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mononijikayu · 18 hours

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X01=LOVESONG (I Know I Love You) — Geto Suguru.

When clarity finally pierced through the fog of your shock and grief, you found yourself standing amidst the remnants of his life, which was intricately intertwined with yours. The room, now a hollow echo of what once was, was filled with objects that each told a story—a story that had been both of yours. There were books you had discussed late into the night, mugs from which you had sipped coffee on lazy mission–less mornings, polaroids that captured moments of sheer, unadulterated happiness. Every item seemed imbued with a fragment of Suguru's presence, his smile, his warmth, and even the distinct trace of his scent that seemed to linger stubbornly in the air.

Genre: Post - Hidden Inventory Arc, 2007-2010s;

Warning/s: First Love, First Heartbreak, Betrayal, Grief, Emotional Trauma, Character Death, Angst, Romance, Kissing, Tragedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Purging, Unresolved Tension, Inner Turmoil, Flashbacks, Love and Loss, Slow Burn, Closure, Depiction of Depression, Depiction of Grief, Depiction of Physical Touch, Mention of Death, Mention of Killing, Mention of Harm, Reader's Discretion Is Advised;

masterlist

listen: X01=LOVESONG (I Know I Love You) by TXT

note: this is gonna be sad, so i hope you buckle up. this is like, one of the angstiest thoughts i've had in a while and i just had to write it down. anyway, enjoy it!!! i love you~

THIS IS THE CLOSEST YOU’D EVER GET TO CLOSURE, YOU THINK. It was profoundly difficult, cleaning up a room that was saturated with so many memories. Yet, Yaga-sensei found himself tasked with this heart-wrenching duty, a directive passed down from the higher-ups. Every item associated with Geto Suguru, now labeled a fugitive and a traitor, was to be removed.

From the mundane—a simple pen—to the intimately personal, like his favorite sweater, nothing could remain. It was a stark and painful erasure of his existence within these walls. There was to be no trace of the man who had once been a part of their lives, no remnants of a traitor among them.

Satoru, overwhelmed by the situation, flatly refused to participate. He wouldn't entertain the idea of following through with the order, his actions—or lack thereof—speaking volumes of his inner turmoil and silent protest. Shoko initially tried to cope, sitting quietly in the room, surrounded by the echoes of a past that clung to every object Suguru had touched. However, the weight of the task proved too much, and eventually, she had to leave, unable to bear the stripping away of memories tied so deeply to someone they had all cared for.

Yaga-sensei couldn't find it within himself to blame them. How could he? The task he was performing was not just a physical clearing of objects; it was an emotional purging that none of them had been prepared for. It posed the torturous question: how does one manage to hold so much grief? How can anyone be expected to hold onto so much, only to have to let it go, to act as if it was never there?

In that room, every item removed felt like a denial of what had been, a negation of the times they had shared. Each piece carried a story, a laugh, a moment of brilliance, a trace of the life they once knew with Suguru. But beyond the physical act of cleaning, there was an unspoken mourning, a quiet acknowledgment of the loss not just of a friend and colleague but of the innocence and camaraderie they had all shared before his descent.

Yaga-sensei understood the necessity of the orders from a rational standpoint, but rationality often fell short of providing comfort in times of emotional strife. The job had to be done, but the emotional residue, the sense of betrayal mixed with fond memories, the stark pain of loss—these were not things that could be cleaned away with the physical removal of objects. They lingered, pervasive and deep, in the hearts of those left behind.

Still, you persevered. You took up the task, gathering boxes and those heavy, dark trash bags, and stood before the once tidy room, now a symbol of chaos and abandonment—a place he could no longer return to. The mess was overwhelming; where to begin was not immediately clear, but you started nonetheless. You felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you picked up each item, but you pushed on, item after item.

As you sorted through his belongings, a mix of mundane and intimate objects, the reality of the situation began to truly weigh on you. You had to admit, though it gnawed at your insides, part of you still couldn’t fully accept that the contents of the report were true. It seemed impossible that the person who had owned these books, worn these clothes, and laughed in these very walls could have done the atrocities he was accused of. He hadn’t really destroyed that village, had he? He couldn’t have actually killed his own beloved parents, could he?

The dissonance between the Suguru you knew and the one described in the cold, factual report created a storm of confusion and denial inside you. Each item you placed into the boxes felt like you were discarding pieces of the Suguru you remembered. And it broke your heart over and over again.

You felt nauseated, you felt like you were going to lose it. Every piece felt like shredding the memories of someone you love—loved. Your Suguru, he was not a monster. The process was not just physical cleaning; it was an emotional battleground, where memories conflicted with hard, unforgiving reality.

As you were about to leave the room, Yaga-sensei approached you, his expression somber and his eyes avoiding yours. He extended a folder towards you—thick with papers, the topmost branded with the official seals of their institution. You hesitated but took it, feeling the weight of the documents in your hands.

“Why?” You whispered under your breath, looking at the older man. “Why’d he do it?”

"You need to read these," Yaga-sensei said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's important you understand everything."

Your hands trembled as you opened the folder. The papers rattled loudly in your grasp, a stark contrast to the eerie silence that filled the room. Each page you turned revealed more details, more horrors, more undeniable evidence of the acts Suguru had committed. The descriptions were clinical, detached, yet they cut through you with a visceral sharpness. And at the end, those words —’All sorcerers are advised to when in contact with the cursed user Geto Suguru, to execute him, on sight.’

You felt like you were going to be sick. This couldn’t be real. How is this real? As you absorbed the contents, a specific memory flashed through your mind, unbidden and piercingly vivid.

It was of Suguru, on a day much like any other, yet now impossibly distant. He had kissed you goodbye, his lips brief against yours, his eyes warm with affection. "I'll come back from this mission," he had promised with a smile that couldn't even reach his eyes, full of a light that you now realized was extinguished. “I swear. We’ll eat soba together when I come back.”

The contrast between that memory and the black-and-white text in front of you was jarring. How could the man who had looked at you with such tenderness, who had promised to return, be the same person described in these reports? How could he have carried such darkness within him while offering you nothing but warmth and love?

The room spun slightly as you stood there, the papers shaking in your hands, each word another weight added to what felt like an unbearable load. You wanted to drop the folder, to let it fall to the ground and scatter, as if by dispersing these papers you could disperse the truth they contained. But you couldn't. You had to face this.

“I understand.” You whisper under your breath, as you slowly let go of the folder. Tears pricking at the edge of your eyes. “I’ll….I’ll tell Shoko—”

“She already knows.”

You look at him, blinking your eyes. “And Satoru?”

“Locked himself away.”

“I see.”

Handling his possessions, you couldn’t help but recall the person he had been—the very center of your whole world. In this world full of zeros, he seemed to be the only one that ever made sense. This world of violence, this suffering, this jujutsu sorcery—he was the only one that ever made sense. The warmth in his smile, the tenderness in his voice, the grace in his touch.

With each object that landed in the trash bag, it felt as if you were trying to erase those memories, deny the reality of what had been, and maybe, in some small way, absolve the pain and betrayal you felt. With everything he was in that trash bag, it was as though life was zeros again. Nothing made sense anymore.

You stopped for a moment.

You turned your head away.

The pictures on this white board.

You smiled as you kissed him.

New Year’s Day at the temple.

That bittersweet summer in Okinawa.

How had you managed to get this far, you wondered. Only a few neatly packed bags now contained the physical remnants of what had been a shared existence, yet there was too much left that wasn't tangible, too much that you couldn't pack away or discard.

Memories clung to you relentlessly, each one a poignant reminder of what had been lost. How could you possibly begin to untangle yourself from a past so rich in love and now so poisoned with betrayal?

The challenge before you was immense. You needed to find a way to preserve the memories that still brought warmth, those uncontaminated by the later revelations of his actions, without allowing them to anchor you to a past that could no longer exist in the way it once had.

It wasn't just about moving on physically—clearing out his belongings and possibly even moving out of the space you shared—it was also about emotional survival. How could you reconcile the love you had felt with the pain of betrayal? How could you hold onto the good without it being tainted by the bad?

As you stood there, surrounded by the echoes of a life you once loved, you realized that this process would not be swift. It would be painful and slow, a journey of sorting through not just physical objects, but also through the layers of your heart. You would need to learn how to cherish the joy without it being overshadowed by the sense of loss, to acknowledge the pain without letting it consume you.

The task of moving forward was daunting. Yet, it was necessary. You understood that to heal, you must allow yourself to feel both the grief and the fondness, the betrayal and the love. You must learn to live with the memories in a way that they inform your future without chaining you to a narrative that could no longer be your reality.

With each memory you chose to pack away or leave out, with each item you decided to keep or discard, you were not just deciding on what physically remained in your life; you were also making decisions about how you would let your past influence your future.

This process, as heart-wrenching as it was, was your path to finding peace—a peace that acknowledged all that had been, the good and the bad, and still allowed you to look forward to what might come next.

You fell to your knees.

You felt your body shake.

Tears overwhelmed you.

You know you loved him.

But why wasn’t he here?

Why wasn’t he here to love you?

SUGURU MADE A MARK IN YOUR LIFE YOU CAN NEVER ERASE. When you think about it, you never truly fell in love with anyone before Suguru. He was your first in everything. In the world full of winters, in the world full of suffering, in the world full of zeros — he was the person that made the frigid air thaw, he healed the world of suffering.

He made the world feel like there was someone. There was someone that could love you. He was the epitome of all you desired, of all you needed; every trait you ever hoped for in a person shone brightly in his eyes, which met yours with such warmth. Had you made a list of ten qualities you sought in a soulmate, Suguru would have scored eleven, perhaps even more.

Your personalities magnetically attracted each other, an inevitable pull that felt as if no force in the universe could sever. From the moment you met, you knew you were caught in a perpetual cycle with him—a cycle you never wanted to escape. To you, he was the one; no one else could evoke the feelings he did.

Suguru was your other half, a wondrous being who filled your life with such joy that it seemed lifted straight from a fairy tale. At times, you questioned if he were real, or just a figment of your daydreams.

It was a bright, crisp afternoon at Jujutsu High when you first crossed paths with Geto Suguru. You’d just come from getting all your stuff in the dorm, as Yaga–sensei instructed.

When you finished, you decided to take a walk. And it was then, when you had spotted a distressed cat, its cries pitiful as it clung precariously to a branch high up in one of the campus's many sprawling trees. Moved by a mix of concern and impulsiveness, you decided to rescue the feline, despite having little experience in arboreal rescues.

With cautious steps, you climbed, reaching from branch to branch, ascending higher with each careful maneuver. Below, the ground seemed to grow increasingly distant, a patchwork of grass and the scattered shadows of leaves that danced in the gentle wind. Your heart pounded not just from the climb but from the fear of the cat jumping or falling.

Just as you were almost close enough to coax the cat to safety, a misstep caused your foot to slip. In a heart-stopping instant, your balance faltered, and you found yourself tumbling backward, a startled cry escaping your lips.

Out of seemingly nowhere, strong arms caught you. Your descent halted abruptly, and as you dangled in mid-air for a moment, time seemed to pause. You were gently set back onto the ground, and as you steadied yourself, your eyes met Suguru for the first time.

He was a fellow student, previously just another face in the crowd somewhere at one point. But now, he was the person who had caught you in a literal free fall — he was your savior. And you couldn’t stop staring at him. He was so beautiful, almost like an angel fallen to earth. The thought of his gentleness towards you, his tender stare. It was all too much for you. It made your heart beat over and over.

Suguru's expression was one of mild amusement mixed with concern. "You should be more careful," he chided lightly, his eyes scanning you quickly to ensure you were unhurt. "Trees aren't the safest places to be if you’re not a cat—or a trained climber."

Embarrassment flushed your cheeks, but you managed a grateful smile. "Thanks for catching me. And, uh, sorry for the trouble," you stammered, still trying to calm your racing heart.

"No trouble at all," Suguru replied, his tone easy and friendly. He then turned his attention to the cat still perched in the tree, looking down at you both with wide, curious eyes. "Let’s get your little friend down safely, shall we?" he suggested, already assessing the tree for the best way to climb.

Together, you watched as Suguru skillfully ascended the tree. Unlike your attempt, he moved with confidence and grace, reaching the cat quickly and coaxing it into his arms with gentle whispers. The descent was smooth, and soon, he was back on the ground, the cat safe in his arms.

"You're pretty good at this," you remarked, impressed by his calm demeanor and skill.

He just shrugged, handing the cat to you. "I like climbing. And helping," he added with a smile that reached his eyes, warming them with a spark that you would come to know very well in the times to follow.

That afternoon, after the cat had scampered off, presumably to find less precarious places to explore, you and Suguru ended up walking together, talking about school, interests, and trivial things that slowly wove the initial threads of your connection.

From that unexpected meeting sprung a relationship built on shared moments, laughter, and eventually, deeper feelings. Each look back at that day reminded you of the fateful fall that had brought Suguru into your life, not just as a savior from a physical fall, but as a pivotal presence in the most significant chapters of your life. From that on, you think you could never think of him anything other than someone you loved.

Suguru and your relationship blossomed with an intensity that seemed almost surreal, like something out of those fairy tales designed to instill hope and belief in magic. The rapid progression from friends to soulmates caught you both by surprise but neither of you hesitated. It felt right, like a multitude of moments had aligned just to bring you together.

You marveled at how natural it felt to be with him. For once, love did not come with reservations or the fear of not being enough. No one had ever affirmed you deserved happiness the way he did. His embrace liberated you from any previous doubts about your worthiness of love. His touch seemed almost celestial, as if you were being given a second life—one filled with an abundance of love and joy.

Whenever life seemed intent on throwing its worst challenges at you, Suguru stood as your unwavering pillar of support. His adoration was a universe of its own, vast and filled with warmth that saw through your insecurities and embraced your imperfections. He loved you wholly, celebrating your quirks and flaws as parts of the intricate mosaic that made you unique.

Suguru had a profound effect on your very being. With him, you learned the essence of true love—how it felt to be completely understood and appreciated. He had the extraordinary ability to see you, the real you, and in his eyes, you were enough.

This recognition and acceptance kindled a deep, passionate love within you, a love so fierce and consuming that it seemed to defy the mundane limitations of everyday life. He inspired dreams of a future so luminous and perfect that it appeared unbreakable.

You treasured every aspect of his soul, from his vibrant laughter to the thoughtful furrow of his brow. Each trait painted a color on the once bland walls you had built around your heart.

Geto Suguru didn't just break down these walls; he integrated himself into them, weaving his essence into the very fabric of your existence, becoming an inseparable part of the infinite you once believed was yours alone.

This love was a sanctuary, a space where you both existed in a harmonious bubble seemingly impervious to the external world. In this shared infinity, every moment was a vivid stroke on the canvas of your lives together, creating a masterpiece of vibrant hues and heartfelt emotions. Each day spent with him reinforced the belief that nothing could ever pull you apart—a belief so strong that it bordered on invincibility.

But as with all tales, whether of magic or reality, challenges loomed. Yet, in those moments of pure connection and love, such concerns seemed distant. You lived in the breaths shared between whispers of affection and the quiet understanding that passed in glances—those slices of eternity where the world outside faded to a mere backdrop to the vivid reality you shared with Suguru.

But as Suguru descended into madness and grief, the perfect image began to fracture. Amanai Riko died. And then your kouhai, Haibara, died. At one point, you nearly died. And he hated it. He hated feeling this powerless. He hated having to swallow up curses. He wanted to burn it all.

He hated how you all have to die, forced to die young, brutal deaths – for the sake of people who couldn’t care less. He would never tell you these things. You only find out in that letter he left to the three of you — The one that he wrote a year ago, when he planned to disappear. He couldn’t keep living this lie anymore. And you couldn't take it. It drove you mad. It drove you insane. At one point, you wonder, if you would end up like him.

But you just couldn't stop crying.

You couldn't stop mourning him.

Mourning the life you could have had.

It wasn't fair, it alll wasn't fair at all.

You were robbed of happiness together.

In all those moments, you wished you could have done more for him. You wished you could have wrapped your arms around his. Kissed him enough to make the taste disappear. But somehow you couldn’t do anything. No matter if you asked if he was alright, he would rebuff you. No matter how much you ask him if he slept, he would tell you the opposite. No matter how much you wanted to embrace him, he would say nothing.

He was already too far gone. His once hopeful demeanor was overshadowed by a deep, engulfing sorrow. The lively discussions you once shared, filled with love and reverence, turned into debates tainted by his despair.

And perhaps you had known it. Perhaps refused to acknowledge that it was all over. But you kept trying. You kept wishing that you could keep him with you, trapped in this own world that belonged to the both of you. And he tried, he tried to keep up with you. But he knew, as you probably did too, that it would never have worked out.

Amidst a storm of emotional turmoil and unseen pressures that seemed to suffocate the very air around you, there came a breaking point—a moment when the despair felt so overwhelming that you could see no other way through but to anchor yourself to Suguru, the one constant in the chaotic whirlwind of your life.

It was late, the world outside wrapped in the silence of an unforgiving night, when you found Suguru in the dim light of his dorm table, his features etched with lines of stress and shadow. He looked up, his eyes reflecting a turmoil that mirrored your own. In that shared gaze, the weight of unspoken fears and pent-up frustrations hung heavily between you.

Driven by a desperate need to break through the barriers of pain and disconnect, you approached him with a resolve borne of raw emotion. "Use me," you pleaded, voice cracking with the intensity of your plea. "If it makes you feel better, use me. I can't stand seeing you like this. Please, Suguru. Please."

There was a palpable tension in the air as he absorbed your words. For a heart-stopping moment, he just stared, the depth of his gaze searching yours. Then, with a sudden movement, he closed the distance between you, his hands framing your face as he pulled you into a kiss.

At first, the kiss was a desperate melding of lips, a search for solace in the familiar. You responded instinctively, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, trying to meld into him completely. The kiss deepened, driven by a cocktail of raw emotions, each of you seeking comfort, assurance, and a momentary escape from the burdens weighing you down.

As your initial desperation melded into a fervent need, the kiss grew harsher, more intense. Suguru's hands moved from your face, gripping your shoulders, then sliding down with a possessive urgency that conveyed both his need and his surrender to the moment. You felt a surge of something more than just passion—there was also a poignant ache, a recognition of the pain that had driven you to this moment of reckless abandon.

The kiss was no gentle query but a demanding, consuming force, as if through this physical connection, you both could momentarily forget the harshness of reality. Your response was equally fervent, a mix of giving and taking, a physical expression of your plea for him to use this connection, to draw from it whatever solace he could find.

In this intense exchange, there was no room for hesitation or doubt—only the raw, unfiltered need to be each other's solace, even if just for the fleeting moments as your lips clashed and your bodies pressed together in the quiet shadows of the night. Perhaps as you moaned underneath him, you wondered that maybe this would be enough. You had hope that it would.

Yet, as he battled with himself, with his demons, it was in the aftermath of it all that you realized your love could not sustain him. You can never force a flower to bloom when you want it to. You can never ask the sun to shine for you. And in the end, you can never ask Suguru to stay. You can never ask Suguru to explain.

Geto Suguru's grief became a chasm too vast to bridge. The more he unraveled, the more you felt compelled to hold you together, but it was like grasping at dissipating smoke. And you hated it. You hated all of it. But somehow, you could never hate him. Never him.

When you saw him again, you had already moved out of Jujutsu High. The only person who knew where you lived was Shoko and Satoru. You opted for a quiet life, in the countryside.

It was truly hard, you have to admit. Your life felt like a barren moonscape, cold and isolated. You were left to navigate a landscape of loss and self-discovery, all of it alone once again. Your love, once a vibrant song, had quieted to a somber melody.

You still regularly did Jujutsu work, but those missions were silently forwarded to you to deal with. That night, it was a mission that you wished you’d never taken. The weight of your cursed weapon felt heavier than ever, as if it were absorbing the gravity of the moment.

The victim's room was too dimly lit, shadows playing across the walls, casting elongated shapes that seemed to flicker with your unsteady heartbeat. Geto Suguru stood there, a few feet away, his purple gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made the room shrink.

You wondered why he was here. But you were scared to ask. You were scared to confront the idea that he had anything to do with this. Like all those years ago. You wanted to pretend. You wanted to pretend that he was just here, as he used to be, without the grief nor the pain, that comes with it.

The strands of his hair, longer than you remembered, brushed his eyelashes and occasionally obscured his gaze as he spoke to you. Those eyes, the same eyes that had once implored you with an intensity that had drawn you in, years ago, still seemed to reach out, asking for understanding, for connection. It was as if no time had passed in the way he looked at you, yet everything about him suggested the weight of the years he had carried.

He wore a gojo-kesa, the traditional layered robes that marked his new status in that cult, 'his family', as those reports from spies do say nowadays. The colors made you take a step back. Those colors were those you had once expressed fondness for—a deep, rich blend that seemed to capture the essence of his serious yet profound nature. It was striking how these colors, ones you had offhandedly mentioned liking during one of your many long conversations, now draped his form, as if clinging to a part of your shared past.

"You know, those blues." You pondered to him, almost like a little child. You were too burned out from the exams to stay sane. "The navy blue? Is that what it was?"

"What are you talking about?" Suguru's laugh resounded so beautifully as he laid against your lap. "The navy blue jeans you liked at the store?"

"Yeah, yeah, those!" You confirmed, grinning at him, lowering your head. "Then there were these bright yellow tops I saw—"

"Oh my god, you're creating a worse fit than Satoru—"

"Will you let me finish?" You pouted at him, causing him to laugh again.

"Alright, alright. What's the hat?"

"Pastel green."

"I can see it now."

You grinned again at him. "So, would I look pretty?"

"No, sorry but the color combination—"

"Why don't you just tell me you hate me at this point?" You stood up, pouting and stomped away as he laughed, standing up and catching up with you.

"Baby, wait!"

As you stomped away, the frustration feigned but the playful challenge in your tone unmistakable, Suguru quickly got up, his laughter still lingering in the air between you. The lightness of the moment was a welcome break from the intense studying and the stress that exams always brought into your life.

He caught up to you with a few quick strides, his hand gently grabbing your arm to turn you back toward him. His eyes were alight with amusement and a touch of affection that always seemed to deepen when you both shared these light-hearted moments. "Hey, come on, I was just teasing," he said, his voice softening as he pulled you into a loose embrace.

"You know I could never hate you," Suguru continued, his smile broadening. "And honestly, you’d look pretty in anything. Even in that outrageous outfit you just described."

You couldn't help but soften at his words, the sincerity in his tone melting any mock indignation you had felt. His ability to switch from teasing to tender in a heartbeat was one of the many things you cherished about him.

"You really think so?" You asked, a playful glint in your eye, wanting to draw out the moment a little longer.

"Absolutely," he replied, his hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "Although, maybe not the pastel green hat. Let’s save that for Satoru, shall we?" His tease was gentle, and it brought a genuine laugh from you.

"Yeah, let's," you agreed, your laughter mingling with his as the tension from the exams seemed to dissolve away in the comfort of your interaction.

Suguru’s hand slid down to yours, fingers intertwining as he pulled you slightly closer. "How about tomorrow we go and check out those jeans, though? Make a day of it. Just you and me." His suggestion was casual, but you knew it was his way of giving you something to look forward to, a small oasis of normalcy amid the chaos of academic pressures.

"That sounds perfect," you said, your spirits lifted by the plan and the prospect of spending a day together outside the confines of study sessions and lecture halls.

As you both started walking back towards your apartment, hand in hand, the campus around you bathed in the soft light of the evening, you felt a profound sense of gratitude.

It pained you, how he remembered. How easily he just knew which colors to choose. All because they reminded him of you. You hated too, how easily those memories of better days, of days where he smiled so genuinely to the world, were still in your mind.

You fall in love, over and over again. And you wished you can't. You wished you wouldn't. You felt like you were going to be sick, you felt like tears would flow all over again. It struck you just how much he looked like the Suguru you had fallen in love with—the same, yet irrevocably different. How he was still there, after all this time. Even though, you wish he wasn't.

"You still look the same," you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. The grip on your weapon tightened, a reflex against the vulnerability you felt.

Suguru's lips twitched into a semblance of a smile, sad and knowing. "Looks can be deceiving," he replied, his voice low and rough with emotion. "I'm far from the boy….the man you knew."

The air between you was thick with history and unsaid words, a testament to the journey both of you had traveled—apart yet forever linked by the past.

"Why are you here, Suguru?" Your question cut through the silence, direct and laden with a myriad of emotions.

"I needed to see you," he said simply, stepping forward, reducing the distance between you. "To know if... if there's anything left of us….strangers, to have.”

His forwardness made you tense, the cursed weapon in your hand a reminder of the dangers his presence posed. Yet, his vulnerability, the raw need in his eyes, tugged at something deep within you.

"Suguru, too much has happened. Too much has changed," you replied, your voice faltering slightly as memories of better days flashed through your mind. “And all this time….how could you only now….”

He nodded slowly, the acknowledgment painful but necessary. "I know. I know I've made unforgivable choices. But standing here before you, I can't help but hope for a moment of madness where everything is as it once was."

"You and I know, more than anyone, that some curses can't be undone," you said softly, the weight of your own words anchoring the pain firmly in your chest.

He took another step closer, his presence so familiar yet so foreign. "I suppose you're right. But at least allow me this—," he paused, his voice catching, "—this moment to remember us not as we are, but as we were."

The desperation in his voice, the longing for something irretrievably lost, made your resolve waver. But the reality of the situation, the danger, and the betrayal, fortified your next words.

"Suguru, please don't ask that of me. It's too painful to pretend, even for a moment," you said, meeting his gaze steadily. The cursed weapon remained in your hand, a silent witness to the chasm that lay between you.

His shoulders slumped, the fight going out of him as he stepped back, putting space between your shared pain and his acceptance of the situation.

As Suguru's admission hung in the air, so did the weight of countless memories and unshed tears. "I love you. I will always love you," he whispered, each word laden with regret and a tender hope that seemed almost out of place in the cold reality of the present.

You felt a tightness in your chest, the kind that comes from holding back too much for too long. You pursed your lips, battling the tears threatening to breach your resolve. "It will pass," you managed to say, your voice a whisper almost lost in the distance that had grown between you.

Suguru paused, his back still turned, his shoulders tense as if absorbing the finality of your words. "I know," he said, his voice barely audible, a resignation to his fate—and perhaps yours as well. "I suppose it has to."

The silence that followed was thick, filled with all the things left unsaid, all the apologies that could never undo the past, all the love that could no longer bridge the gap of betrayal and hurt. It was a silence filled with the end of things, the quiet closing of a book whose pages had once fluttered with vibrant life and passionate mistakes.

"You should go," you finally said, firm yet not unkind. "It's better this way."

He nodded without turning to face you, his agreement silent but understood. As he walked away, each step seemed to echo in the empty space, a solemn drumbeat marking the end of an era. You watched him disappear, the figure you once knew now just a shadow merging with the shadows of the night.

Once he was gone, the floodgates opened, and tears streamed down your face. Not just for him, or for what you once had, but for yourself—for the peace you hoped would come, for the healing that was yet to begin, for the strength you would need to rebuild from the ruins of a love lost.

In the quiet aftermath, you realized that this was not just a farewell to Suguru, but a necessary step towards reclaiming yourself. The love might linger, as deep-seated emotions often do, but your acknowledgment that "it will pass" was not just a hope; it was a promise to yourself.

It will be hard, you know that.

You’ll always be in love with him.

You will always want to love him.

But you need to live your life too.

“No more one in the world of zeros.”

You felt tears fall over and over again.

"But I wanted one of you. I wanted you."

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lilacxquartz · 3 days

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Those Late Summer Nights | Chapter 6

Satoru Gojo × Fem!Reader × Suguru Geto

This is a dark/yandere fic that features upsetting themes and it is canon divergent. Updated every Wednesday.

About:

You moved to Tokyo over the summer to take a teaching job. As you get settled in, you find yourself entangled in a toxic dynamic.

Chapter Summary:

Isolating far from everyone else on the campus was a problem after all and you end up moving in with Shoko. Meanwhile, tensions slowly build as you reveal that you have to go somewhere in particular quite soon.

Previous Chapter.

6. Tangerines.

It didn’t take you too long to finally give into Suguru’s suggestion about moving into Shoko’s spare room. It was starting to eat away at you at how isolated you were from everyone else, after all. Luckily, Shoko was more than happy to have you move in and even cleared out the room the night prior to your arrival.

It took you a couple of trips back and forth to get everything there. You wanted to do this whole thing discreetly and to not bother a single soul, even though you knew that friends actually helped friends move.

Just before settling in her place completely however, you decided to stop by a nearby supermarket to pick up some essentials so that you wouldn’t have to take her food, even if it would have likely fine to share.

Still though, you wanted to be less of a bother, if you could help it, so you bought the essentials along with a cheap bottle of wine to split with her and about a kilo of tangerines that were on special offer. Some fruit could never hurt.

Upon returning the final time, you expected the apartment to be just as empty as the last few times you swung by, but this time Satoru was present instead, sat opposite Shoko as she nodded away at his rambling with an exhausted half-lidded look.

All life returned to her eyes when she saw you (and especially that bottle of wine poking out of the bag), prompting her to rise to her feet immediately, searching the cabinets for a pair of glasses.

“You’re such a sight for sore eyes.” She beamed as she twisted the metal cap off, grabbing a tangerine out of the bag before settling back into her seat.

You weren’t sure if she was talking about you or the booze though.

Satoru also then tried to get up to grab himself a glass but you stopped him from doing so, trying to not be a complete doormat even if he did sponsor your wardrobe. You’d get him something nicer when your paycheck comes through, something more meaningful.

“Ah-ah,” you quickly said, stopping him from reaching out for the bottle, “this is for me and her, but I will permit you to have a single tangerine,” filling out his hand with some fruit instead of a glass.

Satoru paused for a moment as he searched for a response, deciding to not be offended in the end after all.

“Alright [name], I’ll stay sober for you,” he smiled instead, something glittering in his icy eyes as his confidence returned, “you’re just looking out for my health, that’s why you’re not letting me have it, right?”

“Sure, let’s go with that.” You sarcastically replied, trying to further insert yourself into their dynamic. It was still difficult to let go of taking yourself so seriously, though.

“See, I knew it, you’re nice like that.” He continued to say as he watched you sit down opposite at the table.

Time then gradually passed by, the bottle of wine slowly but surely emptying itself as the three of you talked.

You found Satoru, although an endless stream of conversation, still quite easy to listen to because the flow would simply never run out. You didn’t have to talk much around him because he’d carry the conversations with ease no matter what.

Suguru arrived later on in the night with a six pack of beer in his hands, hoping to help you feel more relaxed around him but luckily you already were from the look of it.

He stared at you for a split second before taking a stiff step back as Shoko had already managed to infiltrate his personal space, nails slicing into the packaging and fishing out a can before his very eyes.

“That’s for leaving us alone with him all night.” Shoko teased.

Suguru rolled his eyes in response but surrendered to his fate as he sat next to Satoru, keeping quiet for a moment before cracking open a can of his own.

“So, what has he been talking about for so long that the two of you have been reduced to actual alcoholics?” He asked.

Satoru laughed in response, saying that he was unsure actually and that he didn’t feel as though he was being that bad, reaching for another tangerine as he did so. Shoko immediately however snatched it away, throwing it over to Suguru instead who then peeled the fruit and gave you half.

The four of you continued with the conversation otherwise from before as if all of those little distractions had never even happened. The highlight of the night seemed to revolve around family burdens and obligations as Satoru got deeper into hiding away from clan duties and how Suguru still felt exhausted from his own family reunion from just a few days ago.

Shoko mentioned a point too; something about what gruelling small talk with her own now retired family was like, unable to relate to them anymore.

You chimed in just as the conversation died down, feeling a wave of awkwardness rush through you in doing so, wondering if you should have left it as a fleeting thought instead but you didn’t.

Instead, you mentioned how it was your dad’s birthday coming up since it was getting close to the end of June and as a result, ended up unintentionally souring the mood at the mention of needing to go back to your hometown.

A collective silence brewed between the three as they all mulled this piece of information over.

Shoko was the first to break the silence.

“Are you sure that you should be going back there all alone?” She asked, immediately placing her hand over yours to show support.

“Yeah, you should at least let me go with you, [name],” Satoru chimed in, “I’d be getting out of clan duties, so it would be a win/win for me.”

It took a moment for you to shake off the unease you had caused but then quickly got back into it, forcing yourself to not dwell on it.

“Going to a small dead town is a win for you?” You asked as you tried to lighten the mood.

“Yes actually, they wouldn’t know where to find me and you wouldn’t have to face a place you hate completely alone.” He replied, offering you a legitimately valid reason.

“I mean… I guess so?” You considered it now with more thought, thinking that it could make things a little easier for you.

“Just think about it, yeah?” Satoru said again, leaning in as he flashed you a teasing smile. “The entire town would be in such awe with me that they’d forget all about you.”

“Oh, here we go.” Shoko said as she rolled her eyes.

Suguru in the meanwhile had stayed silent throughout this whole exchange, clenching at his jaw just a little as he stared bitterly at the can, his fingers tapping around it. He wore a small tight smile, but his eyes didn’t quite match his expression, looking intense instead.

Not that you had an opportunity to read too much into it though as your focus was elsewhere currently.

“I guess I could, but there’s a problem,” you considered yet again, “my parents wouldn’t accept me just showing up with a random guy.”

“So, tell him we’ve been together for a while now and you’re just showing me around where you grew up. They can’t deny you that.” Satoru suggested, seeming to think that this could work.

He knew strict families perfectly well, after all, this part of life wasn’t something new to him and if anything, he wanted you to exercise standing up to your parents as an adult and for you to face your past knowing that you didn’t have to be there alone to do so.

Besides, he would behave. At least around your family.

You considered it either way, warming up to the concept as already used to the idea of being a platonic plus one so this sort of concept wasn’t so strange to you a second time.

“Alright, why not?” You replied as you surrendered into the idea, not quite noticing at all how close Suguru was to crushing the can with his hand the more that he listened in.

***

The day to finally travel to your hometown finally rolled around as the month came to a close and for the most part, life up until then was pretty quiet.

Shoko for example stayed mostly in her room to do what she called ‘minimal studying’ to make it look like that she knew what she was actually talking about in her career, something you suspected was actual revision even if she claimed that it wasn’t.

You on the other hand had to work on and off at the campus itself, going over a prospective list of upcoming students who might do better in shadowing you.

Satoru had his unavoidable clan obligations to attend, reminding you through on and off texts that he was actually looking forward to escaping with you in the upcoming weekend.

Then there was Suguru who was deadly silent, completely cutting himself away from everyone else without a single reason behind his actions.

You tried asking Shoko about it, but she told you to not worry—that he’s like that, at least sometimes, but you couldn’t help but feel as though it was personally directed somehow, especially when he wasn’t even there to see you off for the weekend.

Satoru arrived relatively early otherwise, parking his car off to the side of the main street. The vehicle he sported was a little flashier than Suguru’s and he leaned against it as he waited for you to come down.

For the trip, you packed a small weekend back while he packed a whole suitcase, leaving you wondering with sheer fascination as to what exactly he needed for the course of just two nights.

Both you and Shoko studied the contents in the trunk, briefly glancing at each other and remaining quiet until you were the one to break the silence for once.

“Uh, Satoru…?” You asked.

“Yes, [name]?” Satoru replied.

You took a glance at him and then at the suitcase then back at him. You swallowed your initial words away, lacing your upcoming observation with even more confusion as you finally got around to it.

“W-we’re going away for… maybe 2 days maximum.”

“Correct.” He replied as he slowly nodded.

“Dare I ask what you’re bringing?”

“Just souvenirs, don’t worry,” he replied as he failed to reassure you, “a little token to keep the peace.”

It was then that you started to wonder if this was such a good idea to begin with but it was far too late to back out of this now. Satoru was a special breed of a person and you started to think that he might be too much for your parents, let alone your hometown, but upon further consideration—if his role was to keep the attention off of you—that much would work.

Shoko lightly tugged at your wrist to both give you a hug goodbye as well as to ask you a question.

“Hey, uh,” she asked as he reeled you in close, “is your town useful at all in any way? Do they have any locally made spirits? Wine? Anything like that?”

You hummed for a moment in consideration.

“Maybe… maybe plum wine? I’ll see if they still sell bottles to go.”

“That would be great.” She smiled.

Satoru then swung by to the driver’s side and motioned for you to enter along with him, making sure that you buckled in before starting the engine. He booted up a playlist of songs, saying that these were all tunes from his most nostalgic years so he was going to make this whole trip a positive one if he could help it.

The road trip in question was fine also, harbouring far less tension than how it was around Suguru, if at all. Satoru leaned more into being a passive driver, although he did manage to take a few wrong turns once he was deep out of the city which seemed to all be accidental rather than to actually mess with you.

Somehow his mood remained positive throughout such moments, no matter how strange the places ended up being. He joked on and off that he’d totally protect you if you had to camp out overnight in the car.

Such a comment did lead you to one small realisation that you hadn’t quite considered throughout all of this though.

While your parents might end up accepting the sudden appearance of your new supposed sudden (however fake) boyfriend, they wouldn’t accept him sleeping in your bedroom overnight.

“Hey, uh, Satarou…?” You spoke up, feeling nervous about the topic.

“Yeah?” He asked as he drove down the now quiet road, the playlist had ended quite a while ago so he was just enjoying a peaceful ride with you instead.

“So, my parents are strict-“

“—And so are mine,” he said as he cut you off, sensing that you were worried and wanting to soothe your mind right away if he could help it, “I know how to handle strict parents, don’t worry.”

You stayed quiet for a moment as you nodded and felt comfort in his response. You were aware from Shoko’s initial explanation, way back then on the rooftop, that Satoru had a limiting childhood so he was probably used to a lot worse when it came to a strict family.

Which meant even more to you that he wanted to tag along with you to something like this.

“I know, I know, it’s just,” you continued to say anyway, not wanting to keep anything hidden, “you most likely will be asked to sleep in the guest house in the garden,” your fingers fidgeted as you spoke, “I mean it’s just a glorified shed with windows, but it isn’t personal—they ask this from visiting relatives too.”

“Damn, not even the sofa?” He asked as his expression momentarily fell flat although it was subtle, bouncing back immediately to something carefree almost right away.

“Not even that.” You confirmed.

He tried to remain positive as he considered your response. Ideally in his mind, he was already prepared to take on the sofa, already accepting the idea that your room would be off limits but maybe not even that? He would manage just fine in the garden but the trip was already going into a completely different direction than he had originally planned.

He thought about it even more as he finished up the rest of drive in silence, realising that he should have made more of an effort on his end to reassure you once again but he was also at the same time starting to piece things together about you—or at least why you were so initially afraid to sleep the first night over at Shoko’s, protesting that you absolutely couldn’t in your drunken stupor.

Other things too, like why you seemed to hesitate so often despite knowing everyone comfortably well at this point and maybe even why you still trembled a little when addressing people by their first names.

While endearing, it was concerning beneath the surface.

“It’s fine,” he said as he finally piped up, offering you an assuring smile as he filled out the remaining silence, “seriously, it’s fine, it’s just for the weekend and my main role is moral support anyway, right?”

“R-right.” You replied as you felt yourself calm down.

Once you both had finally arrived at the correct street, you pointed him towards the right house and his car eased into a vacant spot in the driveway. He shook his body a little, fingers drumming against the steering wheel before finally taking a look towards your direction.

“Think I got a chance?” He smiled, hoping to take your mind off of things before they even began.

“Not at all.” You laughed a little. Admittedly it was nice to have someone that you knew in this town, so maybe even in spite of awkward family relations, this wouldn’t be so bad in the end.

He continued to fix up his demeanour as you knocked on the door and waited for your parents to come answer. His mood turned serious and his tone of voice adjusted to sounding much more polite as he would finally face the two people who made you into someone you didn’t want to be.

You went along with it either way, your mother simply sighing as she let you both inside, muttering something under her breath how your father won’t be happy about this.

All of the hope continued to then go straight out of the window as Satoru met with your father, the old man asking him a slew of questions demanding to know if he’s a delinquent due to his appearance, not quite accepting that both his hair and eyes were completely natural.

Walking inside also left you feeling a little stiff, a sudden reminder of your past that existed to haunt you.

As predicted, your folks didn’t allow him to follow you upstairs and didn’t even let him see what your old room looked like.

Upon being back down though, Satoru thawed back into life and decided to try and pass down the souvenirs he brought in from Tokyo as a sign of goodwill to which they begrudgingly accepted, setting the boxes away to the side as both of your parents didn’t even take a look inside.

Satoru couldn’t help but feel as though this was a strangely tough crowd as he continued to piece even more things together about the way you were. He was starting to get it, at least a little; you were the way you were because you had zero room to express yourself.

(And to him, this was unacceptable.)

So upon being shooed away off to the guest house come evening after dinner, he continued to take it all in stride knowing that this was all only temporary.

He had a plan up his sleeve now to make your visit back home less isolating, less painful and even less strict if he could help it.

You were more to him than just your parents’ daughter, after all.

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gojonanami · 4 months

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❝ 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) | part two

“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.

✧ read part 2 now

✧ 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,

#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader #suguru geto smut #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru smut #geto suguru imagines #geto x reader #geto smut #geto x you #geto suguru fanfiction #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #dividers by @/saradika

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svuguru · 3 months

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Suguru bouncing sleepy you on his cock? :3

— "*hic* Sugu... *Hic* 'm sleepy..." you whine, Suguru's hands on your waist and digging into your flesh as he lifts your body up just a bit then drops it down onto his cock. Your pussy drools on his length, his tip teasing spots in you that has your poor tummy in knots.

"Shh, shh, shh... I know, I know, jus' a little longer, okay? A lil longer for me..." Suguru whispers softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You huff, nodding your head even though you're pouting.

"Mkay, Sugu," you murmur, eyelids heavy and your voice audibly tired. You allow Suguru to do his thing, quick with the way he bounces you on his dick. Your cunt squeezes his girth, soft whimpers of his name leaving your throat with a faint yawn. "*Hic* Sugu, g'na cum," you mumble sleepily, your juices painting his cock.

"Yeah?" 'kay, cum, then, princess," Suguru encourages you, his pace increasing just a smidge to get you closer to release. Your hands dig into his broad shoulders, throwing your head back as you moan and whine. His eyes watch you the whole time, smiling lazily as he witnesses the way your face contorts and shifts as you're coming down. "There's my good girl..."

#jjk x reader #geto x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #jjk smut #geto smut #Suguru geto smut #geto suguru smut #jjk x reader smut #geto x reader smut #suguru geto x reader smut #geto Suguru x reader smut

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kenntolog · 13 hours

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hey um can you do a bully geto x bully reader and they kinda bully everyone else together

ik its kinda evil but if you want pls try

𝝑𝝔 an: BAHAHAHA I LAUGHED OUT LOUD WHEN I READ THISSS such a goofy idea, i love itttt 😼 read more of my writing here!

i imagine bully!geto trying to hide his kinda toxic side from you to not scare you off, but you make an offhanded mean comment about someone walking by and he sighs in relief because he’s found his match, finally.

bully!geto who is ready to shit on everyone with bully!reader, literally his favourite thing to do. he is such a menace and paired up with you he is just unbelievably mean.

anyone dares to make a comment about you two being assholes? bully!geto and you make sure to destroy their peaceful days; geto pushes them in the hallways and then apologises with the most sinister smile you can imagine while you make sure to manipulate them with your pretty smiles and honeysweet voice into thinking that you like them only to destroy their self-esteem.

you guys see a kid tripping and falling and start laughing like idiots, no fucks given about the judgmental glances you receive from the bystanders.

bully!geto who likes to mess with the guys that dare look at you wrong or talk about you, and bully!reader who likes to mess with the girls who dare ask why does geto even look at you.

no one wants to be friends with you or even talk to you, everyone is scared of even looking at you because you guys might just take it the wrong way, on purpose, just to have a reason to start your mind torture games and shit.

#— miya writes!#im sorry this is all i could come up with #i tried to remember bullying methods from all the k dramas ive seen but GUYS THEY ARE LIKE TOO VIOLENT NO WAY EVEN BULLY GETO DOES THAT #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #getou suguru x you #geto suguru x y/n #geto suguru x you #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru #jjk geto #jjk suguru

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cckaisen · 21 days

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୨ৎ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 knocked up, (or not) !

req ! missed period prank on the jjk men.

ಇ. summary. fem!reader, suggestiveness, crack !

ಇ. including. gojo, nanami, geto, yuji, megumi, yuta, inumaki, toji, sukuna.

likes n reblogs r appreciated !! 💗

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coconutdays · 6 months

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going crazy

s. your boyfriend, handsome and secure suguru geto, doesn't get jealous

w.c. 4.8k

w. fem! reader, biker!geto! x reader , fluff!, smut!

a/n: based on my seat taker biker!geto au! also I feel this does not live up to seat taker! but I tried my best! so I hope you can still enjoy! likes reblogs and comments r always appreciated to know y’all liked it!!!

your boyfriend does not have a single jealous bone in his body. it’s convenient you suppose?

you’ve heard nightmares of insecure men who have to know where there girlfriends are every second of every hour, the direction they’re even going to utter a breath in. the occasional story of a girl who can’t speak to any men whatsoever because her boyfriend will berate her for doing so.

although you do always keep suguru in the loop about what you’re doing and don’t really talk to guys because at the end of the day, more often than not, they always do not plan on just being your friend, he never expected those things out of you. It was a silent form of showing your respect for him. and he did the same out of instinct too, first too.

but aside from that, he doesn’t show any jealousy.

there was a time he even tried to set you up with toji zenin when he was still crushing on you.

your boyfriend is a little peculiar, you’re very well aware of that, but you find his confidence in himself sexy. because you couldn’t look anywhere else if you wanted to. he was handsome, his face chiseled so prettily it was painful. his smooth voice that always had you reeling to get him to talk more. and his spine tattoo that always made you blush at the sight of it befriending your scratch marks after a particularly rough night,

so you don’t care about the way you dress, because he won’t control what you wear. in fact, it’s one of the things you both love about each other, a recent discovery now that you’ve been dating for a month. suguru is an avid fan of the way you dress, relishing in what new outfit he’ll see you in whenever he sees you that day, and if not possible, asking for a picture. and you love how he loves it. appreciating the fact that he loves when you wear booby shirts to campus or dates with him or particularly tight jeans that attract eyes aside from his, but are worn for the sole purpose of serving cunt–and riling your boyfriend up.

it all comes together to why you wear the dress you do tonight to go clubbing with him and some friends. it’s honestly the hottest thing suguru will have seen you in so far. yes, your previous halloween costumes were something alright, but this…was different. halloween was like a month ago and the outfits for those events were meant to be slutty, purely slutty. this look was meticulously planned by you the moment you ordered the dress online. the sheer dress and its sparkles had been running across your mind that entire week of shipping with the perfect sultry way you planned to do your hair and makeup.

you

hey can we carpool later tonight, my dress isnt motorcycle proof :/

suguru

sure princess. can i get a peek?

you

don’t feel like it hehe wait for it sugu <3

suguru

tease

any other time, he would’ve more than likely have gotten his peek at your outfit, you are weak to his demands naturally, but this was something he genuinely would have to wait for. pictures would not do you justice and you wanted to catch your boyfriends raw reaction when he saw the look for the first time .

and you were right.

when he went up to your apartment to pick you up and you opened the door, the reaction was worth the wait. the constant warmth your boyfriend’s gaze always held fell the moment his eyes landed on you and took a moment to breathe you in.

you saw his pupils dart to your cleavage first, staring for a hard second, then to the tightness against your waist and hips bringing attention to your figure. the small quirk of his eyebrow seconds within that let you know he spotted the thong hugging your body under the sheer dress. he did a once over of your legs, looking at what shoes you were wearing, before he brought his eyes up to look at your face again.

he doesn’t say anything, instantly moving forward and getting rid of the space between the both of you to take your head in his hands and plant his lips on yours. you press a hand against his chest when you feel him swipe his tongue across the top of your mouth so hungrily.

“you’re going to kiss off my lipgloss sugu.” you giggle, heaving a little as you press your forehead against his, blinking up happily at him.

his stare is firm as his blown up pupils stare back into you, “sorry pretty girl, couldn’t help myself.”

“and why’s that hm?” you bite your lip through your smile, eagerly waiting for his answer, still forehead to forehead with him, his hands still holding you in place.

his hair is in that half up half down duo you go so feral for, you realize this detail when he says, “you know why.”

“no I don’t,” you drag on, a teasing lilt in your voice

“because,” he drags one of his hands down to caress your neck softly with his thumb, you can see a slight crease in his eyelids at your playfulness, “my girlfriend is trying to get away with first degree murder right now.”

“you like the dress?” you give him a toothy smile and you can slightly catch his gaze turn hungry at the sight of it

suguru suddenly raises you up by clasping his arms behind you, below your butt and on your thigh, so you’re above him when he looks at you lovingly, “like is an understatement.”

“well i like your hair today,” you compliment him, still giggly

“yeah?” he smiles, “i’m glad.”

it’s your first time ever going to the club with suguru, so there’s some sort of powerful feeling lingering when you enter the loud building holding hands with him. you’re going in belonging to someone and so is he, as opposed to other people going in and hoping to catch a body tonight or at least a good grind on the dancefloor–satoru cough cough.

the white haired maniac’s influence gets all of you a vip table with liquor already waiting for you and when you get there, suguru sits and plants you on his lap, arms loosely wrapped around your waist.

It’s when you look forward, you see toji zenin give you a quick once over from where he’s seated near satoru. and you ignore it, you always do. he’s never made an advance on you ever since you and suguru became a thing, he’s respectful of the relationship, but his eyes can never lie, he’s into you. it’s why you’ve never uttered a word to him and why he doesn’t either. and you can’t really blame him if the purpose of tonight's look was to turn all heads, not just your boyfriend’s.

“you smell good baby,” suguru mutters into your ear as he brushes a hair away from your face, “are you using the perfume i got you?”

you wrap your arms around his shoulders when you respond with a nod of your head and, “yeah. I finally ran out of my old one.”

“good girl.” he smiles appreciatively before placing a tender kiss on your neck

the softness of it makes you giggle a little and crane your neck a little, suguru pinches your side to tease you for it.

it’s when a certain lullaby of a song comes on that your ears perk up and your boyfriend observes the reaction, looking up at you and rubbing circles into your waist, “what’s up baby?”

within an instant all the girls at your table begin to get up and rush to the dance floor and you turn to suguru, already starting to unwrap his arms from your waist.

“i have to go dance this babe,” you say hurriedly, like a little kid leaving their mom the moment they see the bouncy castle go up.

suguru can say nothing before he watches you run off to join the other girls on the dance floor, eyebrows raised in amusement at your antics then in reaction to your immediate inclination to start dancing.

you look pretty, he thinks as he reaches over to serve himself a glass of whiskey.

and he continues to think it as he ‘talks’ to his friends, nodding and giving small mhms when all he’s really doing is watching you live it up at the center of the club.

you’re ethereal, the only star in that murky puddle of bodies. maybe your dress is part of the reason for all that shine and glow you’re giving off, but nothing beats the pretty little smile on your face that says you’re having a good time. it’s turning him on to be honest. he always wants to shove himself inside of you when you bear that toothy smile at him.

and other people think the same, he notes.

he’s always seen the stares, he knows you’re a sight to behold. there hasn’t been a day where he isn’t aware that so many other people want you. he knew it when you were merely the smart, hot girl he had a crush on his lit class, with so many other guys obviously paying a little more attention when it was your turn to speak, and he knows it even more now with your male following on social media and the way he constantly gets sized up just for being next to you. for fuck's sake he's heard toji zenin talk about how bad you are before he knew about your thing with suguru at the halloween party, hell, he still catches the frat president unable to control the way his eyes eat you up when you're near.

“done already?” satoru asks haughtily when he sees all of the girls that went to dance come back heaving a little

it’s been an hour since they all left at the start of that first song.

“y/n’s still there though,” one of them breathes, taking satoru’s drink from him, “she does not stop.”

“yeah, she doesn’t,” suguru laughs a little, looking back at you, still as energetic as when you first got there.

fuck, you're beautiful.

speaking of before,

he’s painfully more aware of it when he notices the number of eyes gravitating towards you from the dancefloor, tables, and the bar.

it’s like a bunny in a room full of wolves. or those scenes where scooby and shaggy are in a dark room and a thousand red eyes pop up to blink at them. the eyes to you ratio is beginning to get a little mind boggling now that he sees it in a real life setting. this is not the handful of guys checking you out when you go to the library with him or the nth guy staring at you when you walk past with your boyfriend next to you. this is a huge club with you in the middle and catching the eye of almost every guy in here, most of whom come to this place with plans of taking a girl home or putting moves on her.

the thought manifests itself when a blonde frat bro walks up to you and tries to dance with you. suguru’s heart stops a little for some reason. he’s seen guys come up to you before, actually talking to you and trying to get your number, so he shouldn’t feel this irked when he knows the guy is going to be disappointed by your answer. he actually wants to go up to the guy and beat his face in.

the surge of pride that courses through his body is immense when he sees you put a hand between you and the guy and you make an annoyed face, all before strutting off and making your way back to the table.

he manspreads a little more for you to sit between his legs, draping one arm on your thigh, the other holding onto his whiskey.

“a guy tried to dance with me,” you huff when you sit down, reaching for suguru’s drink, which he hands over without a second thought, now using the other free hand to fully hug you.

“I saw,” he says, perching his chin your shoulder, watching as you take a sip of the whiskey and cradle the cup in your hands.

“dance with me,” you turn to look at him and pout, “i don’t want guys coming up to me.”

“but you look so good rejecting them.” suguru teases, smirking a little at you

when your face deapans, he laughs and hugs you tighter, “we’ll go in a bit. rest your pretty feet for a second, don’t want them to tire out.”

“okay,” you slump into his hold, pouting

and suguru did keep his promise, like always. he took you dancing after a few minutes of rest and letting you drink the rest of his whiskey.

he protected you from any other guys trying to come up to you, evident in the way no guys even dared get close from a ten feet radius.

he kept you close and let you dance with him, hands appreciatively holding onto you when you pressed your body against his. it was much different to the dancing from that first time at satoru’s party, he was really holding onto you this time. his hands always found your ass, your hips, even the underside of your boobs during every second of every song.

and suguru isn’t a jealous guy, so it was a little weird to you when you saw him notice a guy oogling you and he immediately pulled you in to makeout with him on the dancefloor. it was unlike any other makeout session you had ever had with him before. he was gripping your ass while his other hand held your neck, that wasn’t new, he always did that, but his energy about it was so…all consuming.

all you know, is that instantly had you horny and you couldn’t help the mewl you let out after he squeezed you in his hold.

“let’s go,” he spoke a bit tensely into your ear so you could hear him past the music.

and you were never one to go against him because everything suguru did always made sense and worked for you, so you nodded mindlessly and said, “okay.”

when you got to suguru’s apartment, he immediately pushed you against the door and resumed the makeout session he had started at the club. one of his hands was planted against the door while the other roughly gripped your waist to keep you close to him.

“If you ever see toji, i want you to run the other direction,” he spoke ominously against your lips

the command had you furrowing your eyebrows, you mean of course yes you'd do that, but you never would’ve thought he’d ask it from you. he never really cared to address your actions when it came towards other guys. suguru wasn’t ever jealous…nonetheless, you agree meekly, taken aback by his roughness, “okay.”

all your boyfriend did in response was let out a gruff sound of acknowledgement before pressing his body further against yours and beginning to tug your dress off. he started by pushing down the straps, then pushing the upper half down, including your strapless bra until your tits popped out.

he pushed both of them together the moment they peeked out and then let a glob of spit drop down onto one of your nipples rather obscenely before he went down to mouth at that same breast. it had you keening, you could feel your thong becoming nonexistent with the way you were starting to drench through it.

a bite from suguru had you squeaking before he continued his ministrations on your other breast while his hands worked on pushing the rest of your dress all the way down, even your thong since it caught onto the tight material of the dress.

you were left completely naked in front of him now and he manhandled you by suddenly picking you up and pinning you against the wall next to the door. he let one hand hold one of your legs to his waist, while the other went under and quickly swiped a finger across your folds with ease due to the wetness

“so easy baby,” he muttered against your lips before plunging a finger all the way in and curving it upwards

“you’re being mean,” you complain, feeling completely flustered at his brash actions

“what’s so mean about making you feel good hm?” he leans back to get a good look at you when he plunges another finger in and starts to push them in and out quickly, watching as your eyebrows knit and you start to mewl, “atta girl.”

“nothing,” you mumble, brainless as you wrap your arms around his neck and hook him in closer with your legs, “ow!”

he started adding a third finger when he felt like you were starting to open up more, however your small complaint started dying into a moan when he increased his pace with the third finger.

“that’s a lot sugu,” you heave through delirious breaths, flustered at the fact that he was staring so intensely at how you were sucking him in

your comment had him finally looking up at you and you dont know if you’d rather he go back to staring at your pussy, because he was giving that same intense stare to you now. the all heavy pressure of his gaze was entirely being directed at your own eyes now, and how could you meet that same gaze equally when he was three fingers into you and making you moan like a slut.

suguru might have granted you a quick mercy when he leaned against you, quickening the pace of his fingers so you could get louder, and breathed into your ear, muttering lowly, “my cock’s a lot more than three fingers but you always cream all over it.”

the dirty sentence has you pulling suguru closer to you, and trying to trap him where he was so you wouldn’t have to look at him in the flustered state he put you in. but your boyfriend didn’t have it, forcing himself out of your grip, and craning his neck back to go back to looking at you.

he pulled out all three of fingers just to land a sharp slap across your pussy before plunging all of them into you again, “let me watch you baby. be good for me, okay?”

he honestly expects you to be able to answer him when three of his very large fingers are stretching you wide open and curling on that one spot that always has you crumbling, you know he expects you to because he turns his head a little when you don’t answer and lands another slap before going back to fingering you.

“speak up princess,” he orders so easily and so sweetly, like he’s not torturing your body right now

and you do your best to force the words out of you, legs quivering and resisting the urge to writhe in his grasp when you gasp, “ok–okay.”

“good girl,” he almost groans with a snarl as he suddenly stops fingering you open and hoists you over his shoulder, a squeal leaves your mouth at the action.

he’s walking you both to his bedroom, you notice from the path of his hallway made out from your view, and the realization doesn’t last long before suguru brings you down again, then pushes you down and bends you over his bed. he lands a slap to your ass and you can makeout the rustle of him getting naked when he says softly, “grab the pillows and put them under your stomach angel.”

and you listen, reaching easily for both of his large and fluffy pillows, and putting them under your abdomen.

you feel suguru’s heavy length press against your ass and bare pussy when he presses up against you, gripping onto the crease between your thighs and ass, and starts mouthing hot and heavy kisses across your spine. you whine a complaint at the fact that you feel so good, but you know you could feel so much better if he just put it in already.

“what?” suguru notices the pitch that you always make when you’re complaining, continuing his line of affection down your spine

“put it in,” you pout, wiggling your ass for emphasis and hissing a little when you feel his cock graze your lips at the action

suguru gives a last kiss to the bottom of your spine before coming back up and grabbing a fistful of your hair and bringing your head up so he could look at you, “how bad do you want it?”

“really bad sugu.” you mewl, feeling gratification from the sting of his hold on you

“you want me to fill up your little hole? even when we both know you’re gonna start crying that it’s beating your pussy up, yeah?” he questions cruelly

“mhm,” you nod pathetically, “even if i do.”

his lips twitch a little at your admission and he yanks on your hair a little harder when he lands a sloppy kiss on your lips that has a string of saliva connecting both of your mouths when he pulls away.

he stands back up and lands another stinging slap across your ass, groaning, “my pretty fuckin ass.”

as if he couldn’t get any dirtier, suguru then grabs either of your cheeks and spreads them apart to get a good view of your sex, the sudden exposure of which makes you feel even wetter. that last fact seems of no use to suguru when you feel a large glob of spit land and run down your hole.

you suck in breath when you feel suguru start to rub his tip across your folds.

“sloppy little pussy,” he mutters before pressing into you. and you both groan when he starts to inch himself in even further.

the moan you let out when he completely pulled out and slammed back in was sinful and the noises that followed when he started doing that again and again at a faster pace without mercy had you outright screaming.

you felt like you were constantly breathless, constantly trying to breathe. he hadn’t ever been this hard on you before.

and you thought you knew what hard was from him before.

“i know, i know,” he whispered against your neck when he pressed himself down against you and started jackhammering even closer to your cervix, so on point with your gspot too that you felt your orgasm starting to build up

a particular gutteral squeal from you had him breathing a “so cute” while he never relented his brutish force against you

“sugu–sugu,” you reached around for one of his arms, heaving, grabbing onto it while he violently moved the both of you, “i’m gonna–mmm–i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna cum!”

the confession had suguru suddenly changing positions, hooking his arms up and under your armpits to pull you up to stand flush against his body while he slammed up against you ferociously. it unexpectedly had your high crashing against you after a graze of your gspot.

“that’s it baby, that’s it.” suguru consoled when he felt you twitch in his hold and your juices dripping all over his abdomen and cock, “such a good fucking girl.”

all you wanted to do was fall down and rest, but the most you could muster was letting your body go limp in your boyfriend’s unrelenting hold, letting him use you as he pleased.

“ ‘s too much sugu,” you whined as the overstimulation started kicking in

It didn’t get him to stop at all.

“remember what you said earlier hm?” he brought up, breathing heavy as he lifted a foot up to plant it against the edge of the bed. it was leverage for the scream worthy pace he started forcing on you now.

tears started to fall down your cheeks at the overstimulation. it was so good, too good. It was all so sinfully good.

you felt your walls start to flutter again at your second nearing orgasm when you sniffled from the tears. and although your boyfriend still evilly abused your pussy, he leaned down and moved your face to the side with one hand so he could be face to face with you.

you thought he was going to kiss you, but instead he started licking your tears off.

it was the catalyst for your orgasm and you thrashed rather hard against suguru, who you could feel suck in a breath at the sporadic clenches of your pussy.

“fuck,” he breathed harshly, pulling you even tighter against him to more easily meet his thrusts and you could feel his cock twitch as a symptom of his incoming orgasm.

that, and he started to speak up filthily.

“Mine–mine–mine–mine.” he reiterated quickly, punctuating each time with a thrust, “fuck ‘s all mine. god can’t get enough of you pretty baby. so fucking slutty and pretty. fuck–fuck–next time i see toji giving you heart eyes im gonna pump my cum inside you so he can see it running down your fucking legs. fuck–you like that baby? what–a–good–good–fucking–girl. tell me you want that baby.”

scrambling for any piece of sanity just to tell your boyfriend what he wants to hear, in hopes of spurring his lust, you moan out weakly, “i want it sugu i want it.”

“yeah? you want him to see me dripping out of your pretty fuckin pussy? god–i fucking–want–it. he’ll never get to fucking know what it’s like to cream this little hole.”

“so–so dirty sugu,” you moan sheepishly at the embarrassing realization that he might just make you cum a third time because of the added spur of his pussy drunk words.

“pussy’s fucking dirty,” snarls back at you, pulling you closer to him, “can feel you clenching around me. know you fucking like it.”

the shut down of his words had you shaking in attraction to his ability to shut you up like no other.

“never–forget–you’re–mine,” he thrusts through, “ ‘s fucking pussy, your ass, your tits, your body, your pretty fucking face, ‘s all mine. you don’t need anybody but me. i’m yours i’m yours i’m yours. ‘s dick ‘s all yours, everything, baby. take it–take it–take it.”

his breathing was starting to get heavier and you could feel his abs start twitching against you, a sign of his orgasm building up just as yours was all over again.

so it surprised you when suguru pulled out and threw you onto the bed, your legs hanging off the edge before he picked them up and slanted them up against his body by hugging them close. “come here, come here,” he quickly let one arm go for a second to guide himself into you again before wrapping it around your legs again. he repositioned the one leg of his back on top of the bed for his leverage and leaned forward a bit to go back to his brutal thrusts.

“wanna see your face when you cum again.” he muttered as he stared at you squealing and moaning lewdly at his ministrations

suguru started kissing and mouthing at your calves while keeping you in a deadlock of eye contact. his cheeks and ears were tinged pink and his hair had fallen out of the half up half down do he had it in earlier.

the worshipping of your legs and eye contact had to have been the last straw for you, because after a certain lick of your skin, you started crashing, feeling yourself let go across the entire lower half of your boyfriend, resisting the urge to cover your face in embarrassment because he recently made it a point that he really really liked seeing your face when you came.

the point was proven when he followed soon after you, thrusting half haphazardly into you as he blew his load inside of you in time with every squeeze of your cunt. it was accompanied by a litter of painful bites across your calves and heavy breathing from your boyfriend. he looked like he came hard, it felt like he did, considering how every spurt of his cum was sharply thrusted into you, making you wince in pain every time his tip kissed your cervix.

both of you were breathing heavily after, especially suguru, his skin covered in a thicker veil of sweat than you, who was simply taking all of that force he was exerting. he was still holding onto your legs, resting his forehead on the bare skin of your foot that wasn’t covered by your heel.

his eyes were closed and he licked his lips, a bit tired, as he spoke, “i think i do get jealous after all, i’m sorry.”

his confession made you slightly clench around him, making him suck a breath in at the sensitivity while you breathlessly giggled, “that’s okay, i never said you couldn’t.”

suguru lazily bit your calf again as a sign of retaliation, "you could sound less excited."

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