him in the unfiltered morning moment, but nevertheless you admire your view of the man plating eggs, bacon, and buttered toast on the counter.

“Good morning, sleepy girl,” he hums, not looking up from his activity.

You forget you’re still standing in the doorway as you walk up to him in the kitchen. “Hi.”

“Feelin’ okay? You knocked out on me,” he says, looking up at you finally, handing you your plate and nodding his head signaling you to move to sit on the couch behind you.

“Yeah, little sore. But um, I feel good. Last night was…” you trail off, embarrassed to finish your words and instead begin to eat your food. 

“Indeed it was. Didn’t expect you to gush like that,” he says, ever crass, shovelling food into his mouth with a smirk.

“Wh- don’t say things like that!” You're so embarrassed at his words that you don't even consider them. You’ve had your fair share of self inflicted orgasms but you wouldn't describe them with the word ‘gush’, that's for sure. Surely he doesn't mean you…

“...I…I peed?” you ask, the embarrassment constricting your throat. You can’t ever look him in the eye again.

A hearty chuckle leaves his chest mid chew as he shakes his head, laughing at your embarrassment. “No, baby. It happens sometimes when women feel really good. Means I did my job right.”

“Oh… so… you’re not mad? Or grossed out?”

“Nope. S’natural.”

After that, the two of you eat in relative silence. Then, you remember in the quiet. 

The bar. The fight at the bar. Joel and his truck. You and Joel and his truck. The sex. Your mother. Oh God.

You shoot up, panic taking you over as you scramble for your purse. Joel’s eyes trail your frantic blur of movement and incoherent pleas hoping to God for your mothers forgiveness. 

“I guess you need a ride home, then.”

Your mother was nothing short of both frantic and furious alike, crowding you with questions and her unwavering presence, telling you off on how unacceptable and insurmountable your transgression was, how it would take a lifetime to wash your sins away. 

Still, there's nothing her never ending line of questioning did to make you regret your actions. She’d be short her sanity if she’d known your virginity was lost to a man you’re unmarried to, let alone the town delinquent. Bible study on Saturday turned into endless throes of pleasure between sheets that smell like tobacco and something uniquely self assured. Morning of warm stares and heated touches, afternoons of laugh and sweet nothings as you both reel in post-orgasmic haze. 

“They named that newborn Lamb. Her name is Teddy.”

“Ain’t that a boy name?”

“I think it’s cute.”

Every week, you learn a new piece of him. How he likes his coffee (black, naturally). How he snores when he sleeps on his back. How the scar against his nose seemingly is sunkissed under the summer sun. You take these moments and hold them within you somewhere deep, private. Intimate. A sacred air is born in his off-road cabin, where between mind-numbing orgasms and footrubs on Joel’s worn sofa, everything is stripped raw down to its organic matter. It’s just you and him, sans inhibition. And so, you let yourself indulge on a Saturday before your penance is sanctified on a Sunday. You let yourself stay oblivious to the bruises on his knuckles you kiss better, choose against questioning the loud mystery of the man in front of you. What do you do when I’m not around?

Still, you indulge beyond yourself even when you know better. 

You’re sat atop his lap, arms tenderly hung around Joel’s neck as his money counter whirls on the table in front of you both on the couch. Your head is tucked into his chest, letting yourself lull against the noise of his heartbeat strong against his chest and whistling of the machine and money.

“Where do you even get this money from?” you mumble into his chest.

You feel the hum laced with bemusement in his throat before he answers. “Don’t matter long as I can spoil my girl with it.”

His girl. 

Your heart swells in your chest at hearing that. You’ve both refrained from naming whatever situation the two of you are in, but the feeling becomes so charged when you’re around each other that you both know better than to deny it for each other's sake.

“Count this for me baby,” he says, his hands already at your hips maneuvering you to face forward. A brick of hundred dollar bills fall into your lap and you turn to look back at Joel, him already returning your pointed look with his own. Bad idea. You do it anyway, making your own white noise for Joel to lull away against as he holds you tight against him.

The carefully crafted simulacra of committed boyfriend and girlfriend falls apart in one fell swoop, an assault charge from the same man that accosted you at the bar along with a missed court appearance has Joel in the back of a cop car, hands cuffed behind his back as they haul him away. From you, from each other, from this fragile game of housewife you’ve been playing all these weeks.

They spare him no dignity, arresting him right outside of the gas station, sour straws and Marlboro Reds abandoned on the floor.

Everyone considered it degrading to everything but him. Your mother scoffed at the news, claiming to be glad the town can look away from the embarrassment of it all. And you? You internalized it all. The shame, the fury, the embarrassment, and the love. 

It was decided then that you would go see him, image be damned. Your mother and father could not be placated further, because your taste of true freedom and unconditional love waited for you when he saw you, and you’d be damned if you made yourself wait. 

And so that brings you here, watching all six feet something of brawn and charisma and greying hair walk up to the phone booth in his prison habit, grey pants and shirt with a white longsleeve. You're ashamed at the butterflies you get in your stomach everytime you see him like this, in a place as violent and mean as they make him out to be and still looking as unaffected and unwavered as ever. 

He sits while you already press the phone up against your ear, and you smile, excited for the best part of your days here. 

“Hi,” you breathe as he picks up the phone.

“Hi, baby. Look so good today, s’unfair.”

You laugh and the conversation falls into your little anecdotes of town gossip and chores you attended, yet he listens with a reverence that makes your heart soar every time. 

Still, he wouldn't be himself if he didn't tease you every now and then, security guards a non-factor in his playful vulgarity. 

“Promise you been good? Readin’ my letters?”

“Mhm, keep 'em in a special box and all,” you nod.

“Atta girl. Miss you like crazy every day. You miss me too,” Joel asks, and the receiver doesn't fail to pick up the lilt in his voice as he asks. Still, you let him play his games with you and you give him a meek nod, because you really do. 

“Yeah? Tell Daddy how much you missed him.” 

“Your eyes cut into something so sharp at his words and you hush a scold over the phone, “Joel!”

He can’t help but laugh at your face twisted up in embarrassment. 

Soon, your time is up and the best parts of being in here soon becomes the worse, as you know you’ll have to leave him here in the confines of these walls until next Saturday, the cruel institution left to beat him with by his circumstance until you come again to give him a breather as you smile at him, your radiance ever effervescent despite the plexiglass between you.

Your hand rests against the glass, and he presses against it in a ritual union before you go. A gesture charged with certainty and promise. 

I’ll be home soon.

And because you’re his girl, you’ll be waiting faithfully.

send me an ask!

[paristheonewhoreads]

this has altered my brain in a terribly tragic way

[nymphomatique]

LMAO thank you for reading and i’m sorry for the tragedy ❤️

[nymphomatique]

sour straws

inmate!joel miller x fem!reader

⋆·˚ ༘ * a girl who never asks for more, and a man that’s been taking his whole life cross paths. what becomes of the two despite it all?

cw: fem reader (early 20s), small town churchy-religious vibe sprinkled in here haphazardly, age gap is alluded to thematically but never outright, porn with plot, some misogyny, inklings of a controlling mother, mentions of violent crime and general crime, attempted repressed desire, shotgunning/smoking, sneaking in sydcarmy moments cause i never gaf, bar fighting, kissing, groping, cunning linguists, car sex, loss of virginity but it's not really made a big deal, vaginal sex, female ejaculation, unprotected sex, jail calls, ‘daddy’ used in passing once.

wc: 8.6k. Proofed!

❤︎ an: long time no see lmao. joel miller girls… accept my gracious offering in tribute of my favourite authors deactivating <\3. been working on this for a minute (a year), hope you guys enjoy! requests are open, and feedback is always appreciated.

“Ten minutes.”

Months ago, you would have furrowed a brow at the untoward gruff tone, but it’s routine now. Part of the visits.

The bag searches, the lack of privacy during phone calls, the bacteria covered phones (because you know they don’t bother to clean them between visits), the sterile white lights, lightbulbs that flicker and hum and buzz, low and unsettling in the depth of your guts — all part of your life now. 

You can admit that you didn’t picture yourself here, like this — ever. In fact, you’d turn your nose up at yourself had you been looking at your situation from the outside over a year ago. But, that was all before you met him.

You walk to the uncomfortable metal stool and sit in front of the thick, fortified window, riddled with scratches and eroded by years and years of touch. Your finger runs down the glass, soft and slow, but enough to feel the ridges and scrapes along the planes of it, and you smile. It never gets easier, and the constants of the rugged and trite routine help sometimes. 

Your propinquity with Joel started as something humble, small, delicate at first. A secret, kept between only you and yourself. Deep in the folds of your mind he’d lay. Almost forbidden indulgence, keeping you at bay in the monotony of small-town living. You’d known about him. Everyone had known about him. You lived in a small, densely populated town. There was no escaping the gossip. In and out of jail. Violent. Petty crimes like theft and public misconduct were practically symbiotic to his name, the half to his whole. Your mother warned you good and well as a teenager. She told you time and time again that if you ignore everything she says but one thing, let it be a careful warning that you should at all costs stay away from Joel Miller. Naturally, you rolled your eyes at her words, so sure her caution was overbearing and overblown, dipped in unspoken pretenses, but deep down inside of you, her warning encroached itself into the depths of your hippocampus. Her words played over and over again in your mind late at night, when you had nothing to do but think. Stay away, stay away, stay away. He must be bad news if she got so worked up over him. So, you did as you were told and you stayed away from him.

She never said anything about simply looking, however. 

You’d seen him in glimpses at the gas station before, stealing scratches, cigarettes and a case of beer before taking off in his rust-dusted blue pickup truck. A pack of condoms occasionally hanging crudely out the back pocket of his dark denim. XL Trojans. Pervert. 

But then what does that make you for noticing them?

It was always in pieces you’d get to see of him, to truly be able to take in. Soft-looking and tousled brown hair, dark wash denim jeans, the broad expanse of his back in a crisp white tee — little harmless keepsakes, you’d consider them. You’d even begun to familiarize yourself with the smell of his cologne long after he’s gone, or the heavy sound of his footfalls and thick gait, ever loud even when he shouldn't be from such a distance, a testament to his cantankerous nature… all perfectly harmless moments you find yourself keeping in the deep comforts of your mind.

You were weaving up and down the candy aisle, contemplating your choice of sweet treat for the evening, when he walked past you, only to plant himself on the shelf opposite of you. It was almost disarming seeing him in person, no glimpses or pieces of him. No curtain or veil. Just him. Joel Miller. His personality and name so mythologized, a man made out to be an idea, a warning– a rather grave one at that. And yet, here he was in the same shitty town in the same shitty gas station. He almost didn’t seem real in front of you. The personified fanfare seemed almost comical looking at him now. Was he really that dangerous? He saw you see him, his scratchers, his cigarettes, his beer, all of him this time. His arms, his gruff greying beard, his scars and scratches, black ink seeded into his skin, deep and guarded eyes. All the little details you would miss from a distance. He was beautiful, which was an unfortunate fact. An air of almost-but-not-quite docility in the curl of his lips, along the expanse of tan skin stretching across the valley of his trunk of a neck, the flutter of his brown eyelashes when he harshens his stare. He manages to lull a false sense of security over you despite the explicit implicit danger. He calls out to you like a siren, waiting for the kill when you decide to wade the dangerous waters. You couldn’t help but feel your face warm, and surely he noticed. The aisle shelves were short, but compared to Joel? They were embarrassingly little. You’d guess him at a little over six feet if you had to eyeball it. You can look up his mugshots and see the exact number for yourself, your brain supplicates the knowledge gap rather pointedly, and you can’t help but breath out an amused huff before grabbing gummy worms and making it to the cash. You paid, and Joel left without. The clerk seemed unphased, he must do this all the time. 

Hands clammy and crinkling the plastic gummy worm bag, you smell him before you see him. The scent of tobacco curls up and into your nose, the fetid smell triggering the knee jerk scrunch of your face. A man and his vices. To no surprise, Joel leans against the faded and chipped red brick of the convenience store, haul in tow, his eyes already finishing trailing up your figure before he makes eye contact with you. A Marlboro Red hangs between his lips, his brows hanging heavy atop his eyes, and he nods his head towards you. The siren calls. You think you feel your pupils dilate and your tongue dry. Did he just…?

You’re almost paralyzed with fear, and in the moment you decide you should have perhaps heeded your mother’s warning better. At this moment, there's no fabricated story or warning to hide behind, you have no choice but to stand in the storm you’ve been sheltered from your whole life. Still, you’re unmoving. A grouse seems to erupt from his lips and you can feel his irritation bubbling and simmering, feeling the heat of his stare climbing and clawing up your spine, heeding way to dig deep within your flesh and stake its claim. Look at me. Come to me. You cannot ignore the call. Your breath slows and your heart begins to race. Finally, you step. Your boots hit the payment heavy– the noise building consternation in the hollow deep in your chest, where your heart thrums hard and heavy, and beats until the meat and muscle and bone form a crater, between the quiet and unspoken air. It’s truly almost suffocating. The sour tobacco, the sweat that mists almost imperceptibly across Joel’s face and arms, his heavy stare, and frustratingly passive demeanour making you impervious to his innermost predilections.

Only about two feet away from him do you stop yourself, still and tensed from head to toe. You could be grimacing right in Joel’s face and you wouldn’t even know, the passivity seeming to ebb and grow into something monstrously rigid. An unmoving, heavy energy surrounds him, and it terrifies you. One inhale of a cigarette and the red cherry of the tobacco stick burns furiously bright, then an exhale, and the smoke curls and breezes up into your nose and seeps into your lungs. Disgusting. Your fear flattens from your face and turns into annoyance with the furrow of your brow and heaviness of your stare, and when your eyes flit up from the lips around the cigarette to the heavy, almost whiskey-colored eyes. Pernicious, in every sense of the word.

A small furl of his lip, the crumple of plastic, and… strawberry straws? 

“Oh, you…” 

It’s impossibly frustrating how easily you feel every bit of frustration drain from your veins, giving way to the vacillating heat that rushes and flows within your chest. Your mother’s words bounce around in your head, words of warning knocking against your skull in hopes that if you do one thing, it’s listen to her. He lets the candy hang between the two of you, outstretched lazily in his big and calloused hands. He stole them. He’s dangerous. He’s trouble. All reservations worn on your sleeve, you grab the candy from him. Proceeding the inhale and exhale of smoke, he kicks off the brick wall and walks away and right past you, throwing out his cigarette butt on cracked pavement, leaving you in the memory of ash and smoke, a tantalising burn despite the syncopic feeling that takes you under and grips you whole.

Long gone with long strides, the tire tracks of a pickup truck, the faint smell of burnt and combusted gas, and a cigarette butt smouldering against the pavement the only proof of his presence in front of the quaint little corner store. That, and the candy gripped in your hands still.

You huff aloud, “So annoying…” before walking back to your home, making sure to step on the cigarette, hoping it crushes your desires along with it.

Days since then pass by almost alarmingly quiet. No breaking news to report, other than local stables reporting of a new foal born on a quiet Sunday, highly anticipating its name to be revealed. The days are the same, blurring into themselves from the menial tasks. Wake up, clean the house with your mother while your father is away at work– gone from sunup to sundown. Saturdays are for Bible study, and Sundays are for Church, no negotiations. Still, you find a form of respite on Saturday at Bible study, something with the namesake but none of the values really. You and the other girls that make up the quaint group often forgo the religious discussion, preferring gossip of the town–hearing about Brent being put out on the couch, and Mary wearing lower-cut tops during errands to the butcher. Trivial things, truly, but they bring a welcome sense of frivolity to your day, little keepsakes between the boring parts. 

Today, you take a backseat to the chatter, preferring to listen to everyone's anecdotes, the giggles and laughs and gasps flowing and melting into a pleasant, comfortable hum you laze on like a river. It’s content, hanging in suspended joy like this. Soon the chatter dims into a low buzz of conversation, and you halter onto every word like this.

“I just need a day to really decompress, you know?”

“Yeah, it’s been a minute since our last bar night hasn't it?”

“Hmm, I think I get what you’re putting down, sister.”

And a chorus of voices ring out at once, “Bar night!”

And so in a flurry of makeup brushes and strewn wild clothes, you find yourself along with the rest of your friends tucked in a little booth of the shitty dive bar in your town, giggling and chattering with a tipsy lilt to it. A little more brazen and louder than what should be considered acceptable conversational volume, but it melts into the rest of the atmosphere in the room. Grizzly men yelling over the pool table and darts, the thrum of the jukebox in the air, the clanking of cups and crashing of ice behind the bar. It’s all kind of nice when you think about it. You hum, lips perched on your straw of whatever fruity cocktail was in the large pitcher on the table, not sipping, but simply holding. Savouring, in more ways than one. 

Your eyes fall into the natural progression of drifting from corner to corner of the dingy bar, hoping for something… someone to capture your attention. Your disinterest halts itself when your pupils widen slightly and you perch up upon hearing the little bell at the doorframe of the entrance jingle deceptively sweet, pulling your eyes to the man who’s been running around in your mind day and night, the subject of your bothersome restless interest. 

Your mind is racing against itself, your thought running before your synapses can fire the request. He’s here, and you’re a nervous wreck. You hate the betrayal of your gut, as it sinks and sways at every move he makes, the nod of his head to a patron, thick leather boots bounding across the sticky beer-soaked hardwood floors — every step thumps akin to your own unsure heartbeat. You watch him sit at the bar, the stool lone in its own corner, something unspoken and sure between him and this place. The bartender drops a beer on the counter, wordlessly, leaving Joel to crack the top open with his lighter. Something cheap and convenient, the plastic paint of it visibly chipped, even from where you sat. He takes a sip, one gulp, then another, and he looks at you — a blink and you miss it kind of look, before setting the bottle down and looking away.

Your heart slams in its chest. Fuck. 

“I got shots!” is followed by boisterous applause at your table, a tray of mismatched shot glasses filled with something clearly cheap and juvenile. Still, you have no choice, hauling it up to your lips and swigging the burning liquid down your throat, following a swift 3.2.1! countdown from one of the girls. The moment the alcohol meets your lips, it’s a rather dangerous thing. You can feel the warmth building in your blood, your body melting off the weight of the room for something more easy, palpable. One shot turns into two, which turns into dancing along to a heavy rock song, reminiscent of something you’ve heard before, lost in the then and the now of the night. You ride along this warmth, the confidence you feel creeping up from your toes and settling subtly in the way you laugh a little louder, crowd a moment longer. 

You’re either ignorant to the stare he is giving from his claimed corner at the bar, or if some part of you knew this whole moment became something to speak to him without words. I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you. Play this game with me. Still, you dance until it’s time to go home, and then you find yourself making a conscious effort to look for him, maybe see if he was looking for you too. 

“Guys, someone played for our drinks!” one of your friends says. You feel the heat bloom deep in your belly. Did he…? Still, he’s gone. You can’t even make something of yourself with a sobering effort to ask him all sweet-tongued and doe-eyed if it was indeed him. 

You tell everyone you’re going to wait outside, feeling the heat of the moment finally settle on your bones. Instead of fresh air, a familiar waft of spice and tobacco hits your nose, and you know it’s him before you even see him. Your legs are following the scent before your mind catches up to what you’re truly doing until you’re planted right in front of Joel, the moment quieted under the implications of your encounters leading up to this. You look up at him, the cherry of his cigarette setting alight the mirth in his eyes as he takes you in, all of you. 

“Can I try?” you ask, eyes deceitfully tracing the image of his lips wrapped around the slim tobacco stick. 

Wordless, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth after a brief inhale and holds it to your lips, a crooked smile taking place on his own. You look up at him, glossed lips finding their way around the filter and pulling in a hot puff of smoke into your lungs, burning and tightening immediately at the foreign feeling. You sputter and cough, the smoke coming out in one heaping cloud, contrary to the smooth wafts you're used to seeing. The rush that accompanies your expectorating nearly has you keeling over from the dizziness, which is only amplified by the man in front of you.  

“You’re shit at smoking. Quit while you’re ahead.”

You cut him a side eye, your lungs still aching as you’re bent over trying to catch your breath. “Piss off. I’ll get better.”

A curt laugh leaves him in the form of a curt chuckle, before taking a last puff of his cigarette and stepping it out. “Stupid girl,” he hums, his hand coming to pat your head once before making off again. The moment leaves you as quickly as it came, because from somewhere behind you, you hear your name being called, signaling your time to leave. You take one last look at Joel, nearly gone from your line of sight now before you turn and head back to your friends.

Your days since that encounter pass quietly, almost alarmingly so, the only grounding thing you have from it being a sore throat and lungs. You huff when you remember his words as you so embarrassingly coughed your lungs out in front of a man like Joel, and his subsequent response at your display. Stupid girl. The gall of the man. No matter the warmth that bloomed under your skin and wiggled itself into the tips of your extremities at the name, he had no right to call you that. You’d show him as much, eventually.

You spend your days doing chores and fussing over the house with your mother, as she’d always say a woman’s work is housework. But no amount of scrubbing floors or wiping away the stain of grout makes you feel better. You haven't been able to stop yourself from thinking about it, him. It’s semantics to you at this point. Your stolen strawberry straws still sit uneaten in your bedroom table drawer, the implications of what it could mean by eating it scaring you more than the idea of them going stale. (Talk about wasted effort!)

It’s not long before another Saturday turns into sticky floors and a humming jukebox, and you find yourself back in an unwilling moment of déjà vu in the booth of the bar. Tonight, the sangria and idle chatter serve as modicums of what you can’t have. A defeated look undoubtedly marks your face as your finger circles the rim of your ginger soda. Your friends, spread out by the jukebox and pool table respectively, dance to America's crooning style and haphazardly hit pool balls, leaving you in the solitude and safety of the booth. Shrouded in a dark overhead light, you feel a kinship with the mood you've experienced all night. All that's missing is…

“You here alone, pretty lady?”

You don’t even make the effort to give whoever it is that's talking to you your full attention, simply trailing your eyes up to the sad soul who decided to approach you tonight. He’s not ugly, you’ll give him that, but you simply aren’t in the mood tonight for blonde hair and cunning eyes. You're craving something more mercurial and crooked these days. “I’m with my friends, I’m not really in the mood to–” you don’t even get to finish your sentence before this stranger cuts in, and already the irritation begins to simmer up on the front burner, threatening to bubble over rather quickly already. 

“C’mon, let me buy you another drink at the bar?” he prods again, and now you make the effort to look at him, face as impassive as ever.

“I’m flattered, but maybe my friends over there,” you point curtly to the corner of the bar where your friends are, “will appreciate your offer more.” 

“Hey, c’mon, don’t be like that. I just want to get to know you better,” the ever dense stranger says, his hand reaching out to grab your hand. 

“Touch her and I got something that you’ll get real familiar with in a second,” a voice cuts in, gruff, authoritative, familiar. Him. 

You turn to angle your head to see behind the man touching you and confirm your suspicions. You blanch a little, somewhat embarrassed for this to be the way you meet him once more since your embarrassing excuse of smoking a cigarette last Saturday. Still, he seems unperturbed by whatever unspoken dance you two have been stepping around these past few weeks, focused instead on pulling the man from his proximity to you as much as possible and into his own, the two of them now chest to chest.

“Sorry man. Didn’t know this was your piece of ass to begin wi-”

Joel's fist dealt a swift blow to his jaw, wiping the smug smirk and comment from his lips, and you could only gasp at the violence he enacted in your favour. Fuck. 

The bar's warm energy drains, and instead, something volatile and thick fills it, catching in your throat and punching deep in your lungs. There’s a blur of fists and swears and blood, and you hear what you’re sure is the bartender clamouring for them to take it outside or let the cops deal with them. At that, Joel steps away from the bruised mess of the man that was just standing all tall and contrived with confidence only minutes ago, having succumbed to the brawn and raw brute strength of this enigma of a man. Your heart flutters in your chest rather unwillingly, forming some twisted version of affection pulled from the act of violence. Your eyes meet Joel’s own, ever brown and ever guarded, and he leaves the bar as swift as he seemed to have shown up. 

Your friends huddle, a foot or so away from the bruised man, seemingly entranced by the brutality of it all. You don’t hesitate for a moment to take advantage of their distraction to slip out and find your own distraction. 

He’s leaning against his pickup truck, cigarette between his lips as always, rubbing his bruised and bloodstained knuckles. He eyes you, bordering on wariness but not quite, and you eye him back — the same sense of uncertainty reflected back at him. 

“…Thank you,” you murmur, that juvenile embarrassment flooding your veins once more. You step to stand next to him, leaning against his pickup truck, just watching him smoke in the silence. A moment passes, and it’s not sharp-edged and uncertain like you’d expected it to be like the other times, but rather comfortable, familiar. A sense of mutual understanding blanketed under cigarette smoke and unspoken tension, soothing it into something softer, palatable.

“You’re welcome, kid.”

His response takes you by surprise almost, the silence lulling you almost completely. You turn to face him fully with your body, and your fingers grab the cigarette from between his lips to find its way between your own, your knuckles brushing his calloused own. A soft smile falls on his lips at your bold display. Still, he lets you take it from him and bring it to your own lips.

“Thought I told you to cut that shit out,” he hums, watching you inhale, the cherry glowing softly against your skin in a dance with the full moon above. 

“Thought I told you I’d get better,” you hum back, the burn and nausea of the smoke curling into your lungs coming back to you like the last time, but you stomach it better now, certain of your own harmful intent. He laughs, the sound almost impossibly quiet, reserved only for you two. You take a drag of the cigarette once more before he’s pulling it from your own lips and trapping the smoke between yours and his, quieting your pleas before they have the chance to bloom into the night. It takes you a second to really absorb the moment before you realize what’s happening. He’s kissing you. All smoke and angst and unspoken life lived long before you, you melt against his mouth, breathing him in with every fibre of your being, taking as much as he’ll let you in this moment. Your eyes flutter shut, and a whimper leaves your mouth as he presses you against his pickup truck, sticking between his stocky body and the rusted metal. It’s a safe and slow kiss until it’s not, and it becomes something more desperate, the desire palpable in the way his tongue moves against yours and your hands find themselves gripped in his flannel shirt. You pull at him, losing yourself in the moment of his kiss, wearing your heart on your sleeve in the hopes that he can see you for your bearings in this moment. I’ve wanted this for so long. 

Thick hands pull at your waist, trailing down to your hips before lifting you up, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist, the kiss never faltering or breaking, a testament to the nature of the man before. In the throes of passion and violence, he remains impervious despite it all. A never wavering strength, a strength for which you can only show unbridled appreciation towards. In a moment, his lips pull from yours, a whimper leaving your lips as you tuck your face into his neck. 

“Fuckin’ drive me crazy. Can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers, the confession feeling like a moment of magic under a full moon. “Will you let me taste you tonight? Or you gonna keep teasing me?” he asks, steadying you in one hand as he opens the back door of his truck, setting you down on the worn leather seats to leave him standing between your knees. 

His hands are incessant, toying at your waist, squeezing, grabbing, staking his claim in every way possible. He’s looking up at you, expectant of an answer, and you bite your lip under his heated gaze. You’re still reeling from his kiss, lips surely tasting of him and heavy smoke, the only admission of what you did tonight let anyone come close enough to you. 

You bite your lip meekly and nod. “Y-yeah… but… here?” Your face warms, realizing that your display of affection was still rather public, no matter how contained in the moment you felt. What would your parents dare to think of you now?

“Mmm,” his nose nuzzles in the juncture of your neck where you’re sure he can feel your heartbeat, “won’t let anyone see what’s mine, baby. Promise.” He licks a warm stripe up your neck, then nibbles gently at your pulse point, causing your breath to hitch. A moan cat he’s in your throat, and you can feel your already fickle resolve melting. 

“Please, Joel,” you breathe, gripping his hair tenderly as he tastes the admissions of passion all over your skin. His kisses trail up your neck to your jaw, his beard and soft lips tickling all the way up to your own, where he kisses you once. “Lay down.”

It drips of certain authority when he says it, and you can only listen, your back meeting cool cracked leather. You’re almost embarrassed at your choice of garment tonight, a simple black skirt, knowing you wouldn’t have expected the night to end with a troublesome man underneath it like this. 

You can’t bring yourself to look down, simply feel as he flips your skirt up and moves to bring either of your legs up over his shoulders. You can feel his breath laced with trepidation against the notably wet gusset of your underwear, and you want to sink into the leather and never come back out from the embarrassment. He doesn’t spare you impassivity on it either, and you should have known as much.

“A kiss gets you this excited?” 

“Shut up,” you groan, hands covering your face. 

“Don’t be embarrassed, I’m here to take care of it now.”

With that, he presses open mouthed kisses over the moist of your underwear, sending chills up your body in the anticipation of it all. You squirm under his touch, the playful kisses and licks and bites over your intimates frustrating you beyond belief. He seemingly senses it and moves to finally give you reprieve when he hooks a finger in the gusset of your underwear and pulls it to the side. You can feel his breath ghost over your clit, and the stimulation that you’ve been begging for has you whimpering.

“Pretty fucking pussy been waiting’ for me, hasn’t she?” he coos, kissing your left inner tight. “Mhm, please…” you say lowly, supplicant under the throes of the potential pleasure. “Impatient little thing,” he hums, but his comment is in jest it seems, as he moves to taste you finally, as he asked, and it’s nothing short of explosive, your nerves working in overdrive. 

He eats from you as if you were the sweetest nectar, sucking and licking every inch of your sensitive pussy, his beard giving a welcome pain to accompany your pleasure. He prods you with his tongue with an expertise that you're sure only comes with age and experience. He's incessant, despite your cries and gasps and twitching he holds strong, spreading you and keeping you still by your things with his strong hands and you can do nothing but take it.

“Oh Joel,” you moan, honeyed and delicate, clearly succumbing under the waves of pleasure sent crashing your way. Your hands grip his hair in a silent plea of encouragement to keep going, for you'd feel forsaken if he stopped. His tongue moves from circling your clit, to plunging deep into your pussy as if he was trying to devour you from the inside out. You nearly screamed when he pulled a way to lick a stripe up your wetness, starting this time at your puckered hole drenched in the residual wetness of your pussy, Joel’s sole doing.

“Oh my God,” you breathe out when you feel his tongue lick up from your ass to your clit, over and over until the pleasure that has been building in you crescendos and you go taut, mouth agape in a silent plea as you're wracked by your orgasm.

“Just like that, baby” Joel hums between licks at your clit. “Cum for me all sweet.” 

And you do, left with no choice but to take as he relentlessly gives, even in the throes of overwhelming pleasure. Your hands grip his hair even harder, the stimulation of his mouth feeling like an overload for your nerve endings. It has you babbling, legs fluttering even as he holds you apart. “C-can’t,” you heave, and he relents upon hearing your desperate plea.

His mouth leaves you, but not without a final kiss to your pussy, before he moves his head from the juncture of your legs and pulls your skirt down. You whimper at your legs freeing from his grip, your muscles sore after being held bent for so long. 

“Did so good for me, yeah?” Joel says, rubbing your thighs softly, as he watches you come down. 

“You’re so mean,” you mumble, mustering up the strength to sit up from the backseat and finally look at Joel since he lost himself between your legs. 

“You say that to everyone who gives you an orgasm?”

That fucking smirk isnt lost at he teases you back, but this time his lips are wet with you and your face warms, your eyes insisting on looking down instead. There's no mercy to be had, as you see his erection straining against his jeans when you do, and you gasp. He must be huge, considering the size of the bulge he's sporting. “You’re…” you start, and you’re not sure how to even finish.

“I am. Tends to happen when you eat pussy,” he says rather brazenly, and if you didn't have a modicum of control you're sure you'd sputter at his words. You make eye contact with him again, and his eyes are holding a newfound softness, but you're unsure if it's from the moment or a betrayal of the moonlight above you both. “Can we… keep going? But in- in a bed. Your bed, preferably,” you say, heart beating ridiculously fast at the fact that you even had the spunk mustered up inside you to ask him such a thing. 

“You tryna get into my pants now?”

“I-It’s only fair…”

“Hop in the front, I hear your preferred ideas loud ‘n clear.”

The car ride to his place was quiet, but not uncomfortably. It was welcome, giving you time to watch the signs pass you by on the roads like a blink, with Joel’s hand on your thigh, thumb rubbing more affirmatively than an act of lust. It grounds you in a sense, keeping you in the moment rather than the idea of what’s to come. You drive for about twenty minutes until you’re exiting off the highway onto a quiet route, scarcely lit until it trails off into dirt, the tires crunching under the rock and soil before a quaint cabin comes into view. It was all rustic and wooden, surely built as strong and capable as the man next to you. He pulls up in front of the house, cutting the engine quick and swinging his door open, muttering a Don’t move your way and your stomach turns when you realize he’s coming around to open the door for you. 

Quite the gentleman you are, Joel Miller. 

He offers you a hand when your door opens, and you take it, unable to help the smile on your face as you hop down from the lifted truck. “Thank you.”

“Jus’ didn’t want you eating shit in my driveway,” he says, but the lack of playful tone in his voice lets you know he doesn't mean it. Still, you give him this nicety and spare him from any further teasing, your gut beginning to spark the smouldered embers that were there previously when the moment sets in. You’re at his house, and the pretenses are ones that you cannot ignore. 

Joel walks a pace ahead of you, keys in hand to be able to open the door for you, and you watch him silently, taking in this obvious vulnerability. You admire the little chair sat on his porch, the ash tray atop the balustrade, what looked to be whittled chippings of wood scattered along the dark oak of the porch. This was the most intimate version of him, and in this moment, it’s all yours.

“Ladies first,” Joel says, breaking your concentration, and you walk past him and across the threshold of the door. His house is quaint, that is your first observation. Quaint, and messy. A man can't be helped. The cabin is lit only by the light atop the stove, making the room seem humble in a sense.  The door leads straight into the living room, furnished humbly with a couch, table, and a television, with a kitchen to the left, all open concept. The door at the wall at the opposite end of you is what you can only assume leads to the bedroom, bathroom too.

“You want the grand tour or can I show you where the magic happens?” Joel says, walking up behind you with an eyebrow quirked. Your eyes roll instinctively.

“Don’t ruin the moment.” 

You turn to face him, and you’re met with his chest, inciting you to look up until you’re peering up into his face. “C’mere…” he trails off, grabbing your waist before pulling you into a kiss. This one feels different than the one you shared in front of his truck. There, you felt as if the moment would escape you if you dared do anything but get lost in it, but here, the kiss demands you to be present. To savour it, taste it, take it in its entirety. The purse you’ve been carrying all night slips free from over your shoulder, hands moving to wrap around his neck and savour the feeling of his tongue against yours, his hands only granting you this moment of softness. 

His lips pull away from you for a moment, just to speak softly. “Jump up.”

Hands catch your thighs when you do, and the kiss resumes, slow and deep and heavy, riddled with everything unsaid under the stars, and he’s walking you to his room like this. Still, everything is distant as you're focused on how his lips feel as though they're consuming you – mind, body, soul. A door opens, and you're moving down, plushness meeting your back. The kiss doesn't break still, his denim covered groin rutting into you and you feel the heaviness of him, giving you friction against your panties. You’re the one to break away from the kiss this time, desperate beyond relief that grinding can give.

“Please, Joel. I need you inside,” you breathe, hips canting up to provide relief to your aching clit. 

“Fuck. I got you baby, I got you,” he says, and he sounds as desperate as you feel. He pulls away from you, pulling his flannel off his frame, then his wife beater, then he moves to his jeans, the hefty clink of his belt buckle making you bite your lip.

“You’re so sexy,” you whisper. You can’t help but reach a hand out to his stomach, toned but still soft with plush and dusted with soft hair, trailing up and down. You watch him pull the belt from the beltloops of his jeans, the loud clang sound of it dropping to the floor making your breath hitch. 

“You just gonna watch me undress, or do I get in on this fun too?”

Yes, you're still clothed.

You make haste of your shirt and bra, thrown to the wind behind you. You don’t have a chance to rid yourself of your bottoms before calloused hands are doing it for you, pulling you shirt and panties down and off your legs in one fluid motion.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, before coming down to kiss you once more. Chest to chest, inhibitions gone and forgotten, you relish in the freedom the intimacy grants you. You let yourself grind against his hard erection, you let your hands tangle in his salt and pepper tresses. His hand teases your clit with the rigid softness of the tip of him, causing you to arch your back and bare yourself to him, a willing participant in your own debauchery.

“Gonna fuck you now, yeah? Nice an’ slow…” Joel hums against your lips, noses touching as you pant under him. You nod your head, and move to kiss him again. 

His intrusion takes you by surprise despite the warning. He’s heavy and warm and unrelenting, just like the rest of him. Inch by inch, he breaks you down until there's nothing left but the melting feeling of pleasure deep within you, finally igniting the slow burning ember that you tried so hard to smother.

“Joel, move… please,” you sigh against him. He must hear the desperation your voice is dripping in as he moves to pull back his hips, thrusting in you once more to the hilt. The movement punches a whimper out of you, goading him on to keep going. 

When he finds his pace, built up from the careful and slow thrusts he originally started with, you feel as if this is your divine punishment. The grunts of the man above you, laced with masculine inhibition, lust, and something you can’t name… it all sends you reeling. His heavy thrusts bring stimulation internally and externally, the sensitive walls of your pussy fluttering in enchantment of this pleasure that supersedes anything your own fingers could give you, the tuft of his bush rubbing against your clint with every stroke inside you, knocking the air out your head. Another thrust, another moan, another grunt. The flex of your foot, the mean swivel of his hips — you’re drowning in ecstasy, smothered in the unbridled pleasures of a hormonal release that’s been begging to be let go of. You’re one with the moment, only anchored by the incessant puncture of Joel’s thick cock against your inner walls, and the sweet vulgarity he lets lave against your neck between his kisses and bites, only hoping it reaches your ears.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

“Sweetest - fuck, sweetest fuckin’ pussy.”

“You feel so good like this. Tell me how good you feel, baby.”

“Want that sweet pussy to cum ‘round me, can you do that?”

It’s all too much and not enough at once, it has you incoherent and trembling under Joel. He lifts up from his position on top of you to be able to see you take all of him, and the look in his eyes has you clenching harder than any words he’s said to you all night. This is what becomes of those who answer the call of a siren’s temptation, you take until you can no longer.

“Can feel you clenchin’ up on me, baby. Cum for me, give it to me.”

A hand moves down to thumb your clit, the other wrapped around your calf and holding it against him for leverage to fuck into you like you need. The feeling of lips kissing the sole of your foot have your eyes bursting wide open from their haze. Joel eyes you, obvious to your reaction, but is unwavered. His kisses remain constant in tune with the rut of his hips and circling of his thumb against your clit, and you feel yourself beginning to crest.

It’s all so much now. 

You can't hold the whine that bubbles out of your throat nor the gasps of breath that come after, your orgasm beginning to take the reigns. 

“Tha’s it, cum for me. Holy shit.”

Your entire body tenses up, an electrical symphony of nerves firing rapidly in an attempt to keep up with the sensation as you feel it. You're sure you go blank for a moment, reduced to nothing but fried nerve endings and trembling muscle. You blink, only coming to when you feel a warm cloth against your stomach and between your thighs, wiping up the collective mess you made. You only see Joel’s back as he moves around the room. Still, the exhaustion and exertion of the night digs itself in your bones, and your eyes can’t help but flutter closed again.

“Shh, I got you. S’okay, take it easy and rest. We’ll talk in the morning, sweetheart.”

The morning after doesn't grant you the same sense of ease the night before had. The sun shines brightly through the bedroom window, interrupting the heavy sleep you fell under. You wake up to an empty bed and the smell of eggs and bacon, you’re sure. Your clothes from last night are folded on the nightstand and a glass of water is waiting for you next to it. You can’t help but smile, throwing the sheets off you and stepping into a stretch. It’s only when you feel a breeze as you lift your arms that you notice your sleepwear – his shirt. 

You smile again, unable to help yourself, swallowing the wince you feel from the budding soreness between your legs and follow the sweet smell of breakfast into the kitchen.

The layout of Joel’s cabin gives you no moment to creep and watch him in the unfiltered morning moment, but nevertheless you admire your view of the man plating eggs, bacon, and buttered toast on the counter.

“Good morning, sleepy girl,” he hums, not looking up from his activity.

You forget you’re still standing in the doorway as you walk up to him in the kitchen. “Hi.”

“Feelin’ okay? You knocked out on me,” he says, looking up at you finally, handing you your plate and nodding his head signaling you to move to sit on the couch behind you.

“Yeah, little sore. But um, I feel good. Last night was…” you trail off, embarrassed to finish your words and instead begin to eat your food. 

“Indeed it was. Didn’t expect you to gush like that,” he says, ever crass, shovelling food into his mouth with a smirk.

“Wh- don’t say things like that!” You're so embarrassed at his words that you don't even consider them. You’ve had your fair share of self inflicted orgasms but you wouldn't describe them with the word ‘gush’, that's for sure. Surely he doesn't mean you…

“...I…I peed?” you ask, the embarrassment constricting your throat. You can’t ever look him in the eye again.

A hearty chuckle leaves his chest mid chew as he shakes his head, laughing at your embarrassment. “No, baby. It happens sometimes when women feel really good. Means I did my job right.”

“Oh… so… you’re not mad? Or grossed out?”

“Nope. S’natural.”

After that, the two of you eat in relative silence. Then, you remember in the quiet. 

The bar. The fight at the bar. Joel and his truck. You and Joel and his truck. The sex. Your mother. Oh God.

You shoot up, panic taking you over as you scramble for your purse. Joel’s eyes trail your frantic blur of movement and incoherent pleas hoping to God for your mothers forgiveness. 

“I guess you need a ride home, then.”

Your mother was nothing short of both frantic and furious alike, crowding you with questions and her unwavering presence, telling you off on how unacceptable and insurmountable your transgression was, how it would take a lifetime to wash your sins away. 

Still, there's nothing her never ending line of questioning did to make you regret your actions. She’d be short her sanity if she’d known your virginity was lost to a man you’re unmarried to, let alone the town delinquent. Bible study on Saturday turned into endless throes of pleasure between sheets that smell like tobacco and something uniquely self assured. Morning of warm stares and heated touches, afternoons of laugh and sweet nothings as you both reel in post-orgasmic haze. 

“They named that newborn Lamb. Her name is Teddy.”

“Ain’t that a boy name?”

“I think it’s cute.”

Every week, you learn a new piece of him. How he likes his coffee (black, naturally). How he snores when he sleeps on his back. How the scar against his nose seemingly is sunkissed under the summer sun. You take these moments and hold them within you somewhere deep, private. Intimate. A sacred air is born in his off-road cabin, where between mind-numbing orgasms and footrubs on Joel’s worn sofa, everything is stripped raw down to its organic matter. It’s just you and him, sans inhibition. And so, you let yourself indulge on a Saturday before your penance is sanctified on a Sunday. You let yourself stay oblivious to the bruises on his knuckles you kiss better, choose against questioning the loud mystery of the man in front of you. What do you do when I’m not around?

Still, you indulge beyond yourself even when you know better. 

You’re sat atop his lap, arms tenderly hung around Joel’s neck as his money counter whirls on the table in front of you both on the couch. Your head is tucked into his chest, letting yourself lull against the noise of his heartbeat strong against his chest and whistling of the machine and money.

“Where do you even get this money from?” you mumble into his chest.

You feel the hum laced with bemusement in his throat before he answers. “Don’t matter long as I can spoil my girl with it.”

His girl. 

Your heart swells in your chest at hearing that. You’ve both refrained from naming whatever situation the two of you are in, but the feeling becomes so charged when you’re around each other that you both know better than to deny it for each other's sake.

“Count this for me baby,” he says, his hands already at your hips maneuvering you to face forward. A brick of hundred dollar bills fall into your lap and you turn to look back at Joel, him already returning your pointed look with his own. Bad idea. You do it anyway, making your own white noise for Joel to lull away against as he holds you tight against him.

The carefully crafted simulacra of committed boyfriend and girlfriend falls apart in one fell swoop, an assault charge from the same man that accosted you at the bar along with a missed court appearance has Joel in the back of a cop car, hands cuffed behind his back as they haul him away. From you, from each other, from this fragile game of housewife you’ve been playing all these weeks.

They spare him no dignity, arresting him right outside of the gas station, sour straws and Marlboro Reds abandoned on the floor.

Everyone considered it degrading to everything but him. Your mother scoffed at the news, claiming to be glad the town can look away from the embarrassment of it all. And you? You internalized it all. The shame, the fury, the embarrassment, and the love. 

It was decided then that you would go see him, image be damned. Your mother and father could not be placated further, because your taste of true freedom and unconditional love waited for you when he saw you, and you’d be damned if you made yourself wait. 

And so that brings you here, watching all six feet something of brawn and charisma and greying hair walk up to the phone booth in his prison habit, grey pants and shirt with a white longsleeve. You're ashamed at the butterflies you get in your stomach everytime you see him like this, in a place as violent and mean as they make him out to be and still looking as unaffected and unwavered as ever. 

He sits while you already press the phone up against your ear, and you smile, excited for the best part of your days here. 

“Hi,” you breathe as he picks up the phone.

“Hi, baby. Look so good today, s’unfair.”

You laugh and the conversation falls into your little anecdotes of town gossip and chores you attended, yet he listens with a reverence that makes your heart soar every time. 

Still, he wouldn't be himself if he didn't tease you every now and then, security guards a non-factor in his playful vulgarity. 

“Promise you been good? Readin’ my letters?”

“Mhm, keep 'em in a special box and all,” you nod.

“Atta girl. Miss you like crazy every day. You miss me too,” Joel asks, and the receiver doesn't fail to pick up the lilt in his voice as he asks. Still, you let him play his games with you and you give him a meek nod, because you really do. 

“Yeah? Tell Daddy how much you missed him.” 

“Your eyes cut into something so sharp at his words and you hush a scold over the phone, “Joel!”

He can’t help but laugh at your face twisted up in embarrassment. 

Soon, your time is up and the best parts of being in here soon becomes the worse, as you know you’ll have to leave him here in the confines of these walls until next Saturday, the cruel institution left to beat him with by his circumstance until you come again to give him a breather as you smile at him, your radiance ever effervescent despite the plexiglass between you.

Your hand rests against the glass, and he presses against it in a ritual union before you go. A gesture charged with certainty and promise. 

I’ll be home soon.

And because you’re his girl, you’ll be waiting faithfully.

send me an ask!

[nymphomatique]

posting a one-shot on monday mark y’all’s calendars

[nymphomatique]

editing took long asf my bad yall but we HERE!!! she’ll be up tomorrow at noon ✊

[nymphomatique]

posting a one-shot on monday mark y’all’s calendars

[nymphomatique]

fic #soon

[nymphomatique]

big mama coming y’all 🙏🏾

[badpercc]

[darlingshane]

Frank Castle x F!Reader

Summary: You blow Frank. That's it. There's no more too it.

CW: 18+, explicit, cockdrunk, bj, rough bj, deep throat, come eating, pwp.

Word Count: 890

A/N: Saw the term Cockdrunk somewhere, and I had to use it. And if I'm going to get cockdrunk on someone, it has to be Frank. // I was saving this for tomorrow, but it's perfect for a Thirsty Thursday :)

— Links: AO3 | Frank Masterlist | Kinktober 2025

Your knees were already screaming against the floor, but the ache was distant, drowned out by the raw pull of Frank's length sliding down your throat. You worked your mouth over his cock, bobbing, swallowing, letting spit drip unchecked down your chin. It was messy and sloppy. Slick strings of your saliva clung and swung between your swollen lips and his skin. The wet squelching of your suction waved in the air with your lewd moans every time you sank down far enough to gag.

His size made your jaw ache, his girth stuffed between your lips, burrowing in the depth of your mouth. Your cheeks hot and wet, tears streaking freely as you fought to take him deeper. You were ravenous for more of him, you wanted to feel all of it, as far as you could take it, even if it hurt. Every inch, every drop, every vein pulsing in your mouth. You tasted it all. Swallowed it as far as you could. Ignored your throat protesting when the blunt tip slammed against your uvula. You pushed harder, obstructing your ability to breathe just for a second. Frank was the one to pull your head back, allowing you to take a deep breath. He held your chin for a moment, capturing the hunger flashing across your eyes while your breathing struggled to catch up. The way you panted and bowed your head asking more made his cock twitch in your hand.

You weren’t done yet. Not even close. He let go of your head, and you went back down, wrapped your lips tightly around him, keeping that hand firmly anchored at his base.

It wasn’t just your throat that ached. It was lower, too. Your core craved, twisted into a million knots, desperately imploring and begging like a giant starved beast punching from the inside out, stirring your arousal to stream down your thighs. Every drag down, every gag and gasp, only wound that creature tighter.

A heavy palm settled at the back of your head, fingers twisting into your hair—not pushing, just holding, steadying you. His knuckles tightened when your throat clenched around him, a rough groan tearing out of him, low and guttural.

“Fuck…” he muttered, almost like he didn’t mean for it to escape. The violence of your mouth was greatly satisfying. The devotional posture of your body kneeling, and the frenzy of your lips willingly choking on him, took the pain away, muted the battleground that his mind had become.

He kept gazing at you, mesmerized by the unrelenting need to get him off. But you weren’t just sucking him, you were feeding on him, getting drunk on his big cock. It was visceral. And passionate. And almost too dirty for words. But with it came a rush. A promise sealed between your lips to be the one lucky enough to hold him in your mouth and replace his agony for ecstasy.

His breath stuttered, chest heaving above you as you kept working him, consuming every inch you could manage. His hand balled tighter in your hair, not forcing, just following the rhythm of your head, worshiping his sex like you were praying to God. Your moans spelled a litany only he could understand.

The tight seal of your lips definitely felt like heaven. He was just as high as you. Intoxicated by the ruthless undoing of your lips’ hold, milking him like you couldn’t bear to let go.

“Attagirl,” he rasped, the praise coming out rougher than gravel, thicker than concrete, breaking through gritted teeth.

The word lit something in you—your belly tightening, your cunt throbbing so hard you whimpered around him. You kept building him frantically, spit bubbling and sliding down your neck. It was obscene, brutal, and terribly loud to hear yourself like this. But that didn't stop you. It only drove you to keep going farther, if that was even possible.

You were already about to shatter.

His hips gave a shallow thrust, the first crack in his control, and his hand clenched in your hair like he was hanging on by a thread.

Another rough groan spilled out of him, and you could almost taste he was about to come undone. His length throbbed and jerked and begged as it reached the end. When the curl of your fingers at the base of his erection pressed a little harder, you locked your lips shut around him as his cum rushed out in hot spurts, coating the inside of your mouth. Feeding his heavy load to your starving throat. You drowned in him, savored his taste, relished in the warm, sticky texture of his seed as it slipped down your throat like molten honey.

He could see it in your face when you finally pulled back, lips swollen and shining, breath catching in short, trembling bursts. The look in your eyes told him everything—how far you'd go for him. Satisfaction was spelled all over your cum-drunk stare, unfocused and slow, the same kind that ran through him as he watched you swallow every last drop clinging on your tongue. It was a damn sight better to witness the wreckage in the aftermath of his orgasm. It was lovelier than your face being covered in makeup. This was real. It was you. Perfectly messed up. Just like him.

[nymphomatique]

fic #soon

[pwncez]

𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒲𝐵 𝑀𝐼𝐿𝒦 𝒫𝐼𝒞𝒯𝒰𝑅𝐸𝒮 presents a frank castle ﾉ fem reader production . . . ᝰ .ᐟ

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──── 6 . 4kay wrdz , black fem reader , reader has a tattoo + wears lash extensions , daddy kink , toxic . . ? relationship ꒰ more just . . miscommunication ꒱ , brat taming , oral sex ꒰ f ꒱ , pet name usage ꒰ little girl , mama , sweetheart ꒱ , creampie , throatpie ﾉ facial , dirty talk , frank has a litl bit of a foot fetish ꒰ toe sucking ꒱ .

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . :333 i luv him a whole lot uhmmmm . . dis vid iz jus 4 m followers dat hv never watched the punisher / don’t rllie know much abt frank . . i dunno ! here’z jus a glimpse of his personality + his voice -> 🥛 . fic title inspo by m angel faye as alwyz . Minors & Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ! ! ! !

you were quiet . . . he’ll give you that.

heel - toe, heel - toe, fingers positioned on the barrel of the gun instead of the trigger, arms properly extended, eyes focused . . . “god damn, sweetheart.” frank’s standing there front and center within your foyer come the sound of a revolver’s hammer being pulled back. his fist all but slams into the rocker switch of a light panel bolted next to the front door to illuminate a bulb sluggishly lolling from right to left above his head from the ceiling.

it’s a small light, casts a warm and bright enough wreath of a glow whose edges skirt the nubs of your pedicured toes. almost all of them are decorated in rings of gold — he’s always found that sexy. the rest of you though, still stands enshrouded within the twilight painted gloom of your home, but he smells you — fresh and floral. you took a shower not too long ago probably, baby magic . . you love that fucking body cream, keep almost three bottles of it on you at all times of the day. above all, your apartment’s dark but not dark enough. there’s a window a few feet behind you, courtesy of the moon and her cool glare, it shines right in past your white, lace curtains ( the same ones that remind frank of what a beer bellied farmer’s wife would obsess over ) and outlines the soft curves of your body.

those are what always give you away. you could be completely silent, body drenched in the most pungent fertilizer . . he can spot you from a mile away.

there’s a breath emitted from you — comes out through your nose. he knows so because he hears a peek of your sweet, little voice beneath it as you drop your arms and take a few steps back and away to flick on the kitchen light.

it’s bigger, brighter than the one in the foyer.

therefore, frank can finally get a good look at you.

you wear a satin robe, the color of it a delicate lilac. it’s short and loosely tied and for this reason, the right flap of it seems to be fighting to hang free and subtly, more or less, captivatingly, droops down your shoulder. beneath the robe is a white bustier, cups trimmed with thin, frilly eyelet that squeezes against the pudgy mounds of your breasts . . . yeah, you just got off of work. frank knows so because you still have on your jewelry — your rings, both sets belonging to your toes and fingers still reside on your body, a few gold bangles on each wrist ( admittedly, frank doesn’t think he’s ever seen you without those on ), anklets, large heart shaped, pink diamond studs in both ears, and you wear about three or four necklaces, all of them around the same length and density yet each suspending a different emblem or charm. there’s a small ‘ F ‘ on one of them, frank just can’t tell which one because they’re knotted and entangled around one another . . . you were laying down, resting before his intrusion.

round and plump, glossed, your lips curl into a deep frown as your eyes squint with irritation. a cynic you are, almost constantly. “. . it’s four am frank, what the fuck are you doing here?”

his brows fold in as he takes a step closer your way. with a sniff and quick glance over his shoulder, he shrugs before seemingly casually gruffing out, “ion know, mama . . i guess i live here or somethin’.”

“no,” your reply is instantaneous. “no, you don’t. get the fuck out.”

you rotate one eighty on those soft, supple heels of yours, those same ones that require just about as much upkeep as the hair growing from your fucking scalp to start your trek across the living room towards the hall. the soles of your feet create small slaps against the buffed, cherrywood flooring, producing a rhythm of tap, tap, tap, taps and the thick clomp, clomp, clomps of frank’s muddied, black timberlands completely vanquish the sound of each one. “yeah, i don’t wanna hear that shit,” he utters after a quiet suck to his teeth.

“i’m serious.”

you enter your bedroom with him only a step behind you. “jus’ lay down, alright?” back and forth he flicks his hand — motioning for you to almost buzz off while his other slams your door shut.

“do you think i’m playing with you, frank?”

there are two, large plastic bags sitting upon the tufted rug made to resemble a cat’s underpaw on the floor at the foot of your bed frame; both of them are swollen tight with bills of pale green. your money counter, bedazzled and powered off, sits right beside the two — definitely went to work tonight. “considerin’ i’m the motherfucker who put you up in this uppity shit and comes outta’ pocket for rent and bills,” again, he shrugs, gives a quick scope of your bedroom meant more for show rather than genuinely appreciating and fixes a tired though stern, umber colored gaze back on yours. “yeah, i think you’re playin’.”

you don’t say anything, you can’t say anything to that — only fold your arms, pointedly look away, and get to work on suckling the inside of your cheek between your back molars to chaw and scrape up the same way you always do when finding yourself upset.

ad rem, a thorough silence overwhelms the room.

if he were to keep it a buck, frank doesn’t want to fight with you. he never does. “c’mon,” his voice drags quietly as he closes some distance between the two of you. “. . you know i ain’t mean for that shit to happen, baby—“

akin to a bullet being shot from a gun, your hand is quick to fly out and smack his away the second a finger gently strokes the soft arch of your cheek. “don’t touch me.” ivories bared, nails sharpened . . you remind frank of a kitten, a fucking feisty one. you push past him to place your exclusive, pink, heritage mfg revolver within its opened box casing that sits on your bed then the entire thing in your nightstand. “i’m giving you three seconds to get the fuck out of my room frank. i mean it.”

he’s nodding as his tongue presses gently against the warmth of his cheek, “yeah . .” he says quietly, staring out past your opened balcony doors towards the skyline, then more louder, “yeah, i’m an asshole, i know—“

“—an asshole?”

you take the bait when he tosses it out into your bogusly calm, wading sea. it’s a move he pulls out often — a little self deprecation to get the ball rolling; works every fucking time. “frank, you’re an inconsiderate, tactless, uncaring son of a bitch.”

still nodding, frank situates himself into a wide legged stance, arms folded across his chest. your mouth is moving, rapidly even. nonetheless, it’s as though the more you talk, the more you only angry yourself. “yeah, i had to take off,” with the intermingling of frank’s voice against yours, the sound of them seems to ( what frank thinks ) kickstart a chemical in your brain that makes the volume of your voice rise. “i fucked up! you don’t think i know that i fucked up, ma? there was some important shit i had to handle—“

“—fuck you, frank!” the pads of your fingers are shoving against the side of his head in efforts to force a sidewards bend to his neck. “some important shit — e-everybody else is important but me, huh?—“ you’re shoulder checking him at the same while, or rather, plainly pushing past him as hard as you possibly can shove all of your weight against a man basically made of steel. frank’s unable to keep his eyebrows from shooting up the span of his forehead. they almost touch his hairline as one, gloved finger points at your pacing figure now a few feet away from him.

“—what i tell you about that, huh? your hands? . . keep ‘em to y’fuckin’ self, alright?”

“—unlike these other fuckin’ people out here, i’m not . . i’m not scared of you,” the pitch of your tone ascends high in your throat as your head jerks back to almost touch the wall behind you. “you gonna hit me? is that, huh — is that what you wanna do?” you don’t make a move to step towards his way as you bitingly chaff. you’re getting beside yourself. frank rolls his lips inside of his mouth to tangibly keep himself from saying another word.

as an ex marine corps lieutenant, he’s been verbatim trained on shit like this. given all your cursing and insults, frank can understand to not take them to heart. you’re upset — you should be. he got a call from brooks, snuck out of your bed and took off into the dead of night. he’s been gone for thirty two days now with no signs sent home to you to alert you of his life or death status. you’re angry, he gets it. but the cursing, the yelling? all that shit gets old to him after a while. he’ll usually allow you three minutes, a total of one hundred and eighty seconds, completely uninterrupted to go in on him, flat out. predominantly by then, he has an idea on what to do with you. either walk out and leave you to stew on your own for a bit or,

“i’ve never dealt with someone like you. you’re jus — fuckin’ . . ugh! it’s impossible. you are impossible . . . — what the hell are you doing?”

sardonically, frank keeps nodding as he walks on over to your bed to snatch hold of one amongst the damn near thousand decorative pillows that sheaths the surface of it. it’s fairly large, shaped like a heart . . . it’ll do. “yeah, nah. keep talkin’, lil’ girl,” he mumbles, letting it fall to the floor between his feet. “just get them knees down on that pillow right there for a minute.”

you’re rendered silent, now standing only a foot away from him, feet pressed together and fingers curled into fists of frustration. irresolution reads outstandingly clear upon the pretty features of your face — mouth parts open about an inch to plausibly gripe out a smart - assed comment before you’re snapping it back closed. those same lips split again a minute later after a beat of hesitation, “i hate you,” your voice’s volume is quieting down as your knees sink within the cushion of the pillow, one by one. all the while, your eyes are refusing to pull away from his. “. . ‘m serious, frank. i’m not gonna keep dealing with—“ you’re a trip. you were angry, frank could gauge that . . but it reads blazingly evident in your body language. as you paced, you made no move to snatch your robe back closed come each time it fought to droop open with each step you took. during the entire fit you gave, you barely made eye contact with frank neither.

“—yeah, yeah,” he’s murmuring beneath the sound of his belt’s metal prong hitting the buckle with a clank as he loosens it from around his hips. snatching the zipper of his roomy cargos down, frank doesn’t waste another second after towing his fat, heavy cock over the hem of his briefs, balls excluded, to press it against your mouth. “shut that shit up.” the palm of his hand finds the back of your head, right upon the soft silk of your bonnet as he feeds his fat, plum capped tip past your balm covered lips.

“you’re more upset that you had to go a month takin’ care of that lil princess pussy on your own, huh?” he’s asking after about a minute of him shallowly thrusting his first three inches or so back and forth out of your warm mouth. silence. “admit it,” he headily rasps while lifting his shirt halfway up the carved muscles of his torso. “just a fuckin’ handful.”

you’re glaring up at him as the volumized wispies of your lash extensions flutter with each new inch of dick he attempts to shove deep inside the vent of your mouth. “take that shit.” frank’s teeth are gritted as he softly breathes out a curse through them. “eat it up — t-there y’fuckin’ go.” high maintenance . . . everything about you is. your hair installs and appointments range between two to seven hundred dollars a month, add on the manicures, pedicures, lashes, bi weekly shopping sprees, and an occasional new house appliance, in the eyes of frank, you’re nothing but a fucking money shredder. beyond them though, all the clothes, shoes, appointments, and make up, it’s the meat between your thighs that demands most of his pampering.

quite literally in fact. you like her waxed; completely barren from a single, growing hair follicle. sugar scrubs to exfoliate and bath water doused in honey and soothing salts ever so often to keep up your ph. . . your pussy’s a god damn diva. frank’s never dealt with a lady like you. he’s never met one before — a woman so calmly cocksure in everything she does and says.

a people person, he’s never been. met you two years ago at the loft — a splashy, wannabe pretentious strip joint. had it been any other day, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance. it’s a bit of a hole in the wall, posted right there in astoria . . a mile or two out from the bridge however, in all honesty, the place makes a damn good old fashioned. and yeah, he also may have been there to watch a pretty lady’s five minute set, sue him. he’d gone twice before you caught his eye — had been working the floor that night . . dolled up in a hot pink, leopard printed, caged halter that was quite patently purchased a sized smaller than what would be your usual and matching thong bottoms whose hip straps were elongated to sit on your shoulders like a sling. not a single curl out of place, skin glistening like the smoothest, dark whisky. you looked like a barbie pulled straight out of her packaging as you glided your way from man to man, letting them tuck bills within the strap of your top with a pretty smile.

other woman’s set be damned. frank finished the rest of his old fashioned and had been halfway through a beer before he decided to motion you on over. you were perched all pretty on the arm of a lounge sofa where a fifty-something year old man sat on, allowing him to trace distinct shapes into the smooth skin of your shin over your fishnets. initially, you appeared jolted — a shadow of confusion gracing your features as you tried to weigh on what his quick chin lift could possibly mean. frank was ignored at first, didn’t surprise him. nevertheless, even while trying to have a conversation with the man . . leaning down to hear him better, letting him get a more fruitful look at your tits, your head couldn’t help swiveling on your shoulder sometimes to let your eyes linger on the unmoving set of frank’s.

eventually you said something to the guy . . whatever it was, it seemed to be enough for him to let you slip away with a new bill slotted within the crease of your cleavage. “i can’t talk to guys at the bar,” was the first thing you said to him. your voice trilled on the last word, as if you were teasingly singing it.

frank wore a smirk, letting his arm lay outstretched along the edge of the tabletop. his fingertips were only about a few centimeters from grazing along the tightly coiled springs of your hair. “that ain’t no problem.”

up, he stood, then four steps forward.

“c’mere,” he leered as he took a seat at a small, lone table. caught the way your eyes fluttered down to his thighs as he spread them wide to get comfortable on the stool, too. “not at the bar no more, am i?”

“mm,” brought your glossy bottom lip underneath the row of your teeth for a slight nibble. charming, the compliment comes often when he applies himself to the role. “you’re not, but—“

before you could say it, frank’s rubbing a hand across the back of his head through the dark mop of hair he’d been growing in tandem with a thick, bolshie beard to coarsely quip, “—pretty thing like you has clients, i know. you got shit to do, money to make. i ain’t gon’ stop you from that.” a hundred dollar bill . . he drifted it from his wallet and held it between his index and middle finger. “how much this get me?”

you took a step closer his way and gave a savvy, little head tilt, “a ten minute convo or dance. your pick. not both.”

“mmm.”

lazily, frank nodded. neither would be enough. not for a man like him — one perpetually tired with police, federal agents, hitmen, and the whole riffraff alike breathing down his neck and desiring his head on a stick. two identical bills were added to the one between his fingers . . and daintily, naturally you grabbed all three, tucked them away, then took his hand.

you gave him a private dance that night . . . let him slip his hands up the cage of your ribs to envelop the meat of your tits in the cradle of his gauze veiled palms while the seam of your ass split with the aim of working his clothed and stout dick between the cheeks of them. you slowly rocked your hips back and forth to a tune composed of a lot of bass and smooth melodies, talked to him all nice and sweet the whole time, too.

’you married?’

‘got kids?’

’you like that?’

’military man, huh? could tell.’

’feels big. you sure you can handle me though?’

just a fucking minx. had him about ready to blow by the time those fifteen minutes were up.

for a while, that was the routine. he’d drink, catch you for a little conversation laden with his sly flirting and your similar witty intrigue, then a dance. with you bent over, legs straightened, hands on your shins, and fat, oil soaked cheeks clapping inches away from his face, he’d toy with you a bit more with his audacious compliments and ask a few questions . . . nothing ever personal, but just enough to get your deal, put more substance behind the face come each time he heard your name. he’s done enough introspection to label himself as a sleaze, not a creep.

‘you like doin’ this? . . mm, yeah. i can tell.’

’this’s a nice lil number on you . . . you look real good.’

’could never get tired of this shit.’

’nah. no other girls, don’t care to dip around with the rest of ‘em here. you’re a fuckin’ gem.’

family, friends, loved ones — frank doesn’t have any. not anymore. but you carved your way somehow into something that, truthfully even now, unnerves him to think about. the early morning diner dates after your shifts, middays at your apartment watching shitty television together, both of you getting ready for different nights of commotion — it all culminated into you becoming . . his. he’s not sure of when or really even how. all he is aware of now, at this moment, while his hand is pushing at the back of your scalp, making you swallow his dick into the tight warmth of your throat, is that he’d kill for you. he’s done it before, he’ll do it again.

“get that hand up here.”

a lot of what attracts frank toward you is the pleasures of your strenuous upkeeping. that mean, furrowed crinkle between your laminated brows grows deeper as you wrap your fingers around the fat root of his cock, granting him a nice view of your nails. the contrast is stark. curved and multicolor, embellished with glimmering charms against a thick, tan rod streaked with pulsing veins. you were something peeled straight from the posters of his teenage bedroom — of those gaudy, early two thousand music video vixens and x rated magazine models. beads of pre drip down onto your tongue as you pull your head back to pant and work your fist up and down his dick in smooth, counter clockwise stirs.

frank’s pulling his hands away from you to interlock them at the base of his back. broad and strong, his hips tilt an inch closer your way as he smirks, letting you crank at him. “missed this shit?” he mumbles, watching you roll your eyes. “huh? . . you missed me, sweetheart?”

silky — the sounds are loud as your hand pumps. “jus’ shut up.”

comical, it all is. your steady - going ruse to get him angry. it won’t work . . it has before, but frank didn’t know you and your tricks well enough as he does now.

your bracelets jingle, all of you does when you adjust yourself to plop more of your butt on the cushion than kneel. you’re making yourself comfortable in efforts to suction his leaking tip between your lips, swirling your tongue along his underside as you swallow another inch and another. what you can do is truly remarkable . . beautiful, even. frank doesn’t have it in him to pretend that your mouth isn’t the best he’s felt in all his thirty something years living here on shitty, fucking earth. “sssss . .” his head slowly falls back onto his shoulder and eyes roll into his skull as you pull his briefs down to allow his swollen, cum filled balls to fall within your soft fingers. they fondle as your head bobs and mouth spills webs of spit off of your protruded bottom lip.

it all begins to gather after a minute — foaming and carbonated. bubbles of saliva inflate and pop at the foundation of his cock as you glug and choke him down.

opposed to popular thought, you know when frank really feels good when he gets quiet for a while . . just complete silence.

your eyes are blurred with tears as both your hands fall to the rug beneath you to press your palms on for stability as you begin to rock yourself back and then forwards — entirely swallowing him into what damn near feels like inside your chest and pulling back almost at his tip. you’re watching him — he feels it.

his eyes are closed, facial muscles utterly lax.

until that bout of silence breaks with a long, hoarse, pussy dampening groan. he grabs the sides of your head between his hands when his hips begin to move, pushing his cock in and out of your gooey, tight throat. “ohhhh shit.”

you feel rivulets of spit trickling down your chin, brooking down towards your neck and chest. “yeah, give me all you got,” he barks, stepping closer when you attempt to pull up. “all you got, girl.”

you’re released when he deems you ready to breathe. you’re coughing when air is given back to you with your lashes spiked, cheeks damp, and nose dripping with mucus. “yeeaahh.” chuckling and nodding his head as his fist starts to stroke his own cock, frank tilts it to really take in the picture you make. “bring that mouth back on over here. who said i was done?”

you’re whining now but still pushing in when he grabs the back of your head, “my jaw hurts—“

“—i don’t care. open the fuck up.”

with your lips enclosed around the girth of his cock, frank makes your mouth follow the path down it and back up with his gloved fist — to keep it real plain, his hand jerks off as you accompany it with sucks and swallows. “want you to swallow every drop,” he murmurs with a nudge to your forehead, impelling you to tilt your head back.

“i don’t want cum in my mouth.” lie.

“either you swallow it all on your own or i push it down your throat.”

you’re left to sit completely still, head back, and mouth opened wide. frank delights in your jumpiness and forged agitation as he pounds into his own hand. you love this shit, it’s palpable. the anticipation only makes your clit harder, pussy more soppy. he makes sure to aim more for your face than mouth, sole reason being to mark you up, unsurprised to get a harsh smack on the thigh in retaliation after you swallow the small bit that does make it to your tongue. he ignores it completely — much too occupied with bending down to scoop an arm behind just one of your knees and the other around your back. you’re hanging from him like a ragdoll as he walks over to your bed to toss you onto the mattress and pull your robe open.

“give anybody my pussy while i was gone?”

your eyes roll once more before you shrug and loll your head on your shoulder to instead focus on wiping his cum from off of your cheeks and nose with graceful fingers — collecting all the wayward wisps of white on two of them to then lay on your tongue. “maybe,” you mutter around the digits, two irises of dark mahogany shimmering like jewels beneath the bright moonlight that encases your entire bedroom. “maybe not.”

frank’s lips purse as he snatches the pathetic excuse of underwear you wear to the side and hook it underneath your ass cheek to keep it in place, “is that right?”

“mhm.”

with a hand, he presses down on your abdomen while languidly stroking the chubby crown of his dick up and down your slit’s length. “hear that?” he gruffs, quieting down to let you listen to the thickness of a few stray drops of his cum and your juices squidging together within the pulp of your pussy. “sounds real sticky — real nasty. sounds like you missed me.”

your hole is clenching against the underside of him . . goading him in, crying for him. it’s truly a god damn shame that you as her owner think of yourself as too much of a hotshot to admit your real feelings and satisfy what’s clear she’s craving. he watches how you fight it, how your bottom lip gets captured between your teeth as you look down at the scene. the folds of your cunt hug his width tight, completely sandwiching it between them to form what looks something like a lewd hot dog. he’s always been more on the thicker side — the girthiest you’ve ever taken actually with a length that fits just nice and snug enough to have his tip a brush away from your cervix when he’s inside and at a standstill.

when he’s fucking you however . . .

frank watches how your eyes cycle back into your skull as you breathe out a mewl and collapse onto your back. you’re burning from the inside out yet you won’t perform the necessary deed to quell it out. you’d rather suffer. clicking his tongue, frank shoves down his pants and briefs til the hem of them halt right underneath his ass, “okay,” he muttered. “be like that.”

he pumps his cock — once, twice — then lifts and forcefully drums it against your cunt, right upon the rosy bead of your clit to let you feel how hard it is. flosses of slick play between you both, thin and viscous. you’re dripping — all of it collecting at your hole to gather into droplets that trickle down the crack of your rump and smear against your cheeks due to your incessant clenching. frank widens his legs, leans back an inch, then lets his thumb lead his tip towards your slit.

it pops in.

you’re hot around him — like a furnace. more than so, you’re tight. you’re whimpering now, eyebrows pushed in close. frank licks his lips, “hey,” he gathers your attention, voice quiet but his smirk bold. he’s challenging you. “you know i missed you.”

an inch deeper. you flinch, a delicious pleasurable pain licking at the base of your core. your eyes still hold the flames of defiance when you glare up at him nevertheless, “y-you better have, frank.”

another inch. “why you gotta be like that with me, huh?”

“ ‘cause you—“ another and you squeak and fist the comforters between your fingers as tight as you can. “y-you’re always leaving me. and i dunno who you’re with, what you’re doin’ . . if you’re alive—“

frank feeds you the rest of his cock by pulling the first few out then smoothly sheathing all the way in. your body wounds tight as your legs instinctively curl up towards your chest. you’re holding onto the back of your knees and whining when he leans in, letting his forearms cage your face between them so that he can plant a slow, sweet kiss to your lips. “i’ll always make it back home to you, you ain’t ever gotta worry about that,” his voice is low and his thumbs stroke your temples gently. “you’re my fuckin’ girl. my only girl.” you are. in every sense of the word.

“mhm, yeah.” there’s a crack in your catty, little façade. you’re looking away from him, still uncertain, still mean.

frank’s face doesn’t change much when he slooowly pulls his dick nearly completely out then snaps back in. he watches your pretty nose crinkle up and body tense again. “frank,” you mewl and squeeze around him tighter when he does it once more. “ungh — shit.”

you sound so cute. you feel like fucking nirvana. frank’s staring at you beneath low eyelids when his hips begin to smoothly lift up and down. his cock pounds at you — pummeling in and out of the grooved canal of your cunt, heavy balls slapping up against the crinkle of your asshole. “ohhh,” you’re grabbing at him now. one hand curled tight with the fabric of his compression shirt, the other’s palm at the back of his head. your nails scratch at the burst fade, it makes a cold shiver rake down frank’s spine. “y-yeah, yeah.”

“ain’t ever givin’ this shit up, you hear me?” he’s growling from the depths of his chest, feeling your tits bouncing up against it as he puts more of his weight behind each pound. “not you, hm? especially not this fuckin’ pussy.”

your eyes are squeezed closed. it hurts, it feels amazing. no — wait. yeah. maybe. you’re squeaking, voice being shaken out between each one, “f-fra-an-nk-kie, mmph.”

frank’s huffing through his nose as he props up on his hands. you look good — too fucking good. body ricocheting off of his hips, stomach caved in as you tried your best to just breathe, all of your jewelry clanking and belling with each slug of his dick inside of you. your pussy’s squelching — just gushing slick around it too, almost as if frank’s tip were hitting a button inside that simply kept opening the gates of it all, over and over. “makin’ such a mess,” he breathes. your thighs are beginning to tremble, you close them impulsively but he’s pushing them back open and pinning your knees to the bed beside your torso, forcing you still. “jus’ look at her. cryin’ for me. for her daddy, hm.”

“b-been so sad,” you’re admitting through a gentle whimper, hand reaching out for his abdomen. your head’s spinning. “h-had to take out . . the trash by m’self, had to . . fuck m’self, too.”

“aww, is that right?” frank’s clicking his tongue. “poor baby.”

“uh huh.”

your feet are flopping in time with each thrust. pretty and delicate. frank can’t help grabbing one to drag his tongue up the length of your sole. the prickling feeling always makes you cry out a precious sound of shock. he’s tasting your toes, one by one, groaning as his teeth scrape against the rings of them and maintaining his pace all the while. yeah, he’ll agree. feet like these, hands like these, this body? you shouldn’t be lifting a damn finger.

“yeah, ‘m sorry, mama.” messy and wet, his kisses stamp a line down your ankle to your shin as he ultimately slows down his rhythm to do so. “daddy’s sorry.”

your lip is pouted, eyes big too. oh, frank loves this shit. he enjoys the push and pull you give him sometimes. the pleasure of breaking you feels all the more sweeter. “don’t do that again,” you’re mumbling now after he comes to a complete halt. “you gotta start fillin’ me in on more stuff, frankie.”

eh.

he’ll think about that part. what he does when he’s gone, concealed within the dark of night, you don’t need to know. it’s not as though he hides it well, given the splotches of mauve that sometimes decorate his eyes and nose, gunshot wound or two littered across his body packed with gauze, and consistent broken and or blood stained knuckles. all things considered, he doesn’t like to be explicit with it all. the way he sees it, it’s just no point. it’s simply just shit he has to deal with sometimes.

he can get a little better with disclosing his life or death status though. he’ll meet you halfway with that. “yeah, you ain’t deserve that,” he grumbled when he has you on your front, knees folded to prop your ass up, and chest flushed flat with the mattress. you have a tattoo on your right ass cheek, spans along the side of it and inches down to your outer thigh. it’s a pretty thing — inked with blues, green, pinks, and purple. his leather cased fingers dig into the soft, plush meat of it as he pulls the globe to the side to get a nice look at your pussy fluttering open to welcome in his cock. when you whine at the stretch, hips twitching away when it keeps pushing, frank’s other hand is pressing at the base of your back, making your cunt swallow him to the base.

“ungh!”

“there you fuckin’ go.”

with the side of your face smooshed against the bed, your parted mouth breathes out weak pants of his name when he begins to fuck you. the sounds are vulgar — warm, damp skin clapping up against each other, your pussy gurgling as she works out droplets of cream that only bulk into a paste at his base and drips down his balls and your inner thighs. “c-can’t . .— daddy,” you’re hiccuping and reaching back to push at him when both his hands wrap around the soft cushion of your waist. he’s leaning forward then, and in doing so, you’re made completely immobile . . quite literally stuck beneath his weight. “can’t take it — can’t t-take it—“

“you’re alright,” he drags, voice husky. “jus’ need you to cum on it, sweetheart. need you feelin’ good.”

you sound adorable. squeaking little ‘ah’s, ‘unh’s, and ‘ooh’s. frank’s hypnotized by the ripple of your ass cheeks moving come each smack of his pelvis against it. he’s missed you. he’s missed you too fucking much. “attagirl.” you’re surprising him when you reach your hands back and spread yourself wide, allowing him to regard the messy scene of his cream streaked dick, your identically filthy pussy, and winking hole above. frank’s holding you by your wrists now, forcing you to keep your hands there as he points his chin down, enamored with it all.

“ ‘m . . ‘m c-cumming,” is all the warning you manage to babble out through your spit filled mouth as frank fucks you through it with his hand now clutched at the back of your neck to keep your body from inching up the bed from the force of his thrusts. your entire body quivers as your pussy clenches around him, fighting to milk his nut out too. “s-so deep — daddy, fuck . . fuck—“

but frank’s not stopping, not for a second. that feeling of your cunt squeezing on him was orgasmic in itself. it’s enough to add a few points to his hp. “yeah,” he grunts, watching it all drip out of you. “yeah. good job, baby. takin’ this shit like a champ.”

your eyes are crossing, all sound is obscured and muffled against your eardrums, you think you can barely breathe.

“a-awe shit,” frank’s hissing, eyebrows pushing in. the leather gloves he wears crinkle as he burrows his nails into the softness of your skin, thrusts slowing down to match the pace of his words, “s-shit . . pretty girl . . fuck.” he thought he could go for about ten minutes longer . . . guess he underestimated the power of your pussy because he’s cumming not long after that final curse. a long, low groan is breathed out through his teeth as he keeps himself and you still, feeling his balls jump in time with each pump of his nut inside of you. you’re sighing out a sweet sound of content and bliss, eyes fluttering closed to mewl when he eventually pulls out an inch at a time about a minute later.

“fuckin’ perfect.”

there’s a small kiss deposited at the back of your head before you feel him slipping away to grab a few napkins out of your nightstand drawer. teasingly, you find enough energy to bounce and shake your ass toward him which only earns you a nice, thick smack. “aye, keep still.” frank’s smirking a little as he swipes a few napkins along your inner thighs first. “don’t need this shit drippin’ everywhere.”

“mm,” when you’re cleaned up, cleaned out actually, frank’s finally kicking off his shoes, snatching off his gloves, and stripping down to his briefs and muscle tee. you’re flopped on your side, head on your pillow, eyes bleary as you blink slow and calmly watch him set two pistols down and a knife down on your dresser. “c’mere.” you’re pouting now — molded soft and sweet in only the soft and sweetest way that a nice fucking can give. when you’re clenching and unclenching a fist his way, he’s slipping underneath the duvet and bringing you with him.

there’s a smooch he gives your forehead prior to him mumbling, “you alright?”

your eyes are closed, face tucked into his neck before you’re nodding, “uh huh,” your voice is quieter, too. frank loves you . . a fucking lot honestly, but he especially loves you like this.

“nah, i mean . .” he’s dragging his fingertips up and down the length of your spine. he knows it feels good, he does it on purpose. you’re going to tucker out in less than a minute if he keeps it up but he needs to know, “nobody fuck with you?. . at work?. . here in the building? you been okay?”

he needs to know.

it’s a relief when you shake your head, “no, daddy,” you’re whispering. “been okay . . just been missin’ you.”

“i know,” another kiss, this one closer towards your cheek. “you don’t know how much i missed you too, mama.”

[nymphomatique]

trying to fight writers block and unfortunately writers block has hands

[nymphomatique]

i'm in love with your writing (and in love with you) it's been SO long since i've read a good logan fic (that i haven't re-read) it's criminal how underrated you are. you're way of writing has me in a chokehold🙏 drink water, take care! <3

this is so so sweet of you to drop in and say 🥲 thank you for reading and more importantly thank you for enjoying my writing enough to tell me so!! take care as well my darling! big big kisses 💋💋

[nymphomatique]

your writing scratches the itch in my brain i didn’t know i had

so happy i’m able to scratch your proverbial itch my heart is full rn

[nymphomatique]

gold star student

professor!logan howlett x fem!reader

⋆·˚ ༘ * 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 (it’s 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 ain’t greying im not staying!!!, this is just me being horny idk what else to say i’m sorry yall. 18+ only.

wc: 8k

❤︎ a/n: this was…. 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 wasn’t 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. 

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 didn’t 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. 

A report card from your fall semester riddled with C’s and D’s, 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 wasn’t a twelve hour day, and professors who would accommodate you with in the case of your late assignments and missing homework. 

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 asshole— 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. You’re 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. 

It’s some odd minutes to nine on the dot, and you’re rather proud of yourself for being able to make it minutes early rather than stumbling in twenty minutes late like you’re 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 didn’t 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. 

Your eyes are heavy, the seconds tickering away at the speed of minutes, and you can’t 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. It’s not more than five minutes, just a micro nap— 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 sleep…

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 in— did you sleep through the whole class? On the first fucking day? You look around, eyes wide, and immediately sigh in relief when you’re greeted with a full hall. Conversely, you see everyone’s attention to the front of the class with materials out, so you trail your eyes to the front of the room and that’s 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 can’t help but quirk up and eyebrow, bootcut jeans that seem to be worn in well, seemingly like they’re 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 he’s covered in rippling muscle, his arms straining against the fabric of his shirt. You can’t 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 can’t 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; He’s obscenely sexy even though I haven’t even seen his face.

When you focus your attention back to the front, your face warms immediately upon finally seeing his– Professor Howlett’s face and fuck, you feel stupid for even thinking that he wouldn’t 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 it’s 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. “Good morning. Lively bunch this semester,” 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. “Gonna spare you all the pointless introductions n’ ice breaking crap, yeah? We’ll go over the syllabus and get this show on the road.”

He’s curt, forward, doesn’t bite his tongue, you deduce. Not the jackass his reviews seem to pin him as, though it’s only the first class. They didn’t 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. 

You feel your heart hammer in your chest a little, a sense of anxiety bubbling up in you at how much this class demands. It’s 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. 

“And don’t forget, first five chapters of tulip fever for next class,” 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 you’re 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. 

You find you can’t 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 you’ve reached is bound to get you in trouble, hell it’s gotten you in trouble already— 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. I’m a failure, I suck at this, I should drop out, I’m 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 quickly— he’s 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 you’re 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 weren’t 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 couldn’t 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 hands—

“Good morning, everyone,” a gruff voice speaks and you feel a ball of energy sits itself deep in your stomach, it’s him. You've missed the deep baritone of his voice, you realize. “Hope you all read up the chapters, yeah? We’ll be discussing ‘em today, and I am the asshole who picks on students to participate.” There’s a soft wave of grumbles from some, but your panic is quiet and you hope to a God in heaven somewhere that he doesn’t pick you, god knows you barely retained any information from your flash round of Sparknotes earlier.

“Like any book, the first few chapters were mostly exposition, character and scene setting stuff. Tell me, what does Sophia’s marriage and lack of heir signify to us in these times?” Professor Howlett asks, and you immediately avert your gaze to the grooves and scratches in the table in front of you. Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me, please please please— “Yeah, you,” 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. 

“Thank you, Professor,” This fucking bi- “I 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.” Your fist tenses against the desk at her answer.

“Little long winded, but yeah, good job..?” his voice lilts off, and you smile a bit knowing he doesn’t even remember her name. “Oh, um, Amber,” 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 who’s simply an authority figure to you both, no matter how attractive, makes you cringe. What is he doing to you? 

“Good answers, guys. Glad you all did more than skim the book,” 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. “The rest of you I didn’t pick on today aren’t unscathed unfortunately,” 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, “Pop quiz.” 

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 weren’t going to be graded, praying that Professor Howlett possesses some sense of apologeticness, knowing that the definite zero percent you’d 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. 

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. “Nervous?” 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, “Hardly.” 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 hadn’t retained a lick of information from your mini crash course nor the class’ discussion prior.

“No tech, no cheating. You guys know the drill, don’t make me catch you and have to chew you out. Twenty minutes and I’m picking ‘em up.” 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, he’s just that toned, that any movement, minuscule or major, would have him threatening to rip out of his clothes. You’re practically fighting yourself in your seat, tearing your eyes away from his thick arms and heavy pectorals and down to your paper. 

It’s one page, front and back, ten questions. It wouldn’t be so bad had you actually read the book, considering you can’t 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 wouldn’t skew your grade average completely off. What does Maria’s role stand to symbolize in the context of 1600’s Amsterdam?. You clench your  fist so hard around your pen you’re almost amazed that it doesn’t break under the pressure. You didn’t 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, you’re walking to his desk to place your quiz in a pile with the rest of your peers, just as he’d 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. 

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 didn’t 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 he’d ask a question. Your stomach churns at the thought of his praise, Good answer. Very good, kiddo. Like that idea. you imagined he’d say to you. You bite your lip as you study your western civilization notes, maybe he’d even indulge in you, call you his good girl, his good little student, something that Amber would never have above you. 

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 excited— you weren’t 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 wouldn’t 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. 

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. “Welcome back to earth, sweetheart,” he muses, humour painted all over his face. Your eyes widen at the pet name he’s given you and you feel like sinking into your seat. “I need you here next time, yeah? Not in that pretty little head of yours,” 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. 

Little moments like these pepper themselves throughout your lectures with Profess Howlett in between the assignments and lectures and raised hands. You’d 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 didn’t— you couldn’t, 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. 

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. “Boosts morale,” had been Logan’s explanation when a student had asked why the gold star. You smiled. Cute. 

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 weren’t 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. “Nervous?” he asks, curt and short. You smile, “Hardly,” using your own words once more. “I’m gunning on a gold star. I studied extra hard.” Professor Howlett hums, smile on his face. “I look forward to seeing your work. I enjoy reading it,” 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 couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

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 didn’t 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. He’s 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 he’s doing. You breathe out and his brown quirks as he pauses and looks at you. “Yes?” he asks. “I… I would like to see you after class if possible to discuss my grades,” you say, fist curling and uncurling with nerves. ”Tomorrow afternoon come see me at my office,” he says, arms crossing. “Don’t be late. Don’t get your hopes up either,” he quirks. You chew your lip before sighing. “I’ll be there. On time.” 

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. You’d 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 God’s sake.

Any moment more of hesitancy and you would be late for your two o’clock 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 Amber’s face, her shock seeing you just as evident as hers. She doesn’t let it linger however, as she casts a glance over her shoulder and muses a “Bye Professor. Thank you so much, I’ll see you in class Monday,” 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 doesn’t miss yours. You scoff. Bitch. 

“Right on time. Come in,” 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 shelf— 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 shouldn’t be, his teaching— albeit rough, brutish sometimes even— 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 jeans— 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.

“So?” He trails, redirecting his attention from his desktop to you. You swallow a little and sigh. “Um, I know that you said no… no retakes or anything, and I understand your answer if it’s a hard no,” you say, pausing to look at him to try and assess what he’s thinking, but you’re simply met with a raised brow and crossed arms as he leans back further in his chair. “But 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 don’t want to make this a pity story but I… It’s only this class where I’m having trouble. And I know what you said but my last test really fucked my average and I-” 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 it— two experimental puffs of smoke floating your way and you get dizzy. 

“You don’t mind?” He asks only now, and you try not to roll your eyes and that façade of chivalry. “No,” you shake your head. “Thought so,” 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. “As it stands now if you tighten up for the rest of the semester you can pass my class with a B something, which don’t sound too bad to me, sweetheart.” Your gut twists with tension. A B isn’t what you need. You brows furrow and you open your mouth to speak, but he continues. “I would love to help you sweetheart, trust me I would. But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other students who come waltzing in here dressed just like you, begging for an A,” he drawls, picking up his cigar again and slotting it between his lips before he stands up and your breath hitches. “Wh- dressed like me? I didn’t-” you begin, confused at what he’s 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. 

“But you did, didn’t you?” he asks softly, thumb coming to your chin to direct your gaze up to his eyes. “I don’t understand…” 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. “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you can put two and two together,” 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… isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? What you’ve dreamed of for weeks upon weeks? “Look at me,” he says, stern. And you do. “You listen so well,” he hums and you feel the makings of a fire ignite itself inside you somewhere deep. I’m being good. Good for him. “Kills you inside that you couldn’t get that shiny little sticker, doesn’t it?” 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. 

“We can fix that today. Tell you what, you be a good student for me, and I’ll be a good teacher to you, yeah?” he says, taking a puff from his cigar. “Nod your head like a good student.” And you do. Up and down, slowly. Your brain is fuzzy. This surely isn’t happening, is it? It couldn’t 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 he’s looking for. A sticker sheet. What is he…

“C’mere,” 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. “Take that off,” 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. “Kneel,” he says, and you drop immediately. Pathetic. Your hands lay in your laps as you’re sat between his legs on your knees. Your breathing is as laboured as ever. You can’t believe this is happening— 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. “You know what to do, don’t you sweetheart?” 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. “When I ask you somethin’, I want a verbal answer. Y’understand?” he says. Your voice feels caught in your throat. He’s so intense your head is spinning. “Y-yes,” you breathe. “Yes what?” he spits back and your heart hammers. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” 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 don’t. 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 they’re 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 you’d guess just by looking and insanely thick. He was heavy too— 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. You’re 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. “S’better. Go on,” he encourages, and you do— 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 feel— “Good, just like that, yeah. Use your mouth now,” 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. “Let’s try again together, yeah?” You nod, “Yes, Sir.” You reposition yourself, back on your knees in front of him. “Open your mouth and stick your tongue out, open real wide,” he says, tapping your cheek. It felt soft slap more than a tap however. But still, you open your mouth wide, tongue hanging out. “Juuust like that, yeah…” Logan groans, slapping the warmth of his cock on your tongue. “Breath through the nose,” 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. “Good fuckin’ girl,” 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. “Take it, fucking take it,” he grunts. His hand disappears before placing a sticker on your spit-covered cheek and you whimper around his cock. Logan’s brows pull together and he laughs. “That turn you on? You like being my good little student? You like sucking off your professor?” 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 you’re relishing in the attention, the praise, the intensity of it. “One more mouthful, c’mon,” 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. “So fucking nasty,” he drawls, deep groan leaving his chest. “Take it, be good and take it,” he says breathless, before he’s spitting his cum down your throat, leaving you no choice but to swallow his bitter semen. Your eyes wretch open lowly, watch Logan’s face contort in pleasure as he finishes in your throat and you whimper, squeezing his thighs tightly. “Good student,” he coos, pulling his cock from your mouth and it’s a relief that’s long overdue. Your first unobstructed breath is a deep one, and you’re slightly dizzy from the oxygen after having it restricted for so long. You don’t 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 Howlett’s 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. 

The kiss breaks and your mind feels hazy. Your eyes open and you see Professor Howlett staring back at you, hands roaming your body. “Pr-professor…” you moan out after a particularly hard squeeze at your ass. “Logan, baby,” 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. “What a sight for me,” Logan hums, and you feel shy under him like this. “Lean back and spread your legs f’me,” he says low, kneeling as you do as he asks. He’s 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. 

Logan leans forward and licks the wet gusset of your panties and you let out a shuddering moan. “P-please, Logan…” 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. It’s 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 fuckin’ 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 can’t 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 you’re nearly in tears for him, ready to cum.

 “Please Lo- Sir. Please, Sir. Wanna cum, I’ll be good. Just-” your begging is cut short as two thick fingers push themselves in you and you throw your head back at the stretch. “You’re gonna come for me in a little, sweetheart. Be good for now,” Logan coos, kissing your inner thighs. You’re 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. “G-gonna… Oh my God, Sir,” you squeal, just about ready to… Until his fingers deftly leave you. Before you can whine about this, Logan’s thick fingers covered in your slick push into your mouth and you groan. “Hush, baby. You’re about to feel real good in a little,” 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. “Beg for it.” And you do. You’re a babbling mess under him. “Inside, p-put it inside me, Professor,” 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. “Tightest, sweetest fucking pussy I ever felt,” 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 he’s fucking into you at a brutal speed. Your hands are grasped around the wrist of his hand that’s by your mouth, sucking his fingers to soothe the burning part of the pleasure. “That’s it, fucking take it,” 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 doesn’t let you stay in that place for too long, his fingers leaving your mouth to slap your cheek, pulling back down. “I need you right here, know it feels good but I want you with me,” he says breathy, thrusts still never faltering. 

Without his fingers in your mouth your moans are free to be heard, your incoherent babbles of “s’too much,” and “so deep in me, sir,” floating in the air between Logan’s heavy breaths and obscene curses. You’re breasts jump with every thrust in you, your head bouncing up and down from the sheer force of his thrusts. “T-Tell me…” you stutter out, eyes fluttering. “Tell you?” he asks, grinding his hips up and deep, and you’re sure he’s grazing your cervix. You grip his t-shirt and keel. He gets what you mean. “Good girl. My good girl. You’re the best girl. You want another star, don’t you?” 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 ministration’s overwhelming, “Yes, Sir. M’good. So good. W-want it. Please, can I have it?” 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. “Stick your tongue out f’me,” and you do, overwhelmed with this moment. You’re being good. You’re being good. You’re 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. “Swallow it,” he huffs, thrusts faltering. He’s close, you deduce. I don’t want it to end. Please don’t 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. “Yeah baby, just like that. Kneel for me,” 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. “Good fucking girl.” 

The moments following are awkward. Logan tucks himself back in his pants, and pulls his jeans up and you’re left laying on the floor, coming down from your ecstasy high. The zip of his jeans breaks the silence and you’re 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 you’re 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. “Thanks,” you say quietly. “See you in class on Tuesday,” 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. 

send me an ask!

[nymphomatique]

i’ve seen an influx of people following me from and interacting with gold star student recently and i want just want to say thank you all and welcome to the dreamhouse!

not to spoil anything yet but a mini part two is in its conception stages and i cannot wait to share it with you all! <3

[nymphomatique]

thinkin about giving dbf!miguel a handjob with two hands because yes he’s that big n girthy and he likes seeing your eyes go wide at the sheer size of him <3

[winchesterswhore]

do you ever look at a man and think i need you in the most disgusting, vile, pathetic, animalistic, disturbing, vulgar and morally questionable way possible