#warm gray paint

[garfinski]

Beach Style Family Room - Family Room Game room - mid-sized coastal enclosed dark wood floor game room idea with gray walls, no fireplace and no tv

[krispeetersvisitingthings]

Bathroom in DC Metro A picture of a medium-sized transitional bathroom with a 3/4 marble floor and beaded inset cabinets, gray cabinets, a one-piece toilet, gray walls, an undermount sink, and quartz countertops is shown.

[bmpmp3]

i was drawing some takehiros based off his different emotion modes but i got distracted because drawing him screaming crying throwing up is too fun

[digitaldiseas3]

now i’m not gonna self diagnose and say i have borderline personality disorder but i Do think it’s a problem regardless that on all of the online questionnaires i stated that i frequently/almost always “feel empty inside”. like whether that’s a symptom of bpd or not, there’s something not good about that right

[love-songs-for-emma]

i was on zillow today, fantasizing about being able to live somewhere, when i came across the listing for my childhood home. it wasn't active/being sold, but it was on there with some pics of the interior. and my GOD. THEY MADE HER UGLY. THEY TOOK HER RUSTIC PUSSY OUT. WHAT THE FUCK

[wigglebox]

Testing

[sol-flo]

now that the house is being painted and i have a better frame of reference i'm inclined to believe the previous colors were like scientifically determined to cause woe and despair

[hewaje]

Reverie with the Whale

[oreo-creampie]

‘‘𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐧’ 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬!”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: demon!choso, choso goes into rut, overstimulation, dacryphilia, pain kink, anal/wrong hole (Gojo’s), pussy drunk, mind broken/dumbification, cervix fuckin, light size kink, hair pulling, spanking/some face slapping (mostly toji’s), biting, exhaustion, praise/degradation, begging/teasing, squirting, some thigh fucking, vibrating dildo, light bondage, on the verge of passing out (Choso’s), daddy(toji)/lil mama, gojo and toji are wearing ghostface masks (separate blurbs), ghostface!toji (morally gray reader), squirting

Oreo: ok so this took forever thank y’all for being patient, rip sukuna he will have his own one shot to shine on where we can get the proper cum shower, it’s the treatment we deserve

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨

“Please!” Choso digs his black painted nails into your hips. His eyes roll back as he tilts head back showing off his hickey cover neck. His broad shoulders curl in with a tremble as he sloppily rut his hips fucking his hot thick cum deeper.

Your sloppy cunt squelching and your thighs trembling. Digging your nails into his abs, you keep bouncing yourself on Choso’s fat dick. Feeling his thick veins pulse, his cock head lightly twitches and his moans are getting breathier.

Your cunt clenches his throbbing, sensitive cock when a guttural deep groan of “Fuuuuck lil mama!” slips past his lips.

He’s so damn hot with his flush pink cheeks and his messy dark hair. His smoldering dark brown eyes fixate on your beautiful cunt taking his cock.

Choso slides his large hands up your sides, flipping you over onto his dark bedsheets. Your head hits the pillow and he grabs the head board with one hand, hovering over you.

He fuckin’ smirks, it’s a little upturn of Choso’s soft lips that has you clenching his cock. “Just ‘cause I came doesn’t mean we have to stop right?” He grabs your thigh hooking your leg around his slim waist.

His thrusts are sloppy, slow and deep, a shutter runs down his spine making his hips falter. The wood in his hand creaks and his jaw drops with a low groan.

“Can’t think about anything other than how wet n’ warm you are.” Leaning in for a soft kiss, you wrap both legs around his waist and slip your fingers into his hair.

Your body feels so heavy from exhaustion but you don’t want him to stop. It feels too good to have his warm, heavy body pressing you into the mattress. Whilst his heavy cock fills up your sore, sensitive and soaking wet pussy.

Choso mummers, “You can handle a bit more can’t ya?” Picking up his pace, your body jolts, your cunt spams and your eyes water when his hard cock head hits your bruised cervix.

Seeing the tears Choso softens his thrusts, restraining himself. “I’ve been so rough on her haven’t I? You’ve been doing so well, please let me help you cum one more time, we can do this lil mama.” He begs as if you aren’t fucked too stupid to answer him back.

He pushes your leg by your side and leans back to admire how your soft cunt takes his thick, long cock. Your soft lips wrapping around him, so wet, soft, and slightly swollen. Your beautiful pussy is such a pretty color against the paleness of his cock.

There isn’t an aspect of your body, expression and voice Choso isn’t obsessed with.

Steadily stroking your soft clit with his large thumb. “You look so hot cumming on my cock, please cum one more time?” He lets the headboard go, sliding his large hand over your beautiful body, touching you gently whilst wrecking your pussy.

Grabbing his hard, thick bisceps and digging your nails in whilst crying his name. “Nnnn! Choooohh!” Soaking Choso’s thick cock, your warm thick cum soaks the bed.

Choso’s smoldering dark eyes widen, “Fuuck make a mess on my cock lil that. Fuck I wanna!” His body trembles as he fights not to fuck you harder.

It’s all you can muster to plea, “Harder!” Choso flips you over without sliding out, wrapping his arm around your waist whilst holding onto your hip. Choso lifts you off the bed, holding you to his chest and stroking your clit as he gets off the bed.

He gently reminds you, “Remember to use the safe word if it’s too much.” Holding you by your waist he slowly drags his cock out till his fat head is tugging on your soaking wet cunt.

Choso pulls you back to meet his hard thrusts. Your body jolts as you cry out reach back and grabbing his wrist. “I love how soft, beautiful, wet and warm you are. N’ I can't get enough of hearing you moan, seein’ my cock sink into your cunt, stretching her out.” Choso roughly bounces you on his thick, veiny cock.

He groans, “Your sloppy wet cunt is as loud as are, so messy n’ wet after squirting so hard on my cock. Nnn fuck I’ve missed you so much, not seeing you all day is torture.” He reaching so deep, you swear you’re feeling Choso’s long, thick cock underneath your belly button.

You’re fighting to string a full sentence together in between moans. “It was ooonn’nnn! On-ly seven girl’s houuures Nnn fuck you’re so deep! Fuck!” He presses your face and chest against the wall, keeping your back arches with a hand on your lower back.

Choso leans down groaning in your ear, “I love hearing your creamy cunt talk to me. I think she missed me just as much.” He bites your shoulder softly whilst roughly fucking your creamy cum stuffed cunt, Choso slides his large hand along your arched back grabbing a handful of your hair.

Squeezing your hip, “You look like doll, all fucked out and limp.” Clenching Choso’s cock when he most in your ear. “I know she so sore yet she grippin’ me like she wants me to cum in ya again even though you’ve cummed six times so far.” Your cheeks clap, your cunt squelches and your legs give out the wall and his grasp keeping you upright.

Lifting you off the wall, and turning you around with slipping his cock our. Laying you on your back on the soft bed, “One more time for the last grueling hour I spent alone, even then then I don't want to stop.” Choso folds you into a mating press to watch your sloppy wet cunt take his pale, thick, veiny cock.

Your soft lips look so beautiful covered in thick white cream, a mixture of his and your cum. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, hold on just a little more, I know you’re getting tired. I’ll hold you while you sleep after I cum in you.” Choso softly kisses your forehead.

“She’s getting so tight. I wonder could your sweet lil’ cunt can cum while you’re sleeping.” His eyes shift from violet to a glowing pink. “Fuck!” His body shutters with restraint as he fucks you faster but not harder. “I know you can only handle so much, I should stop soon but-“ your soft cunt spams squeezing Choso and wrecking his train of thought.

You slur together, “don’tstopwanna help-nnnn with yourrr rut.” Thick tears drip down your face as Choso whines, two teeth elongating into sharp fangs.

You tilt your head aside and he kisses your tears off your cheeks. “That’s it beautiful, let it out cry from cumming so hard on my cock.” teeth in. Sweet pain laces in with the intoxicating pleasure of his cock filling your sore, soaking wet cunt.

You can’t move on your own, your body is too heavy. Your eyes won’t say open. He quickly pulls away, licking the blood seeping from the bite. You shiver meekly as he slides his large warm hands down along your waist and hips, grabbing your thighs.

He lifts you off the bed without breaking his rough, quirk pace. You feel weightless in his grasp as he wraps his arm around your waist. Softly laying you in the center of the bed, with your head on a pillow.

Sweetly kissing your cheek, Choso groans, “I’m a nasty pervert, obsessed with your soft thighs, pretty tits and wet cunt. I wanna fuck more cum into you.”

The softness of the pillow beneath your head, the coziness of the bed and the exhaustion from taking Choso’s cock is too much. The last thing you feel is his warm cum as you pass out.

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

“Nn! Wrong hole!” It’s too late Satoru is in your ass. It’s a strange but interesting feeling him slip out, tugging on your ass. It’s a mixture of pleasure and pain that you want to explore.

“Wait,” your body burns and you’re grateful you are facing the bed instead of him. “You can fuck my ass.” He roughly smacks your ass, squeezing your sore, jiggly cheek.

“Fuck that sounds so hot, say it again.” He crouches behind you and bites your ass. Slipping two slender fingers into your dripping wet cunt, slowly stroking your g-spot making your legs tremble.

Grabbing his sheets whilst pleading, “I wanna fuck my ass on your cock till I can’t move anymore! You can cum in my ass.” He pumps his fingers faster and groans letting your cheek go.

Satoru licks the imprint his teeth left. “Good lil’ slut.” Slipping his fingers out, you can hear him noisily sucking them clean. Pushing your hips back when he glides his tongue between your lips.

Satoru admits, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about cumming in you since I saw you. I’m not gonna wanna stop with your ass, your cunt is begging for it.” Roughly hitting your sore cheeks with his large palm.

Satoru digs his fingers into your juggling fat. “Hold you wrist behind your back for me to tie together.”

He walks off to get silk ribbon and a vibrator which he holds up to show you. “Something for your clit while I fuck your soft ass into a gapping cum filled mess.” Smirking at you, with his white hair slicked back, a few stands hanging in his blue eyes.

“Let’s get a little kinky.” He looks so beautiful standing there, slim yet muscular build is so well sculpted. You want you run your hands over all of him. But mostly you want his long, pretty cock that stands up eager for attention.

A smile creeps onto your face, “What about some knife play?” He walks over with the silk and toy, setting the latter on the bed. The silence is crushing, making you squirm slightly.

He leans over yo, talking low in your ear, “With the nasty warnings on the smut you read in public told me what type of pervert slut you are.” Tying your wrist behind your back.

“I always wondered if you touch yourself while reading, or if it’s like foreplay before you masturbate?” Biting your shoulderand pinning you still with some of his weight. It feels good to have Satoru’s massive body crushing you into the bed. With his soft warm skin and hard muscules against you.

Taking a moment before you can respond in a steady voice, “Depends on how much the fic makes my pussy throb.” Satoru pulls away to laugh, smacking your pussy, smirking when you jolt.

Satoru goes to get a ghost face mask and knife, “Speaking of fics, one gave me a new kink, I already wear a mask all day so why not switch out what I’m wearing.”

He wiggles the mask, “I remember this one was mentioned in a kinkobter fic. I like having a whole month dedicated to being the biggest whore you can be. That is what it is?” He slips the ghost face mask on.

You decide, “Close enough, please come play with my clit n ass! I wanna be a cock drunk whore, we’re talking too much.” He points the knife at you, wiggling it threateningly then he slips the ghostface mask on.

Grabbing a bottle of lube before walking up behind you. You can hear the bottle open and lube squirt out. Glance over your shoulder to watch Satoru touch himself. He softly ruts his his hips with a soft whine as he swirl his slender fingers over his gorgeous cock.

You didn’t think you could find a cock so damn sexy till you saw Satoru’s. With his soft pink cock head and intimidating length. You know his cock is going to be addicting the l way he could softly stretch and fill you up.

Spreading your legs apart he lines his cock up to give your asshole just the tip. Whilst carefully rubbing your clit with the cool flat of the blade. The scary thrill of the knife near somewhere so sensitive gets your cunt dripping.

He slowly drags the knife along your thigh, grabbing the toy. With a click it springs to life. Satoru glides another inch in as he holds the toy to your clit, swirling it slowly.

Softly rolling his hips giving your sensitive, tight ass more, crooning, “You can handle it, can’t you?” Your jaw drops and your brows furrow as your toes curl.

You unable to answer Satoru, “I-I nnnn! Innnahhh! Satoru!” the strange pleasure of having your ass fucked along with having your clit played with is too much to comprehend.

Crying, “My ass! You’re! Nnn!” Satoru really is fucking your ass! The first time with your long time crush and it’s there! He’s going to be able to cum in you. The second it crosses you’re mind it’s all you can whine.

You’re mindlessly confessing and begging, your eyes stinging. “Please cum in me! I wanna feel your warm cum! I touch myself thinking of what it would be like to feel your cock twitching inside me before you spill. Please!” You sloppy wet cunt is dripping thick creamy slick down to your cock stuffed ass.

Satoru’s low breathy groans are pornagraphic.“I jerked off this morning thinking about seein’ my cum drip out of your pretty cunt.” He swirls the knife around your soft nipple. “The way I want to slut you out, objectify you then treat you like a princess afterwards.”

Rubbing the toy on your clit faster as he goes balls deep. He slides the knife down your stomach, getting off on seeing you squirm. With your breasts pushed in the air by the soft arch in your back.

He groans at the sight of seeing his pale pink cockhead tugging on your asshole. So close to slipping out, rolling his hips, his abs flexing as he drives his cock in deep with a smooth, quick thrust.

Your ass is getting looser taking his cock easier as the tense leaves your body and you melt beneath him. With your eyes watering.

Satoru tosses the knife to the side to stuffs his two slender fingers in. “Keep looking at me like that beautiful n’ find out what happens. Shit, I’ll wash up come back and wreck your soft cunt, fill you up twice.” He curls his fingers, fucking your softly squelching cunt.

Clenching his fingers when he finds that spot that has a overwhelming wave of intense pleasure overcomes you. Making your thighs tremble and your hips jerk back.

Satoru leans down, taking up most of your vision with his ghost face mask and his wide shoulders. “Cum, you can do it, focus on my fingers in your cunt, my cock in your ass and your toy on your clit.” Tears trickle down your face as you squirt on his fingers. Your soft cunt spams, as Satoru keeps his pace and fucks your ass harder.

The way Satoru growls, “Fuck me!” Shouldn’t be so hot in how feral, possessive and needy he sounds. “That it lil mama cry cause I made you squirt too hard, make a fuckin mess and scream my name. Nnnn keep looking at me like that and see what happens.”

𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢

“I thought no one was home, I only meant to crash on your sofa then dip before sunrise.” Leaning over you, with his large gloved hand splayed on the wall next to you. “You’re not my normal type.” Holding the knife to your cheek.

Your voice trembles, “I know your victim type, I’ve been following along. I-I don’t blame you, what came out about everyone’s whose houses and laptops they’ve searched, is horrific.” You’re tense with anticipation. “There is a guest room, and left over food in the fridge, you can use my shower I’ll stay in the living room.”

“Ha, so you see it my way, they deserved it.” He softly drags the knife along your neck, leaning down invading what little personal space you have left. He’s so close, smelling of thick cigarette smoke and copper.

Glancing from his blood splattered ghost mask, to his large chest, his worn black shirt clinging to his pecs and abs. “Is there anything else you need?” A dark happy trail peaking out the bottom of his shirt catches your attention along with what it leads too. He’s shamelessly hard, his black sweats hiding nothing.

He drags the knife up your neck to your chin, tilting your head up to look at his face. “Depends does that offer have anything to do with the way you’ve been looking at me? If it does ...” He steps back to lean against the back of your sofa. He gestures up and down your body with his knife.

Ordering you. “Take your shirt off, your sexy underwear stays on.” Slipping your shirt and underwear off, he points down at the ground with the knife causing you to kneel at his feet.

Nudging your legs around with his boot, “Hands behind your back, use your hands and I’ll smack you across the face.” Softly dragging the knife along your bottom lip. “Such a pretty mouth, that little tremble in your bottom lip when you’re scared is hot.”

He holds the knife to your throat. “Do I scare you still?”He pushes his sweatpants down, letting his heavy cock hang out. He’s so thick, with two puffy veins and a fat cockhead wet with pre-cum.

“Yes, you could change your mind out of worry of getting caught but I’m too horny to think too logically.” His balls are big and look so damn suckable, looking up at his masked face. “I want you to fuck me like I’mma a slut.” He slips his boot in between your legs, and you cave instantly grinding your clothed cunt on his shoe.

Lifting his shoe adding some pressure to your cunt. “Like?! You’re nothing but a slut, grinding on me you’re no different than a bitch in heat. I’ll stuff your needy cunt n’ depending on how well ya take my cock, you might be mine be my new play thing.”

Setting the knife next to himself, and grabbing a fistful of your hair. “Please I’m so wet cause of you, fold me in two, I don’t care if I walk tomorrow.” He groans grabbing his cock with a gloved hand, lining it up with your parting lips. Gliding his cock in your warm with mouth with a husky groan.

“Fuck this is hot, seeing you hump my boot while I'm fuckin your throat.” His balls hit your chin with each quick, gagging thrust. Whilst his firm grasp on your hair keeps you from moving your head. “For being a honest whore for I’ll make sure you cum.”

Cupping his large balls he pulls his cock out and slaps you. Straightening your face out with your hair. “I warned you, but that did feel nice touch my balls again.” Holding his balls while grinding your hips, rubbing your clit along the smooth leather.

You quickly plead, “Slap me again please.” He softly rubs your sore cheek then lands another sharp, stinging hit. You wince and moan, squeezing his shoe with your thighs.

Mocking you, “Slap me again please! You’re killing me.” Tilting his head to the side, the simple action with his mask on shouldn't turn you on so much.

He roughly pulls your hair and orders, “Keep begging me to hurt and fuck you.”

Stroking his cock next to your face whilst you beg, “Smack my ass till it’s too sore for me to lay on. Please daddy fuck me however you need to.” Pulling you onto your feet by your hair, shoving you over the back of the sofa.

Demanding, “You’re thinking with your pussy aren't you? What am I?” He smacks your clothed cunt with the flat of the blade making you jolt. Hitting your cunt harder with his gloved hand. “Tell me before I stop and go jerk off in the shower.” Slowly dragging the knife along your soft lips. You have to fight every urge to move so the knife doesn't slip.

“Daddy!” Crying as he quickly cuts the back of your thighs, so close to your cunt. Smacking your both cheeks before cutting off your underwear.

Moaning out, “Please lemme have your cock daddy.” Wiggling as he drags the knife along your soft cheek, blood seeping from the shallow cut. His covk throbs with the way you cry and writhe, the sofa and his body trapping you.

Smacking your stinging cheek, you can hear the cocky smirk in his voice. “You need me that badly lil’ mama?” Gliding his wet cock in-between your soft thighs.

Yanking your head back by your hair and leaning over you. “Fucking hell you’re a dirty slut wanting to be fucked by a stranger. Am I that hot, or are you that big of a whore?” His cock rubs yours lips and clit taunting you.

You’re clenching nothing in desperate need to have his fat cock filling, stretching and rubbing your cunt till you cum on him. “I can feel her fluttering, squeezing nothin’ when you could be squeezing my cock.”

Your head is against his chest, his so big. You didn't know his name and haven’t see but it doesn't matter. You want him to bounce you on his cock.

Begging him, “Yes please daddy, I’ll call you whatever you want! You can stop by and use my cunt whenever you want. I need to cum on your big cock.” Squeezing your thighs together and whining in fustration

He lets your hair go to smack your cunt till your desperately twisting your hips away. Crying, your body shutters and your cunt is sharply stinging.

You whine, “You’re so mean!” Your eyes are stinging and his hands are so rough when he grasp your hips. He yanks you into place and lines his cock up, nudging his cock past your lips. Roughly slamming his hips forward whilst yanking your body back.

He rasps, ��It’s making you wetter isn’t it?” Choking you with a gloved hand and squeezing your hip. Lifting your off your feet, he’s holding you in the air by your throat and hip, effectively ruining any attempts to run away.

Rhythmically bounce you on his cock, using your pussy like a flesh light. Whilst angrily rutting his hips. It’s like he’s mad at you even though he’s the one who broke into your house.

You’re a dirty slut who folded at the first sight of his broad muscular chest and slutty waist in the clingiest black shirt you’ve ever see. Clenching his cock and biting your bottom lip. It feels good to be a mindless whore if this is what it gets you.

Digging your nails into the sofa when he croons, “What this? You were just begging for me to fuck you. Don’t tell me your lil’ sloppy cunt can’t handle my fat cock?” He relaxes his grasp but ruts into you hard, pouring his frustration into each thrust.

“I can! Fuck me however you want! I don’t care how angry it feels!” He lifts you off the sofa, grabbing your thighs, folding your legs and clasping his large hands behind the back of your neck.

“Angry? I suppose I am n’ it’s fun taking it out on your sloppy cunt. I’m reaching so fuckin deep, you can feel that can’t ya?” He rocks his hips harder bruising your cervix and making your pussy spasm from the intensity.

You can’t think with the way he’s fucking you like he hates you, bullying your sloppy cunt. All you can do is cream on his fat cock. He sneers “Really? You’re cumming that fuckin’ easily?” Your cheeks along with your throat burn.

Unclasping his hand from behind your neck, squeezing your thigh and stroking your clit. “Too stupid to answer already? N’ I just started.” Each stroke from his finger is too much, sending off a firework of intense overstimulating pleasure.

Fat tears roll down your cheek as you babble, “Too much! Toooooo much daddys’ cock ‘s too much! My clit I can’t! I wanna! Don’t stop!” It’s like you can’t come down from the incredible high of cumming.

He grunts, “There we fuckin’ go! Don’t want ya to get all shy n’ quiet on me now after you were humping my boot.” Stroking your clit faster, keeping the pressure the same. “Let’s see how many times I can make you cum in one night before you can’t anymore.”

Oreo m.list

[fushiguho]

My thoughts on beeeefy, himbo, classmate Toji :0

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･

BeefyHimbo!Toji who never pays attention in class so he’s forced to ask you the stupidest questions, but when he hears your sweet, honeyed voice for the first time, he can’t help but to ask more and more and more.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who clumsily leans in closer, committing the warm, cloying scent of your gourmand perfume to memory. Who can’t help but to press his thighs together in a fruitless attempt to dull the ache of his pathetically drooling cock.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who stares up at you dumbly, utter infatuation emanating from his unrelenting gaze, chin resting in the palm of his hand as you solve a simple equation for him in his barren, yet oddly tattered college ruled notebook.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who subconsciously searches for you at the beginning of class, hoping to find a vacant seat beside you. Whose eyes soften when he finally catches a glimpse of your pretty face at the rear of the drab room.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who fishes a singular, wilting daisy from his lint-laden pockets, claiming that he plucked it from the university’s horticulture garden just for you. Who apprehensively presents you with the plainly heartfelt gift, praying you’ll welcome his flattery with enthusiasm.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who beams in his overwhelming excitement when you tuck the withering flower behind your ear, a gracious smile marring your lips. Whose cock grows embarrassingly hard when you mindlessly squeeze the fat of his thigh beside you in appreciation.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who soon excuses himself to flee to the restroom, desperate to relieve the gut wrenching throb of his cock, and unbeknownst to you, it’s all your fault.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who fucks his fist in the farthest stall of the restroom, imagining you sprawled out beneath him, your trembling thighs pressed to the unkempt sheets as he brainlessly stuffs you with the entirety of his cock.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who orgasms so incredibly hard that he’s forced to clamp a big hand over his mouth, thick, syrupy ropes of cum painting the graffitied walls of the public bathroom stall. Who doesn’t even bother to wash his fucking hands afterwards.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who eventually returns to class, flustered, a mysterious, dark stain adorning the gray fleece of his sweatpants. Who can hardly look you in the eyes as he plops down beside you, ashamed of how much of a slut he is for a girl he’s convinced wouldn’t give him half a chance.

But, when BeefyHimbo!Toji discovers that you’re not entirely opposed to the notion after a long night of fruitless studying, a switch flips.

Now, BeefyHimbo!Toji has you pressed apart on his disheveled, plaid sheets, just as he imagined, your sobbing pussy taking his cock to the base over and over and over again, his large hands keeping you wide and accessible and all fucking his.

BeefyHimbo!Toji who’s utterly incapable of comprehending just how big his cock is in comparison to your slobbering, little holes. Who can’t mentally grasp the fact that he’s so much larger than you.

And BeefyHimbo!Toji who accidently cums sooo fucking deep inside of you because he’s too distraught by his animalistic need to fuck and breed that he can’t possibly imagine cumming anywhere other than your sweet, welcoming cunt.

But… can you actually blame him? He doesn’t know any better, what did you expect? :(

[thecreativedork]

Family Room Los Angeles Inspiration for a sizable, contemporary, open-concept family room remodel with a bar, white walls, a traditional fireplace, and a wall-mounted television

[teddybeartoji]

suguru geto is unbelievably captivating.

he catches your eye immediately – standing tall, he's got one hand on the subway pole to keep his balance. his hair is tucked into his hoodie with only a few strands left out to frame his face. you can only see his side profile but it's enough; a sharp, prominent jawline and a beautiful nose, thin eyebrows, a pierced lip and a pair of tired eyes. you feel bad for thinking it but the dark bags under them leave you no other option.

afternoon sun peeks from the windows behind him, successfully making the scene before you seem like a painting. the colors move; the shades of green flashing by as trees wave you goodbye, the different hues of the tired grays, of the big buildings taking up space as the base of the canvas. splashes of black and white and silver and beige are thrown into the mix, too. his slacks, his big headphones, his jewellery, his totebag. but what truly brings it all together, is his deep, dark maroon hoodie; there's a hint of purple in it aswell, and you just think it's one of the best colors you've ever seen. you figure the thought is a bit silly, but you can't get it out of your head.

something so comforting about it, something so warm and welcoming. something a little murky about it. you can't look away.

you forget about everybody else around you. for you, it's just him in this moment. a total stranger. you don't know him and you probably never will; a pang of hurt hits right under your ribs at the thought. you wonder what his name is, you wonder how his voice sounds. how warm his hands are, and what's his favourite color. no, he doesn't seem like the type to have a favourite color. childish. you'd have to ask about a favourite drink or a book perhaps instead. you're fine with that.

you can spot a few rings on his fingers, a silver watch and a bracelet or two peering from under his sleeve. his hands are pretty. they look good. you also think that you can see a tattoo sprouting from under the collar of his hoodie but the dark lines are blending in with the strands of his hair, so you can't be sure. you want to be sure.

your foot taps against the floor or the cart, your body itching to scoot a little closer to him. you want to see his whole face. you need to. fidgeting with your own fingers, you continue observing the man in front of you. he might step out every second now, you can't waste any more time.

his shoulder seem very broad, his posture almost immaculate. handsome – you think he looks very handsome. well put together. his clothes aren't wrinkled, there isn't a single hair or a speck of dust anywhere on them as far as you can see; the only things that betray his true state of being are his eyes.

purple. glued to the window in front of him, he watches... nothing. he seems a little out of it. he's not focused on the trees or the buildings, the people aside him. you think about what kind of music he might be listening to.

the subway doors open and you jolt, head turning around to look at the platform behind the glass. people stand and leave, and a few come in, leaving an open space for you to take on the bench you're currently sitting on. and you do take it.

there he is.

you can see his eyes a little better now. keen and sharp, he reminds you of a wolf. a malnourished one. the corners of his mouth are tilted down and he really does seem tired. but he's still utterly, utterly beautiful. his skin is almost perfect, his hair shiny and his lips a little glossy. but not too glossy though – no, he definitely uses something like shea butter. something that isn't too thick, something that doesn't smell or taste too strongly. it just seems right.

you've never been this captivated by a stranger before. it's weird. the effect this man has on you without ever even sparing you a glance. you think about asking for it. for a glance. for a second of his time. a fraction of it? anything. everything.

how would he greet you? would he be mad? would he think that you're bothering him? would he give you a smile? a scoff? an eyebrow raise? would he let you ask whatever your heart desires? or would he brush you off, never even removing his headphones when you try to speak to him? oh, it hurts. the blatantly fake heartbreak still hurts.

his trainers are clean - they're white with some accents on them. they match his hoodie. you wonder which he bought first. did he buy the other with the intent of wearing the two pieces together? you want to ask him. that's not his favourite color though, right? no, no – he wouldn't have one. this man reads books and watches movies that are mostly only shown at different festivals. you don't mind it.

films. foreign films. he knows names of the directors from the top of his head, he could probably name a few cinematographers, too. fancy. but that's not his main thing, definitely not. there's something missing, something you can't grasp with just your eyes. what is he passionate about? truly passionate. what does he pour his heart into? is that why he's exhausted? is he tired from loving something? is it starting to hurt now? is it overwhelming? does he want a break? does he want to rest? does he want to get away?

the sun finds your eye from behind his body, forcing you to tear your eyes from him. the cart stops again, the doors open. you try to rub out the slight burn, suddenly a bit frantical that you'll really lose him. you look up and—

he's not there.

he isn't there anymore.

people walk past you, plopping down beside you as you're still trying to find him. turning in your seat, you eye the station. maroon, maroon, maroon, maroon. c'mon, how fast does this man fucking walk?!

but he's just not there.

you think it's unbelievably unfair that it's the sun that made you lose him. isn't she supposed to be full of love? bullshit. with a huff, your shoulders slump and your eyes fall shut while sinking into the bench below you. the cart seems to rumble more now, the seat way more uncomfortable than it was a mere minute ago. you really are disappointed; in yourself and in the world. why didn't you get up? why didn't you speak to him? better to get a no than to drown in the million 'what if' questions in your head. stupid. you're stupid.

"hi."

as you listen to the voice recording of the station names, the very same ones you memorized years ago, you crack open your eyes. your own shoes stare back at you; they're dirtier than his were. you don't think too deeply about the comparison. sun dances on the ground before you, the various shapes entertaining your mind with the shadow play. but you don't stay for long; trailing up, you see the familiar paint and your heart skips a beat. white and maroon. black. maroon. silver.

purple.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

suguru is too well-mannered for his own good.

when you walk into his living room, a lidded paper cup in hand, he’s seated on the couch. right in front of the coffee table, his fingers tapping the keys of his laptop, a series of clicks filling the open air.

he’s just as beautiful as always. light shines in from the veranda, through parted curtains, licking along the contours of his face; illuminating his face lines, soft crows’ feet by his eyes. he’s got his hair tied up into a messy bun, raven locks and silver strands, only slightly grayed, some of them tickling the back of his neck — behind a pair of reading glasses, his eyes narrow in concentration.

you can see his age, like this, but also not at all. he looks younger than ever, with the sun as his gown.

suddenly, he raises his head, meeting your adoring gaze with his own; two pools of amber, always warm, like they were made to reflect sunlight, made to pull you in. his lips curling up into a fond smile.

but your gaze strays down to his hands.

big, steady hands. hands that always find their way to the dips of your waist, or your shoulders, or the top of your head. reaching out to pinch your cheek, to soothe your headaches after long lectures, to mend and mold any lump of clay you place into his waiting palms — guide it into whatever shape he pleases, with those skilled fingers.

when you think of suguru, you think of pottery. you think of something beautiful, and there he is.

and he’s holding a cup.

as you step farther into his line of vision, hungry for a proper look at him, you can’t help but notice it. painted a deep, dark green, his favorite, but the shape is all wrong — uneven, not nearly polished enough, rough around the edges. when he puts it back down on the table, it wobbles.

(you visibly cringe.)

”hi, sweetie.”

that deep, honeyed voice tugs you back into reality, your gaze pulled up like a puppet on a string. suguru is patient, just taking you in, waiting for a response. there’s never any rush, when it comes to him. 

a shy smile blooms on your lips. 

”hi,” you echo, stepping closer yet; raising a hand, the one carrying the paper cup, swaying it lightly side to side. ”i got you a latte.”

”oh?” he lets out a soft noise, something like a coo, eyes blooming with fondness. ”chai?”

”mhm.”

his smile only grows. you watch him lean back, absently crossing his arms, thick muscles hidden under the turtleneck he’s sporting. when you take a step closer, eager to hand it to him, he stops you. 

”why don’t you give it a taste for me?” he asks, giving you a sweet tilt of his head. eyes soft and amused.

you blink.

after a moment, you raise the cup to your lips; taking a tentative sip of the brew. it’s hot on your tongue, a dash of pleasant spices, but mellow and sweet. just the way he likes it. you sigh out in bliss.

he only chuckles. ”how is it?”

”tasty,” you hum, licking your lips. holding it out for him to take. ”not too sweet, don’t worry.”

suguru accepts the cup with a smile, his thumb lingering on your hand for a moment, caressing the skin in a soothing motion. his voice a low, tender murmur. ”thank you, honey.”

(a warm feeling sprouts in your chest.)

”i’ll get you a cup next time i pass by a café,” he continues, taking a tentative sip of his own. he visibly perks up at the taste. ”what would you like?”

”you don’t have to!” you’re quick to assure him, blinking sheepishly. but, of course, he won’t have it.

”i want to,” he chuckles. ”you’ll make me very happy if you let me.”

…

there’s no use protesting, when it comes to things like this. when he gets like this. telling suguru not to take care of you is like asking the sun not to shine.

so you let out a sigh.

”i… want a caramel frappe, please…”

another little chuckle. his voice is soft, as always, like a coo is resting on the tip of his tongue. ”understood.”

suguru watches you, silently, for just a moment or two. you’re meeting his gaze with a shy pair of eyes, always a little flustered by his attention, his care. his sweet little baby bird, coming over just to give him something to drink. straight out of class. 

(you must be in need of some pampering.)

he pats his lap. ”come here,” he croons, parting his legs to give you space to take up. ”keep me company while i work. i want to hear about your day, sweetie.”

you blink, again. looking down at his lap, then back up at him, at the light catching onto the silver of his half-rim frames. he gives you a patient, closed-eyed smile — waiting for you to take your rightful place.

and you do.

his thighs feel solid, beneath you, big arms curling around your waist as you crawl into his lap. one hand goes to rest on your hip, the other on your lower back, cradling you close, secure in his embrace. you wrap your arms around his neck, legs draped over his thighs, leaning into his touch; inhaling the scent of sandalwood and tea leaves.

”… it was pretty boring.”

”oh, i’m sure you can do better than that.” he grins, brushing his thumb over the fabric of your jeans, an absentminded gesture. ”any interesting lectures?”

”uhhh…” 

as you take the time to think, recollecting your long and tiring day, suguru leans forward — reaching for the cup. the ugly one. pulling it closer, putting the ceramic to his lips, to finish whatever he was drinking before you came in. green tea, you assume. the sip he takes resounds in your ear, your eyes sticking to his fingers as he places it back on the wooden table with a clink — it wobbles again. 

you give it a look of silent contempt.

… a look suguru seems to notice. because his keen, warm eyes trail down to where yours are still resting, and then back up at your little frown. he raises a brow, but he’s still smiling, an amused curl of his lips.

 ”… what?”

a moment passes. you consider staying silent, but the nagging curiosity gets the better of you. avoiding his gaze, still glancing down at the cup in question, absently clearing your throat.

”you still… use that one?” you ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. thinking that it should be stashed away in some forgotten cupboard, not out in the open — but maybe your boyfriend is just too polite to do something like that. 

suguru only blinks. ”why wouldn’t i?”

…

you give him a look.

he returns it with a look of his own; silent, coaxing, that one questioning raise of his brow. he pairs it with a gentle squeeze to your hip, knowing it’ll make you relent. and he’s right.

”it’s…” you part your lips, searching for the right word, frowning down at the little ceramic bundle of joy. with its bumpy texture, that awkward-looking handle, the uneven bottom layer. ”so ugly, suguru.”

”ugly?” he echoes, a spark of amusement in his amber eyes. but he sounds a little discontent, almost protective. ”now, now. beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my love.”

his deep voice buzzes in your ear, as he reaches out again, cradling the cup with one large hand. gazing down at it with a look you can’t quite place — so sweet it makes you shiver. out of the corner of your eye, you notice him giving you a pointed look. 

”… and i happen to think this cup is very charming.”

you can’t help but pout, shying away from his gaze. gnawing at your bottom lip, crossing your arms and resting your cheek near the crook of his neck, muttering under your breath. ”what’s charming about a cup that can barely stand…?”

”you made it,” he answers, simply, no hesitation in his voice. ”with your own hands and fingers. and you gave it to me.”

ever so gently, he grips your jaw; his pointer and middle finger tilting your chin to meet his gaze, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. 

”… don’t you think there’s an awful lot of charm in that?”

(warm. his eyes look warm enough to fall into.)

a sigh slips past your lips. he gives you a soft tilt of his head, and you part your lips in pliant response. sulking. ”the ones you’ve made for me are so much better, though…”

you think of all the bowls, all the cups, the plates he’s given you — the same ones you use every single day, sitting tall and proud on your shelves, made entirely by him. in all kinds of elegant patterns, your initials carved at the bottom of every single one. he always gives you the ones he’s most proud of, after he’s finished with his classes.

… in comparison, yours is just…

”we don’t make art for needless comparison,” he shushes you, ever so fondly. ”there’s no end to that. we make it because it’s fun. my pieces aren’t better or lesser than yours just because i happen to be more experienced.”

…

when you don’t respond, suguru shifts — cradling you close, lifting the cup up to catch the light of the evening sun. it cascades down the ceramic, a mellow orange glow gliding across the green expanse. he watches it with barely concealed adoration.

”… this is my favorite one, you know. in my entire collection.” a joyous little hum buzzes in his throat. ”i’ve never made a cup i liked as much as this.”

you watch his expression change, eyes flickering with something soft and subtle, crinkled at the edges. his voice is nothing but sincere — coated in that sturdy, reliable tilt, like nothing he says could possibly be a lie. even if he tried, you doubt he could fake this kind of delight. putting the cup back down, as gentle as he can, as if it’s a cherished possession. he only looks more delighted when it wobbles a bit.

without thinking, the words slip past your lips.

”… i’ll make you another one.”

suguru’s gaze flicks down to meet yours. all bright and determined, your cheek squished against his shoulder, enough to make him want to coo. he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

”oh…? joining us in the studio again?”

”joining you,” you’re quick to correct, letting out a quiet huff. ”i… don’t want your students to make fun of me.”

a raspy chuckle leaves his lips. ”they won’t,” he assures you, a hint of pride in his voice. ”they’re much too well-behaved.”

”well-behaved around you, maybe,” you mutter, with a roll of your eyes. nuzzling against his jaw, frowning softly. ”… you’re coddling them.”

”i coddle you,” he purrs, with an affectionate squeeze to your hip. ”i don’t see you complaining, do i?”

”… that’s different.” 

the tiny pout on your lips makes him laugh. but he indulges you, always, all too eager to let you have your way. ”of course it is,” he coos, deep and teasing. ”how could i ever suggest otherwise?”

you fail to stifle a smile. feeling his skin against yours, his fingers rubbing absentminded patterns into your back, that soothing voice rumbling in your ear. when he leans down, to pick up the paper cup, you’re filled with a sense of purpose. you’ll just have to make a better cup next time — one that doesn’t wobble, with an smoother texture, perfectly symmetrical. one he can show off to his students and coworkers, the same way you do with all the pottery he’s given you.

suguru deserves nothing but the best, after all.

… what you don’t realize is that it won’t matter either way. even if you give him a better option, he’ll undoubtedly continue to use the cup he has now — with a sheepish little smile, and a sorry, honey. it seems i’ve gotten attached.

(… you suppose it’s the thought that counts.)

[we-re-always-alright]

didn’t sleep well last night so had to explain to my realtor and manager (in my dream) why agreeable gray was a shitty wall color and how light and pigments work in colors, like how black is the absence of light and that white pigments mean no primary colors are added, to which my manager said “well, I don’t think that’s how it works, but sure go on.”

[autumnlesterhowell]

Philadelphia Kitchen Dining

[salingers]

hayride.

dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: visiting (the) home depot with your dad's best friend, joel miller. [and, him eating and fucking you, in the hay field located behind the store]. warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap. agoraphilia. au. begging. brat!reader. cream pie. daddy!joel. daddy!kink. dirty talk. dom!joel. (anal) fingering. jealous!joel. language. no outbreak. oral sex. no use of 'y/n'. praising. smut. unprotected piv. use of 'good girl'. use of 'slut'. word count: [about] 2,600. a/n: hi, more october-set smut, before the month's over. thank you for welcoming me into the fandom, by supporting my debut, october's end. [part two's next month]. cover by me, divider by @saradika. @saradika-graphics.

A decade’s fleeted, since the last time that Joel Miller’s arcing, bedroom window’s framed your body; You’re nearly an apparition.

Your mere silhouette’s evoking long-neglected memories for Joel; Your private school’s fussy graduation. Whistling, from the bleacher’s humid, metallic plank. Joel’s abruptly blinking away his proud reverie.

Your haphazard, gauzy curtains aren’t proffering any privacy. Your dresser’s girlish; A dust-ladened and weathered wicker. You’re scrounging the half-dozen drawers, sorting teenaged remnants, Joel’s guessing.

It’s arguably morally awry, that he’s guessing at all. You’ve unearthed an ivory-colored pair of panties. You’re sampling the garment’s width, against your clothed waist; Your index finger’s hooking the pliant underwear and slowly stretching. Joel curses, “Fuck’s sake.”

Joel’s denim-clad groin’s growing taut; You’re unbuttoning your pants. His conscience’s hollering, QuitWatchingQuitWatching. Then, Joel’s belatedly swiping his curtain’s panel shut. The plaid, trembling fabric’s punishing him. You’re right there.

Your peripheral’s revealing that brown, tartan material’s now obscuring Joel Miller’s looming, perusing shadow.

Your phone’s deeply droning, near plummeting from your nightstand’s uneven, wickered top. You answer, “Hi.”

Dad’s beginning, “Hi, you.” Before, “Room ‘lright?” 

You aimlessly nod, “Yeah. Need ‘t paint it, though.”

The flat, stark white’s reminiscent of an operating room. A scalpel amid your dominant, gloved hand; Your abandoned internship. You’re certainly color-drenching this bland, interim room.

Dad’s conveniently chirping, “Y’know, Joel’s headin’ over ‘t The Home Depot. ‘Jus asked if I needed anythin’ for work.”

You humorously say, “The Home Depot?”

Dad amusedly huffs, “The one ‘n only.” Then, “I’ll dial ‘im back. Tell ‘im ‘t bring ‘ya.”

You’re nervously inquiring, “He won’t mind?”

Dad’s chuckling, “Kid, seriously? ‘S just Joel.”

He hasn’t been just Joel, since his absurdly sexy appearance in Dad’s FaceBook album, dorkily titled, ‘Fishin’ Missions’. Dad’s askew lens, recording Joel’s roughened, veiny hand, sizably surpassing his fish’s ample breadth; His arm’s rind, rugged and sun-freckled.

 That heathered-gray muscle-tee; Hued identically to Joel’s own silvery threads. Accentuating. Your horny musing’s interrupted, when the doorbell’s nostalgic ding’s reverberated. A leadened, salacious feeling’s pin-balling your rib’s conical-shaped cage.

You’re descending the stairway’s carpeted tread. A once-over’s rushedly ensuing, amid the entry way’s gritty mirror. You’re timidly turning the front door’s bulbous knob; Your skin’s avidly warming.

Joel’s gruffing, “Waitin’ on an invitation?”

You’re feignedly snark, “Go ‘head, Miller.” 

Joel’s arousingly large. His belt’s leathered and suppled; Tapering his tender waist. You’re deliriously visualizing biting it. Your teeth’s individualized grooving, engraving Joel’s every-day accessory.

He’s beckoning, “C’mere. Settlin’ in okay?”

Your pulse’s embarrassingly hurried, as Joel’s hugging you. Your nose’s upturned, against his collar’s corduroy lapel; His inherent aroma’s autumnal. A heady medley of burnt cinnamon, earthy hay.

You breathlessly retort, “Y–Yes. ‘Jus fine.”

His beard’s deliciously graying and scruffy; Bristling you. Joel’s inching away; A hand’s kneading your elbow’s point, “Grown. Ain’t ‘ya?”

You’re muttering, “Think anythin’ in my ‘ol dresser’ll fit?”

Joel rasps, “Be fittin’ somethin’ ‘a mine. Talkin’ like that.”

You teasingly tut, “Oh? Promise?”

His jaw’s tightening, “G–Get in my fuckin’ truck, ‘lready.”

The retail store’s unmistakingly orange and tan exterior’s materializing onward. Joel’s hushedly threatening, “Got ‘t behave.”

You’re amusedly assuring him, “Me? ‘Course.”

He’s backwardly parking. His arm’s generously imposing against your seat’s cushiony spine, “Lot ‘a clients ‘a mine, in ‘ere.”

His chin’s abutting along his broad, reaching shoulder’s top. Joel’s delectable, lofting nose’s leading his prominent side-profile; His pursed, upper lip’s capped under an impressive, stiff mustache. Your cunt’s pulsating. You need to rabidly rut against Joel Miller’s aging, sun-tinged face.

You’re resignedly sighing, “Fine.”

Joel replies, “Bratty fuckin’ girl.”

His accent’s aggressively Texan; Languid. Syrupy. You’re involuntarily leaking, beyond your underwear’s cottony corral. The archaic radio’s uttering early-seventies Linda Ronstadt, until Joel’s halting the ignition.

You murmur, “Any cute clients?”

Joel’s apparently unimpressed; He’s agitatedly rolling his coffee-shaded eyes. Tutting, “Best be ‘lone, when I find ‘ya.”

You’re unpromisingly shrugging, before evacuating his Ford’s heated interior. Whispering, “See ‘bout that, Miller.”

Your skin’s momentarily rasped, from the atypically frigid, October wind. The store-front’s decorated seasonally. There’s pallets, upon pallets, of pumpkins; A uniformed variety of classic orange and creamy white.

You’re distractedly mulling around carving or painting pumpkins, while Joel’s unexpectedly wrapping his freshly-shedded, heavy chore-coat against you; His hand’s comfortingly scrubbing your shoulder’s taut blade.

Joel’s deeply humming, “Better, darlin’? Hm?”

You’re instantaneously arming the clothing item’s perfectly tenderized sleeves, “M–Much, Joel.”

You’re leaning, subsequently touching his torso’s muscular crest. Joel’s thumbing your collar’s curving bone, “Warm, here?”

You whine, “Yes.”

Joel’s beginning to crane downard, until he’s chinning your shoulder’s trembling shelf. You’re gasping, as he’s fingering your loaner, Carhartt jacket’s bottom button, from behind. His arm’s caging you.

His calloused pinky’s reaching, before flitting your pant’s folded fly, “And, here?” He’s wagering, “Warmer?”

You’re groaning, “Ngh. Y–Yeah.”

Joel carnally scolds, “Filthy fuckin’ girl. A–Askin’ me ‘bout other men? While your pussy’s pre-heatin’ ‘f me?”

His finger nail’s raking your zipper’s aluminum teeth. Joel’s tauntingly whispering, “Ain’t brattin’ much, now.”

You’re begging, “L–Let’s leave.”

He’s instantly moving. You’re incoherently stunned, as Joel’s adopting an orange-colored cart, “Find ‘ya in the paintin’ section?”

You’re spluttering, “J–Joel. ‘S not what I meant.”

Joel’s winking, “Darlin’, I know what ‘ya meant.”

He’s ambling ahead, bypassing the automatic door’s yawning jaw. Your dominant hand’s flexing, electrocuted in palpable pleasure; It’s reminiscent of Mr. Darcy. You’re involuntarily summoning an image of Joel, dressed as the aforementioned aristocrat, participating in Halloween.

Joel’s robust shoulders, heaving against an incompletely unbuttoned, wispy shirt. His chest’s foggy-toned, furling hair. His head’s rain-rustled, curly strands. A high-waisted trouser; Ascending his belly’s delectable slope, whilst canopying his cock’s dilating weight. You know it’s big.

You’re unfocused; Footing the hardware store’s threshold. There’s an assortment of motion-triggered, Halloween decorations erected nearby. You’re curiously setting one, an animatronic ‘Boogeyman’. The creepy distraction’s festively futile. Joel Miller’s still permeating your skull.

The paint attendant’s named ‘Ruger’. A gun manufacturer namesake’s befitting, given Ruger’s camouflaged, distressed t-shirt. He’s an Austin, Texas quintessential, twenty-something male; A ‘modernized’ mullet-and-mustache duet? Check. A smothering of ‘patchworked’ tattoos? Check.

He’s flirtatiously greeting, “Sugar. How can I do ‘ya?”

You’re brandishing an array of complimentary paint-swatches, against his counter’s crest, “Do color-matchin’?”

Ruger’s endorsing, “Best ‘round.”

You’re inwardly wincing, but Joel’s abruptly approaching. So, “Ain’t doubt it. Clothes shouldn’t be an issue?”

Your palm’s routing your breast’s pocket; Ruger’s murmuring, “T–That jacket? ‘Moss’ by Carhartt. Got codin’.”

You’re falsely enthusiastic, “Really? You’re the best.”

Ruger tosses an isolated thumb, signaling to his computerized, machine mixer, “Told ‘ya.” Asking, “Color’s goin’ in your bedroom?”

You’re agreeably nodding, “Yep.”

Ruger’s grinning, “Lucky paint.”

You begin, “You? Feelin’ lucky?”

Joel’s reprimanding, “Lucky that I ain’t kill ‘im.” Before, “Passin’ at my girl. Gettin’ paid ‘t do that?”

Ruger’s answering, “N–No, Sir.”

Joel’s deeply repeating, “No.” Then, “Two gallons ‘a Sherwin-Williams. Emerald. Matte finishin’, both of ‘em.”

You’re second-handedly embarrassed and incapable of meeting Ruger’s apologetic, parting peer. Joel’s efficiently emptying his cart’s plastic-composed basin, before rehoming his kindred supplies, upon the check-stand’s laminate surface. You muse, “Emerald’s two-hundred dollars ‘a paint?”

Joel’s genuinely offended, “Ain’t payin’. I’m gettin’ it.”

You’re avidly insisting, “Don’t have ‘t do that, Miller.”

Then, Joel’s rapidly reaching outward; Yanking your belt’s fraying loop. You’re firmly tugged against him. He drawls, “Want ‘t do it.”

His breath’s cinnamony and smoky; An inebriating merging of gum and cigarettes. You dizzyingly respond, “Y–Yeah?”

Joel’s languidly leaning, before brushing his nose’s point against your ear’s lobe, “Yeah.” Whispering, “Paintin’ your bedroom the color ‘a my jacket? What’s that ‘bout, darlin’ girl?”

You’re shyly stammering, “D–‘Dunno.” Accusing, “Sayin’ aloud, ‘my girl’? What’s that ‘bout, Joel?”

Joel’s grinning, “That? Want ‘t find out?”

You’re panting, “Oh?”

His palm’s barreling behind; Stuffing his pant’s pocket. You’re savoring the rattling sound of his key-ring’s recovery. Then, Joel’s rapidly shoving the mixed-metal wad inside your rear-pocket. His bulky hand’s harshly kneading your bottom’s fleshy heft; Your cunt’s thumping.

He demands, “Go ‘head. Right behind ‘ya.”

You’re ocularly rummaging around Joel’s unkempt vehicle. American Spirits. Matches. A thrifted, Patsy Cline cassette. Big Red. Coins. A dog-eared, John Steinbeck novel. The sexual suspense’s dampening your sternum; Sticky. Sweaty. You’re beginning to desperately undress.

The Carhartt coat’s discarded. Your flimsy henley’s unbuttoned. Joel’s egressing from Home Depot’s aromatic interior, before pausing at the Garden Center’s check-stand. No way. A hundred-dollar note’s being thrusted, from Joel’s girthy hand, unto the cashier’s gloved palm.

This broad, burly man’s buying you fucking pumpkins. He’s pensively plucking them. His brow’s furrowing; His forehead’s wrinkling. Joel’s literally examining them, heeding any blemished gourds. You’re bewilderedly blinking, as Joel’s palming them, like they’re… Basketballs.

Your waist’s winding, impatiently rutting against his truck’s benched seat; Your pant’s denimed seam, slotting your cunt’s drooly entry.

Then, Joel’s jerking the back-seat’s door ajar. Asking, “Pick ‘em ‘lright? Did ‘ya see?” His scruffy chin’s jutting, at his quartet of pumpkins.

You’re swallowing, “Y–Yep. Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s gruffing, “C’mon. ‘Course, pretty girl.”

His arm’s effortlessly flexing, tanned and veined, amid transferring his plastic-bagged supplies. Joel’s guessing, “Need ‘t be fucked, in ‘ere?”

You shamelessly moan, “Mhm.”

He’s teasingly whistling, “Yeah? Ain’t far from home, baby.”

You’re grumbling, “T–Too far.”

Joel’s patronizing, “Gettin’ cocked, in ‘ere? ‘S really slutty.”

You sigh, “Don’t care. C’mere.”

The shopping cart’s rapidly returned, before the driver-seat’s groaning under Joel’s jeaned ass, “Needy pussy.” His construction boot’s tamping the brake’s pedal, “Ain’t it? Get ‘t fingerin’. Feed me somethin’ warm.”

Your brassy button’s unhitching; Your toothy zipper’s buzzing. You’re hurriedly shrugging the denimed material downward; Ankling it. His mouth’s prematurely parting. Your underwear’s transparent, flooding in arousal. Joel’s dangerously speeding, departing the feebly-populated parking lot.

He’s feverishly warning, “There’s an empty hay field, ‘round back. Bit ‘a off-roadin’. Yeah?” Directing, “Give ‘em.”

Then, Joel’s toughly tugging your panty’s waist-line. You’re shamelessly obedient; Your fabric restraint’s promptly removed. His beefy, index finger’s impatiently suspended; Pumping. Your pussy’s watering his passenger-seat’s cushioning; Your underwear’s encircling Joel’s commanding digit.

The all-terrain truck’s bumpily impeling, devouring the barren field’s acreage. Eyes involuntarily shutting, Joel’s blindly steering, inbreathing your underwear’s deluged gusset. His nostril’s flaring. His cock’s pitching, prodding below his crotch’s denimed rein; You’re stuffing your pussy’s well.

Joel’s harshly moaning, “Listen ‘t that. Cryin’ fuckin’ hole.”

You’re whimpering, “M–Mm. Ngh.”

He’s greedily ringing your plunging wrist; Yanking. The rapid removal’s obscenely squelchy. Then, Joel’s immediately slurping your index and middle finger’s balmy glaze; Your thumb’s pinning upon his chin’s graying, scratchy underside. The truck’s recklessly slowing.

Joel’s haphazardly parking. The halting, howling tires begin spewing an autumnal confetti; A misting of dry hay and auburn leaves. You’re suddenly hoisting against Joel’s bulging lap; He’s instantaneously hammering, before spitting out your moistened finger’s duet.

And, Joel Miller’s finally kissing you. His groan’s pouring, beyond your esophagus. Licking your mouth’s rippled roof; Siphoning your tongue’s humid pad. Your naked pussy’s pouncing upon Joel’s clad cock. He’s thumbing your cheek-bone’s divot and cupping your jaw-line’s hind; Whimpering.

He’s arousingly exhaling, “Ngh. ‘S fuckin’ tasty.” Then, Joel’s dropping horizontally. Laying, “Fixin’ ‘t guzzle ‘ya.”

His head’s hedging the passenger-side’s door; His boot’s budging the driver-side’s door. You’re drawing upward, as Joel’s guiding you. Your dewy hole’s ramming against Joel’s awaiting face; He’s nosing your clit’s distended mound. Your innard thigh’s twitching, “G–God. Feel fuckin’ good.”

 Arousal’s rigorously sopping Joel’s beard. His mustache’s coated and creamy. Your behind’s leveraging; Ass firmly spreading. Joel’s maneuvering and manhandling you. He’s lapping, nearly pornographically swigging. You’re internally levitating; Your spine’s liquefied, “A–Ahhhh. Joel, Joel.”

Joel’s innocently whispering, “What?” Then, “Asshole’s puckerin’. Need pluggin’?”

You’re deliriously nodding, Yes. His center digit’s tantalizingly traveling below. Brushing your clit’s crest; Scooping your cunt’s slick. Your fluttering, furthest hole’s aching, against Joel’s circling, finger’s pad. He’s beginning to tandemly traverse; Eating. Fingering.

Your stomach’s tightening, as Joel’s knuckling you. His head’s nuzzling; Shaking. His beard’s rigidly whiskering, across your core’s folding, before he’s relentlessly sucking. Your clit’s flickering; You’re blindingly cumming. Joel’s airily humping; His cock’s englarging.

He’s hoarsely speaking, “A–‘Atta girl.” Praising, “Drippin’ inside ‘a my fuckin’ ear?” Sniffling, “Up my fuckin’ nose? Good, wet girl.”

You’re dizzyingly horny, “Miller. PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel’s grinning, “Please?” 

Your puffy pussy’s eagerly lowering, “Yes.” You’re gyrating, against his lap’s ridge, “Fuck. F–Fuck me.”

He’s grunting, “Fuck ‘ya? Fuckin’ slut. Keep beggin’.”

Joel’s leaning upright and sitting upward. Your disoriented shirt’s being tossed away. Licking your throat’s trail; Skimming your nipple’s peak. You’re nakedly stamping atop his torso’s towering mass. Your skin’s goose-bumping, “Ngh. P–Please, Daddy.”

His brow’s amusedly arching, “Y–Yeah?” Demanding, “Who’s.” Thrust. “Your.” Thrust. “Daddy?”

Promising, “You.”

Joel’s approvingly nodding; His driver-side door’s thudding open. His arm’s muscularly solid, whilst effortlessly upholding you. You’re burrowing, at his throat’s protruding, pulsing vein, as he’s regressing vertical. His anterior boot’s pressing upon decaying hay; A gelid gust of wind’s wreathing.

He’s attentively mumbling, “Shiverin’? Let’s warm ‘ya. Hm?”

His beard’s balmy and cunt-scented. You’re being settled, amongst his driver-seat’s aged upholstering. You’re amorously fidgeting, as Joel’s flitting his belt’s metallic prong. The accessory’s yanked from his fading Wranglers, as Joel’s abutting the cushion’s edge; His zipper’s deliciously drawing.

The belt’s noisily plummeting; A leathery slap, against the floor-mat’s rubbery surface. Your waist-line’s eagerly grasped, whilst Joel’s positioning your pussy’s twingeing hole. He’s hissing, during an arousing upheaval, of his cock’s entirety; The seeping tip’s bypassing his belly-button’s nook.

His t-shirt’s becoming translucent, as pre-cum’s dampening it. You’re following the ample shaft’s terse twitching. Blurting, “Need. That.”

Joel’s attractively smug, “This?” He’s robustly swatting his cock, across your clit’s cummy summit, “Think it’ll fit?”

You whimper, “F–Fuckin’ make it.”

He’s lowly whispering, “Dirty fuckin’ mouth.” Then, Joel’s abruptly and aggressively entering, “Go ‘head. Keep mouthin’ off.”

The truck’s boisterously creaking, as Joel’s ruggedly rutting. Your cervix wall’s convulsing, crowning his cock’s head. Your shiny spend’s glossing Joel’s graying, pubic tuft. His groin’s angrily clobbering, striking your cunt’s doused expanse. You’re incoherently stammering, “N–Ngh.”

Joel’s responding, “Can’t hear ‘ya, bratty girl.”

You’re painfully stretching, inside-and-out. His jeaned, lower-portion’s gloriously grating your thigh’s rear. Your right-side leg’s hooking through the steering wheel’s median; Your left-side leg’s perching, against Joel’s widening shoulder’s tier, as he’s weightily falling forward, “Say somethin’?”

Your limb’s achingly pinned vertically; Your body’s contorting, creating an indecent, ninety-degree angle. His focused, sun-wrinkled forehead’s grown moist. His furling, silver-tinged strands begin cascading. The benched seat’s dilapidated stitching’s imprinting, decorating your back’s extent.

Your taint’s repeatedly thwacked, by Joel’s brimming balls. His angle’s hitching, hitting that spot. You’re shrieking, “A–Ah.”

Joel’s accordingly bottoming-out, “Doin’ good. Stretchin’ well. Ain’t it?” His hip’s briskly oscillating, “Good girl. Good pussy.”

You’re shuddering, “D–DaddyDaddyDaddy.”

The pleasure’s pouring. Your cunt’s palpitating; Your spine’s taut. Joel’s resultantly stroking, maintaining his pacing, but drilling harder. He’s licking, crossing your hung jaw-line’s road. His tenderized t-shirt’s feathering, against your exposed nipples, over-sensitively tapering them.

Joel’s rasping, “C’mon. Flood my fuckin’ truck.”

His tone’s arousingly languid. That’s it. You’re breathlessly cumming. Every extremity’s tightening, before blissfully dissolving. Your vision’s brightly impaired. Your climaxing moan’s fractured, as Joel’s ingesting it. His mouth’s restorative, whilst being ruining. You’re whispering, “Flood me.”

He’s whimpering, “Y–Yeah?” A prominent vein’s materializing, against his throat’s girthy rind, “Ain’t wet ‘nough, ‘lready? Greedy hole.”

Then, Joel Miller’s hotly erupting. His length’s flinching. Your fatigued, flittering hole’s wringing him. His aging brow’s bunching; You’re caressing his cinched expression. Your right-side leg’s being removed, amidst the steering wheel’s medial opening. Joel’s comforting, “Hurtin’?”

You’re indifferently shrugging; Joel’s unconvinced. His palm’s expertly massaging your leg’s weary ligament. You’re pathetically sighing, making Joel laugh. He’s kneading your knee-cap’s exhausted muscle, before fingering your calf-tendon’s aspiring knot. You stammer, “T–Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s questioning, “How ‘bout Lowe’s, ‘morrow?”

You’re grinning, “Sure. If ‘ya sleep-over, tonight.”