Madam Gojo - G.S.

BSD men: who fell first and who harder

~~just a friendly reminder that this is my own interpretation, feel free to share your thoughts~~

Dazai: he fell first but you fell harder

Ranpo: you fell first and harder

Atsushi: he fell first and harder

Kunikida: you fell first but he fell harder

Fukuzawa: you fell first but he fell harder

Tanizaki: he fell first and harder

Katai: he fell first and harder

Chuuya: he fell first and harder

Akutagawa: you fell first and harder

Tachihara: he fell first and harder

Ango: you fell first but he fell harder

Oda: you fell first but he fell harder

Poe: he fell first and harder

Mushitarou: you fell first but he fell harder

Junō: you fell first and harder

Tecchou: you fell first but he fell harder

Sigma: you fell first but he fell harder

Nikolai: he fell first and harder

Fyodor: you fell first and harder

DABI AS A BOYFRIEND ✫

✫ incurably watches you sleep. you get used to waking up to it eventually. maybe.

✫ neck kisses all the time

✫ his communication skills are shit. you feel like a kindergarten teacher explaining to his expressionless face how to talk about our feelings

✫ he keeps a hand on your back or your shoulder or in your hair when you’re together, absently keeping track of you

✫ “you’re cute when you’re scared.”

✫ warm ass hands

✫ he definitely has a weird and scary thing for pain. “you want to touch the staples? yeah, you can touch them. you can rip them out of my face with your teeth if you like.”

✫ dabi doesn’t do nicknames. pet names are once in a blue moon.

✫ driest texter to walk the earth

✫ the self deprecating jokes are actually mad funny. sir please stop calling yourself crispy

✫ gets very um. creative about degradation.

✫ it’s all “come get in the shower with me” and then you stick a toe in and the water is two degrees away from freezing to ice. sorry not all of us have fire inside okay

✫ he doesn’t like you cautious around his injuries, even treating/tending them: “stop being fucking gentle with me.”

Haunted

Toji cannot move on, until he realized too late.

Warnings: Angst, slightest fluff (reader and baby 'gumi moment)

You were just a girl, standing in front of a man, asking him to love you.

How hard was that for him? Yes, he wasn’t good with his words but he wasn’t good at anything else either. He was just there.

Maybe because the woman he truly loved—he was still mourning over her. His sad eyes every time he watched an old couple dance together, wishing he had been doing that but with her. The cute babies babble with their mothers as Megumi babbles with his father, how he wished his wife was still here instead of you. He never said it, but that’s what it felt like. 

And perhaps that's what it was. 

Sometimes he curses himself out when he accidentally calls you his wife's name. During intimate times only. You tried—trying to keep the emotions in as if it wasn’t breaking every part of you, was the hardest part. “Look he’s walking...” You smiled at the dark haired baby who was walking towards you. Toji smiled, making sure he’d record every second of it; deep down he wished his wife was the one the baby was walking towards instead of you.

And it was wrong—so wrong. 

“This relationship, I’m with you but Toji—Toji this is the loneliest I’ve ever felt.” You whispered while he ate his leftovers, his brows still furrowed from the argument occurring earlier. Having Toji work from 9–5 wasn’t the best but good thing he had you, helping him out with so much. Picking up groceries, picking up his lovely son—until you mentioned that one of his teachers mistaken you as his biological mother. That right there was enough to make Toji angry for weeks at least.

But not this time.

He stopped chewing on his food after you spoke, waiting for more of an explanation. Which you figured he needed, “I don’t think you’re in love with me–” 

“I like you [name], a lot.” He cleared his throat. He leaned back on his chair as his arms crossed waiting for you to continue the sentence he interrupted. 

Right, he liked you a lot. These three rough years you’ve been dating Toji—that particular l word was never uttered once, not even if he was drunk, or having a special moment with you. You huffed trying to find the right words for Toji to understand. That was until little Megumi started crying from his room. “I’ll try to put him back to sleep, finish eating.” He watched as your fragile little body sulked its way to Megumi’s room.

He knew this was gonna happen, he knew you were bound to leave him sooner or later. 

You smiled as you opened the door to see the little Megumi standing on top of his little bed. His hands wiping his tears as he ran towards you, his arms now wrapping around your legs. “Sleep with mama and papa.” He cried out as you leaned down to pick up the little boy. “[name] and papa, not mama okay?” You corrected him, if Toji were to find out that he had been calling you that, then that argument would’ve climaxed.

The little boy nodded, his tears now gone as you swayed him around. “Sleep with you.” He mumbled, leaning his head on your shoulder as he played with a strand of your hair. “Just for tonight.” You whispered, watching Megumi pick up his head and smile. Content with your answer. 

Toji’s heart could just swell at the sight. You treated his son as if he was your own and nothing looked so much better right now, except for the fact that he wished it was his wife.

Megumi was now soundly sleeping between you and Toji, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” His eyes shut tightly hearing those piercing words leave your mouth. It hurt when his wife left him, but this hurt was different—different because he knew it was coming yet he didn’t want to do anything about it. 

“I’m sorry—”

“You don’t need to be the one apologizing.” He watched your soft gaze stare at completely nothing. He was confused, this was his fault. He never treated you how you needed deserved to be treated. “It was my fault for throwing myself at a man who simply was not ready.”

The next morning was silent—baby ‘gumi was confused at the saddened look on your face. Constantly walking up to you asking if you were okay. He was still just a baby, yet he read the room so well. “I’m sure we can work this out—” Toji now sitting next to you on the couch, some cartoon playing in the back as Megumi’s little head sat on your lap. “You’re not ready, Toji.” You nodded, eyes still glued on the tv as if it was meant for you and not the little Megumi. 

“And how are you so sure—”

“Tell me you love me then.” Your eyes are now fixed on Toji’s. It was hard, he felt as if his mouth had been glued shut. You sigh, bringing your gaze back to the tv, “I love you—but it’s hard when it’s one sided Toji.” 

It hurt much more, seeing you drive away as the clueless Megumi waved you out. Poor thing thinks you’re simply going to the store. The house that once felt like home was so dull now. Toji sat little ‘gumi down on the couch. 

His constant, “mama?” or “[name]?” while he kept his gaze on the door every so often. Nothing prepared Toji for this. Megumi cried that he wanted to sleep with his mama and papa, his heart swelled knowing that he had been talking about you.

You were gone, just like his wife. But it hurt—it hurt so much more knowing that you’re alive trying your best to…move on. He stayed up late that same night, stumbling upon a video from two years ago. When Megumi first learned how to walk. You and Toji had just started dating but the look of happiness plastered your face as you watched the little baby walking. 

That was one thing Toji never forgot about, how much you loved kids. Telling him how once you had kids of your own you would finally be able to live in peace. How he heard of it less and less as the years went on, he wonders if you still think that.

next part ->

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem)

“You’re late,” 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness. 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks. 

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there. 

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall. 

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large. 

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture. 

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt. 

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out. 

You got a B. 

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88. 

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds. 

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare. 

Academia was truly hell. 

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,” 

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly. 

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—” 

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?” 

“I am, I wanted to—” 

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—” 

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?” 

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze,  “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,” 

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—” 

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,” 

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.” 

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease. 

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist. 

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin. 

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?). 

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do. 

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours. 

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to. 

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it. 

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?” 

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip. 

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal. 

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside. 

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—” 

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,” 

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,” 

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—” 

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,” 

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle. 

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall. 

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,” 

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips. 

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,” 

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,” 

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“You learn fast.” 

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism. 

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again. 

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it. 

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top. 

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck— 

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good. 

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought. 

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss— 

And you clearly needed sleep. 

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it). 

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’” 

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action. 

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you. 

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you. 

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—” 

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?” 

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch. 

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—” 

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?” 

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck. 

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—” 

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,” 

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.” 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm. 

What the fuck was that? 

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up. 

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working. 

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you— 

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you? 

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade. 

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory— 

And then you heard him say your name— 

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?” 

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together. 

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him. 

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall. 

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—” 

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today —  and a deep royal purple one no less,  “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here. 

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head. 

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,” 

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,” 

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together. 

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment. 

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,” 

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom. 

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves— 

What the fuck were you doing? 

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor. 

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—). 

You needed to stop doing that. 

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right? 

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment. 

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he. 

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back— 

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you. 

Why had he stopped you? 

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands. 

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism. 

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile. 

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm  — but not the  one he was looking for. 

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you— 

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?” 

And it was you. 

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?” 

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,” 

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease,  “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?” 

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

 “I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,” 

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?” 

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?” 

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,” 

“No, but—” 

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it. 

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—” 

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?” 

“But—” 

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,” 

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire. 

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?” 

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together. 

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager? 

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you. 

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM. 

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you. 

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him. 

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind. 

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better. 

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.  

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face. 

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you. 

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,” 

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip. 

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard. 

Fuck. 

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his  chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office. 

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms. 

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped. 

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings. 

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to? 

It was that time again. 

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart. 

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board —  his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name. 

God. Fuck.  

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes. 

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.  

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear? 

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?” 

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“ 

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,” 

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips. 

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—” 

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,” 

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up. 

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture. 

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore. 

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting. 

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him. 

Or wouldn’t. 

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it. 

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?” 

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?” 

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?” 

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?” 

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword. 

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross. 

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there. 

“But?” You wait for it. 

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,” 

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his? 

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,” 

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,” 

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take. 

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,” 

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises. 

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—” 

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,” 

He stares, “What do you—” 

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,” 

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?” 

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,” 

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,” 

“I would say it depends,” 

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk. 

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?” 

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—” 

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,” 

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours. 

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more. 

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?” 

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again. 

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.” 

~~~~ 

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore. 

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks? 

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations. 

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head. 

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you. 

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.” 

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples. 

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave. 

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with. 

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all? 

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best. 

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike. 

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile. 

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn. 

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?” 

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?” 

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’” 

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,” 

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,” 

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?” 

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page: 

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this. 

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction. 

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?” 

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin. 

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow. 

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,” 

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,” 

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again. 

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,” 

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly. 

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,” 

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,” 

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?” 

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?” 

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—” 

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested — 

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in. 

Fuck, indeed. 

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

sitting in between tojis legs and letting him play with ur nipples while whimpering n squirming !!! ^.^

“stop movin.”

the man grumbles, left hand sprawled over the fat of your tummy to hold you still. his right hand snakes under your loose top, rough pads of his fingertips coming up to tweak at your sensitive nipples.

“stop it , you pervert !”

his hand gropes the fat of your tit, thumb brushing over the sensitive nub.

“y’like it. doesn’t that make you the perv baby?”

you exempt a noise halfway between a gasp and a moan, head falling back into the divot of toji’s shoulder. your hand comes up to his, pulling at his hand in an attempt to stop the assault on your tits.

“stop it baby . let it happen, it feels good, doesn’t it?”

“but.. mmf— ‘s sensitive toji..”

his face brushes up against yours, pressing a sloppy kiss onto your swollen lips. your moans come out as gasps, feeling a chuckle reverberate from his mouth into yours when he realizes you’re unable to keep up with his pace.

“y’r nipples are so sore. dirty girl, y’want me to suck on ‘em?”

knowing him , he would anyways even if you had said no.

he flips you around , mounting your body onto his so that you’re facing him, scrunching your shirt up above your tits just enough to suckle on your fat buds, his roaming fingers coming up to tweak at the other.

somehow, it felt even dirtier allowing the man to feel you up with your shirt all bunched up instead of completely off .

“hah.. t-toji .”

“mm..”

he mumbles into your fat tit, the vibration making you shiver.

“g-gonna.. gonna cum, toji, wait—“

‘nasty girl .’

he mumbles into your chest followed with a chuckle , you sigh at the feeling. “cum f’me then . ”

and you rightfully do, body shivering as your hands grasp tighter onto the bed of toji’s hair. your moans turn into heavy gasps, whining when toji pulls off of your nipple with an obnoxiously loud ‘pop!’

his face is plaqued with a shit eating grin, one that resembles his growing pride.

his mouth connects to your bud by a string of his spit, flicking his tongue on your tit once again to clean you off.

he gives your bud a tough squeeze with his fingers, earning a deserving slap to his hand.

“owie ! stop it toji , y’r such a perv . . !”

“oh baby .” he lays his body atop of yours, pressing a hot kiss onto your lips.

“y’ just came untouched , ‘nd you’re calling me the perv ? get your facts straight , doll .”

🏐 wttcsms written works, haikyuu ;

last updated feb 23, 2024

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles and i can't make you stay (in this broken place) — ( nsfw )  i sin too much to pray for you — no one can believe that one of the most powerful crime lords in the underground world of japan, atsumu miya, is wrapped around the finger of a naive girl like you, but love doesn’t really care about boundaries anyway. take care of you — ( nsfw ) atsumu just wants to give you everything he can offer: an easy job, a brand new car, a baby… wanting was enough (for me, it was enough) — ( sfw ) "He carries your confession home in the to-go box from the diner. It’s heavy, matching the American theme of burgers containing his weight in meat and fries slick with oil and grease. The two of you are walking together, and he wants to ask you, specifically, what did you mean when you told the team you liked me?" paper rings — ( sfw ) the tiffany blue ring box currently resides in the second drawer of his night stand, unceremoniously buried underneath several pairs of calvin klein briefs. when you know, you know — ( sfw ) atsumu considers marriage to be a trap, until he realizes that even a lifetime commitment to you isn’t long enough

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : domesticity with atsumu — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : ex!atsumu seeing you're engaged to oikawa — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : how atsumu says i love you — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : atsumu and you having "non-dates" — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : atsumu's green flags — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : dating atsumu — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : dad!atsumu — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : mastermind inspired — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : atsumu randomly showing you his camera roll — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : in a world of boys, he's a gentleman — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : atsumu as a college interviewer tiktoker — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : husband atsumu using ur purse — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : you're the first person atsumu wants to tell anything to — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : the miya divide — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : girl dad atsumu — ( sfw )

multipart afterglow — ( nsfw ) finding out that his hot supermodel girlfriend is dumping him for some baseball player? that sucks. finding out via her red carpet debut with her new man as her plus one? sucks a bit more. having this happen to him the same day he just lost the last game of the season? yeah, it’s starting to feel like the universe has it out for him at this point, right? but atsumu miya is nothing if not petty, childish, and immature. he’ll get back at her. after all, there’s a secret dating app created by publicists and agents that pair up perfect matches for brightening up any celebrity’s public image. all atsumu has to do is pay a pretty sum of money to convince the media (and mainly his ex) that atsumu miya is still on top of the world and living his best life with the best (albeit, fake) girlfriend ever. unfortunately for him, his perfect match just so happens to be you — his first girlfriend, his highschool sweetheart turned sour, and the first girl who ever broke his heart. you know what they say: when it rains, it pours.

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐎𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles customer satisfaction — ( nsfw ) you go above and beyond for your customers...

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : engaged to oikawa when atsumu's your ex (yikes) — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : ex husband!oikawa still in love with you — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : ice skating au — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : royal au — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : learning about the tradition of giving the first slice of cake to who you love the most — ( sfw )

multipart forever golden — ( nsfw ) everything is going fine: you just graduated with your first degree, you get to work alongside your older brother for the 2021 olympics, and you think now might be the perfect time to finally jumpstart your dating life (atsumu miya certainly seems cute...). there's no time for you to think about torn acls, shattered dreams, and the fact that this was never your original goal in life. and there's certainly no time for you to worry about tooru oikawa, the boy who practically grew up in your house now turned into the man who poses as your team's fiercest competitor. you definitely don't have the free time to remember how he's the first boy who ever had (and subsequently broke) your heart. or that the two of you went from practically joined at the hip to total strangers for the past four years. you don't even bother wondering why he suddenly wants to repair the broken bond between you two, and you totally don't give in to him (except for the times that you do... which is almost all the time).  yeah. everything is going fine.

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐊𝐈𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐒𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles rapture — ( nsfw ) his tenacity and stamina prove to be a deadly combination indeed. you know you make my cold heart warm with a touch — ( nsfw ) how else can kiyoomi show you how close to his heart he keeps you than by fucking into you so deep, you’re pretty sure you can feel him reaching for yours?

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : how kiyoomi says i love you — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐘𝐀𝐌𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles as the world caves in — ( sfw ) they say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. if that’s the case, then that explains why kageyama only sees you.

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   :  kags' act of service — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : tobio craves your attention — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : vampire hunter!reader x vampire!kags — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : he responds to all your texts individually — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐇𝐀𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐈  ✩ ✭

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : domesticity with iwaizumi — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : shoujo concept with iwaizumi — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles it's the same damn thing that made my heart surrender — ( sfw ) you never do get over your first love. / you fell first, he fell harder.

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : domesticity with suna — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐀  ✩ ✭

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : marriage of convenience with ushi — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : underground fighter ushi — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐎  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles in every universe, it's still you — ( sfw ) in all the universes, in all the different versions of you and kuroo, you’re certain of two things: that he’s always a good person, and that you love him.

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : fake dating au — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : business school academic rivals to lovers — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : kuroo tweet — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : dad!kuroo is the best — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : single!mom reader x kuroo office romance — ( sfw )

multipart get him back! — ( nsfw ) so, in an attempt to get back at your ex - who posted a sex tape of himself cheating on you with your best friend - you decide that you’re going to upload your own film, and it’s going to be even hotter than theirs. you don’t anticipate your class’s teaching assistant being your co-star, especially considering that he’s the one who took your virginity, and after all was said and done, you ran out on him. but there’s no running from him now, especially whenever your tape does better than expected. now, you’re one of the hottest up and coming content creators on the platform, and the cash is too good to let this opportunity go to waste. what starts as a petty revenge scheme results in a lucrative business partnership with three simple rules: profits are split 50/50, all videos remain faceless, and this newfound partnership means absolutely nothing. just because you two fuck on a daily basis does not mean you’re friends, and you’re certainly not lovers. then again, things hardly ever are that simple.

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles paper rings — ( sfw ) shinsuke kita is a creature of habit.

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : influencer!reader x kita — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles xoxo — ( nsfw ) just thinking about recreating the infamous maison margiela kiss button-down shirt for your boyfriend osamu

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : the miya divide — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles everything's blurry but you — ( sfw ) barely in your baby twenties, and you think life is so over for you. then, while at rock bottom, you run into futakuchi, and realize that 1) he’s kinda pathetic, and 2) someone else’s pathetic-ness totally distracts you from your own. so, guess you two are in it together.

hii!! i hope ur having a great day! i have a request and my idea basically is haikyuu characters secretly dating the news reporter and at first they started to know each other cus of small talk then escalated etc etc, u could write all about their shenanigans idm 😭😭 (any characters but could u perhaps include iwaizumi and suna... please.. 😔😔😔 im so desperate) ANYWAYS THANK YOU!! ❤❤

-> SYNOPSIS. being secretly engaged/married to them. -> TAGS. rintaro suna, hajime iwaizumi x reader. -> NOTES. this is such a cute n fun request but since i don’t write about dating i will change this to fit my rules, it won’t really change how i write this, just a personal preference <3 credit to @asahiee for helping me out big time when brainstorming, she’s a real one

RINTARO SUNA.

It wasn’t foreign news that Suna had appeared a little more… present in his matches. Although he wasn’t particularly slacking before he got married to you, fans were unaware of your relationship and were curious as to what had made the typically stoic-faced player more motivated to pursue success in his games.

The only reason the two of you decided to hide your marriage was to protect Suna but, primarily, you too. Suna’s fans were some of the scariest - both positively and negatively. Positively, because their unwavering loyalty to him and his success drove his passion for volleyball. Negatively, because it meant that you (as his wife) had to face the threats fueled by jealousy and envy. Suna wasn’t allowing that.

“And it appears EJP’s middle blocker is set on the team’s success! An outstanding performance of perception and reaction time!” You report into your microphone, eyes sparkling at the sight of your fiance performing so admirably. You try to be unbiased - you really do - but it’s hard when the love of your life is breaking a sweat in front of thousands of fans.

And every time he wins, you’re so tempted to run into his arms and kiss him, scream about his success. He’s so tempted to run to you and credit his success to your unwavering support and squish you in a tight embrace.

Whenever a match wraps up and the crowd leaves, you wait a few minutes after packing up your equipment before subtly making your way to the hallway of the reserved locker rooms. It was your designated spot for meeting up with Suna after a match, or before a match. When you see him, he’s crouched against the wall and trying to steady his breathing (something he fails to do when he sees you in all your gorgeous glory).

“Congratulations!” You squeal, running up to him so quickly that you give him just enough time to stand up and catch you in his arms. He laughs breathily and feels himself relax significantly in your embrace, inhaling your scent and feeling your hand play with his (sweaty) hair. If it were anyone else, you’d be grossed out at the mere scent of them, but Suna wasn’t anyone else. He was yours.

“Thank you, baby,” he kisses the top of your head. “I’m glad you were there to see me.”

“Well, it’s my job to be there, both literally and figuratively.” You grin at him rolling his eyes.

A few hours later, Suna is on social media when he sees his name trending. He assumes it’s because of today’s game and the fact that his team won, but when he presses the tag to see, it’s not what he thought. His heart races at a particular video everyone is raving about, initially uploaded by Komori. It’s a video of him checking in with his fans and ranting about the team’s success.

That’s obviously not why it’s trending.

Suna blinks rapidly at the sight of him in the background of the recording, on his phone and a towel on his head from his shower. A few seconds later, you come into frame and start to pat his hair dry for him, him occasionally pulling your hand down to kiss your fingers.

Well, it’s out there now, he thinks. More than he’d like to admit, he’s amused. He takes pride in seeing people get jealous over both him and you knowing that the two of you officially belong to each other.

But, for extra measure (after asking for your permission), Suna uploads a picture of him holding his left hand up and flashing his wedding ring.

HAJIME IWAIZUMI.

Fans know of your close relationship, but they don’t know of your official romance because neither of you have allowed it to be publicised. That was something personal and an aspect of your lives that could be turned against you by the very people Iwaizumi called his supporters.

So only when things were sealed between the two of you did you agree on announcing it. Prior to this, you had been spotted together before and after matches, you congratulating him and gazing into each other’s eyes as if there was nothing else that mattered.

Of course fans rave about the two of you. You were the hottest couple in the volleyball industry. There is collective agreement that you complement Iwaizumi in ways that no one else does - not even the man’s best friend, Oikawa.

That was certainly an achievement to be proud of.

Profession wise, being a reporter assigned to the industry meant you had more of an excuse to be around him. Consistently, you’d be assigned to report on the matches Iwaizumi played, particularly because you appear “very enthusiastic about his success and perform to much higher standards in his presence” (their words, not yours.)

“Careful,” Iwaizumi takes a seat whilst your eyes follow his every move, “you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’d have to marry you on the spot.”

You suppress a shiver at the sound of the relatively deep baritones of his voice. “Don’t threaten me with my own desires, Hajime,” you tease, plopping down next to him on the couch.

He rolls his eyes. He could never overpower your wit, it was so endearing.

Iwaizumi alternates his attention between loading up the camera on his phone and watching you take your suit jacket off after two hours of you talking into a mic.

Pride swells in his chest as he spots your engagement ring sparkle under the room’s lights, his own twinkling too as if in response to yours.

He feels a blush dust his cheeks as he admires the way you play with your ring, a dazed smile on your lips. While you’re distracted, he takes a photo of you in all your beauty, only to groan when the shutter sound goes off.

Damn it, so much for being inconspicuous, he grumbles internally.

He uploads that photo to his social media page, alongside a photo of you two hiding your faces with your hands, ensuring that your rings are visible.

Iwaizumi receives 500 notifications within five minutes. He knows the paparazzi will be storming him soon.

“Is it possible to die from camera flashes?” He groans.

You laugh, clearly at ease. “I find that keeping your head down and walking straight helps.”

He deadpans and throws a pillow at you.

sweetfushi © do not modify, repost, translate, copy or use my post in any way. all that is included in this post, aside from the fictional characters and universes, belong to sweetfushi (zee).

～ ｡☆ FAVOURITE JJK FICS ON AO3

ft. jjk men (toji, nanami, geto, gojo, and choso)

ヾ˙❥ all of these fics are nsfw (smut, sexual content! please read the tags and the warnings inside of the story before you read!)

ヾ˙❥ click here for jjk men fic recs on tumblr!

1. heat waves (ft. choso kamo) by nagumoan

～ ｡☆ it's too hot to even move a single muscle of yours, so the only logical way to deal with it is... working up a sweat with your boyfriend. at least it's logical in his mind.

2. tease me (ft. gojo satoru & geto suguru) by meowandyouui

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ "𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒."

↳ in which - y/n falls in love with her bullies. geto and gojo. though she can't have both, and is torn between having to choose. ︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑

3. seduce and destroy (ft. toji fushiguro) by skyredvenus

～ ｡☆ moving in with a wealthy family in their mansion for your new job, but nothing is as it seems. the house is haunted by a family curse and a mysterious blood-lusted creature.

4. fruit (ft. choso kamo) by thelovelyruin

～ ｡☆ he’s your ex, and he’s having a hard time moving on from you.

5. i know (ft. choso kamo) by thelovelyruin

～ ｡☆ choso wasn’t taking the break up well, and honestly, neither were you.

6. midnight (ft. gojo satoru) by tsunderetsukki

～ ｡☆ ❝ You look tired boss, let me help you out a little. Consider it an apology for making you work late ❞

╰---➤ 𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞-𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤.

7. slow bloom (ft. nanami kento) by princesspetty

8. shirt (ft. toji fushiguro) by skyredvenus

～ ｡☆ the arrival of a mysterious package leads to a hot, sticky situation.

9. wet dreams (ft. toji fushiguro) by meowandyouui

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ "𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔."

↳ in which - y/n is wedded off to the biggest enigma floating around. though... she can't stop having peculiar dreams about this very man. toji zenin.

10. bloodlust (ft. geto suguru) by teatimewithlevi

～ ｡☆ you move to the suburbs and a freakishly sexy man is your neighbour. he has a taste for blood—especially yours.

11. secret slut (ft. choso kamo) by meowandyouui

12. dark eyes (ft. choso kamo) by moonc0re

13. first time (ft. choso kamo) by chososdisordkitten

14. late mornings (ft. nanami kento) by l043

～ ｡☆ the weekend was for rest, relaxation, and sex.

15. feverish (ft. toji fushiguro) by angry_geese

16. cabin (ft. geto suguru) by slvttyplum

～ ｡☆ You and Suguru go on a group cabin trip, with a couple of drinks and your love for each other… what happens?

17. cadillac : a pimp's anthem (ft. geto suguru) by redskyvenus

～ ｡☆ an unexpected meeting at Suguru's nightclub ignites an interesting connection.

18. so, you got a boyfriend? (ft. geto suguru) by slttygeto

～ ｡☆ when watching a certain scary movie gives your husband, suguru, the perfect idea on how to ruin you.

19. hell is empty & love is wicked (ft. geto suguru) by soleilnomoon

～ ｡☆ geto suguru is the perfect boyfriend, until he grows bored with y/n & casts her aside; he doesn't account for y/n standing up for herself & getting revenge.

20. 00.00 (ft. nanami kento) by kamisathoes

～ ｡☆ In which you need some late night loving from your ex-lover, Nanami Kento. But things were not what you expected them to be, they were more than what you anticipated it to be.

THE OTHER WOMAN

they cheat on their wife (that they were set up to marry) but gets the other woman pregnant and that's when they realize that she isn't just some other woman

𖦹 bonten! manjiro sano, ran haitani, rindou haitani

𖦹 warning/s : cheating, pregnancy, mentions of violence, mentions of sex, mistress! reader, very suggestive, y/n is the villain, my girl y/n is the cocky mistress 🤨✋, also an unnamed wife of theirs, reader is a leader of a criminal organization, rich ass reader

𖦹 am i tired of reader being cheated on? yes. did i want a mistress! reader? yes. highly inspired by this written by @/erensoftcaca

MANJIRO "MIKEY" SANO

in all honesty the last thing Mikey's wife expected and wanted to happen was to find out that her husband is cheating on her. so imagine how shocked she was when she saw you standing in front of their house with a bored expression on your face

you looked expensive too— shiny gold earrings, chanel bag, black heels and a short tight dress. you looked like you went to the club when you just finished a meeting not even a few hours ago

"hey uhh—" you stopped to look at her up and down "you're Mikey's sister right?" she looked at you in confusion "oh no no uhm, I'm his wife actually. uhh is there anything you need from him? files? I can go check his office" the politeness in her tone almost made you feel bad about what she and her husband is about to find out

"ah— no I need to talk to him...about something" still confused she walked towards her husband's office with you following behind her "hey love, someone wants to talk to you"

"tell them I don't have time for their bull—" before Mikey could even finish his sentence you entered "you don't have time for my what Manjiro?" you asked sweetly with a smile but the deadly tone you used was all it took to shut him up, the tone that he's in love with. he always acted like a brat with you so you could use that tone on him but with his wife being in the same room? now that's a different story

his wife noticed how Mikey's eyes scanned you from head to toe, how his face heated up the moment you entered but what really caught her attention was the voices coming from his laptop

"yo Mikey! what's got ya' all quiet?" Sanzu teased

"oohh it's probably Mikey's hot mistress" Ran laughs out

"doesn't he have a wife though?" Takeomi asked cluelessly as laughs from the other executives came on "well damn you're so late on the news" Sanzu says

Mikey's gaze snapped to his wife as he signalled her to leave to which she did without another word, once she was gone Mikey pulls you into his lap

"what brought you here doll?" he asked as you waved at the other executives on the screen before you turned your attention back to him "mmm..need to tell you something very important" Mikey nods, leaning back on his chair with his hands still on your waist

"hmm? what is it?" Mikey asked voice soft and sweet, something he never used on her "you're gonna be a daddy" you chuckle, your words making Mikey sit up straight so suddenly "w-wait! you're not joking right?!"

the executives cheered "BOSS WE SHOULD CELEBRATE" Sanzu suggests and everyone immediately nods at his words

"woah woah woah— what's he gonna say to his wife this time though?" Ran asked, brows raised while Mikey shrugged "uhm..tell her about y/n?" he says

"tell her how you got y/n, a girl you're not in a relationship with, pregnant?" Rindou raised his brow

"Oh..well pretty girl would you like to be my girlfriend?" you nod happily at his question while the others cheered "ok now you tell her" Rindou says with a lazy smile

but little did they know his crying heartbroken wife sat on the floor beside his office the entire time, listening to the entire conversation

RAN HAITANI

Ran was hot, smart, tall and just perfect. his wife always wondered how she got such a wonderful husband like him all for herself. well at least that's what she thought

she knew about Ran's work so him coming home late was a normal thing to her which made it easier for Ran to make up excuses, Ran told her he needed to get some work done when in reality he was in your bed. naked.

his wife found out about it when you messaged him but he left his phone at home

y/n 👀 : RAN!!! YOUR WISH CAME TRUE

his wife stared at the message in pure confusion and decided to message back

Ran 💦 : what wish?

y/n 👀 : your wish to become a dad you motherfucker! LMAO how can you forget when you were fucking your babies into me last week?

and as if on cue Ran entered from the door, calmly taking the phone away from his wife's frozen figure and reading your message. a smile made it's way to his lips as he typed a reply back

Ran 💦 : sorry my wife was the one who replied to your first message. anyways let's celebrate with Rin, pretty sure he'd want to meet his soon to be niece or nephew

and with that Ran left without sparing a glance at his broken wife

RINDOU HAITANI

unlike his older brother Ran who is good at hiding his affair, Rindou is shameless. going home with hickeys littered on his neck, smelling like the expensive perfume you always wear. he won't even bother to change his white polo that's left with kiss mark

"hey. clean this for me will ya'. seems that my coworker accidentally left her lipstick mark on it" he says, casually handing his shirt to his wife

but despite all the evidence, he still makes poor excuses to play with his wife's poor little heart

sighing, his wife took his shirt harshly "be honest with me. are you cheating one me?" she asked toughly but you can see the obvious globs of tears that are starting to form in her eyes

Rindou stares at her with a 'isn't is obvious?' expression

"no. I don't know what you're talking about" he lied but of course note the sarcasm in his tone "then why do you come home with hickeys in your neck? lipstick marks either on your cheek or your shirt and you always smell like that horrible perfume and you know goddamn well I don't wear that crap"

Rindou shoots a nasty glare towards her direction "say what you want but I know damn well that the perfume my pregnant girlfriend is wearing ain't no crap, fits her very well honestly" he says and took his phone out

he saw his wife tear up at his words "p— pregnant? but I thought you weren't ready to be a father?" Rindou was about to say something but heard the door open causing the two of them to turn to it's direction

"Rin! I got the results, it's positive!" you exclaim happily as you ran straight into his arms "don't run sweetheart. don't want to hurt the baby right?" you chuckled at his words and nodded. your eyes trailed towards his wife and flashed her a sweet smile the moment your eyes met

you ran up to her and hugged her "hiii! I'm y/n, Rin's girlfriend. you must be his sister! I hope you don't mind that I went up here so suddenly, Rin told me to go straight to his house the moment I find out"

his wife stood there in shock, you were too sweet to be a the mistress in their relationship "uh— that's my wife babe. the one I'm telling you about" Rindou says with an awkward cough

"oh" you quickly backed away from her "anyways! let's go. the other executives are gonna be so happy when they hear about this"

he turns to his wife "you can pack up. go to the guest bedroom or something" and with that you two left

DISCLAIMER! i do not support the act shown in the fic, these are purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only! thank u for understanding.

© haitanisangel on tumblr | do not steal, copy, translate or repost

𝗡𝗢 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗗 *+:｡.｡

summary. “I’ve known Geto since we were kids, and trust me when I say that he’ll fuck you and forget about it.” | wc. 3.5k+

cw/ tw. fem!reader, college au, fratboy!geto, slightly dark content, obsessive behavior, smoking (not by the reader), frat parties, dubcon, cherrypicking, degradation, jealousy, slightly yandere, deception, pet names (ex. pretty girl, baby), intended for 18+ readers

an. I haven't posted in what? two weeks?? maybe three? and I'm surprised people are still following me after how dry it's been on here...heh (thank you if you stuck around while I was away). enjoy a repost, comments and reblogs are appreciated ༉‧₊˚.

You met Geto at a frat party Shoko dragged you to after listening to you complain (for the third time that week) about classes and a paper due next month—and you couldn’t say that you were too upset about it now that you were standing beside him. 

He was twice your size. Easily a head taller than you, which had your stomach twisting into neat little knots.

Geto was the type you’d usually avoid and admire from afar. Because rich, popular guys like him didn’t have time for unspecial girls like you. But he too easily derailed that thought without doing more than flashing you a smile.

It should be disconcerting how openly you were staring, not even trying to hide how your eyes traveled from the perfect bun atop his head to his broad, slightly tanned chest. His open, silky, short-sleeve button-up revealed a necklace dangling low around his neck and a glimpse of a tattoo that started at his ribs and trailed down beyond his shirt.

You almost felt a little underdressed, standing beside him in just a cropped sweater and tennis skirt.

“Hey, I’m Geto,” he said. 

His voice was nice. Low and sweet. Sly, in that way most guys like him tend to embrace after years of getting what they want.

Then you realized he had been talking to you, the corners of his mouth curling as he stared at you expectantly.

Embarrassment swam through your veins as you shyly gave him your name before shifting behind Shoko until the heat in your face melted away. Geto's lips twitched, bringing his cup to his mouth with a hand covered in rings—you wanted to disappear into the floor.

It wasn’t until after he plied you with a few fruity drinks, your head a little fuzzy and less anxious, that you relaxed around him, swaying on your feet towards him instead of away. The slight buzz had words easily falling off your tongue, and you were surprised to find that he listened instead of going glassy-eyed the longer you went on about classes and your work study.

Your fourth cup in, you followed him into the corner of the living room on a lumpy old couch where Geto sat with you in his lap—you weren’t even sure what you were talking about anymore—while he took long drags from a blunt you let him roll up on your thigh.

He offered you a hit, which you politely declined, and he pulled you along with him when he leaned back further into the couch, his voice close humming along your eardrums and his lips softly brushing against your ear.

Geto turned his head to blow out another hazy cloud of smoke before leaning in to ask if he could taste your drink.

“S-sure,” you breathed shakily, about to give him your cup, only to freeze when he kissed you instead.

He chuckled when you released a startled squeak against his mouth—the faint smell of weed on his breath fanning across your face and making you slightly light-headed. Then his tongue sought out yours, and the taste of mint and cheap vodka graced your tastebuds. 

You sighed, subtly rubbing your thighs together, and before you could even return the kiss, he’d pulled away with a wry smile.

“Tastes good,” he hummed, a warm hand gently running along your thigh. Your tongue ran over your bottom lip, and you watched his gaze track the movement. “Can I have another?” 

You were already leaning in before he could finish asking.

He texted you while you were hunched over a petri dish in the lab on Tuesday. 

Then, while you were studying in the library a week later—another victim to you venting about your paper, though it felt like he made an effort to understand—after a long shift and bus ride home, followed by a steady succession of texts for several days straight. 

You thought he was sweet, in his own way—little things that made your heart flutter like butterfly wings and stomach bubble with anxiety because this was bound to crash and burn. But one crooked smile, and you suddenly forgot why guys like him were off-limits.

Sometimes, he’d bring you coffee after long nights of studying, and it made you sway on your feet whenever he’d tuck hair behind your ear after it fell out of place.

You’d find yourself pressed against your soft bed whenever Shoko wasn't around while Geto licked away the little whimpers dripping from your lips. Some days it went further than that, where the messy grinding and needy kisses weren’t enough, and his hand would tease up your skirt to smooth over your drippy-wet cunt through damp underwear. 

However, it didn’t go beyond dry-humping and heavy petting because—

“I’ve never done this before,” you admitted softly, staring up at your speckled ceiling. Too afraid to see the look on his face until the hand still delicately wrapped around your throat suddenly forced your gaze back on him.

It was as if something about him almost shifted, dangerous, eyes as dark as pitch in the soft light of your bedroom lamp. But it dissolved with a syrupy smile as he squeezed your hips. “We’ll take it slow, okay?”

The amount of trust you had for him after only a couple of weeks should be alarming—

You grin at him instead of thinking about it too much. A dumb and foolish part of you held onto the fact that he promised.

And you believed him.

Or wanted to. 

“Slow,” you agreed, kissing the edge of his mouth.

A month goes by, and you could only keep the secret from Shoko for so long before she finally caught you smiling like a love-sick idiot over a text Geto sent one day. She wasn’t as upset as you’d expected; she almost seemed disappointed.

And that was somehow worse.

She warned you not to take anything seriously that came out of Geto’s mouth because he had a habit of running the same script on every girl he met.

“I’ve known him since we were kids, and trust me when I say that he’ll fuck you and forget about it,” she told you, pointing her coffee spoon in your direction.

“Oh.”

Shoko reached over and patted your shoulder at the look of dejection on your face. "I just don’t want to see you get hurt, alright?”

You turned over Shoko’s words in your head because you knew this.

Part of you knew all of this. And yet…

And yet, Geto made it easy to forget.

He texted you that night, inviting you to a party his frat house was throwing.

Are you coming? 

You told him you needed to study for a test coming up. Shoko insisted you go to it anyway.

At the party, you scanned the crowd for a familiar head of dark hair until you got dizzy from turning your head so much. And just when you were about to give up and leave instead, you spotted him from where you stood in the archway to the kitchen, and what you saw had your heart sinking bitterly into your stomach.

It shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise after what Shoko warned you of—how you already knew that he had an assortment of red flags dangling around his head like thick drapes since the moment you met him.

But you hoped that maybe…well.

You watched Geto share a blunt with the girl in his lap, that familiar crooked smile curling his mouth as cherry-red lips wrapped around the end.

Some of you wondered if someone else had looked at you with the same amount of pity when they witnessed you falling so easily for Geto’s soft-spoken words and recycled pick-up lines—the sweet, shy girl who didn’t know any better ensnared in a neatly woven trap.

He caught your wide-eyed gaze from across the crowd with his bloodshot one, though you didn’t stick around long enough to see what he did after that because you were already walking back home.

You were a bit heartbroken, or that was what you called it, for the first few days—ignoring the texts he’d send late at night and leaving for class earlier than usual to avoid bumping into him.

Avoiding him was more difficult than you thought since his friends ran in the same circles as your roommate. And lately, he seemed more interested in movie nights, or somehow, he always needed to borrow notes from Shoko for a class.

Those days, you sat next to Gojo when there was nowhere else to sit in your cramped living room—none the wiser about the fact that Geto had a strained relationship with your new couch mate.

At parties, you no longer paid attention to where he was in the room, choosing to hover by Shoko and her girlfriend the entire time. It was only during a moment of misplaced curiosity that you finally looked over, already finding Geto’s darkened gaze on you, sneering as you talked and laughed with other guys.

Decent guys.

This game of cat and mouse went on for two more months: Geto trying to get you to notice him, and you acting utterly oblivious.

Because it was easier this way, and eventually, this will all get brushed over and become nothing more than a minor slip in your decision-making.

It bothered him for reasons he couldn’t put into words. He could have a different girl warming his bed almost every weekend, and before he met you, he never batted an eye when they stopped talking to him once they found out that he wasn’t interested in anything other than sex.

Yet, here you were, taking over his every thought like a fucking disease.

He saw you walking around campus with guys that were nothing like him—guys that probably didn’t get high five days out of the week, that willingly took you out on proper dates, that bought you flowers and walked you to your door—then he’d creep onto your Instagram and get annoyed by the new number of male friends liking and commenting on how pretty you were.

He shouldn’t care. He didn’t. Really.

But he did.

Geto wondered if you held out for them as you were so hellbent on doing with him or if one of them managed to taint the innocence you wrapped yourself with before he could.

That put a sour taste in his mouth, one he couldn’t wash away with shots of cheap vodka. And after he watched you leave the party with a guy who looked like he didn’t know what to do after getting your underwear around your ankles, Geto decided he needed to find out.

That was one of the worst dates of your life, by far, since the guy didn't even show up. All night, you earned pathetic looks from the restaurant staff while you sat at your table set for two.

What an asshole.

He would get an earful whenever you saw him in your Psych class on Monday. You’d make sure of it.

You washed off your makeup and sticky hairspray, hoping a warm shower would help brighten your sulky mood.

Your soft, fluffy towel was at least a small comfort as you stepped out of your steamy bathroom to get a change of clothes. Only, you stopped dead in your tracks at the sight of Geto lounging on your bed in a black hoodie and grey sweats—his long legs hanging off the edge so he could spread his knees, accentuating the very obvious bulge between his thighs.

He gave you a wry smirk when he caught you staring. 

"Should learn to lock your doors, sweetheart. Never know what kind of creep might sneak in."

Finding him sitting on your bed, uninvited, should terrify you more than it did, and all the alarm bells going off in your head clearly indicate that you should tell him to leave instead of standing there clutching your towel to your chest.

"What are you doing here, Geto?" you asked quietly.

He blatantly ignored your roused suspicion, unable to stop himself from thinking about how cute you looked, skin soft and dewy from the shower you just took, a scowl painted on your features. 

Fuck. He wanted to ruin you, to see how flustered you could get, no matter how many cheap praises he whispered into your ear.

Although tonight, he was set on seeing what you hid behind a thin layer of fabric, finally having what he’d been craving for months. You just needed a little encouragement, that’s all.

Because he was tired of waiting.

Geto sat up, then, now so close that he could reach his hand out and grab your towel. And he did, tugging you closer and watching in amusement as you stumbled between his spread knees on coltish legs.

Finally, he met your gaze: "Isn't it obvious why I’m here?"

You swallowed. "Geto, I—"

He watched your confidence crumble a little when his hands snaked up your thighs under your towel, up, up, up until you were shivering underneath his fingers. 

"I-I made it clear that I didn't want to talk to you anymore."

His brow arched. "Yeah? You don't want to talk to me?” He swiped a thumb through your folds, and you gasped in shock, trembling. “Then why are you so wet?”

Geto could tell that you wanted to deny it, even as he pulled his hand out from under your towel to show off your shiny arousal clinging to his thumb, the pink string lights hanging around your room making it more glaringly obvious.

“I-I’m not—”

“I-I’m not,” he mocked meanly. 

His eyes swam with the same flicker of intensity he showed you that day you told him you were a virgin. Although this time, it swallowed his gaze entirely—the soft brown of his irises washed away by something that had your body betraying you with another rush of slickness between your thighs.

“Get on the bed, pretty girl. Leave the towel on the floor,” he said under his breath, patronizing. “And don’t make me say it again.”

Your back was in an uncomfortable arch as Geto curled over you from behind, large hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise.

“What do they have that I don’t, hm?” 

You ignored how your stomach plunged at the mere fact that he might’ve been jealous, that perhaps he cared just a little.

“Bet you were whoring yourself out for them, huh?” He sneered, grasping your hair and tugging so you were looking up at him upside down. The odd angle had you wincing in discomfort, and he laughed humorlessly. “You know what I think? I think that you’re secretly a little slut.”

“N-not a, ah, not a slut.”

He slapped a hand down against your ass just to hear the sharp cry he knew you couldn’t hold in, enjoying the pretty picture of tears prickling the corners of your eyes. “Liar.”

“M’ not,” you pleaded as the impact of the next blow against your tender flesh had you gasping for air, your empty cunt clenching almost painfully.

Geto smoothed his hand over the curve of your ass, smiling when you flinched. You looked so fucking wrecked, and he hadn’t even done anything yet. “Prove it then,” he said. “Prove that you’re only a fucktoy for my cock.”

You wracked your brain, head too dizzy with how fast this was happening to think properly—

“K-kiss me first,” you babbled.

"How about you beg me first," he threw the word back in your face. 

You didn't answer—everything you wanted to say was choking up in your chest. The smile Geto gave you was uncharacteristically sweet, yet it didn't meet his eyes, and he laughed. “Or are you too dumb to think already?”

“Please, kiss me,” you sniffled, lips wobbling. The sight made Geto’s cock twitch.

So fucking pretty, he thought.

You knew he would at least give you this when his eyes slightly softened.

Then his mouth was on yours. Heavy and unforgiving, teeth clacking and nipping at your lips. The familiarity of his lips soothed the overwhelming feeling in your chest and made you feel like you were touching the ground again. 

He always made your brain scramble whenever he kissed you, turning thoughts into air. And you didn’t even realize that he was lining himself up with your entrance. 

His cock heavily slid against your slit once, twice. Up and down, and back up again. You whimpered when he nudged your clit, parting you open slowly. It nearly gave you whiplash with how gentle he was being compared to how he treated you moments before.

"Open up for me, baby."

It was embarrassing when you parted your knees, showing him a part of your body that nobody else had seen before—

"Ah!" you squealed when he unexpectedly pushed in to the hilt, your walls straining to accommodate the new feeling of fullness and trying to push him out. You cried and squirmed in his hold—the stretch too much as you took big gulps of air to make room where there wasn't.

"Huh, looks like you still had a cute little virgin cunt after all," he grunted, jerking deeper inside.

Geto didn't even give you a moment to adjust to his length before he was roughly pounding into you, his balls slapping against the sore flesh of your ass. And all you could do was lay there and take it.

He loved this part, feeling a virgin pussy stretch around him for the first time. It made his stomach twist and his head fuzzy—he swore it was better than getting high.

Suddenly, he shoved you into the mattress, his hands pressing against your shoulder blades to prevent you from moving. The new angle had his cock going deeper, pushing against a soft spot deep inside you that felt nearly devastating when his tip hit it again and again.

Your thighs were shaking, no longer able to control the lewd noises leaking from your lips. The tight coil in your abdomen had you twitching, only coiling tighter as Geto continuously abused that sensitive spot in your cunt. It was so overwhelming and intense that you nearly burst when Geto reached between your legs to play with your sticky-hot clit.

It twitched violently against the rough pads of his fingers. "'m gonna—"

"Shut up," he sneered, his voice dangerously low before shoving your face further into the mattress with a hand at the back of your neck. "Shut up and cum."

No sounds left your mouth, your body seemingly obeying his command. Your thighs clenched, trying to close, but his broad body prevented you from pushing him away. And then—

“Fuck —look at that,” he groaned as you felt a gush of liquid spray between your legs, splashing his thighs and getting the blankets under you sopping wet. All you could do was sob, overwhelmed by how fast he made you cum.

He gave you a rough thrust, a long whine slipping out of your throat. “Gonna fill this pussy nice and full. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

With your face pressed into your comforter, it prevented you from shaking your head no; the only sound coming out through the mouthful of cotton is an mmph, nearly choking on your own drool.

“I’m ‘gonna make sure everyone knows you’re mine—shit, keep squeezing me.” He released a feral moan. "Just like that! Good girl."

Geto held you still, his mouth attaching to your shoulder to muffle the loud groan rumbling in his chest as his balls twitched and drew up almost painfully. His hips pressed flush against yours to cum as deep as your cunt would allow, trying to make it stick.

"Fuck," he panted.

Afterward, he tangled you up in his arms, his soft cock still nestled in your snug, tacky-wet walls. Cuddling was the last thing you expected, but you decided not to bring it up lest he got upset.

Nor did you say anything when you noticed the small bloodstain on his grey sweats after getting dressed and his slightly bruised knuckles pulling the cotton up over his hips. You never brought it up, not even as your date from Saturday showed up to class with a suspicious swollen lip and a black eye.

And you didn't ask if Geto wanted to hang out after class. It had just been sex—a one-time thing.

He'd already gotten what he wanted and left. That was always how this would play out: no extra dates or late-night texts. Guys like Geto didn’t do str—et cetera.

You knew this. 

You knew.

However, the dark look he shot Gojo when he pulled you into his lap for movie night could make you believe otherwise, that maybe it was more than sex—

—it was probably best just to keep your mouth shut.

A few weeks later, Geto muffled low groans into his shirt caught between his teeth as he fisted his cock to a picture of you—because you were avoiding him again. 

But that was okay, silly, that you ever thought you could. He already had it planned out how he’d have you again, and just the thought of feeling your tight cunt wrapped around him had Geto painting his stomach white.