#a study in depravity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hier--soir · 8 months

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a lover's pinch | one

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: a one-night stand with a charming texan turns into something much more thrilling when you discover he is your new college professor. warnings/tags: au, age gap [20 something years diff], alcohol consumption, irrational sexual tension, smut, sex in a public place w/ a stranger [and i'm talking depraved/zero time wasted/known you for thirty minutes type strangers], oral [f receiving], protected piv, rough sex, dirty talk, a spot of degradation + misogynistic language, a split second of soft!joel, you get the picture word count: 5.9k series masterlist | main masterlist a/n: my friends.... oh boy, oh boy. this series is a complete au, self-indulgent, fantasy land idea that has plagued me for weeks. horny academic brain rot to the highest degree. hope some of you enjoy it with me x

Friday.

You sit with three almost strangers.

Listen to them talk about their summers and their families and their degrees as you twirl a straw around your half-empty glass, disrupting the melting ice as you try to wrap your head around what a master’s in environmental engineering might entail. One of them, the only man at the table, takes great pleasure in explaining it to you all for the second time. You take mental notes and hope he’s not expecting you to remember words like sparging and leachate.

They do ask you about your undergrad, and your internship, nodding and smiling curiously. They don’t ask what type of job you plan on getting after your postgrad, which is a welcome relief. The bombardment of questions from immediate and extended family is enough.

Cousins wondering aloud, saying you study Greek mythology, right?

Or your grandfather, before he died, berating you ad nauseam at family events about what’re you gonna do, kid? Be a historian? There’s no money in being a historian. Now, being a lawyer, that’s where the money is.

And you’d respond no, not quite Greek mythology, and no, I don’t plan on being a historian, as you gorge yourself on red wine and triscuits and wait for Christmas to end.

Thankfully you aren’t expected to rehash these scenarios with your almost strangers, who routinely ask a few well-mannered questions and then go back to talking about themselves.

After a week of living with them, in a new house, and a new city, you’re becoming used to their company. The way the four of you commune lazily in the kitchen most mornings, swathed in the light streaming through a window above the sink, making idle small talk as you wait for coffee to brew. How Pete and Trin study opposite each other at the dining table, while Nora prefers to spread her limbs across the couch, laptop balanced precariously on her stomach. She’s doing her master’s in education, which she describes as an expensive way to get a pay rise. She’s kind, with wild curly hair and dark humour, and is easily your favourite of your new roommates.

It was her idea to go out that night. One last hurrah, she’d called it. Before we enter the final circle of academic hell next week. And between four overworked, already burnt-out, twenty-something students, it hadn’t taken much convincing before you were sharing three bottles of wine and hightailing it to the bar with the highest Yelp rating.

The late August air is dry; a faint warmth that follows you into a quaint bar in downtown Biddeford. The space is small and crowded with patrons, with dim overhead lighting that casts a soft glow across the booth you’re crammed into. A thin sheen of sweat coats your skin, and your shirt sticks to your back uncomfortably. The others seem unbothered by the heat, nursing sweaty glasses and discussing how different Maine is from where they all grew up. You involve yourself here and there, offering up stories about your family and friends from back home, and suddenly an hour has passed, and then another, and you’re pleasantly tipsy, body humming as alcohol spreads its way through your veins, and your latest drink is practically empty, spare a few melting ice cubes.

“I need another drink,” you tell Nora, who nods absently before turning her attention back to the others.

You wander toward the bar, fumbling for your phone as you go. Fall in between two leather cushioned stools and rest your elbows atop the sleek wooden counter. Check your bank account and mentally traverse the list of reasons for returning to student-life when you see the number staring back at you. I don’t want to be a lawyer, I don’t want to be a lawyer, I don’t want to be a lawyer, your internal monologue runs, although you could admit how sweet a solicitor’s pay check would feel right now.

It’s a low, Southern drawl that pulls you from your reverie.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Deep. With a rough, lilting quality that piques your interest and has your eyes drifting upward from your phone screen.

You notice his body first; a tall frame with thick arms, thick shoulders, thick neck. A navy-blue t-shirt that stretches thin around his biceps, hugging the tan skin there. And then you look higher, and—oh.

Your heart stutters a beat out of time as you take in his face. Loose brown curls that are just long enough to hang across his forehead. Dark, almond-shaped brown eyes. So dark they almost appear black on the first glance. The strong nose and dark hair across his jaw, dappled with streaks of grey. A moustache resting atop a set of dark pink lips. Gone are thoughts of academia, of bank accounts, of your almost strangers. All replaced in an instant by wanton, pulsating desire.

Something like surprise cuts across his face, but it disappears just as quickly. In a far recess of your brain, you register that he must be at least twenty years older than you. You wilfully ignore the thought, perfectly content to continue admiring him.

A dark eyebrow ticks upward then, and you realise you haven’t responded.

“No,” you rush, flashing him a quick smile. “All yours.”

He gives you a pleased nod, a hint of a smirk passing over his lips as he sits down. He looks vaguely uncomfortable perched on the tall chair, all six-foot-something of him cramped onto such a small cushion. You cast a single glance back towards the booth, and then slip onto the stool beside him.

Silence descends between you for a moment. A song by The Eagles plays faintly, but you can’t figure which one - too distracted to make out the lyrics. You take a careful sip of the melted ice at the bottom of your glass, taste the last remnants of tequila in it, and watch him out of the corner of your eye.

“’m Joel,” that accent rings again, sending a volt of warmth through your chest.

You tell him your name, fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt. If he notices the tension in your posture, he doesn’t let on. “You a Southern man, Joel?” The name feels warm on your tongue. Soft and silken like honey.

“S’it that obvious?” he grins crookedly, pink lips tearing back to reveal a straight white smile.

“An accent like that is hard to ignore,” you smirk. “It’s not a bad thing.”

‘Thought it would fade a little since I moved here,” he explains. “Y'can take the man outta Texas, but… you know.”

You hum, eyes alight as you watch him speak. His mouth is beautiful, lips parting around prolonged vowels.

“You here alone?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “With friends.”

“Let me guess,” Joel tilts his body, glancing around the bar. His shirt shifts with the movement, hem raising to reveal the slightest hint of a soft, tanned stomach. He points somewhere over your shoulder. You shut your mouth, careful not to gawp. “Them.”

You turn, a soft laugh of surprise bubbling up through your chest when you spy the bachelorette party set up across the bar. Women dressed in gaudy shades of pink. One of them with a sash—reading Jenny’s Big Day—across her chest, a short veil pinned to her head, and an empty champagne glass clutched in her fist. One of them teary-eyed, gripping the bride’s arm and yelling something in her ear, sloshing champagne onto herself all the while.

“You got me,” you turn back to him with a grin. Hold your hands up in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t be caught dead missing Jennifer’s last night as a free woman.”

The corners of his eyes crease, entire face blossoming into a smile now. He has a dimple on his right cheek.

“Knew you were a good girl,” he nods. Says the words in a matter-of-fact tone. Something twists in your stomach, and your palms dampen. You wet your lips quickly and don’t back down from his gaze, allowing the corner of your mouth to kick up a little.

“And you?”

His eyebrows raise in a silent question.

“Who’re you here with?” you clarify.

“Just you, darlin’,” he says, left eye dropping in a quick wink.

It's easy with him, you find, and the two of you sit there for a while; exchanging small talk about Maine, the hot weather, the music at the bar, slipping in flirtatious comments that are about as subtle as a neon sign, until he finally spies the empty glass in your hand.

“What are you drinkin’?” he asks.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” you say, hoping it doesn’t come across too eager. He seems pleased though. There’s something provocative to his gaze, a teasing warmth that raises the temperature of your skin wherever he looks. But whatever it is, it’s gone by the time he reaches across the bar for the bound beverage list.

He peers at the menu, squinting ever-so-slightly to see through the dim lighting of the bar. The skin beside his eyes is soft and creased with age, crow’s feet that hint at years of laughter and smiles. You wonder again how old he is. How much older than you.

“Forget your glasses?” you tease, testing the waters.

Joel’s eyes flash up to yours. The muscle in his jaw ticks.

“Watch it,” he says. There’s a playful note in his voice, but it rings deeper somehow—a hint of a warning.

Your thighs squeeze together on the stool, warm sweaty skin peeling off the tacky leather as you move. His eyes dart to the bare skin of your legs, and then back to the menu.

He orders you both a whiskey, and a moment later the bartender is sliding a crystal tumbler in front of you. A finger of amber liquid with a single grandiose sphere of ice resting in it. Fancy.

“Cheers,” he holds his glass out. You knock yours against it gently before taking a short sip, fighting a grimace as it burns down your throat.

He watches your face closely, tries to gage your reaction. You take another sip, holding strong in your efforts to show him that you can handle it. Whatever he wants to give to you, you can handle.

“So what brings you here?” he asks. You notice how large the glass feels in your palm, and how small it appears in his. Long, thick fingers wrap around the object, dwarfing it. He takes a sip, and you watch him swallow. His Adam’s apple bobs, and you want to graze your teeth across it.

“To the bar or to Maine?”

“Either.”

“Well, I just moved into town last week, from the West Coast. It’s actually my first week back in the US; I was travelling before the big move.”

“Busy girl,” his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. You blink. “Travellin’?”

“I was in Greece,” you explain, sip your whiskey and definitely don’t grimace at the harsh taste. “For a month or so.”

“A month in Greece?” His eyebrows raise and he does a low, impressed whistle that has your stare zeroing in on his mouth.

“Ever been?” you ask faintly.

“No,” his reply is swift. “Never had much interest.”

And you’re nodding absentmindedly, but you can’t seem to drag your stare away from his mouth as he speaks. The trance is only broken when he raises his glass for another sip, and you shake yourself out of it, eyes shifting to stare into his brown orbs once more. They’re darker than you remembered, gaze loaded as he looks back at you. The tension was palpable when you first sat together, but now it feels impossible to ignore; an electric tangle of wire between the two of you that just keeps getting shorter and shorter. And you think, fuck it, if you’re about to descend into the final circle of academic hell, why not have a little fun?

“Can I tell you something, Joel?”

You say it softly, make your voice as sultry as possible. He watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes sparkling with intrigue. And then his mouth tilts into a sort of knowing smirk, and he’s nodding.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” you confess.

He hums, smirk broadening.

Sets his glass down on the bar top with a soft clink, and then lowers his hand to the bare skin of your knee. You gasp at the contact, nerves fraught. The callouses on his fingers scrape against your skin in slow, rhythmic circles, goosebumps raising in their wake. His fingers are long, and as he tenses them over you, squeezing your knee once, you see the way deep blue veins flex beneath the skin, hot blood pumping through him. Your stomach turns molten.

“Is that all?” he asks, a taunting lilt to his voice.

Your mouth is dry, eyes wide as you sense the proposition in his words. The hint of something darker—something greedy—in his gaze.

“No,” you say definitively. “That’s not all.”

A sharp tut escapes his mouth, fingertips dragging higher on your leg as he shakes his head. “Do you have any idea how old I am?”

“Don’t look a day over forty,” you hazard a guess, resting your shoe onto the rung of his stool, using the leverage to drag yours closer. Both your legs are between his now, thighs bracketing thighs. The denim of his jeans scrapes against your outer thighs, and you shiver. His hand pauses, fingertips just shy of the hem of your skirt.

Joel wets his lips. “Guess again, sweetheart.”

A low heat licks at the base of your spine, spreading its way through your veins until you feel like you could combust at any given moment. Fuck it.

“Don’t care,” you mutter, and drape your hand over his. You trace your nails over his skin, feel how the bones shift underneath it, how warm he is. He still doesn’t move, face pensive as he regards you. You arch an eyebrow. “You approached me, you know.”

His lips purse tightly. Another squeeze to your thigh, fingers moving again. “I know.”

Driven by boldness, by arcane desire, by animalistic instinct, you lean forward on your barstool and rest your hands atop the thick expanse of his thighs. Hear his breath kick as your nose traces the side of his square jaw, lips settling at the shell of his ear. Right at the soft, sloping crest of his neck. And you whisper those same words again, quiet enough that no one in the world can hear it but him, can I tell you something?

Your movement drove his hand higher on your thigh, the heavy weight of it now settled beneath your skirt, fingertips skimming the indent where your leg meets your hip, toying at the soft fabric of your underwear there. Painfully close to where you want him.

“Yes,” his deep voice rumbles.

Ever so slowly, your tongue slides out of your mouth to trail against his earlobe. Joel’s thighs tense beneath your palms, and you roll the balls of your thumbs against the muscles there.

“I want to kiss you,” you murmur. “So I’m going to. And then I want you to fuck me, just like I know you want to.” Your teeth graze his lobe, and you bite it once, gently, before rearing your face back to peer at him. “Hmm?”

The muscle in his jaw jumps, shifting beneath the skin, and instead of responding verbally he cups your face with a rough hand. Cool drops of condensation from the glass have stuck to his fingers, and the liquid smears across your skin as he cradles your jaw and draws your mouth to his.

Soft lips envelop yours, the coarse hairs of his moustache tickling your face as he steals the breath from your lungs. And when you lick into his mouth you can taste peppermint on his teeth, and then that oh so familiar whiskey tang across his tongue. You don’t mind the taste so much when it’s on his lips.

You nuzzle closer, dig your fingertips firmer into his thighs and grin when a deep groan falls from his mouth into yours. Wet heat pools between your thighs, liquid fire that stokes at your insides, begging for more more more of him. And, as if he can read your mind, Joel is dragging his mouth away, teeth grazing against your swollen bottom lip as he departs.

“Bathroom,” he says, voice low and commanding. “Now.”

Shock and excitement lace your blood, the proposition of something so dirty, so lewd, making your heart race. With your pulse a dull, thrashing roar in your ears, you allow Joel to help you down from your stool. Your legs feel unsteady now that you’re back on solid ground. Gripping your hand, dwarfing it in his, Joel tugs you away from the bar top and towards an obscured hallway. You amble past the bachelorette party, down the dark hall and then he’s pressing a dark hand against the ambulant bathroom door and dragging you inside, sliding the lock shut behind you.

Joel’s on you in a second, arms bracketing you against the door as his wet mouth slips over yours. His hands are so big, all wide palms and long fingers splaying across the entirety of your back, tucking you against his solid chest. He bunches your shirt in his hand, twisting the material between his fingers as he pushes into your mouth. Tongue hot and wet, gliding against your teeth, your tongue, tasting you, devouring you. there’s nothing polite about it. No more wariness, no more hesitation, no more eyes that could see the two of you at the bar. He’s insatiable, touching you everywhere he possibly can, and even then it doesn’t seem like enough for him.

“Fuck, I want you,” you say against his mouth. He makes a low sound in response, and one of his palms lower to grab a handful of your ass, dragging your hips against his. You can feel him, hot and hard, straining in the confines of his jeans. Your hand presses into the crevice between your bodies to palm him through the material, grinning into the kiss when he groans. His lips trail a slick path across your cheek, past your jaw.

“Gonna let me fuck you here?” his hot breath fans across your neck, tongue darting out to taste the salty sweat there.

“Yeah,” you say. “Fuck—yes.”

He steps back, dragging you with him, and then he’s turning you around so that you’re facing the mirror. Your hips dig into the sink, and he’s holding you there, forcing you to stare at your reflection as he bites and licks and sucks down your neck with reckless abandon, leaving marks in his wake. There’s a low, steady throbbing at the apex of your thighs, and you can feel how your underwear clings to your skin, damp and ruined. You whimper, tilt your chin up to give him access to more skin. He grinds against your ass in response, and then he’s crouching down on the ground behind you.

Fast hands push your skirt up over your hips and then flare across your ass, massaging the flesh there. You feel a nip of teeth against the sensitive skin there and flinch into the porcelain. He makes quick work of dragging your underwear down to dangle precariously at your knees. And then long fingers are spreading you apart, revealing you to him. You tilt your hips back so he can see more. Moan at the sensation of cool air rushing to meet your dripping core.

You think you can hear him speaking, but can’t be sure over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears and the low music playing in the bar. And then it doesn’t matter anymore, because you can feel his hot tongue glide through your folds, parting you like the sea. He buries his face in you, nose nudging against your asshole as his tongue swipes at your clit, moaning roughly as he absorbs the taste of you. You’re gasping, hooded eyes staring back at you in the mirror, and this time you can definitely hear him saying you’re so fuckin’ wet. The flat of his tongue smears from your clit to your entrance, and then he’s sinking it inside you. You reach behind your back and card your fingers through his hair, gripping the salt and pepper curls between your fingers and holding him against you. Joel doesn’t complain, groaning as you tug on his locks in encouragement, in fucking desperation.

Your thighs tremble where they bracket his head, threatening to squeeze around him at any moment if it weren’t for his vice grip keeping your spread apart. A choked sob of a moan claws its way out of your throat and then he’s standing again, chest against your back as you hear the clink of his belt coming undone, and he’s saying, I know, I know, you need it so bad, don’t you?

Your hand skirts around the firm sink and slips between your thighs, fingertips ghosting over your throbbing clit. The sound of foil crinkling echoes around the room, and you hear him exhale a ragged sigh as he rolls the condom down his length. You peek over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of him, eyes widening as you take in the sheer size of his length. It’s long, with a prominent vein running from base to tip. It pulses, raging beneath the skin, practically daring you to drop down and run your tongue along the length of it. And you would if you thought he’d let you.

“Shit,” you breathe, skin tingling with a fresh wave of nerves and anticipation.

“It’s alright,” his voice is a low rasp, filling your ears like molasses, and his hand is rising to push stray hairs out of your face. “So fuckin’ wet f’me, I know you can take it, honey. You gonna show me how good you take co—”

He cuts himself off, eyes narrowing as he spots your fingers shifting between your thighs.

“So impatient,” he smacks your hand away with a grunt. “Silly little slut, can’t wait just a minute for me?”

A broken moan falls from your lips, shameful heat soaring through your chest. You shouldn’t love the way that word sounds falling from his lips, shouldn’t be so turned on by it, but you can feel how the ache in your core intensifies, and so you push your hips back against him.

“’m sorry,” you whine pitifully.

“You want it that bad?” Joel asks. His lips brush your earlobe as he nudges the thick head of his cock between your folds, gliding it through your slick once, twice, before notching himself at your entrance.

“I want it,” you gasp. “Wanted it from the second I saw you, Joel, please, pleas—”

Joel curses under his breath and loops a hand around your front, pushing the neckline of your shirt down to reveal your left breast. He slips his palm underneath the cup of your bra, long fingers pinching at the peaked bud of your nipple. Your skin burns under the attention, and you push your chest further into his hold.

“Shit,” he grunts, beginning to press himself inside. “I wanna fuckin’—wreck you, sweetheart.”

“Whatever you want,” you’re pleading, arching your back for him. Your fingers tighten around porcelain, bracing yourself. “Give it to me.”

You hear a muted, dark chuckle before Joel says, “Whatever I want, huh?”

And then he’s pressing inside you with a single, harsh thrust. His thighs come flush with yours and you gasp, face twisting at the sharp sting. The weight of him inside you is heavy, and you squirm at the intrusion, shifting on your feet. He allows you a moment—just a moment—to adjust to him, before he’s moving.

Joel finds a pace he likes and sets it. Heavy, unrelenting, expert rolls of his hips that have his tip brushing against the opening of your cervix with every shift forward. The air fills with harsh sounds of skin smacking against skin, and stilted moans and spilling from your lips as your hipbones collide rhythmically with the sink.

“Christ,” he spits, hand leaving your breast to grip your jaw. He forces your face forward, pace never slowing. “Fuckin’ look at you.”

You do as your told, gazing at yourself in the mirror. And you look wrecked. Hair a wild halo around your head, makeup smudged around your eyes and mouth, lips swollen and shiny with spit.

“Bein’ so—fuckin’—good,” he punctuates the words with his thrusts. His thumb digs into your cheek, and you can see him grinning in the mirror, lips peeled back to reveal that fucking perfect smile. “Dirty little thing, lettin’ a stranger fuck you like this.”

You mewl in response, stomach tensing as his cock grazes a particularly sensitive spot within you. Joel notices and seizes your waist, one hand holding you in place and the other falling to rub your clit while he pistons into you from behind.

“Shit,” you cry, eyes pinching shut as the intense medley of pleasure and pain begins to overwhelm you. Your orgasm claws its way up your chest.

“Yeah, you like that, huh?” he’s panting. “Can you feel you squeezin’ me, sweetheart. Go on, give it t’me, show me how wet that pretty pussy gets when you come.”

“Oh, fuck, oh—oh god, Joel.”

Your lungs feel empty, chest on fire as you rake in rapid breaths. Your entire body is constricting, muscles in your stomach drawn tight as you press firmer against the sink, thighs shaking with every impact of his hips against the plush of your ass. The pressure makes your head spin. And then something in the base of your spine snaps, and you’re falling apart in his grasp. Joel curses behind you, but the sound is faint, almost inaudible over the ringing in your ears. Your vision goes white, body shifting forward as he fucks you through the high.

And even as you begin to come down, muscles going lax and body slumping against the sink, Joel is relentless. He uses you; gripping your hips to keep them tilted at the perfect angle, and just fucking wrecks you, exactly like he said he wanted to. A stream of profanities fill the air as his movements become disjointed, and you know he’s close. Can feel the way his cock twitches inside you, desperate for release. You tilt your face to the side and stare at him over your shoulder. Those dark eyes meet yours and his face crumbles, hand reaching to grip your shoulder and hold you down as he nears the precipice. You rut your ass back against him and he almost shouts.

“Fuck,” he growls. “That’s it, that’s it..”

And then he’s coming, cock jerking inside you in sporadic movements, and you’re wishing he hadn’t worn a condom so you could feel the heat of him spread inside your cunt. It’s intense, the yearning you feel to have him dripping out of you once he’s gone. But you settle for watching his face through bleary eyes, admiring the way his lips part and chin tilts towards the ceiling, eyes pinching closed as his body convulses against you.

For an all too brief moment, Joel doesn’t move. He slumps against your back, forehead resting in the gap between your shoulder blades, and just breathes. Haggard, drawn out exhales that send whisps of your hair flying forward into your face but you don’t care, too blissed out and relaxed underneath his weight to say anything. And then he’s straightening, and you gasp in unison as he grips your waist and slips out of you. There’s a determined ache between your thighs, pussy clenching around his absence, missing the weight of him already.

You sag onto the cold surface. Your mind is a blur, senses dulled from the intensity of your orgasm. The music in the bar has increased, and you imagine that your roommates must be wondering where you are, but can’t bring yourself to care all that much. You can hear him throw the condom into the trash, then there’s a low rustling as he drags his boxers and jeans back up his legs. Body trembling, you close your eyes and wait. Wait to hear the door open and close as he steps out, and leaves you in the bathroom alone, as you know he inevitably will.

But instead, you feel those hands, almost familiar now, grazing your back. They drag your panties back up and smooth your rumpled skirt down over your ass.

“Hey,” a soothing voice murmurs. “You good?”

You peer at him over your shoulder, uncontained surprise no doubt evident in your face. Joel’s expression is soft; cautious. He grips your shoulder and pulls you up, straightening your body. Drags a thumb over the corner of your mouth, wiping away the lipstick smudged there. His touches are so gentle, so tender, in comparison to a few moments ago. It almost gives you whiplash, and yet you find yourself melting under his gaze, because fuck, he’s handsome.

“I’m good,” you breathe, and he bares his teeth in a smile, cupping your jaw.

“Sweet girl,” Joel says. His head shakes once, slowly, eyes darting across your features, as if trying to memorise them. “I’m gonna remember this.”

You heart is in your throat all over again.

Your fingers fumble to adjust your top, smoothing it out as you smile, humming, “Yeah… yeah, I think I will too.”

A heady silence swells between you. His thumb brushes along your lower lip again, eyes watching the way your swollen mouth yields to his touch. The tip of your tongue slides out and glides over the tip of his digit, just for a second.

“Probably got your friends all worried,” Joel says then, hand dropping to his side. “Must be wonderin’ where you got to.”

You swallow down the disappointment you feel. It burns its way down your throat and into your stomach, not unlike the whiskey had. I don’t care, you want to say. Take me home with you. But you nod and agree. Glance in the mirror and rake numb fingers through bird’s nest hair, trying to tame your wild appearance. You swear you feel his hand graze the hem of your skirt one last time, playing with the soft material while he stares at you in the mirror.

The bubble pops as he unlocks the door, outside sounds rushing in through the gap, infiltrating the space that once smelt like sex and lust and now just feels like any other room. Joel doesn’t kiss you again. Doesn’t touch you. He steps into the hall, and you follow him out. And when he trails toward one side of the bar, with a final lingering glance at you over his shoulder, you begrudgingly head in the opposite direction to the booth, where your almost strangers await you with curious eyes and pinched brows.

Tuesday.

You feel hungover on the day of your first lecture.

A dull ache blossoms behind your left eye, a persistent reminder of how little sleep you had the night before. Your fingers wrap tightly around a tall styrofoam cup, and you take slow mouthfuls of the black coffee inside, attempting to savour the liquid gold, and letting the caffeine act as a saving grace for as long as possible.

You were normally so much better than this, too. Years had passed since your undergrad, and in the past you’d prided yourself on being punctual and prepared. But apparently one of the professors for this semester had it out for you, because when the required weekly prep work for your 9 o’clock Tuesday morning lecture was released the day prior, you were stunned to find that it included an entire fucking book.

After spending a dutiful two hours going over the weekly notes and required journal articles, you’d found yourself glaring at three sentences, written casually at the bottom of the professor’s notes.

Also, read Hesiod’s ‘Theogony’. It will do you well to have these ideas and themes fresh as you undertake the first weeks of this class. See you tomorrow.

Cue you staying up until two am reading fucking Theogony, and walking to your first lecture with a near-permanent yawn sprawled across your face.

As you approach history commons, a guy wearing a bottle green shirt that reads UNIVERSITY OF NEW ENGLAND in garish gold lettering shakes a pamphlet in your direction. It has a picture of a girl in a tiny athletic uniform on the front, preparing to spike a volleyball. You avoid eye contact and sidestep him quickly, continuing into the building.

The theatre room is easy enough to find.

Thirty odd chairs line the space on an incline, all facing toward a desk at the front of the room. A projector hangs from the ceiling, displaying the beginning of a slide show on a white wall. The slide is a muted beige colour, with stark black lettering that spells out: The Language and Literature of the Odyssey and the Aeneid.

Your professor stands with his back to the room, shuffling through a myriad of notebooks and loose-leaf pages splayed across the desk. Standard.

You traipse your way up the stairs, buoyed along by the steady stream of other students shuffling into the room, and take a seat a few rows from the front. Not too far back that you seem disinterested, and not so close that your professor will notice you falling asleep on the first day.

You open your notes on your laptop and then slump back into your chair, slurping down the final morsels of coffee in your cup before discarding it to the floor by your feet. And then the room quietens as a final group of students file in, heavy door swinging closed behind them, and you allow your eyes to rest upon the man at the foot of the space.

He’s tall. It’s impossible not to notice that first. Tall and broad. A thin white dress shirt stretches across the arch of his back, fighting to pull free from where it’s tucked neatly into the waist of his brown pants. From where you’re seated, you can see a dark head of hair shaking side to side every few moments, the man muttering inaudibly as he peers down at his notes.

You glance down at your laptop again. Watch your cursor blink against the white screen. And then you hear it.

“Alright folks,” an all too familiar voice drawls. “Let’s get down to it.”

You stiffen in your chair. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, palms going damp as a memory flits through your brain. One of your own voice.

An accent like that is hard to ignore.

You can’t make out what he’s saying anymore, every word overpowered by the sudden roar of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Slowly—so fucking slowly—you peel your eyes away from your laptop and glance upward.

And there he is, in all his glory. Pearly white smile. Strong jaw. Dark eyes.

Joel… your professor.

Fuck.

thank you for reading!! x

#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut #ALP

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plaintalkchristianministries · 1 year

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Explaining Calvinism. Explaining Calvinism's T.U.L.I.P.

Explaining Calvinism. Explaining Calvinism’s T.U.L.I.P.

Warning Beware of False Prophets / False Teachers: 2 Peter 2:1 But there were false prophets also among the people, even as there shall be false teachers among you, who privily shall bring in damnable heresies, even denying the Lord that bought them, and bring upon themselves swift destruction Vs 1) Calvinism’s Damnable Heresies: Total Depravity, Unconditional Election, Limited Atonement,…

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#Bible #Bible Study #Blog #Calvinism #Christian #Christianity #Eternal Life #God #Irresistible Grace #Jesus #Limited Atonement #Perseverance of the Saints #Salvation #Sermon #T.U.L.I.P.#Total Depravity #Unconditional Election

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crushmeeren · 4 months

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Everyone in this work of fiction is aged up/18+, if that bothers you—block me or keep scrolling

One Shot? NSFW Headcannons? Both.

Warnings; yandere Yuuta vibes, cursing, possessive & obsessive behavior, violent threats (Yuuta threatens to snap somebody’s fingers), rough sex, biting, breath play, dirty talk, light smacking, reader getting stuffed

••••••

Yuuta who loves you wholeheartedly yet…painfully. Obsessively. More than obsession. Whose heart beats cruelly for you. Thumping in such a rhythm he’s sure it’s in tune with the pronunciation of your name. His love for you devours him completely—and he’s high on the way you love him.

Yuuta who lets you be privy to all the dark, depraved thoughts that seem to constantly rattle through his brain.

Yuuta who aches when he has to be apart from you. Who would crawl inside your skin if he could. Who tells you so often. (your feelings are mutual)

Yuuta who takes you out bar hopping on occasion. Who gets a thrill showing off what’s his. Whose gaze is intense as he watches another below average man attempt to dance with you, his arm brushing your wrist. Who gets a sick sort pleasure curling in his chest as he takes note of the bitchy expression on your face when you shut him down.

Yuuta who throws back a shot easily. Who saunters over from his spot at the bar. Who approaches you casually, hands tucked away in his pockets, curled into fists. Whose lips are pulled into a sweet grin, sleepy eyes flitting between you and below average Joe.

Yuuta whose entirely fake calm demeanor forces a cold thrill to shiver down your spine, because you know the beast that lurks just beneath. Who makes your blood thrum as he leans into the man’s face, lazy smile never faltering when he speaks.

Yuuta who you know has a boiling rage licking in between his rib cage when he threatens the man with a serene voice. Your hair stands on end when Yuuta’s posture drops the temperature around you by a few degrees. Who tells the stranger in a voice that rivals the Antarctic, I’ll snap your fucking fingers one by one if you ever touch what’s mine again. (your heart’s in your throat. you need Yuuta to take you home. now.)

Yuuta who studies the man’s face as it pales, as he turns, running with his tail tucked between his legs. Yuuta who then turns to you, smile so sweet your teeth ache.

Yuuta who lets his fingers grip your wrist too tightly. Forcing your finger tips to pulsate from lack of blood flow as he drags you out the bar & to your home. (The anticipatory butterflies knock around your belly because you know he’s gonna remind you who you belong too—you can’t fucking wait)

Yuuta who lets the tension in the air thicken to the point of suffocating. Who whistles a bright tune as he walks leisurely to your bedroom—giving you chills at how eerie it is. Who lets you follow behind before he’s slamming the door hard enough to rock the foundation.

Yuuta who slams you up against the door, your skull knocking into the wood. Pain radiating down to your neck. Whose finger tips dig harshly into the muscle of your jaw as he forces it to stay shut.

Yuuta whose face flattens into an expression you’ve only ever seen on sociopaths. Whose sanpaku eyes look empty, but you know he’s livid on the inside.

Yuuta who invades your personal space, making your teeth creak in his grasp. Who murmurs low & rough you wanted to watch me break that fuckers arm didn’t you baby? You can only whine in agreement, body flushing hotly.

Yuuta who hums in acknowledgment. Who gives you a pretty smile because he knows you’re just as twisted as he is. Who coos you only have to ask, my heart—I’ll slice anyone in half if you so desire. You know how much I love you.

Yuuta who lets go of your jaw, kissing you eagerly, teeth knocking yours. Whose lips are hot, slick but ultimately soft when they meet yours again & again. Who moans beautifully into your mouth, tongue playing sweetly with yours.

Yuuta who then bites down on your warm tongue—hard enough to make you bleed. Who grins, giggling into your kiss when you sink your own teeth into his lower lip just as brutally. Pulling on it. Releasing it with a wet pop.

Yuuta who strips you both bare. Whose cock is already achingly hard as he forces you onto your back on the bed. Who places a warm palm in the middle of your sternum, roughly pinning you to the mattress. Who admires the way your tits gently bounce whenever you squirm under his grip.

Yuuta who pushes two fingers into your mouth, purring at you to suck them like you’re sucking my cock baby. Who groans softly when you do just as you’re told. Who rips his fingers from your mouth—sinking his canines into the flesh of your shoulder & gripping your tits. Who lets his shaft spread the lips of your slick pussy, rolling his hips—never letting his teeth free of your shoulder.

Yuuta who listens to you whimper & choke on your moans, whining Yuuta, please my love—nngh, want you to fuck me! Who finally releases his bite, who stares down at you with a reassuring half smile—who then smacks you across the cheek hard enough to whip your head to one side, making you yelp. Who knows you love when he treats you this way.

Yuuta who is still too pissed off about earlier, not wasting any more energy on foreplay tonight. Who knows your pussy drools for him anyways as he bends to your whim—even if he tries not to show it.

Yuuta who sits back on his heels. Who presses just the tip inside your warm, silky pussy—already trying to swallow his cock entirely. Who listens to your soft cries of pleasure & fills you completely with no hesitation, no resistance. Who moans with you when his balls are snug against your ass.

Yuuta whose eyes flutter shut as he grips your ankle, pulling one leg over his shoulder. Who bends forward, splitting you open over & over as he fucks you harshly from the beginning. Who revels in the wet hiccups & whines you’re gifting him. Pleading just like—oh fuck! fuck yes Yuuta, right there, please make me cum!

Yuuta who laughs humorlessly, cock pulsing when your sweet voice begs for him. Who purposely lets his tip kiss your cervix repeatedly. Whose tone is so mean when he speaks oh? you wanna cum? then you better fucking cum hard on my cock. your pussy is all for me, my heart. I own you—don’t forget it.

Yuuta who braces a hand on the bed, bending you further in half. Who uses the large palm of his free hand to encase your mouth & nose, cutting off your air. Who tilts his hips just right, taunting you—mm if you don’t wanna pass out, you better cum quickly for me. Who chomps down on his lower lip while he gazes at your face, eyes eternally sleepy. Who loves the feel of your nails sinking into his forearms.

Yuuta who feels his balls tighten up when your back arches off the bed, writhing because you can’t breathe. Who can feel your pussy starting to flutter as your eyes roll back in your head. Who snarls god, you’re gonna cum aren’t you? looks like you’re running out of air, but who isn’t fairing any better. Whose cheeks are bright red, who’s huffing as he thrusts, who has sweat trailing down his temple.

Yuuta who inhales sharply through his teeth as your pussy gets unbearably tight, who immediately allows you to breathe as soon as you start to cum, suffocating his cock in the best kind of way. Who makes you dizzy with the intensity of your orgasm as your lungs burn for air.

Yuuta who does a 180. Mouth falling open, eyebrows scrunching. Mean streak disappearing completely. Who lets out a sweet moan as he lets your leg down, smothering his face in your neck. Whose breath hitches, whining fuck—ah, I’m gonna cum baby. Whose cock twitches as he starts to climax, shallowly thrusting, stuffing you full with sticky ribbons of his release.

Yuuta who chants, I love you baby, love you so goddamn much. I’ll do anything for you, my heart. Who pants hotly against your skin as he goes limp, snaking his arms underneath you in a tight hug.

Yuuta who all but purrs as your nails scratch soothingly over his scalp, sending shivers down his spine. Who feels warm & pleasantly gooey when you coo at him, whispering his praises & how much you love him into his ear as you lay intertwined.

Yuuta who takes care of you afterwards, cleaning you up, rubbing your back and hugging you close under the blankets. Who tells you how good you were for him, what a sweet girl you are. Whispering he loves you at least a thousand times. Who turns you around to be his little spoon, molding his body to the back of yours. Who slips an arm around your waist, forehead pressed against your back.

Yuuta who loves you an unhealthy amount. Who’s menacing, insane—unbelievably loving. But it’s all okay with you, you’re just as obsessed as he is.

#yuta okkotsu smut #yuuta okkotsu smut #yuuta x reader #yuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta smut #yuta smut #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta headcanons #yuta headcanons #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk headcanons #jjk yuuta #yandere yuta

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spideyhexx · 4 months

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mdni

tw dark coriolanus? dom/sub dynamics.

“darling, I always wanna fuck.”

Coriolanus cocks his head, studying your expression as he answers your question.

You joked about how easy it is for him to get hard around you. How he must always be horny and without a beat he said those words and you felt any confidence you had left in you start to diminish.

“Or, to correct that, I always wanna fuck you, bunny.”

There it is. His lips curl as it rolls off his tongue and he's about to roll his eyes at how quickly you're on your knees in front him, pawing at his thighs, waiting for any sort of permission.

Coriolanus crouches down to your level, his icy eyes searching yours. His hair is fixed to perfection and you long to mess it up, deprave him of this clean cut look he's trying on.

You have no idea what's running through his head and it's killing you.

"Do you need your mouth filled?" You tell him yes and Coriolanus' gaze darts to your neck as you swallow. He tsks.

He stands back up and walks over to his desk. When he sits down in his padded chair, he sees you're still in the same spot.

"Are you coming?"

You go to stand and he holds his hand up to signal you to stop. Coriolanus needs to say nothing. He's trained you well and your mind flashes back to his sweet little name for you. You always used those as a means to tell you exactly what mood he's in.

So you crawl over to him. He's not that far, but with every move you make, your insides are burning with a humiliation so deep and you're glad Coriolanus is the only one who gets to experience it.

Once you're on your knees beside his chair, he's presenting his fingers in front of your face, the tip of this thumb brushing your lips.

"Drool around these until I'm finished working, bunny. I'll stuff your mouth with something bigger later," he says, without another glance to you as he focuses on whatever work he needs to get done.

You hold his wrist gently, taking two, maybe three of his fingers into your mouth. You'd try to tease him, lolling your tongue around them, sucking on them, anything, but Coriolanus has the most self control you've ever seen.

And you'd sit there, his fingers stuffed into your mouth, your hand caressing his wrist and Coriolanus would ignore you the entire time.

He'd work slower just cause he knows you're waiting for more. But regardless of his teasing, when he does finally let you have his cock in your mouth despite the ache in your jaw your mouth and chin covered in your own spit, he's oddly gentle and caring. He helps you slowly bob your head on him, cooing about how he knows you love his cock, thick and heavy in your mouth. He relishes in your little whimpers and the way he can see you drool from the corners of your mouth. Coriolanus loves that you're sloppy with it. It's something that only he gets the pleasure to witness and isn't that one of his most powerful turn ons?

But Coriolanus still likes to be mean.

He doesn't let you swallow his cum, despite your cute little protests and the way you lap up any pre cum beading from his tip as he takes his cock out of your mouth.

Coriolanus makes you take it in your cunt, laying you on your tummy, his weight almost completely on you as he fucks you from behind. He's reciting back his words from earlier as he pounds into you, his hand snaking to hold onto your throat, his lips ghosting at your ear.

"I always wanna fuck you, bunny. Cause this? This is all mine," and he makes sure you know that every single time his length twitches inside of you. "Your pussy, your mouth, your love, your life is all mine," he'd growl and make you repeat it to him before he finally lets you have all of him.

let's chat about coryo, here :)

#listen #dont question me #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus x reader #tom blyth #coryo snow #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader #tom blyth fanfiction #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow drabble #coryo x reader #coriolanus x y/n

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ourg0dsal · 6 months

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Gideon Nav CANNOT Die. Hold on- I know... but give me one second and I'll explain.

So, as I said before Gideon Nav cannot die, or at least her body can't. Cause clearly (spoiler warning) Gideon Nav died at the end of Gideon the Ninth. There is no avoiding that.

But! If you have read all the books GtN, HtN, and NtN including all of the accompanying short stories (tho I will admit I have not read The Mysterious Study of Dr. Sex yet) then there is a better understanding of the timeline of the whole story outside of just what the three main books give you. Specifically and especially with Gideon's body. But also there are many times In Gideons life were she has faced near death events or events that she should not have survived from and still was breathing on the other side.

To go in chronological order of these events, when she was first born she was found in a container held by the air depraved suit of her mother. And while ofc In the book it does state that her mother had redirected her air supply to Gideon, but it is simply being stated to cover all my bases.

Then the 200 sons and daughters massacre when Gideon was 1 (or 2 im not sure) when she inhaled poisonous air without dying. Which led ofc to the Reverend Mother and Father fearing the ground she walked. And this is a big one because, it literally creates waves in the plot. It's a defining point of Harrow and Gideons relationship. That Gideon did not die when she was supposed to.

Later in the story Gideon talks with Pal when she believes Harrow to be a murderer and openly admits to him that "she nearly killed me a half dozen times growing up" which obviously in context was to emphasize on the brutal relationship between her and Harrow. But this could also be other times where miraculously Gideon survived death when she shouldn't have. Because as we know from the first confrontation between Harrow and Gideon. Harrow doesnt hold back for her.

Finally of all the events where Gideon escapes death, this one actually happens within the main story of Gideon the Ninth. When Harrow siphons from Gideon to retrieve one of the challenge keys. And at the end when Gideon passes out, it is narrated ""ha-ha," said Gideon, "first time you didn't call me Griddle," AND DIED." Now, this could obviously just be the snarkiness of Gideon narrating. Or something incredibly clever left behind by Tamsyn Muir for a book series that is so clearly meant to be reread. But ofc to do my rounds the next line after does state "well, passed out. But it felt a hell of a lot like dying." But then immediately after "wake up had an air of ressurection." Which honestly feels like Tamysn Muir teasing the readers at this point. The question then becomes rather, which one was the tease and which one was foreshadowing/ evidence.

Now the point of listing all of these events is that in all of these cases the chances of death are so incredibly high that for most its a miracle she's alive. Ofc most notably for the siphoning trial and the poision gas, but none the less there is proof within the written story and and out that Gideon has looked death in face and moved on with maybe a headache. And it wasn't just in her child hood this is something she can just do. Some recreated in the written story! Because as Pal said. Even with the siphoning challenge done perfectly the chances of leaving Cam with severe brain damage was far to high. And Gideon didn't even suffer that.

Sadly, despite all these Gideon gets to the final battle and fights Cytherea and does die. At the hands of a particularly pointy fence. Or was it truly the fence that did her in? Rather than the lyctorship ritual that was started seconds afterwards.

My full theory, isnt just that Gideon Nav can't die. It's that Gideon Nav wouldn't have been able to die... If Harrow hadn't sucked her soul out. There are at the very least 8 seperate events that Gideon should have died, two of which were nearly gauranteed, but she was ended by a piece of metal. Yes, a very well placed piece a metal, but the point still up to that point she had faced worse a came out unscathed.

If Harrow had not completed the lyctor ritual, Gideon would not have died. Wether or not through resurrection or simply walking it off. Gideon's body has some sort of necromantic attributes to it that keep her alive. We see this in the Untitled Entry short story with Judith Deuteros that describes Gideons body, as it does not rot, cannot be injured, cannot be fed to animals forced or otherwise. And that is all before Jod ever gets a look at the body, because otherwise he would have known Gideon was his daughter before the later events of Harrow the Ninth.

And ofc during the first challenge when Harrow uses Gideon as her eyes to be able to see the construct in the other room and Gideon is able to see the thanergetic signatures that Harrow remarks should be impossible. (I assume because the process is Harrow extracting information (Gideons eyesight) from Gideon and so Gideon should not also be receiving information (the ability to see the signatures)) unless Gideon had some form of necromantic abilities, which she was tested for as a kid and apparently did not have. Alongside not having the correct attitude to be a nun of the ninth. And so we can round it out to be her body being naturally necromantic leaving Gideon without the ability to use it. (Which Is a jump from the actual point we are attempting to use, but for now this stops us from assuming Gideon as any sort of necromantic ability which is a theory all on its own. One that I personally have no evidence for or against)

Now, that I have hopefully made both my Ap Lit and Lang teachers proud with my 3 am essay, I must give you the real tragedy of Gideon the Ninth. Had Gideon not died, had Harrow been unable to complete the lyctor ritual for emotional reasons or otherwise, had Harrow not become a lyctor and killed cytherea. Gideon would have had to watch Harrow and Cam be killed, possibly even Corona, Judith and Ianthe. And then to be used for Cythereas own motives. Tamysn Muir beautifully set up the story so that the best possible outcome could have happened. Had Gideon not died. Everyone else would have. And "Camilla the sixth was no idiot" cam knew and accepted this whereas Harrow never would have. And so the unkillable Gideon had to die, and forcing Harrows hand was the only way to do it.

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sassypossumm · 5 days

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Voracious

My most recent thots about Feral!Miguel... (18+...minors, please don't hoe)

Insatiable.

Thats the only word to describe Miguel O'Hara. This man doesn't do anything in half measures.

Installment 1: Eating you out

Miguel does so with a voracious appetite. He'll pin down your thighs and plunge his tongue between your folds like a man deprived of oxygen.

That isn't to say he's not precise. On thr contrary, Miguel, ever the scientist, has made your pleasure his latest field of study.

As he sucks and groans around your over sensitive clit in a depraved manner, he's busy sliding a finger into your entrance. And he chuckles darkly when your whole body twitches as he massages your g-spot mercilessly.

You writhe and buck against his face, moaning and babbling, beyond words after your third orgasm. He peels his face away, and looks up at you pupils blown wide with lust, and you shudder at the practically feral way he's eyeing you, the lower half of his face slick with your arousal.

Opening his mouth slowly, Miguel flashes a bit of fang as he slowly runs his tongue along his lower lip, growling as he savors your taste.

"You really want me to stop?"

A shiver runs down your spine, and a gooey warmth begins spreading across your chest again. You find yourself shaking your head dumbly.

"No Sir." It was no more than a whisper, you'd barley summoned the strength to breathe he words, but the spark in Miguel's eyes, and the way his claws dug into the mattress by your upper thigh told you he'd heard.

"Good girl. Mi buena niña."

With that he dove back between your thighs, biting and sucking at the tender flesh, marking you as his before parting your swollen folds with two fingers and purring.

"My very good girl."

You mewled as he firmly pinned your hips to the bed and circled your pulsing bundle of nerves with his tongue. Miguel wasn't coming up for air until either he was sated or you forgot both of your names.

Fortunately, Miguel was rarely satiated, and you had a very good memory.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel imagine #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o'hara x y/n

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zarameraki · 1 day

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♡₊˚🛏️₊✧ 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽-𝗱𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗷𝗼’𝘀 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗻𝗼 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸 ♡🌙₊˚₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 somnophilia (the characters have discussed the kink beforehand) 𖥔 unprotected sex 𖥔 step-father x step-daughter 𖥔 porn with a bit of plot 𖥔 dom daddy and his little girl 𖥔 gojo eats you out 𖥔 bj 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 biting 𖥔 nipple play 𖥔 heavy daddy kink 𖥔 lots of dirty talking

: ̗̀➛ words: 3.1k

: ̗̀➛ notes: initially this was a toji fic but satoru somehow decided to fit better (bad-dum tshh). ngl when i was writing this i got butterflies in my stomach. like i legit felt sumn throbbing lmaooo. tmi??? dont care. we're all horny here mamas. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

Satoru wasn’t ashamed to fuck his step-daughter.

He enjoyed it.

You enjoyed it.

A clandestine affair kept under the sheets from your mother and two older brothers.

Megumi and Yuji had their suspicions about how carefree their step-father was around you, constantly tickling your side, asking you to lay your head on his lap during movie nights, and buying you gifts on a whim. The boys would obviously complain about the special treatment, but Satoru would just watch with a smile as you stuck your little tongue out and called yourself Daddy’s girl.

Because that's what you were. You were your daddy’s girl. And Satoru ensured that fact was deeply ingrained in your mind as he moved in and out of you, lifting your tender legs onto his shoulders, kissing your rosy lips, saturating your silk sheets with both his and your release.

It was difficult keeping the lewd side of your relationship a secret. Your mother was rarely at home from her corporate job, and you suspected she was having an affair with a salaryman named Satoru.

Meanwhile, your brothers were in their second and fourth year of college nearby and could come home whenever they pleased—particularly Megumi, who wasn't as much of a partygoer as Yuji being a senior. There were multiple times while Satoru was fucking you when Megumi returned home, but did that stop him from satisfying his girl? Fuck no.

As for your stepfather, he was a remote investor in the booming hospitality industry, managing significant stakes in various companies. His encounter with your mother at an industry event last year was strategic; she became a means to an end, a stepping stone toward fulfilling his desires. A few months down the line, she introduced him to her family, to you—the most precious thing Satoru laid his eyes on. You were the real prize in his eyes, something he had to figure out how to get his hands on, despite always getting what he wanted.

So, he married your mother, moved into your house, and deployed every weapon in his arsenal, including his lethal charms, to claim you as his own.

But did Satoru cherish you in the way a man should cherish a woman? No. He didn't cherish you. His love didn’t check off the conventional boxes. He was consumed, fixated, captivated by your existence, by your body, the adorable noises you made when you climaxed. But not enough to make you his girlfriend, or someday his wife.

He just wanted you as his step-daughter. He was a selfish, depraved bastard who got off on that fantasy, and you, God you loved nothing more. You wanted nothing more from him than to be exactly who he was in his spot—your step-father.

As long as you both kept fucking each other for however long, you were satisfied.

“Quiet, baby,” Satoru whispered as he clicked on a link for a video call with his team. His one hand rested over his mouse, the other over your crown as you lapped at the tip of his leaking cock. “This is an important call.”

You’d returned from school after acing the test you’d been studying all week for and wanted to release that excitement onto your step-father. After all, he did massage your shoulders and brought you fruits when you were busting your ass memorizing the periodic table.

Satoru plastered on a smile as the voices from his computer started speaking. He still kept petting your head, chuckling casually and speaking smoothly about numbers and profits like the capitalist he was.

You opened your jaw wider and took his length into your mouth. Your gag reflex was non-existent after months and months of perfecting this skill. Your tongue supported the bottom of his shaft, while slowly bobbing your head up and down. Satoru’s grip tightened in your hair, but he remained all rainbow and sunshine in front of his workers.

You gripped his thick cock, feeling the veins pulsing under your touch. Your tongue slid from the bottom to the top as you sucked on the pink head like a lollipop, glancing up at him through your lashes.

Satoru shot you a heated look and guided your head with his hand. He pushed his throbbing cock into your mouth, holding your face against his pelvis. You gagged a bit, needing air, and he eased off.

“It’s on mute,” he muttered.

You broke out into coughs and smacked his leg. “What the fuck was that for?”

“For giving me those eyes.”

You scoffed. “Dickhead.”

“It’s right in front of you, Princess. Put your pretty lips on it again.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed his cock extra tight making a muscle in his jaw twitch. You lapped at the pre-cum leaking down his length, then took him into the cave of your warm, small mouth.

Satoru held your head in his hands, guiding the pace. He struggled to focus on the meeting, clearing his throat to shake off the intense feeling building up inside him. With fifteen minutes still to go, he was on the brink.

Feeling your tap on his knee, he glanced down to see you motioning to your mouth.

Satoru lowered your head again, clenching his jaw as your tongue pushed him over the edge. He held his breath, releasing a wave of warmth as he emptied himself into your mouth. His grip tightened on your hair, while his other hand reached for his glass of water, desperately trying to steady himself with large gulps.

You pulled back, strings of your saliva and his come forming a bridge. He gave you the water and you drank the last bits of it. Satoru patted the top of your head and you stayed hidden underneath his table, admiring him as he finished his meeting.

And before you knew it, he had you bouncing on his cock again.

At dinner time, you helped set up the table with your brothers while your mother flipped the hamburger patties.

Satoru tossed the salad bowl, taking small glimpses at you and the pink set of tight shorts and tank you wore. He’s been noticing you rubbing your temples, swaying a little on the balls of your feet, blinking rapidly. You clearly weren’t feeling well from all that studying you’d been doing.

Megumi abruptly pulled you aside by your elbow. “Is everything all right?”

You blinked, fighting the sharp pain in your temple. “Yeah. Why?”

“Satoru keeps glaring at you. Did you piss him off or something?”

You cast a look at your step-father, who’s focused on pouring olive oil on the greens. “I haven’t talked to him since I came home from school.”

Megumi nodded, rubbing your arm. “Well, I’m here if you need to talk about anything.”

“What do you mean?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I just— This probably sounds stupid, but I don’t like knowing you’re both home alone in the afternoon.”

“He lives here, silly. What do you expect?”

“Yeah, I know. I know that—I’m just saying that he looks at you . . . like, weirdly. Not in a way someone would look at their family member. He acts weirdly, too. Always touching you and tickling you. I don’t know.” Megumi scrutinizes your outfit. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to wear that around the house when he’s here.”

You frowned and crossed your arms. “I can’t deal with this again.” Putting on an act that Satoru was simply your step-father and nothing else was tiring, but you’d mastered it. “You’re being delusional as always, Megs. Satoru is just family to us and vice versa. I’m just special because I’m the youngest.” You patted his shoulder. “I can take care of myself. And if I ever need help, I’ve got you and Yuji to defend me.”

Megumi smiled solemnly and shrugged off his hoodie, handing it to you. “Can you at least wear this?”

Anything to ease his mind.

You smiled and shouldered the large hoodie.

Throughout dinner you kept losing focus of the conversation flowing between your brothers and mother. Your head was pounding from the stress of your upcoming final exams, your scalp ached a little from Satoru’s grip this afternoon, and you desperately needed sleep.

“Y/N?”

You lifted your head, blinking lethargically. “Yes, Mom?”

“Are you okay?”

“I—” You rubbed your heated forehead and pinched the bridge of your nose. “I, uh—I think I’m just not feeling too good.”

“Sweetheart, how many times have I told you to take it easy with school? You’re doing great—”

“Great’s not going to get me in my dream college, Mom.” You lost your appetite easily and excused yourself from the table, grabbing a bottle of NyQuil and a spoon. “Please don’t wake me up until tomorrow. Goodnight.” You ignored everyone’s stares and marched upstairs, taking a spoonful on the way.

Dropping face-front on the bed, you melted in your sheets and forced yourself into a sleep.

Satoru waited until every light in the house was off before visiting your bedroom.

Of course, he had to check that little shit Megumi’s room, and after hearing nothing but white noise, he checked up on Yuji and found him snoring his lungs out, then finally entered into your space.

He shut the door quietly and locked it.

You laid fast asleep, hair dusted across your soft face, one hand on your stomach, the other next to your head.

Satoru smirked and sat at the edge of your bed, checking your temperature by pressing his hand against your forehead. You were burning up, and the little strangled breaths puffing from your parted lips proved you weren’t going to school tomorrow.

Lying down next to you, Satoru brushed your hair from your face and kissed your cheek. He glanced down the length of your body and back to your face. His fingers danced over your collarbone, the expanse of your throat, feeling your rapid pulse.

“Relax for me, baby,” he whispered in your ear, kissing below your earlobe. He watched you for a second, waiting for you to shift or wake up, but you were dead asleep.

You talked about what turns you on the most last week, and somnophilia was right up there, leaving Satoru scratching his head in confusion. He couldn’t wrap his head around how someone could be into getting it on while asleep. But you were practically begging him to give it a try someday, and he couldn’t say no to you.

Well, surprise, surprise, baby.

Satoru slipped down the straps of your tank top, leaning over you. He bridged kisses from your jaw to your neck to your shoulders, softly, not his usual crass ones. His finger hooked your tank lower until it exposed your tits and your puckered nipples.

“You’re always sensitive here, aren’t you, Princess?” He cupped your left breast and lowered his head, kissing the nipple and sucking the bud.

You took a deep breath and shifted your face to the right.

Satoru switched to your neglected breast, taking his sweet time nibbling your tender nipple, then bringing his lips to yours. He kissed the top one, the bottom one, pushed his tongue inside to feel your sleeping one. His kisses trailed lower and lower until he reached your shorts. He pulled them down to reveal white panties and a damp spot between your legs.

“Even in your sleep, huh?” Satoru planted kisses on your inner thighs, gently biting and licking. He nuzzled his nose against your clothed sex, inhaling deeply and breathing out slowly. His tongue traced over the area, wetting it more with each stroke. “Daddy’s gonna eat his pussy now, baby.” He pulled your panties to the side and dove into your slick, moist folds. “Mmm. You smell so sweet.”

Satoru began to lap your juices like a starved dog, keeping your tender folds parted with his thumbs. The tip of his nose bumped against your clit, sending a little shiver down your body. He double-checked to see if you’re still asleep, then continued his job. He pushed two fingers in your walls and chuckled against your flesh as you clenched around him. “It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s taking good care of you.”

Half an hour. He ate you out for half an hour until he could see the slight quiver in your swollen clit. His saliva and your fresh release covering your abused, delicate folds.

When he pulled away, his hard cock in hand, Satoru sat back, admiring you spread out like a feast before him. Leaning in, he teased your folds with his throbbing length, digging his tip over your clit in gentle circles.

“Can I put it in, Princess?” he whispered in your ear. You didn't answer, sweat trickling down your forehead with the fever. Satoru licked the droplets, then kissed down to your neck. His hands stayed by your head as he moved his hips, dragging himself over your puffy cunt. “Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Your little pussy is so soft and wet.” He gripped his length and pressed just the tip into your entrance. “Since you’ve been such a good girl, I’ll give you what you want. Just don't wake up, okay?”

Satoru slipped in smoothly and nuzzled into your neck. He eased into your tightness, going slow and steady, urging your gummy walls to adjust to his size. “My sweet baby. Look at you. Sleeping while your daddy fucks himself in you.” He pulled back and widened your legs, seeing his fat cock sliding in and out of you. “Fuck, yes. Gonna fuck this little cunt of yours for hours.” He started moving quickly. “I don’t care if you can’t walk tomorrow. You won’t be leaving this bed anyway with that fever of yours. Daddy’s gonna fuck it out of you however long it takes.”

He put his hands on either side of your head and kissed you while moving his hips.

You moaned, feeling a shiver as cold touched your bare chest and legs. “Satoru,” you said softly. His eyes closed in pleasure as he increased his pace.

Sensing you stirring, he wrapped his arm around your waist and turned you over so you were lying on his chest. He paused, running his hand down your arm. “It’s okay, Princess. Go to sleep. Daddy’s got you.”

You exhaled heavily.

Satoru licked his lips and grabbed your plump asscheeks in his palms, slowly moving himself up into you. His face squished up seeing how well you were handling him even though you were out cold. He kept going, sometimes easing up when you shifted on his chest, or speeding up when you stayed asleep.

“I'm so close, baby. So close to finishing inside my little girl. Gonna fill you up. Flush those pills and make you a mom.” He envisioned you with a swollen belly, your breasts heavy with milk, your body glowing and all his.

Fuck, you were his.

You were only his.

Satoru came harder than he ever had before. Hot spurts of his release filled your sweet hole to the brim, and yet he continued with pumping into you. “Hey, baby? Daddy doesn’t want to stop now, okay? He’s going to fuck you some more,” he said, realizing why this kink meant so much to you.

Pulling out slowly, he laid you down beside him, shedding his clothes. Pressing his chest against your back, he wrapped your leg around his and slid back inside you, burying his face in your neck. He wanted to be rough, to feel your nails on his skin, to bite you and hear you moan.

“I wanna kiss you, baby. I want your little tongue.” Satoru pulled out of you after finishing for the second time and laid you on your back. He adjusted your head so you were looking at him. His fingers went back to pleasuring you while his lips met yours. He slipped his thumb between your teeth, easing your bottom jaw down. Satoru slid his tongue in, playing with yours, moaning and breathing heavily.

“My baby has such soft lips,” he murmured over your wet, swollen mouth. Taking his finger soaked with your juices and his come, Satoru placed them between your lips and ran them over your tongue. He ravished your mouth again.

Exhausted from holding back, Satoru pulled you close and slid back inside you, staying still, just feeling your warmth. He ran his hand over your back, kissed your head, and shut his eyes.

In the morning, you woke up feeling a bit weighed down below and something awkward stopping your movements. You lifted your head, rubbing your sleepy eyes, and saw Satoru asleep beneath you. A grin spread across your face as you remembered the steamy dream you had about him satisfying you.

You planted a kiss on his cheek and tried to get up using your hands, but then you froze.

You looked down and realized you were sitting right on top of Satoru’s cock.

Holy shit. It wasn’t a dream.

Satoru fucked you while you were out cold. Just thinking about him taking advantage of your defenseless body to satisfy himself made you shiver.

“Dickhead,” you grumbled, then began to rock your hips. Time for payback. Yanking down your cami-top, you teased your nipples, riding his stiffening cock. You couldn't care less as you leaned in for a kiss. “Rise and shine, Handsome.”

Satoru took a deep breath. His lips synced with yours effortlessly, and his hand found its way into your hair. He yanked your head back, his eyes widening as they trailed down to your swaying hips. A smirk played on his lips as he relaxed back, crossing his arms behind his head. “You feeling good now, Princess?”

“Much better, Daddy.”

Satoru admired the playful bounce of your tits, the adorable mewls escaping your mouth, the flush of your smooth skin. Seeing his step-daughter fuck herself on his cock first thing in the morning had him on cloud nine.

“I’m gonna come, Daddy,” you moaned, hands planted on his chest.

“Come, then, baby. Come on your daddy’s cock.” He reached out and grabbed your throat. “Then lick it clean.”

“Yes, Daddy.” You came with a muted cry, milking every last drop of him. “Your cock is so full inside of me.” Satoru smirked at your dirty little words and gave your left tit a little slap.

You picked yourself up from his cock and knelt between his legs. Satoru watched as your little hand barely wrapped around his girth, lapping at his come like his pretty, little kitten. “Feels good, Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby. You always feel good to me.”

Satoru released a contented sigh and reclined against the soft pillows, his arms folded beneath him.

He will never be shameless of fucking his sweet girl ever.

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